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Star | She/They | 21 💫🐡 Minors DNI

[an1m320v3r]

You Have My Eyes

Blue Lock! Oliver Aiku x Reader

A secret, a child, and a love that learned patience after years apart.

Warnings: Light Angst(?); Fluf; Kinda rushed, NOT PROOFREAD!!!

[You Have My Eyes Series]

You never meant to fall for him.

Oliver Aiku was supposed to be one of those people who pass through your life like a storm—beautiful from a distance, dangerous up close. You knew his reputation before you ever met him: Japan’s defensive prodigy turned international soccer star, half-Swedish, half-Japanese, fluent in charm and sarcasm. He was the kind of man who never looked at anyone long enough to get attached.

And yet, somehow, he looked at you.

It happened on a summer evening in Tokyo, at a quiet rooftop bar overlooking the city. He had just finished a match and was surrounded by people who adored him, but his eyes — those mismatched eyes, one green, one blue — kept finding you in the crowd. You remember the faint smell of rain that night, the way the wind lifted his dark hair with lime green tips, and how his grin softened when you smiled back.

He bought you a drink. You told him you didn’t like soccer. He laughed, delighted, as if that was the best thing he’d heard all night.

It started simply. Conversations that lasted until the city lights dimmed. Texts that came at odd hours—“Can’t sleep. Thinking too much.” or “I saw a chick today. Thought of you.” You’d tease him for his strange humor, and he’d tease you for taking things too seriously.

And then one day, without realizing it, you found yourself waiting for him after training, making late-night ramen together in his kitchen, brushing your fingers through his messy purple hair when he dozed off on the couch.

You didn’t know when it happened, but somewhere between the laughter and the silence, between the nights you stayed up talking and the mornings you woke tangled in his arms, you became his first real love.

He told you once, quietly, without his usual grin:

“You’re the first person who makes me feel like I don’t have to perform.”

It was the kind of confession that didn’t sound like a confession at all, but you understood. For someone who’d always lived under the spotlight, love—real love—wasn’t about being admired. It was about being seen.

And you saw him.

You saw the boy who once wanted to be a striker before people told him to stop dreaming. The man who covered his vulnerability with jokes and half-lidded smirks. The one who filled his loneliness with noise, company, and constant movement.

You saw him when he looked away, when his voice grew small, when he forgot to hide.

And he saw you too. Not the version of you that smiled for others, but the one who sometimes doubted herself, who feared being left behind. He was gentle when you didn’t expect it, brushing his thumb along your jaw, murmuring,

“Hey… you’re not hard to love, you know that?”

You didn’t believe him at first. But over time, you started to.

The months with Oliver blurred together, a collage of light and laughter.

Long drives by the coast. Cheap ramen at convenience stores. Him humming off-key while cooking spicy noodles in your kitchen. Late-night confessions whispered under flickering city lights. He had this way of turning ordinary moments into something cinematic—holding your hand like it was second nature, pressing a kiss to your temple before he left for practice, always saying “I’ll be back before you miss me” but never quite keeping that promise.

When he was away for matches, you’d watch him on TV—not because you loved soccer, but because you loved seeing the look in his eyes when he played. That sharp, focused gleam. The confidence, the danger, the beauty in motion.

Sometimes you’d wonder if you were jealous of the game itself.

Soccer didn’t ask him to stay. It didn’t get hurt when he didn’t call. It didn’t need him to choose.

But then he’d come home, exhausted and sunburned, drop his bag by the door, and fall face-first into your lap like a child.

“Missed you,” he’d mumble.

And for a while, it was enough.

The change came slowly.

You both noticed it, but neither of you said anything at first.

He started traveling more—Italy, France, Germany, endless interviews and sponsorships. You told yourself it was temporary. That he’d always find his way back to you. But sometimes, he’d forget to call for days. Sometimes, you’d see his name in a headline with someone else beside him—models, actresses, teammates. He’d always shrug it off when you asked.

“You know how it is. They love a good story.”

And you did know. But knowing didn’t make it hurt less.

He wasn’t cheating. You believed that. But love, you learned, could fade even without betrayal. Sometimes it just got quieter, heavier, like a room where no one spoke anymore.

The last straw wasn’t a fight—it was a silence that stretched too long.

One evening, he came home late from a charity event. You were waiting by the window, half-worried, half-tired. He looked beautiful in his dark suit, his tie loosened, eyes heavy. He kissed your forehead absently and said,

“You’re quiet tonight.”

You laughed softly. “So are you.”

He smiled faintly, sitting beside you, elbows on his knees. For a while, you just listened to the city hum below. And then, without meaning to, you said it.

“Do you ever feel like we’re… losing it?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the floor, hands clasped loosely. When he finally spoke, his voice was low.

“Yeah. I do.”

You’d expected denial. Or maybe a fight. But his honesty knocked the air out of you.

“It’s not your fault,” he said after a moment. “I think… I’m just not built for staying still.”

You tried to smile, but it came out cracked.

“And I’m not built for waiting.”

That was the first time either of you admitted it aloud—that love wasn’t always enough. That sometimes, two people could want each other deeply and still be heading in opposite directions.

He reached for your hand, fingers rough and warm.

“You changed me,” he said. “I don’t know if that’s good or bad, but you did.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to cry. “You made me braver. You made me love loud.”

There was no shouting that night. No slammed doors or accusations. Just two people sitting close, loving each other enough to let go.

You spent the next week together like it was your last summer.

Morning walks. Shared meals. A quiet trip to the ocean, where you watched him stand at the shore, shirt half unbuttoned, hair blowing in the salt wind. He looked at you over his shoulder and grinned, that familiar boyish grin that had undone you from the start.

“Hey, take a picture,” he said.

“Why?”

“So you’ll remember that I wasn’t always an idiot.”

You rolled your eyes but took the photo anyway. It’s still on your phone—his silhouette against a golden sky, waves crashing at his feet. He looks free, and you loved him most when he looked like that.

That night, you stayed in a small seaside inn. He cooked instant ramen on a portable stove and nearly burned it. You laughed until your stomach hurt. He kissed you, slow and deep, like he was memorizing you.

Later, when he thought you were asleep, you felt his hand trace your spine, his breath catching as if holding back words. You wanted to ask him what he was thinking, but you already knew.

The day he left, you walked him to the airport. He wore that same dark hoodie you used to steal, hood pulled low, trying not to be recognized. He carried his suitcase in one hand, and your heart in the other.

At the gate, he turned to you and smiled softly. “I’ll call when I land.”

You nodded, knowing he would. Knowing, too, that one day he wouldn’t.

He leaned down and kissed you—gentle, lingering, the kind of kiss that feels like both a promise and a goodbye. His voice was almost a whisper against your lips.

“You’ll be okay, right?”

You smiled even though your eyes burned. “Yeah. You too.”

He brushed his thumb along your cheek, then turned and walked away. You watched him disappear into the crowd until he was gone.

You didn’t cry right then. The tears came later—when you got home and saw his cup still on the counter, his cologne still in the air, his laughter still echoing in the walls.

A month after Oliver left, the ache had dulled into something quiet but constant — like a song you couldn’t turn off.

You thought you were healing. You were learning to wake up without expecting a message, to pass by ramen aisles without stopping, to sleep on your side of the bed again.

Then came the morning that changed everything.

You were running late for work, hair half-dried, coffee cooling on the counter when you felt it — that wave of nausea that came out of nowhere. It wasn’t unusual at first. Maybe stress, maybe exhaustion. But when it kept happening — day after day, at the same time — something inside you began to whisper a possibility you weren’t ready to hear.

You remember standing in the pharmacy aisle, staring at a row of pregnancy tests, your hands shaking. You bought three, just to be sure.

And later that night, in the quiet of your bathroom, under the dull hum of the fluorescent light, you took the first test.

Then the second.

Then the third.

All positive.

You sank to the floor, knees against the cold tiles, the test still clutched in your hand. The world felt both impossibly small and terrifyingly wide. You couldn’t think. You couldn’t breathe. You just sat there, staring at the word pregnant like it was written in a language you didn’t understand.

The first thought that came was his name.

Oliver.

You imagined his reaction — shock, maybe guilt, maybe confusion. He’d pace, run a hand through his hair, and try to smile even when his eyes betrayed him. You’d seen him flustered before, but this… this was something else.

You pondered telling him. For a week, you wrestled with it — the temptation, the fear, the longing. You drafted messages you never sent. You even dialed his number once, just to hang up before it rang.

But every time you imagined his life — the stadium lights, the reporters, the constant travel — you knew what would happen. He’d come back, yes. He’d do the right thing. He’d try to love you both out of duty.

But you didn’t want that kind of love. Not for you. And certainly not for your child.

So, you made the hardest choice of your life.

You decided not to tell him.

Pregnancy alone wasn’t easy.

Some days, you managed fine — working, smiling, keeping busy. Other days, the loneliness hit like a wave, sudden and suffocating. You’d catch yourself reaching for your phone, wanting to tell him about the doctor’s appointment, about the tiny heartbeat you heard through the monitor that made you cry in the car afterward.

You started journaling instead. You wrote to the baby — about the foods you craved, the silly dreams you had, the way your body changed and how terrified you were.

When the nurse asked if you wanted to know the gender, you hesitated. Then nodded.

A girl.

That night, you sat by the window, rain tapping softly against the glass, your hands resting on the curve of your stomach. You whispered to her, as if she could already understand:

“It’s just us, okay? But I’ll make sure that’s enough.”

Naming her was harder. For months, you went through lists — names that sounded too common, too grand, too detached. Nothing felt right until you came across Mei.

Short, simple, soft.

It meant “bud,” “sprout,” “beauty.”

It reminded you of growth, of something small and strong — like a beginning.

“Mei,” you whispered to the quiet room. “You’re my beginning.”

And just like that, the name stayed.

The day she was born was both the most terrifying and miraculous day of your life.

You remember the sterile lights, the doctors’ calm voices, your breath hitching between pain and disbelief. And then — a cry. A sharp, desperate sound that filled the room and broke you open from the inside.

When they placed her in your arms, everything else disappeared.

She was tiny, pink-skinned, eyes barely open. But when she did look up — when she blinked through the blur and found your face — your breath caught.

One eye green.

One blue.

Your heart stuttered. You didn’t need a test or a question. You knew instantly.

She was his daughter.

Tears came before you could stop them — joy, grief, awe, all tangled together.

You traced her cheek with a trembling finger and whispered,

“You have his eyes… but maybe that’s the universe’s way of saying he’s still here.”

The years that followed were a quiet kind of chaos.

The nights were long. The feedings relentless. You learned to function on little sleep, to measure time in ounces of formula and soft lullabies. You learned how to braid hair, how to soothe nightmares, how to smile even when your heart ached.

There were moments you wanted to call him — birthdays, milestones, the first time Mei smiled, her first laugh that sounded so much like his it nearly broke you. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. You’d made your choice.

You found strength in small things.

Morning walks with the stroller. The way she’d fall asleep on your chest. The warmth of her tiny hand gripping your finger like an anchor.

You learned to build a life around her — a quiet apartment filled with sunlight and drawings taped to the fridge. You worked, you saved, you survived.

And slowly, you began to heal.

By the time Mei turned four, she was the center of your world — curious, bright, endlessly talkative. She had his messy hair, dark but with faint sunlit streaks in summer. His confidence too, the kind that made you laugh and sigh in equal measure.

Sometimes, when she smiled just right, your heart would ache in the most beautiful way.

One afternoon, you took her to the park. The sun was high, the air warm with the scent of grass and vanilla ice cream from the vendor nearby. Mei ran ahead, clutching her favorite stuffed chick — a gift you’d bought her before she could even walk.

“Mama! Look, I can climb!” she shouted from the jungle gym, her mismatched eyes gleaming with pride.

You laughed, shading your eyes. “Be careful, Mei!”

She turned, flashing that same teasing grin Oliver used to wear. “I’m big now, Mama!”

You smiled. “I know, baby.”

Watching her felt like watching a memory reborn — the best parts of him and the softest parts of yourself woven together into something whole.

When other parents asked about her father, you kept your answers gentle and vague. “He’s not around,” you’d say, never bitter, never resentful. Because despite everything, you didn’t hate him. You couldn’t.

You still remembered the man who kissed you under city lights, who made ramen at 2 a.m., who once whispered, “You’re not hard to love.”

And though he didn’t know, a part of him lived on — in every laugh, every question, every wild, bright spark of your daughter’s eyes.

Sometimes, when you tucked Mei into bed, she’d ask the kind of innocent questions children ask.

“Mama, why don’t I have a papa?”

You’d pause, brushing her hair gently from her forehead.

“You have a papa,” you’d say softly. “He’s just… far away.”

“Does he love me?”

And you’d smile — not a lie, but a hope.

“I think he would, if he knew you.”

She’d nod, satisfied, and curl into her blanket, whispering, “Okay, maybe he dreams about me.”

You’d watch her drift off, and for a fleeting moment, you’d let yourself believe it too — that somewhere, halfway across the world, maybe he did dream about her.

Maybe he saw a child in the stands with two-colored eyes and felt something stir. Maybe he’d look out at the crowd one day and wonder why those eyes felt so familiar.

You’d never know.

But as you stood by the window, the moonlight falling over Mei’s sleeping face, you realized you didn’t need to.

You’d given her love.

You’d given her peace.

And that was enough.

Life had moved on, but some summers still smelled like him — like sea salt, sweat, and instant ramen. You didn’t chase those memories anymore. You just let them come and go like the tide.

Sometimes, when Mei laughed — loud, unfiltered, full of joy — you’d close your eyes and smile. Because in that sound, you heard everything that had been beautiful about him, and everything that still was.

He had left, yes.

But not everything he left behind was pain.

Some things — like her — were miracles.

And as you lifted your sleeping daughter from the couch that night, her little arms instinctively wrapping around your neck, you whispered into her hair,

“You’re my summer, Mei. The one that never ended.”

It was late afternoon, the kind of golden warmth that only came at the end of summer. The air smelled faintly of grass and melting ice cream, and somewhere nearby a child laughed, high and bright.

You were sitting on a bench beneath a sycamore tree, watching Mei race toward the slides with her stuffed chick clutched tightly in her hand. Her hair gleamed like dark silk under the sunlight, and you smiled to yourself — she had his messy curls, his boundless energy, that same gleam of mischief in her eyes.

For a while, the world felt still. Peaceful.

Just you and her.

Then you heard a voice.

Low. Familiar. Unmistakable.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

Your breath caught.

You turned, and there he was — Oliver Aiku, standing a few feet away, wearing a loose white shirt, sleeves rolled up, a coffee in hand. He looked almost exactly the same, though maybe a little older, sharper around the edges. His hair was tied back loosely, green-tipped strands falling into his mismatched eyes that were now fixed on you with something between surprise and warmth.

“Hey,” he said softly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “It’s been a while.”

You swallowed, forcing a smile. “Yeah. It has.”

For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke. The silence between you wasn’t awkward — it was heavy with everything left unsaid, the kind of silence that remembered.

He gestured to the empty spot beside you. “Mind if I sit?”

You hesitated, then nodded. “Sure.”

He sat down, close but not too close, stretching his legs out, eyes flicking to the playground. “You look good,” he said quietly.

You gave a small laugh, trying to sound casual. “Thanks. You too. I see you’re still everywhere — commercials, matches, interviews. You never stop.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. I guess it’s easier to keep moving than to stop.”

You looked at him out of the corner of your eye, something tender and bittersweet rising in your chest. “Still the same Oliver,” you murmured.

He turned to you then, smiling faintly. “Still the same you?”

You wanted to say no — that motherhood had changed you, that the quiet had softened you, that love had both broken and rebuilt you. But before you could answer, a familiar voice broke through the air.

“Mama! Mama, look!”

Your heart froze.

Mei came running from the playground, cheeks flushed, her little arms pumping as she sprinted toward you. Her laughter carried through the park, and you felt your pulse quicken in panic.

You stood quickly, instinctively stepping in front of Oliver as she reached you.

“Hi, baby,” you said, forcing cheer into your voice as you crouched down and scooped her up.

Mei giggled, throwing her arms around your neck. You held her tightly — maybe too tightly — burying her small face against your shoulder, your fingers trembling as they pressed gently against her hair.

“You okay?” Oliver asked, voice laced with confusion and curiosity.

You forced a shaky smile over your shoulder. “Yeah. Just—she gets tired quickly.”

He blinked, taken aback, a small smile playing on his lips. “You have a kid,” he said softly, almost in awe. “Wow. I didn’t know.”

You turned slightly away, your arms tightening protectively around Mei. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “It’s… recent.”

He chuckled under his breath, eyes still warm, oblivious. “That’s amazing. She’s beautiful. What’s her name?”

Your throat tightened. “Mei,” you whispered.

“Cute name,” he said gently. “She’s lucky. She’s got your hair, huh?”

You nodded, unable to meet his gaze. “Yeah… something like that.”

But fate, it seemed, had a cruel sense of timing.

Because at that exact moment, Mei squirmed.

“Mama,” she mumbled against your neck. “Too tight.”

Before you could stop her, she pushed lightly at your shoulder, twisting in your arms — and her face turned toward him.

The world seemed to still.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then her mismatched eyes caught the sunlight.

One green. One blue.

Oliver’s expression faltered. The easy smile vanished, replaced by something raw and unguarded — confusion first, then realization, and finally, disbelief.

You froze, every muscle locked, your heart pounding in your chest. Mei, oblivious, blinked at him curiously. Her gaze, so open and innocent, met his, and she tilted her head.

“Hi,” she said softly.

Oliver’s breath hitched audibly. His coffee trembled in his hand before he slowly set it down on the bench.

“Those eyes,” he whispered, almost to himself.

You swallowed hard, voice barely steady. “Oliver…”

But he didn’t look at you. His gaze was still fixed on Mei — searching, tracing, remembering. He glanced between her and you, the pieces falling into place, slow and devastating.

“She’s—”

His voice broke.

“She’s mine, isn’t she?”

There it was — the question you’d dreaded since the moment you saw him.

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t. Your throat was tight, your eyes stung, and the world felt both too loud and too quiet at once. Mei had already wriggled free, sitting on your lap now, swinging her legs idly, blissfully unaware.

Finally, you nodded. Barely.

“Yes.”

The word fell between you like glass.

Oliver didn’t move. He just sat there, staring — not angry, not hurt yet, just… stunned. His mismatched eyes softened, and his voice, when it came, was small.

“How old is she?”

“Four,” you whispered.

He exhaled shakily, running a hand through his hair. His jaw tightened, and for a moment you thought he might stand, might yell, might walk away. But instead, he just sat there, looking at her again.

“She looks like you,” he murmured, though his voice trembled slightly. “But those eyes…”

You wanted to explain — to tell him about that night in your bathroom, about your fear, your loneliness, the choice you made not to shatter his world. But the words wouldn’t come.

“I didn’t want to—”

Your voice broke. “I didn’t want to ruin your life. You were finally free, finally doing what you loved. I couldn’t take that from you.”

He turned toward you then, his eyes unreadable — a storm of emotion barely held back.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he said softly. “You just… took away something I didn’t know I had.”

The honesty in his voice made your eyes sting.

You looked down at Mei, who had begun to hum to herself, her little fingers tracing the fabric of your sleeve. Oliver followed your gaze, his expression shifting from shock to something gentler — awe, maybe even love.

He reached out instinctively, hesitating just before his fingers brushed her hair. “Can I…?”

You hesitated, then nodded once.

He touched her gently, brushing a strand from her face. Mei blinked, looking up at him with sleepy curiosity.

“You have pretty eyes,” she said simply.

He laughed — a quiet, broken sound that trembled with emotion. “You too, little one.”

For a moment, the three of you sat there — the world moving around you, children laughing, birds calling, life continuing — while something fragile and beautiful settled between you.

He looked at you then, eyes glistening with something unspoken.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” he admitted quietly. “But… I want to be here. If you’ll let me.”

You blinked back tears, nodding faintly. “We’ll… figure it out.”

He smiled then — soft, almost shy. “You always did.”

And when he looked back at Mei, she smiled, too — bright and easy, like she’d known him all along.

That afternoon stayed suspended in memory for you—heat shimmering in the air, the faint sweetness of melted ice cream, the quiet thud of a soccer ball from the other end of the park.

After the first shock, something almost ordinary began to unfold. Oliver crouched so that he was at Mei’s eye level, his expression still uncertain but his voice soft.

“So, Mei, you like slides or swings better?”

“Swings!” she said without hesitation, already tugging at his hand.

You opened your mouth to protest—you shouldn’t—but it was too late. She had decided that this tall stranger with the funny hair and gentle smile was now her playmate. And somehow, he couldn’t refuse her.

You sat back on the bench, watching them.

He pushed her on the swings, counting out loud in that playful drawl you remembered so well. She laughed each time she went higher, calling, “More, more!” until his arms ached. Then she insisted on showing him how fast she could run, how she could climb halfway up the jungle gym, how her stuffed chick could “fly.”

Oliver followed her everywhere, half amused, half enchanted. The longer you watched, the more it hurt—and yet, the more you couldn’t look away.

There was something achingly natural about it.

He didn’t have to learn how to talk to her; he already knew.

The easy patience in his voice, the spark of pride in his eyes—those were things no one could fake.

And Mei, of course, adored him instantly. Children always recognized their own.

When she finally slowed down, sweaty and glowing, she plopped herself right beside him in the grass. He lay back on his elbows, and she sat cross-legged, examining his mismatched eyes with fascination.

“Why are your eyes different colors?” she asked.

He chuckled. “I was born like that. Makes me special.”

She considered this seriously. “Like me?”

He tilted his head. “Yeah. Like you.”

Your chest tightened. The resemblance between them—the mirrored expression, the same teasing lilt—was almost cruel in its perfection.

You stood finally, pretending to fuss with Mei’s backpack, trying to hide the way your hands trembled.

Then you heard her voice again, small and matter-of-fact:

“Mama says I don’t have a daddy.”

The world seemed to stop for a breath.

You froze, your heart in your throat. Oliver’s gaze flicked toward you, startled, but Mei kept talking in that unfiltered honesty only a child possessed.

“But she talks about him sometimes. She says he was nice and funny and liked spicy noodles. And that he smiled like the sun.”

She giggled. “That’s silly, right?”

Oliver’s face changed—something soft and broken at once. His laugh came out shaky. “No,” he murmured. “That sounds… nice.”

He looked at her for a long moment, the corners of his mouth curving upward in a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Then, quietly, he said,

“You know, sometimes people aren’t around because they don’t know where they’re supposed to be. But maybe they find out later.”

Mei tilted her head, not understanding, but she smiled anyway. “Then they can play more, right?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Then they can play more.”

You swallowed hard, blinking back the sting behind your eyes.

When Mei ran off again to chase a butterfly, he stayed kneeling in the grass, watching her go. His shoulders were tense, his hands flexing restlessly against his knees. Then he glanced up at you.

The look in his eyes was wordless—shock, guilt, wonder, love, all tangled together.

You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know what came next.

But as you stood there, the sun dipping lower, your daughter’s laughter ringing through the park, you realized that some moments didn’t need answers yet.

For now, it was enough that he was there.

That she was laughing.

That, somehow, life had given you this fragile, impossible chance to breathe the same air again—just for an afternoon.

You exhaled slowly, letting the warmth of it sink in.

And when Oliver finally stood beside you, brushing grass from his jeans, his voice was quiet, almost reverent.

“She’s… incredible.”

You nodded, unable to trust your voice.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “She really is.”

Those next few days were a blur of small, bright things—tiny details that clung to you even when you tried to stay calm.

Every morning began the same way: Mei would pad sleepily into the kitchen, hair a soft halo of tangles, dragging her stuffed chick by one wing. You’d be pouring cereal, pretending to focus on the rhythm of a normal routine, when she’d start again.

“Mama, when can we see the funny man again?”

You’d freeze with the spoon halfway to the bowl. “What funny man?”

She’d grin. “The one with the different eyes like mine!”

You’d sigh, smile a little, and say, “Maybe soon, sweetheart.”

But soon wasn’t soon enough for Mei.

She talked about him constantly. How tall he was. How nice he’d been when she fell. How he made the swings go higher than anyone else. Sometimes, she’d sit cross-legged on the rug with her crayons, drawing the three of you—her, you, and a tall man with mismatched eyes and a huge smile. She’d point proudly when she finished:

“See? That’s him! He said my eyes were special like his. So we have to be best friends forever.”

Every time, your heart clenched a little tighter.

You hadn’t heard from Oliver since that night. He hadn’t called, hadn’t texted—but somehow, you knew he wouldn’t disappear. He’d needed time; you both did. The space between you was fragile, full of words neither of you were ready to say.

But your daughter didn’t understand space. She understood connection. She felt it instinctively, as if the thread between them had been woven long before either of you knew.

By the third day, her persistence grew bolder.

“Mama, maybe he forgot to ask for our number,” she said solemnly, stirring her chocolate milk. “We should go find him.”

You laughed softly, brushing her hair back. “And how do we find him, clever girl?”

She tilted her head, serious. “We go to the park again. He’ll come.”

You wanted to tell her that life didn’t work that way—that grown-ups didn’t just appear because you wished for them—but you couldn’t bring yourself to crush that light in her eyes.

Because deep down, part of you wondered too.

Three days later, you took her back to the park.

You told yourself it was coincidence, that it was her idea, that you were only there to let her play. But as you sat on the same bench under the same tree, your gaze kept wandering to the gate.

Mei ran off to the swings, laughter ringing through the air. The late afternoon sun painted everything gold again—the same kind of gold from the day he found you.

And then—almost like the universe had been listening—he was there.

Oliver stood by the entrance, hands in his pockets, scanning the playground. He spotted you first, then her. His expression softened into something almost disbelieving.

He walked over slowly, careful, like he was afraid he might scare the moment away.

“You came back,” he said quietly when he reached you.

You smiled faintly. “She insisted.”

He looked toward Mei, who had just noticed him. Her face lit up instantly, and she sprinted across the grass.

“You came back too!” she squealed.

Oliver crouched to catch her, laughing as she crashed into him. “I guess we both did.”

Her small hands cupped his face as if to make sure he was real. “I told Mama you’d come! Because we have the same eyes, and that means we’re best friends forever!”

He laughed again, the sound warm and a little shaky. “Is that how it works?”

“Yes!” she said with complete certainty. “So now you have to play with me again.”

He glanced up at you, eyes searching, asking permission without words.

You hesitated, then nodded once. “Go on. Just… be careful with her.”

“Always,” he murmured.

You watched them from the bench again.

They played tag, and she cheated outrageously. She tried to teach him how to spin on the merry-go-round until she got dizzy and collapsed into giggles. He followed every game, patient and delighted, like someone rediscovering a piece of himself he’d forgotten.

And you—

You watched with your heart caught between joy and ache.

Because there he was, the man you had loved so fiercely, kneeling in the grass with your daughter—his daughter—and smiling like he’d finally found home.

When he helped her climb the jungle gym, his voice carried over to you, light and teasing:

“Alright, best friend, higher or lower?”

“Higher!” Mei shouted. “We’re brave!”

You smiled, blinking back tears.

For years you had wondered what it would look like if he’d stayed—if he’d been there through the nights and the laughter and the first words. Now you knew.

It was beautiful.

And it was painful.

As the sun began to dip, you called out, “Mei! Time to go, love.”

She pouted. “Five more minutes?”

You shook your head gently. “Tomorrow, maybe.”

She sighed dramatically, then turned to Oliver. “You’ll come tomorrow, right?”

He froze, caught between hope and caution. “If it’s okay with your mama.”

You hesitated under their expectant gazes. Then you smiled softly. “We’ll see.”

Mei beamed, clearly taking that as a yes. She threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tight. “Okay, best friend. Don’t forget!”

He hugged her back carefully, his eyes over her shoulder meeting yours. There was gratitude there, but also something deeper—an unspoken promise.

When she finally let go, he straightened, brushing a leaf from his hair. “You really did an amazing job,” he said quietly. “She’s incredible.”

You smiled faintly, your heart too full for words. “She’s a lot like her father.”

He didn’t answer, but the look he gave you said everything.

As you walked home, Mei skipped ahead, humming, her stuffed chick bouncing at her side. Oliver walked beside you, silent for a moment before he said, almost to himself,

“She deserves to know who I am. When the time’s right.”

You glanced at him. “When she’s ready,” you agreed.

He nodded. “Then I’ll wait.”

The way he said it made something inside you loosen—the certainty, the quiet patience, the way his voice softened around her name.

You realized, for the first time since he left years ago, that maybe this wasn’t about rewriting the past anymore.

Maybe it was about learning how to share the present.

That night, as you tucked Mei into bed, she whispered sleepily, “Mama, he came back like I said he would.”

You brushed her hair from her forehead, smiling. “He did.”

“Because we’re best friends?”

You nodded. “Because of that.”

She smiled drowsily. “Then he’ll come again tomorrow.”

You kissed her cheek. “Maybe he will.”

When you turned off the light, the city outside glowed softly through the curtains, and you stood there for a long time—feeling both the ache of the past and the fragile peace of what was beginning to grow in its place.

Because for once, you didn’t have to imagine him as a memory.

He was here.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for now.

The next morning, the sky hung low and silver, clouds rolling lazily across the city. Mei sat at the breakfast table with her chin resting in her hands, poking at her pancakes instead of eating them.

You recognized that look immediately.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” you asked, trying for a light tone.

She sighed dramatically, still not looking up. “Nothing.”

That “nothing” always meant something.

You crouched beside her, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “Tell me anyway.”

She huffed, frowning at her plate. “It’s not fair. All the kids in my class have daddies.”

The words hit like they always did — softly but sharp. You exhaled, heart tightening. “We’ve talked about this, Mei. Families come in different shapes, remember? Some have one parent, some have two—”

She cut you off with a frustrated shake of her head. “But why don’t I have mine?”

You hesitated, trying to keep your voice steady. “It’s… complicated.”

That word made her frown harder. “It’s always complicated.”

Her tone wasn’t angry — it was confused, a little hurt. The kind of confusion that came from being too young to understand absence but old enough to feel it.

“I just want to know,” she whispered. “Did he not want me?”

Your heart cracked, like it always did when she asked that. You swallowed hard. “No, love. That’s not true.”

She stared down at her plate, quiet for a long moment. Then, softly: “Then why doesn’t he come?”

You opened your mouth — but there was no good answer.

By the time you reached the park later that afternoon, she was still pouty, trailing behind you with her stuffed chick dangling from her hand.

Oliver was already there, leaning against the fence with his usual easy smile. The sight of him still caught you off guard — the way he lit up the simplest places just by being in them.

He straightened when he saw you both. “There’s my favorite duo!”

You smiled faintly. “Hey. She’s in a bit of a mood today.”

He crouched to her level, playful as ever. “What’s this? No hug for your best friend?”

She crossed her arms stubbornly. “Not today.”

He blinked, surprised. “That bad, huh?”

You sighed. “She’s just… thinking about her dad again.”

Oliver’s expression softened immediately. He nodded, understanding — though you could see the flicker of guilt behind his smile.

“Hey,” he said gently to her, “want to tell me about it?”

She scuffed her shoe in the dirt. “I don’t have one.”

He tilted his head. “Sure you do.”

“No, I don’t.” Her voice wavered. “If I did, he’d come see me. He’d play with me. He’d care.”

He froze for a fraction of a second, his smile faltering. You felt the air shift.

“Mei—” you began, but she wasn’t done.

Her little hands balled into fists, her cheeks flushed pink with emotion. “All the other kids have daddies! And mine doesn’t even want me! I wish he was like you, Oliver. You come and play. You listen. You care. You’re the best!”

The words hung there, too heavy, too honest.

Oliver stared at her — at the small, angry tears forming in her mismatched eyes, at the face that mirrored his so perfectly it almost hurt to look. He looked like a man trying to breathe through a storm.

“Hey,” he said quietly, his voice breaking. “That’s not true, Mei.”

She sniffled, crossing her arms. “It is. He doesn’t love me.”

And that was the moment something in him snapped — not in anger, but in ache.

His voice came before he could stop it, low and trembling:

“He does, Mei. He loves you more than anything.”

You froze.

So did she.

She blinked at him, her small face scrunching in confusion. “How do you know?”

Oliver swallowed hard, the words slipping faster now, unstoppable. “Because—” He stopped himself, looked at you for help. Your breath caught, your eyes pleading don’t.

But Mei was already watching, waiting.

He sighed, voice softening, breaking. “Because I’m him.”

The words were almost a whisper — tender, terrified, true.

Silence.

Mei blinked, processing, her mouth falling open. She looked at him, then at you, then back at him again. “You’re my daddy?”

Oliver’s eyes shimmered. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I am.”

For a long heartbeat, she just stared. You could hear your own pulse in your ears, the weight of the world balanced on that tiny moment.

Then, suddenly, she ran to him — full speed, throwing her arms around his neck so fiercely it nearly knocked him backward.

He caught her instinctively, the air leaving his lungs in a shaky laugh that turned into a sob halfway through.

“I knew it!” she cried into his shoulder. “I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!”

He held her tighter, burying his face in her hair, his shoulders trembling. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.

You stood a few steps away, tears burning behind your eyes, watching them. It was everything you had both dreaded and hoped for all at once — the truth, raw and pure, falling into place.

Mei pulled back just enough to look at him. “You really love me?”

He smiled through his tears. “More than you’ll ever know.”

She giggled, wiping her own eyes. “Good. ‘Cause now you have to come to the park every day.”

He laughed — the kind of laugh that cracked and mended all at once. “Every day,” he promised.

When she ran off to the swings again, you finally stepped closer. He was still kneeling, hands shaking slightly, eyes red-rimmed but glowing.

“I didn’t mean to tell her like that,” he murmured, his voice rough. “I just… couldn’t listen to her think I didn’t care.”

You nodded, your voice barely a whisper. “I know.”

He looked up at you then — the man who had once left, now holding the world he never knew he’d lost. His eyes were full of apology and something gentler, deeper.

“I’ll make it right,” he said quietly. “If you’ll let me.”

You didn’t answer right away. Mei’s laughter floated through the air, soft and bright, and for a moment the world seemed to hold its breath.

You finally smiled, tired but true. “Then start with today.”

He stood, brushing his sleeve, glancing toward the swings. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Today sounds good.”

For the next few weeks everything changed, quietly at first.

You didn’t notice the shift right away; it came in small things—your phone lighting up at odd hours, the laughter that started filling your apartment again, the new kind of calm in Mei’s eyes.

He began with simple messages.

Morning: Did Mei sleep okay?

Afternoon: Send me a picture of her new drawing.

Evening: You doing alright?

At first, you hesitated before answering. There were still layers of distance and memory between you. But he never pushed. He just kept showing up in the smallest, kindest ways until it began to feel natural again.

Then came the calls.

Sometimes short—just a quick check-in while he was between interviews or practice. Other times longer, when Mei would beg to talk before bed. She’d sit cross-legged on your bed, phone pressed to her ear, rambling about her day while he listened with an intensity that made your heart ache.

You’d hear his soft laugh through the speaker.

“She’s got your stubbornness,” he’d say.

“No,” you’d reply, smiling. “That’s all you.”

The first time he came to your apartment, he stood awkwardly in the doorway, a grocery bag in one hand.

“I brought dinner,” he said. “Thought maybe you could use a break.”

You blinked. “Instant ramen?”

He grinned. “The fancy kind.”

Mei shrieked when she saw him. She grabbed his hand and dragged him straight to her room to show off every stuffed animal she owned. You leaned against the doorframe, watching the two of them kneeling among a pile of toys, your heart swelling and breaking at once.

He fit there so easily it frightened you.

That became routine. He’d visit after training, sometimes exhausted but always smiling. He learned how to braid her hair—badly at first, until she started giggling and teaching him. He’d fall asleep on the couch more than once with her tucked against his side and her chick clutched between them.

He didn’t just show up for her. He showed up for you, too. He fixed the squeaky window, brought groceries, cleaned up after dinner. Once, when you came home late from work, he was already in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, helping Mei with her coloring book.

“I think I’ve been promoted to assistant,” he said.

“You’re doing fine,” you told him. And you meant it.

He wasn’t perfect—never tried to pretend he was. Sometimes his schedule pulled him away again, and you saw the guilt in his eyes when he said goodbye. But this time, he always came back. Always called. Always sent a photo from wherever he was—an empty stadium, a sunset over some foreign street—with a message like Wish you were here, both of you.

The change in Mei was unmistakable. She laughed louder, slept easier. She started telling people, “My daddy plays soccer. He’s really cool.” The pride in her voice was a living thing.

And you… you found yourself softening, little by little.

You still guarded your heart, but the sight of him brushing her hair from her face, listening to her stories like they were sacred—those moments started healing something you hadn’t realized was still broken.

One evening, the three of you sat on the balcony, watching the city lights flicker. Mei was half asleep, her head on his shoulder. He looked over at you, quiet and thoughtful.

“Thanks,” he said.

“For what?”

“For letting me be here.”

You smiled faintly. “You earned it.”

He reached over, taking your hand in his without thinking. His palm was warm, familiar. You didn’t pull away.

Below, the city kept humming, life moving on around you. Inside, something steadier was beginning—a rhythm, a fragile trust, a family slowly stitching itself back together.

That next two years passed in the kind of rhythm that felt almost ordinary.

Mornings meant Mei’s sleepy hair and cereal bowls, evenings meant Oliver knocking softly at the door, tired but smiling, carrying take-out or flowers or something small he’d found that reminded him of her. The awkwardness had faded into routine; laughter had filled in the cracks.

He grew into the role without realizing it—helping with homework, fixing broken toys, showing up for every small performance at her school. You saw the way his eyes followed her, the gentleness that replaced the old restlessness, the way his hand sometimes brushed yours as if testing whether it was allowed to stay.

By the time Mei turned six, the three of you felt like a little constellation—bright, fragile, and complete. But you noticed the change in him first: how he lingered when it was time to leave, how he looked at the spare toothbrush in your bathroom as though it meant something bigger.

One evening, after dinner, he sat on the couch with Mei on his lap and you beside them, flipping through a children’s book. He looked around the apartment—small, crowded with drawings and soft toys—and smiled.

“You know,” he began casually, “I was thinking about something.”

You arched a brow. “That sounds dangerous.”

He laughed. “Probably. But hear me out. What if you didn’t have to climb four flights of stairs with groceries anymore?”

Mei perked up instantly. “Why?”

He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Because I was looking at this house. It’s near a big park. Big enough for a soccer goal and a swing set.” He glanced at you, tentative. “I thought maybe you two could come see it sometime.”

You froze. The air seemed to thicken with unspoken things. “Oliver…”

But before you could say anything more, Mei gasped. “A house?! With swings? And my own room?”

He smiled, helpless against her excitement. “Yeah. Your own room. Maybe even two so you can choose.”

She wriggled out of his lap, practically bouncing. “We should move there right now! Can we, Mama? Please?”

“Sweetheart—” you started, but she was already tugging at Oliver’s sleeve. “Tell her! Tell her it’s a good idea!”

Oliver laughed, the sound warm and nervous. “I think she agrees with me.”

Mei crossed her arms in mock seriousness. “Mama always says we need more space. And he’s good at fixing things. So it’s perfect!”

You tried to hide a smile. “You’re teaming up on me now?”

“Yup!” Mei said proudly. Then, in that pure, guileless way only a five-year-old could manage, she added, “You and Daddy can share a room, and I’ll have mine next door. Easy!”

The room went still for a beat.

Oliver looked at you—really looked. There was no teasing now, only something quiet and certain in his mismatched eyes.

He cleared his throat, lowering his voice. “It’s not just about space. I’ve been thinking… about making this official. A home. A name we share.”

You felt your pulse stutter. “Oliver—”

He reached over, fingers brushing yours. “I never thought about marriage before. Not seriously. But then there’s you. And Mei. And the thought of not seeing you every day feels wrong now.”

Mei, oblivious to the depth of his words, clapped her hands. “So we’re getting married? Yay!”

He laughed softly, eyes never leaving yours. “Looks like I’ve been proposed to.”

You exhaled, shaking your head but smiling despite yourself. “You two don’t play fair.”

Mei beamed, tugging on both your hands. “Can we go see the house tomorrow? Please?”

You looked at Oliver; he shrugged, grinning. “Tomorrow, then.”

She squealed and ran off to fetch her stuffed chick, already planning what to pack.

For a long moment, the two of you sat there, listening to her chatter from the other room. He leaned closer, his voice low enough for only you to hear.

“I meant it,” he said. “Not just the house. The rest of it, too. You don’t have to answer now. I just wanted you to know.”

You met his gaze, heart fluttering in a way that felt both old and entirely new. “You’ve come a long way from the man who said he wasn’t built for staying still.”

He smiled, eyes soft. “Maybe I just needed to find something worth staying for.”

From the hallway came Mei’s voice: “Don’t forget my swing!”

You both laughed, the sound easy and full of promise.

That weekend, the three of you drove out to see the house. It was on the edge of the city, where the air felt cleaner and the world seemed to breathe slower. The house sat on a quiet street lined with maple trees, sunlight flickering through the leaves. It wasn’t enormous—white walls, a red roof, a little porch—but it looked like the kind of place laughter would echo easily.

You parked by the curb, heart fluttering with a mix of curiosity and disbelief. “It’s beautiful,” you murmured.

Oliver smiled, leaning against the car door. “Wait till you see the backyard.”

Mei had already bolted ahead, her sneakers slapping against the gravel. “Come on, come on!” she called, her small hand waving wildly.

You followed more slowly, trailing behind as Oliver unlocked the gate. The backyard opened into a gentle slope of grass bordered by hedges, a swing set already half assembled.

Mei’s delighted squeal rang out. “There’s a tree big enough for a treehouse!”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Of course that’s the first thing you notice.”

She grinned up at you, then immediately darted toward Oliver, who crouched down to whisper something in her ear. They both looked suspiciously pleased with themselves.

“What are you two plotting?” you called.

“Nothing!” they said in unison.

You arched a brow. “That’s never true.”

Oliver chuckled, waving you toward the house. “Go look inside. Make sure it passes inspection.”

You rolled your eyes but went, wandering through the quiet rooms—the soft creak of floorboards, sunlight spilling through the kitchen window, the faint smell of new paint. Every step felt strange and tender, like walking through a dream you hadn’t dared to imagine.

You paused by the window overlooking the garden. Mei’s laughter carried through the glass, followed by Oliver’s deeper chuckle. You smiled despite yourself. They looked perfect together—her clinging to his hand, him pretending to be dragged wherever she led.

Outside, while you were lost in the stillness of the new home, Oliver crouched beside Mei again. He held something small in his palm—a ring, simple but shining in the afternoon light.

He spoke softly, his tone conspiratorial. “Alright, best friend, I need your help. You think you can do that?”

She nodded solemnly. “What kind of help?”

“This is a secret mission,” he said. “I’m going to ask Mama something very important, but I want you to be part of it first. Because it’s about the three of us.”

Her eyes widened. “Like a family?”

“Exactly like that.”

He placed the ring carefully in her small hand, closing her fingers around it. “I want to ask her if she’ll live here with us forever. But you have to wait until I tell you, okay?”

Mei grinned. “Okay!”

“Say it back,” he teased. “You have to wait.”

“I have to wait!”

He nodded approvingly. “Good. Now—”

But before he could finish his plan, she wriggled free and took off running toward the house.

“Mei!” he called after her, groaning. “Not yet!”

You were just stepping out of the kitchen when you heard her.

“Mama! Mama! Daddy has a ring and he said we’re gonna live here forever and we can get a puppy and—”

She was practically vibrating with excitement, waving the ring like a trophy.

You froze mid-step, blinking. “He what—?”

Then Oliver appeared behind her, slightly out of breath, one hand over his face. “She didn’t listen,” he muttered.

You stared at him, half amused, half stunned. “Apparently not.”

Mei ran in circles around you, chanting something about weddings and swings and forever homes. Oliver finally caught her gently by the shoulders, crouching to her level. “Okay, okay, easy there, partner. You did great, but maybe next time we stick to the plan.”

She pouted. “But I wanted to help!”

He smiled, brushing her hair back. “You did help.” He kissed the top of her head and looked up at you, his mismatched eyes soft with laughter and something else—something that made your heart skip.

He stood slowly, taking the ring from Mei’s hand and stepping toward you. “Well,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “that’s not exactly how I imagined it.”

You folded your arms, trying not to grin. “You were planning this, weren’t you?”

He nodded, a little sheepish. “Yeah. Though maybe not with quite so much shouting.”

You arched a brow. “And the ring?”

He took a breath, his smile fading into something tender. “It’s for you. I was going to wait until we’d gone through the whole house first, but…”

He glanced at Mei, who was watching you both, wide-eyed and expectant.

“…she’s never been good at waiting.”

He stepped closer, holding out the ring between his fingers. “You and her—you’re everything I never knew I wanted. I don’t care if it’s this house or another one, if the paperwork takes a year or ten. I just want you both to be mine properly. Not halfway. Not part-time. Every day.”

You stared at him, the air caught in your throat. “Oliver—”

He smiled faintly. “I’m not asking for a wedding tomorrow. Just a yes to this. To us. To building something real.”

You looked down at Mei, who was bouncing on her toes, whispering loudly, “Say yes, Mama! Then we can get a puppy!”

And somehow, that did it—the absurd, perfect normalcy of it all. The laughter that trembled right alongside your tears.

You reached out, taking his hand, the ring warm between your fingers. “Yes,” you said quietly. “To all of it.”

Mei squealed, launching herself at both of you. Oliver caught her easily, and you ended up tangled together in the middle of the empty living room, laughing through the blur of happy tears.

Outside, the wind rustled through the trees, and sunlight spilled across the floor in golden stripes.

For a long time, you just stood there—his arm around you, Mei giggling between you, the promise of a home echoing softly in the stillness.

© an1m320v3r

I currently have baby fever. <3

•Masterlist•

[REQUESTS OPEN!!!]

[an1m320v3r]

You Have My Eyes

Blue Lock! Meguru Bachira x Reader

A secret, a child, and a love that learned patience after years apart.

Warnings: Light Angst(?); Fluf; NOT PROOFREAD!!!

[You Have My Eyes Series]

You first meet Meguru Bachira on a summer afternoon, the kind of day when the world feels too bright to be real. The air hums with heat, cicadas, and the distant rhythm of a ball being juggled against concrete. You’re late for an errand — a friend’s favor that brings you to a quiet training ground on the outskirts of Chiba. You almost walk past him.

Almost.

Because who could ignore that sound? The clean, rhythmic pulse of a ball being tapped between feet like a heartbeat. When you turn your head, you see him — a figure in motion, sunlight flickering through the streaks of gold in his hair. He’s laughing to himself, murmuring something under his breath as he plays, and you realize he’s not performing for anyone. He’s just… lost in it.

You stand there a moment too long. He notices.

“Yo,” he says with a grin that’s bright and a little crooked. “Like what you see?”

You flush, caught off guard. “I— You’re good.”

“I am good,” he agrees easily, chest rising with a soft laugh. “But you look even better standing there pretending not to stare.”

That’s the first thing about Meguru Bachira — he’s bold without arrogance, playful without malice. You find yourself smiling despite the embarrassment. He ends up walking you halfway home that day, barefoot with his shoes slung over his shoulder, sipping soda water from a can. He tells you about football like it’s a religion, a dream, a living thing that talks back when he listens closely enough. You don’t understand half of it, but you listen anyway.

He tells you about his “monster.” Not in the horror-movie way, but like a secret friend — the part of him that knows how to play without fear. You’re not sure what to make of that, but the way his golden eyes glint when he talks makes you believe in it anyway.

The next time you meet him, it’s intentional.

You show up at the same place, same hour, telling yourself it’s just a walk. He’s there again, balancing the ball on the back of his neck, a thin sheen of sweat catching the light. He looks up when you call out his name — you didn’t even realize you’d remembered it.

“Didn’t think I was that memorable,” he teases, tossing you a spare bottle of water.

“Guess you were,” you reply.

That day turns into a week, then two. You don’t mean to make him a habit, but he becomes one anyway. He texts you random photos of clouds that look like footballs. He sends you voice notes humming “Yume Ippai” off-key at 2 A.M. When he calls you “sunshine,” it doesn’t sound cheesy — it sounds earned.

And somehow, between laughter, teasing, and your endless attempts to make him eat something that isn’t canned pineapple, you start to fall.

Not quickly.

Not in fireworks.

But in quiet ways — in the sound of him snoring softly during movie nights, in the way he tucks your hair behind your ear without realizing, in the way he says your name like it’s something he likes to taste.

When you finally kiss, it happens under the faint buzz of a vending machine light. You’re standing too close, both reaching for the same drink, and the laughter that follows is cut short when he leans in and presses his mouth against yours — warm, spontaneous, and a little clumsy.

He pulls back, blinking in surprise. “Oops,” he says. Then, softer, “...unless you liked that?”

You do.

Dating Meguru Bachira is like living in color after a lifetime in grayscale.

He’s impulsive — showing up outside your apartment at midnight because he “had a dream and wanted to tell you before it ran away.” He leaves sketches on your fridge, buys you socks because he says yours always look too sad, and sometimes forgets what day it is entirely.

He’s chaos. He’s joy. He’s the storm and the calm between breaths.

And yet, with him, you never feel lost.

You go to his matches, cheering so loud your throat burns. He always finds you in the crowd, grinning up from the field before kickoff, mouthing watch me. You learn to read his moods — when he’s restless, when he’s haunted by his “monster,” when he needs quiet instead of words.

He learns you too — how you take your coffee, how you hide your worries behind humor, how to wrap his arms around you until the noise in your head softens.

You build something that feels like freedom. You cook together, you travel when his schedule allows, you fall asleep with his heartbeat against your back and think — maybe this is what home feels like.

The first time he tells you he loves you, it’s not dramatic. He’s brushing his teeth, half-asleep, toothpaste foam on his lips, when he mumbles, “Love you.”

You freeze. “What?”

He looks at you in the mirror, blinks twice, and smiles like he’s just realized it himself.

“Love you,” he repeats, this time clearer.

You laugh — not because it’s funny, but because it’s perfect in the only way Meguru can be.

Years pass.

Four of them.

You grow up together, but not always in the same direction.

He gets busier — international offers, media appearances. You’re proud, endlessly so. But the distance begins to grow in invisible inches. You still talk, still laugh, still share a bed when you can, but the gaps between those moments widen.

He starts training abroad for months at a time. You visit when you can, staying in temporary apartments that smell of pine air freshener and energy drinks. He’s radiant on the field — sharper, faster, hungrier. But off it, you can see the exhaustion in the corners of his smile.

You tell him he’s doing amazing. He tells you you’re his anchor.

But both of you can feel it — the quiet ache of trying to hold onto something that’s starting to stretch too thin.

The last straw isn’t a fight. It’s a silence.

You’re sitting together on the balcony of his rented flat in Spain. The night hums with city sounds and warm wind. He’s leaning back in a chair, staring at the stars, and you’re sipping sparkling water from his bottle. It’s peaceful — almost too peaceful.

Then he says it.

“Do you ever think we’re… stopping each other?”

You look at him. “What do you mean?”

He frowns, not in anger, but in thought. “You’ve got your world. I’ve got mine. They don’t fit like they used to.”

You know he’s right. You’ve been feeling it too — the pull of your own career, your own goals, the ache of missing him and the guilt of wanting more than waiting. You love him, but love doesn’t fix the hours you don’t share or the places you can’t follow.

So you talk. All night. You cry a little, he does too. He holds your hand the entire time.

And in the early hours, with the first light creeping through the curtains, you make the choice together.

It’s not a breakup born of anger. It’s love in its final form — selfless, quiet, excruciatingly mature.

He kisses your forehead and whispers, “I’ll still look for you in the crowd.”

You whisper back, “And I’ll still cheer.”

The first morning after, you wake up and instinctively reach for your phone — to text him a meme, or a photo of the morning sky. But your fingers stop halfway. You stare at the screen, at his name, at the tiny space where your messages used to live, and then you put the phone down.

You tell yourself it’s okay. That this is what being adults looks like.

You go to work. You smile. You eat lunch alone for the first time in months and it feels like chewing air.

By the third day, you start hearing him in everything — laughter from strangers, songs on the radio, the soft thud-thud-thud of a ball against pavement that echoes like memory.

You see him on TV once.

He’s playing for FC Barcha, dazzling as ever. His yellow eyes burn under stadium lights. He scores — of course he does — and for a fleeting moment, you could swear he looks straight into the camera, smiling like he’s found something that reminds him of home.

You cry. Not because it hurts — but because it’s beautiful.

A week after the breakup, you find yourself walking the same path where you first met him. The air smells like summer again. The cicadas are back, the sun too bright, the sky too wide. You stop at the old vending machine — the same one where he first kissed you.

You buy two cans of soda water.

You leave one on the ledge beside it.

When you take the first sip, it’s cold, sharp, and somehow comforting. You close your eyes and imagine his laughter — that open, golden sound that once filled every corner of your life. You can almost feel his hand brushing yours, hear him teasing you for being sentimental.

You smile, and for the first time, it doesn’t ache as much.

Because love like that doesn’t vanish. It just changes shape.

It becomes the music that hums quietly in the background of who you are.

You whisper, “Good luck, Meguru.”

The wind shifts, carrying the faint rhythm of a ball being kicked somewhere far away.

And you walk on — not away from him, but forward.

It’s been a month since the breakup when your body starts whispering that something is different. At first, you ignore it — the missed period, the bone-deep exhaustion, the waves of nausea that roll in without warning. You tell yourself it’s stress. That it’s just your heart catching up to what your head already decided.

But one morning, as sunlight filters through your curtains, you sit on the edge of the bathtub with trembling hands and watch two faint lines appear on a white stick.

You don’t breathe. You just stare.

Your world narrows to that tiny, undeniable truth.

Pregnant.

For a long time, you don’t move. The hum of the bathroom light fills the silence, and your heart pounds loud enough to drown it out. It feels like the world just tilted — everything stable now spinning, and him — the thought of Meguru — is the first thing that rushes into your mind.

You picture his face — that wide, gleeful smile, the way he used to press his hand against your belly just for fun, saying, “Someday, maybe something small will kick back.”

And the thought nearly breaks you.

Because you know if you tell him, he’ll come running.

He’ll drop everything. He’ll choose you — again.

And that’s exactly why you don’t.

You tell yourself it’s better this way. That his world is too fast, too bright, too full of dreams to anchor him down. You convince yourself he deserves his future — the one he worked so hard for.

So you decide to keep it.

The secret, the child — the quiet, trembling miracle growing inside you.

The months pass slowly.

Your body changes before your heart can keep up. You’re sick for weeks, dizzy, unsteady, craving pineapple and sparkling water — things you once teased him for loving. Sometimes, you laugh at the irony. Sometimes, you cry so hard your chest aches.

When you go for your first scan, the doctor hums softly, eyes widening. “Well,” she says with a smile. “You’re going to need two of everything.”

“Two?” you ask, dazed.

“Twins.”

The word hits you like thunder. You laugh, a broken sound that turns into tears. Twins. Of course.

Meguru Bachira’s children couldn’t come into the world quietly. They had to arrive in doubles — chaos and joy intertwined.

That night, you sit in bed with a notebook. You whisper names into the empty room, testing how they feel on your tongue.

“Maru,” you say first — for the boy. The name feels round and warm, like a small sun.

Then, “Mika” — soft, light, with a spark of sweetness.

You trace the letters over and over.

Two tiny lives. Two halves of someone you can’t forget.

When you finally see them — tiny, pink, perfect — it’s snowing outside.

Maru comes first, loud and impatient, his cries echoing like a tiny announcement. Mika follows, quieter, blinking up at the world with wide, golden-yellow eyes that steal the air from your lungs.

Because they’re his.

Both of them.

Maru has his dandelion eyes, wild hair already curling slightly at the ends. Mika, though — she has that same golden undertone in her dark hair, soft but unmistakable when the light hits it. The nurse laughs when you whisper, “She got his highlights.”

You hold them both against your chest, your heartbeat trembling under their tiny fists, and you realize — this is what love looks like when it decides to stay even after he’s gone.

You learn everything by trial and error.

Sleep disappears, time melts, and you survive on coffee and instinct.

Maru is the louder one — demanding, impatient, forever wriggling. Mika watches him with quiet fascination, her small brows furrowed as if already analyzing his next move.

You sing to them when the nights are long, sometimes humming Yume Ippai just because it reminds you of him.

When you whisper their father’s name, it feels like both a promise and a secret.

Once, during a particularly bad night, both twins crying in stereo, you catch yourself laughing through your exhaustion. “You two really are your father’s kids,” you tell them softly. “Loud, chaotic, impossible… and perfect.”

By year two, Maru learns to walk first. Mika, to your surprise, chooses not to — at least not immediately. She prefers to crawl after him like a shadow, then suddenly one day, she stands, wobbles, and grins like she’s been planning it all along.

They both love the park — especially the sound of bouncing balls. Every time they see one, Maru squeals, “Buh!” and runs straight toward it, almost tripping over his own feet. Mika claps and shouts “Goal!” even when no one’s playing.

They both inherit that same restless sparkle — that endless, playful energy that used to fill your apartment when Meguru was around.

You catch glimpses of him everywhere: in Maru’s grin, in Mika’s mischief, in the way they both tilt their heads when curious — just like he used to.

By year three, they start to talk more — their words tumble out in a mix of chaos and melody.

Maru’s first real sentence is, “Mama, ball please!” before he throws one at your feet. Mika follows with, “Me too!”

Your living room becomes a training ground. Small, plastic balls bounce off walls, furniture, and occasionally your legs. You try to keep up but end up laughing too hard to scold them.

One afternoon, you find them sitting by the window, drawing on fogged glass with their fingers.

When you ask what they’re doing, Mika says, “We’re making monsters.”

“Monsters?” you ask, startled.

She nods. “The nice kind. The ones that help us play better.”

You freeze — the words hit too close to home. You never told them that story.

You wonder, not for the first time, if some parts of him are simply carried through their blood — instincts, whispers, tiny echoes of a man they’ve never met but somehow still know.

By year four the twins grow like wildflowers — untamable and radiant.

Maru’s already obsessed with football. He spends hours kicking anything vaguely round, proudly declaring himself “Bachira Maru, monster king!” Mika cheers him on, though she’s just as skilled — lighter on her feet, more graceful, with that same creative spark her father had.

When they laugh together, it fills the house like sunlight.

You start to write letters.

One for each of them.

And one for him.

You never send them, of course. But sometimes, you imagine what you’d say if you could.

They’re happy, Meguru. They’re chaos and warmth and all the best parts of you. Mika’s hair glows in the sun just like yours did. Maru dribbles with the same mischief in his eyes. You’d be proud. You’d love them.

And then you fold the letter away, tuck it between pages of a notebook, and go back to living — because that’s what you promised yourself you’d do.

By year five, they’re unstoppable.

Maru insists on wearing jerseys every day, even to preschool. Mika refuses to brush her hair unless you tell her it makes her “shine like papa’s.”

They call each other “teammate” instead of “twin,” and you’ve given up trying to separate them when they sleep, tangled together in a pile of limbs and giggles.

They’re both clever — curious, bold, unfiltered. They make friends easily, tell stories too big for their little bodies to contain, and always, always look out for each other.

Some mornings, when they’re still sleepy, they crawl into your bed and demand “pancake hugs” — a tradition you invented after reading about how their grandmother used to make pancakes for him at Christmas.

It’s in those moments, as their laughter fills the room, that you realize how much of him lives on — not as a shadow, but as light.

You tell them stories sometimes — about a man who loved the world like a playground, who believed in monsters made of passion, who found joy in the simplest things.

You never say his name.

But when Maru looks up at you with those golden eyes and says, “Mama, I think I have a monster too,” you smile through the lump in your throat.

“Then make friends with it,” you tell him softly. “Just like your papa did.”

At night, when the twins are asleep, you sometimes sit by their door and listen — to the steady rhythm of their breathing, to the little sighs and mumbles that fill the dark.

You still think of him, of course. There are days when you catch a match on TV, and for a moment, your heart forgets how to stay still. He’s out there — somewhere under the same sky — chasing the dream you both agreed he had to follow.

And though he doesn’t know about them, a part of you feels like he does.

Maybe it’s the way the twins’ laughter sometimes feels like an echo.

Maybe it’s the way the world still smells faintly of pineapple and summer.

You don’t regret your choice.

It’s hard — unbearably so at times — but when you look at Maru and Mika, you know you’ve kept the best of both worlds.

Your love didn’t end. It simply transformed.

It became two little lives with golden eyes and wild hearts, running barefoot through the same sunlight that once shimmered in his hair.

And maybe, someday, when the time is right, you’ll tell them everything.

For now, you let them grow.

You let them laugh.

And when they ask where they got their eyes, you smile and say,

“From someone who saw the world beautifully.”

The park is quiet that morning — the kind of quiet that hums with life.

Children laugh in the distance, cicadas sing lazily from the trees, and the sun filters through the leaves like spilled honey. You sit on a wooden bench, a paperback open in your lap, though your eyes have stopped following the words.

You’re watching two small figures instead — your twins, Maru and Mika, chasing each other through the field, their laughter bright and reckless. Maru’s dark curls bounce as he runs, his little shoes kicking up dust. Mika trails after him, lighter, more graceful, her hair flashing golden in the sunlight.

Sometimes, when you watch them like this, it hurts how much they resemble him.

The way Maru grins, the way Mika tilts her head — it’s all Meguru, echoes of a man you loved once and never stopped missing.

You breathe in deep, steadying yourself. It’s been six years. You’ve learned to live with the ache.

You’ve built something beautiful from the pieces he left behind.

You don’t notice the shadow that falls across your page until it moves closer — until the faint scent of sparkling water and summer hits your senses like a forgotten dream.

Then a voice, light and playful, right by your ear:

“Hey, sunshine.”

Before you can react, warm lips brush your cheek — soft, quick, familiar. You jolt, nearly dropping your book.

“Wha—”

You turn, heart lurching, and the world stops.

He’s standing there — Meguru Bachira.

Same golden eyes, same messy black hair with the streaks of yellow catching the light, same grin that used to make your pulse skip. But he’s older now — sharper around the edges, shoulders broader, skin tanned from endless days under foreign suns.

For a second, you can’t breathe. You can’t even think.

He looks just as stunned. “You look—” He stops, a laugh breaking through his words. “You look exactly like I remember. Maybe prettier. No, definitely prettier.”

You blink, still frozen, words caught somewhere in your throat. “Meguru…”

He tilts his head, smiling sheepishly. “I thought that was you. I saw you from across the park and — I couldn’t just walk away. I mean, what are the odds, right?”

You try to find your voice. “I— I didn’t expect—”

“Me?” he teases, eyes softening. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

He’s exactly the same, and yet, completely different. His energy hums quieter now — not gone, just tempered. There’s a maturity in him, a calmness behind the brightness.

You manage a small smile. “You still haven’t learned personal boundaries, I see.”

He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Couldn’t help it. You looked too peaceful — I had to ruin it.”

The tension breaks just enough for you to breathe. You chat — about nothing, about everything. He tells you he’s back in Japan for a short break between matches. You tell him you’ve been working locally. He doesn’t ask where you’ve been all this time, not yet, though it hangs unspoken between you both.

For ten minutes, it’s almost normal — like time folded itself and dropped you both back into something familiar. His laughter, his gestures, the way he leans forward when he talks — all of it feels achingly natural.

Then—

“Mommy!”

The sound slices through the air.

You glance up, your heart stopping for an entirely different reason. Maru is running toward you — all energy and wild limbs, his voice bright but urgent. “Mommy!”

He stops a few steps away, frowning at the man beside you. His small hands clutch your leg possessively, his yellow eyes narrowing.

“Who’s that?” he demands.

You feel Meguru still beside you. He blinks, then looks down at the boy clinging to your knee. You see the flicker of confusion cross his face — surprise first, then something more complicated.

“Oh,” he says softly. “You have a kid.”

His tone isn’t accusing — just quiet, almost disbelieving. You can’t find words fast enough.

Maru glares at him again. “My mommy,” he declares fiercely, as if Meguru might try to steal you.

Meguru chuckles gently. “Don’t worry, little man. I’m not stealing her.”

Maru doesn’t move. He presses his face against your leg, hiding from the stranger with the bright eyes and too-familiar smile.

Meguru’s laughter fades. He’s still looking at you — at the small boy in your arms now.

He smiles, but it’s a fragile thing, stretched too thin.

“So…” he says softly, “You’re a mom.”

You nod, your voice barely a whisper. “Yeah.”

He swallows, looking out toward the trees as if searching for something steady. “Wow. I— I didn’t know.”

There’s silence between you, heavy and trembling. You can almost hear the sound of his thoughts — the disbelief, the slow cracking of something deep inside.

“You look happy,” he says finally, forcing a smile. “I mean — really happy. That’s… that’s good.”

You want to say something — anything — but your throat burns.

He laughs again, softer now, but it sounds wrong. “Guess congratulations are in order, huh?”

You blink, the words hitting like glass.

He thinks you moved on. That you loved someone else.

You open your mouth — to explain, to tell the truth — but the words don’t come. You’re still frozen between guilt and fear, between wanting to protect and wanting to confess.

Meguru’s smile falters completely. His eyes — those golden, open eyes — dim, the light flickering out just a little. He looks away, running a hand through his hair. “I… I really thought maybe, you know, someday—” He stops himself, shaking his head with a small, broken laugh. “Doesn’t matter. I’m glad you’re okay.”

And then —

“Mommy, ball!”

Maru tugs at your sleeve, pointing somewhere behind the swings. You nod absently, still half in a daze.

“Go play, baby. Stay where I can see you.”

He nods, running off again.

Meguru exhales quietly, trying to pull himself together. He still looks dazed, though — a thousand thoughts racing behind his calm expression.

You’re about to speak when Maru turns back halfway, yelling something — but you don’t catch it.

Because Meguru’s staring after him, eyes wide, expression twisting in slow realization.

The boy stops at the edge of the field, sunlight catching his face — his eyes.

Bright. Dandelion-yellow.

Exactly like his.

Meguru’s breath catches. His lips part, but no sound comes. He blinks once, twice, as if his mind refuses to process what he’s seeing.

And then it hits him.

You can see the storm rise in his eyes — disbelief melting into shock, then confusion, then something raw and sharp and heartbroken.

“...No,” he whispers. “No, that— that can’t—”

You can’t move. You can’t lie. The truth is written too clearly in Maru’s face.

Meguru turns back to you, his voice trembling. “How… how could you not tell me?”

You open your mouth — nothing comes out.

He steps closer, shaking his head. “Six years, you— you hid this from me?” His voice cracks, raw and quiet. “He’s mine, isn’t he?”

You nod, finally, tears burning behind your eyes.

Meguru exhales sharply, stepping back like the air itself pushed him. He looks away, his jaw tight, his hands shaking slightly at his sides.

“Why?” he asks, barely above a whisper. “Why would you—”

“Because you had dreams,” you say, your voice trembling. “Because you were finally free. Because I couldn’t— I couldn’t take that from you, Meguru.”

He laughs — not cruelly, but helplessly. “You thought I’d see my kid as something that took from me?”

You close your eyes. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

He’s quiet for a long time. The only sound is the wind through the leaves, the distant shouts of children playing.

Then a smaller voice breaks through.

“Mamaaa!”

You turn — Mika’s running toward you, her little dress fluttering, hair glinting gold in the sun.

She stops when she sees Meguru — wide-eyed, cautious. He blinks at her too, frozen, as if the universe just punched the breath from him a second time.

“...There’s two,” he whispers.

You nod silently.

He laughs again, but this time, tears glint in his eyes. “Of course there’s two. You always overdo things, huh?”

Mika tilts her head, suspiciously studying him. “Who’re you?”

He crouches down slowly, meeting her gaze. “Just a friend of your mom’s.”

She narrows her eyes. “You talk funny.”

He laughs, soft and unsteady. “I get that a lot.”

Maru returns then, ball in hand, glaring at Meguru like a tiny guard dog. “Don’t touch my mommy.”

Mika rolls her eyes. “Maru, be nice.”

Meguru raises his hands in surrender. “I promise, I won’t.”

You’re standing there, speechless — watching him kneel before both of them, watching the mix of pain and awe wash over his face. He looks like he’s staring at something sacred and impossible all at once.

Then Mika squints. “You look like us,” she says suddenly.

He freezes. “Do I?”

“Mm-hm.” She steps closer, pointing at his eyes. “Same sunshine eyes.”

Maru tilts his head, noticing it now too. “He does…”

Meguru swallows hard, smiling shakily. “Yeah. I guess we do.”

The air is heavy with unspoken truth — too big for them to understand, too deep for you to explain.

Then Mika spots the ball in her brother’s hand and gasps. “You wanna play soccer?” she asks Meguru.

He blinks, startled. “Uh… yeah. I play a little.”

Both twins’ eyes widen.

“You can play soccer?” Maru’s voice is full of awe.

Meguru grins, the first real grin since he arrived. “A bit. Want me to show you?”

They both nod violently.

And just like that, the tension dissolves.

The next hour is a blur of laughter and motion.

Meguru kicks the ball gently across the grass, letting Maru chase it down with clumsy determination. Mika giggles uncontrollably every time he pretends to miss on purpose.

You stand at the edge of the field, watching. The sight of him — barefoot in the grass, hair messy, eyes shining — feels almost surreal. Like no time passed at all.

When Mika finally manages to steal the ball from him, she cheers, “Goal!” and runs straight into his arms without hesitation.

He catches her easily, spinning her around once, laughing — and for a moment, it’s as if your heart forgets how to stay broken.

When the sun starts to dip, the twins collapse in a giggling heap. Meguru drops beside them, breathless.

“You two,” he says between laughs, “are little monsters.”

Maru grins proudly. “Mama says that too!”

Meguru freezes, glances at you, then back at them. His voice softens. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I bet she does.”

You walk over slowly, the evening light painting everything gold.

The twins have started making flower crowns, arguing over whose is better. Meguru sits quietly watching them, his expression unreadable.

When you sit beside him, he doesn’t look up. “They’re amazing,” he says quietly. “They’re ours, aren’t they?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He exhales, his voice breaking. “I missed… so much.”

Tears sting your eyes. “I know. I’m sorry.”

He turns to you then, eyes bright with emotion. “You should’ve told me. I could’ve—” He stops, shaking his head. “No, that’s not fair. You did what you thought was right. I just wish…”

He trails off, eyes falling to where Mika’s crown sits crooked on Maru’s head.

“I wish I’d been there to see this.”

You swallow hard, whispering, “You can be here now.”

He looks up at you — eyes wet, smile trembling. “Do you mean that?”

You nod, barely able to speak.

He exhales shakily, then looks back at the twins — his twins — laughing as they throw daisies into the air.

For the first time in years, you see the same joy that once made you fall in love with him — wild, radiant, unstoppable.

He reaches out, brushing his fingers against your hand. You don’t pull away.

Neither of you speaks. The moment is too fragile to name.

The sun dips lower. The air fills with the sound of the twins calling his name — “Megu! Come play again!”

He laughs softly, standing, brushing grass from his jeans. “Coming!”

He glances back at you, eyes gentle. “We’ll talk later, okay?”

You nod. “Okay.”

And as he runs back toward the field, the twins clinging to his arms, the world feels right again — imperfect, messy, but alive.

You close your book, watching them play until the last light fades, the air full of laughter and the sound of a ball rolling through grass.

The past didn’t stay buried after all.

It just waited — quietly, patiently — for this moment.

And when Meguru looks back at you one last time, smiling like he used to, you realize —

sometimes fate doesn’t forget the things that are meant to find their way home.

The week after the park felt like waking from a dream you didn’t want to end.

Everywhere you turned, traces of that day seemed to linger — the sound of laughter on the wind, the soft echo of a ball hitting grass, and the memory of Meguru’s eyes widening when he saw Maru for the first time.

You’d replayed that look over and over — the shock, the pain, the disbelief. It had carved itself into your mind, sharp and impossible to ignore.

You hadn’t expected him to text.

But he did.

That very night.

Meguru: “Hey, sunshine. You okay?”

Meguru: “I’m sorry if I freaked you out. I just… I can’t stop thinking about them.”

Meguru: “They’re incredible.”

You didn’t reply. Not that night, not the day after.

But the messages kept coming — gentle, never demanding. Sometimes it was a photo of a field, or a silly doodle of two stick-figure kids playing soccer, labeled Maru & Mika. Once, he sent a video of himself juggling a ball, captioned:

“Think they’d laugh if I fell?”

And though you tried to resist, a small, involuntary smile always found you.

But you didn’t answer. Because answering meant opening the door — and you weren’t sure if you could bear to let him walk through it again.

The twins, however, had no such hesitations.

From the moment they woke up the next morning, his name was the first thing on their lips.

“Mama, can Megu come play again?”

You blinked. “Who?”

“Megu!” Mika chirped, her small hands waving dramatically. “The sunshine-eyes man! He plays soccer!”

Maru nodded seriously, face still sticky from breakfast. “He’s fast. I want to race him.”

You tried to sound casual. “He’s busy, sweethearts. He plays professionally. He probably doesn’t have time right now.”

Mika frowned. “But he said he would show me the monster trick next time.”

You froze.

The “monster.”

That word — his word — somehow passed from him to her like it belonged there all along.

You swallowed hard. “Maybe another time,” you said softly.

But another time came every day.

“Mama, do you think Megu eats pancakes?”

“Mama, can Megu teach me soccer?”

“Mama, can we call him?”

You deflected, redirected, changed topics. But they always circled back. It was as if their hearts already recognized something you’d tried to keep hidden — a pull toward the man they didn’t yet know was part of them.

By the end of the week, your resolve began to fray.

You finally replied to one of his texts.

Just a simple:

You: “They talk about you nonstop.”

His response came almost instantly.

Meguru: “Then I guess we’re even. I haven’t stopped thinking about them either. Or you.”

You sat staring at that last line for a long time.

Or you.

The air in your apartment felt too still.

You typed, deleted, typed again — and finally sent:

You: “Meguru… this is complicated.”

Meguru: “It doesn’t have to be.”

You: “It does. You’re you. You have a life now.”

Meguru: “A life I want them in. You in. You think I can just forget that they exist?”

You didn’t answer. Because he was right — and that terrified you.

Days blurred together.

Meguru texted daily — never pushing, never angry, just present.

He sent voice notes sometimes, silly ones. One morning, you played one aloud while making breakfast, and Mika’s head snapped up instantly.

“Megu!” she squealed. “That’s Megu!”

You panicked and dropped your phone into the sink. Maru laughed so hard he nearly spilled his milk.

That night, as you tucked them into bed, Mika looked up with her sleepy eyes — those golden eyes that mirrored his.

“Mama,” she murmured, “when I see Megu again, I’m gonna tell him my monster is yellow like his eyes.”

You smiled, though it trembled. “That sounds nice, baby.”

When she drifted off, you sat beside their beds, listening to their breathing.

And it hit you again — the truth you’d buried.

They deserved him.

But the thought of letting him back in — of reopening that wound — terrified you more than anything.

You’d told yourself for years that distance was mercy.

That protecting them meant protecting him too.

But now, looking at their tiny faces, you wondered if you’d been protecting anyone at all — or just yourself.

A week later, your phone buzzed again.

Meguru: “There’s this café in town. The one near the little bookshop by the station.

I go there when I’m home. It’s quiet. Feels like you’d like it.”

Meguru: “No pressure. Just… I’d like to see them again. Even if it’s just for a coffee.”

You stared at the message until your screen dimmed.

For three days, you didn’t reply.

You walked to work, picked up the twins from school, made dinner — every motion automatic. But inside, you were unraveling.

You thought about the day in the park — how Mika’s laughter had sounded like his, how Maru had clung to your leg like a small protector. You thought about how gentle he’d been with them, how the sunlight had caught in his hair, how, for a fleeting hour, everything had felt… right.

You thought about the life you’d imagined once — before fear made you run.

And finally, on a quiet Sunday morning, with the twins still asleep and the early light creeping across your kitchen, you picked up your phone and typed:

You: “Meet us at the café you mentioned. Tomorrow. 10 A.M.”

His reply came a minute later.

Meguru: “Okay. I’ll be there. Thank you.”

You stared at the message, heart pounding.

For the first time in six years, you didn’t feel entirely alone.

That night, you lay awake long after the twins fell asleep, watching the moonlight paint silver shapes on your ceiling.

Tomorrow would change everything.

You didn’t know if for better or worse — but you knew it was time.

The morning came too soon.

You woke before your alarm, before the sun even reached your curtains. For a long time, you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, the faint hum of early birdsong drifting through the open window. The air smelled like rain and coffee — soft, clean, almost too calm for what your heart was doing inside your chest.

Your mind replayed everything from that message exchange: the way his words lingered like echoes, gentle but unshakable. Tomorrow. 10 A.M.

You turned on your side. Mika had crawled into your bed sometime during the night, her golden-streaked hair fanned across your pillow. Maru lay sprawled horizontally at the foot of the bed, clutching his small soccer ball like a teddy bear.

You smiled despite the anxiety curling in your stomach. They were your reason — and the reason you were terrified.

You brushed Mika’s hair back from her face and whispered, “Wake up, my little monsters. We’re going out today.”

Her eyes blinked open slowly, then widened. “Are we seeing Megu?”

You hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. We’re seeing him.”

She squealed, immediately kicking the blanket off. “Maru! Maru! Megu!”

He stirred, groaning dramatically. “Wh—what? Soccer?”

You laughed softly. “Not yet, sweetheart. We’re meeting him for breakfast.”

Maru blinked at you, still half-asleep but smiling. “Really?”

“Really.”

And just like that, the house filled with their chaos — the sound of tiny feet, laughter, mismatched shoes, cereal spilling on the counter. You moved through it like a storm in slow motion, your heart beating unevenly, your mind running through every version of what could happen.

Would it be awkward? Would it hurt? Would it feel like it used to — that dangerous mix of warmth and gravity?

When you caught your reflection in the mirror — hair pinned, soft cream sweater, calm face — you almost believed your own illusion of composure.

The café sat at the corner of a quiet street near the station, nestled between a small bookstore and a flower shop. Its sign — Aoi’s Café — hung crookedly, and the windows were misted with steam. The smell of roasted beans and baked bread floated into the air, familiar and grounding.

You arrived five minutes early, the twins skipping beside you. You hadn’t told them who they were meeting — not directly — but Mika kept humming “Yume Ippai” under her breath, and Maru kept looking around expectantly, clutching his ball.

Then you saw him.

Meguru stood outside, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, hair slightly damp from the drizzle that had started moments ago. His head turned at the sound of your footsteps — and when he saw you, his entire face lit up.

It wasn’t just a smile. It was that same brilliant, unguarded joy you remembered — the kind that reached his eyes and made you forget how to breathe.

“You came,” he said softly, stepping closer.

His voice carried something that made your heart twist — relief, gratitude, disbelief.

Before you could answer, he leaned in, the movement instinctive — a familiar greeting, like the one at the park. Only this time, you both moved at the same moment.

You turned your head — he leaned forward — and instead of your cheek, his lips brushed yours.

It was soft. A gentle mistake.

But the world froze.

Maru gasped loudly. Mika squealed so high-pitched the barista inside turned to look.

Meguru froze, his face a mix of shock and color. “Oh— oh no, I— I didn’t—” He stammered, backing up slightly, one hand half-raised as if surrendering. “That— that wasn’t— I mean—”

You stood there, completely still, heart hammering, lips tingling with the ghost of warmth.

“It’s okay,” you managed finally, voice barely above a whisper.

He blinked, then laughed — breathless, nervous, the sound bubbling out of him like he didn’t know what else to do. “Well. Uh. Good morning, I guess.”

Mika was grinning from ear to ear. “Megu kissed Mama!”

“Mika,” you warned, cheeks burning.

Meguru covered his face, groaning dramatically. “Oh no. I’m never living this down, am I?”

Maru crossed his arms, suspicious. “You kissed my mom.”

“It was an accident!” Meguru protested immediately, crouching to Maru’s height. “Promise.”

Mika giggled. “He turned red like tomatoes!”

You couldn’t help it — you laughed. And for a moment, the tension cracked open into something light, almost ridiculous. It was so him — the chaos, the warmth, the way he stumbled straight into your world again without even trying.

When he looked up at you, his smile turned softer, quieter. “I missed that sound,” he said.

You looked away quickly. “Let’s go inside.”

The café was small and cozy — the kind of place that smelled like comfort. Wooden tables, soft lighting, a few regulars murmuring in the corners. The rain pattered gently against the windows, blurring the world outside.

The twins scrambled into the booth by the window, Mika immediately pressing her face to the glass, Maru setting his ball neatly beside him.

Meguru slid into the seat across from you, his eyes flicking from them to you and back again — like he couldn’t quite believe any of it was real.

“They’re…” He trailed off, smiling helplessly. “They’re unbelievable.”

“They’re a handful,” you said, sipping your coffee.

“I bet. Maru looks like he’d start a match in the middle of a grocery store.”

“He has,” you admitted.

Meguru laughed, leaning back. “Figures.” His gaze drifted toward Mika then, who was trying to balance a sugar packet on her nose. “And she’s got your focus.”

You shook your head. “She’s got your mischief.”

He didn’t argue. Just smiled, his thumb tracing the rim of his cup. “I like her hair. The gold.”

You hesitated. “She… she got that from you.”

The air between you softened — a quiet acknowledgment neither of you dared to touch too deeply.

The twins kept the conversation lively.

“Megu, guess what?” Mika leaned forward eagerly. “I can do a kick!”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh! Wanna see?”

“In the café, sweetheart?” you warned gently.

Mika pouted. “Later then.”

Meguru chuckled. “Deal. I wanna see both your moves after this.”

Maru perked up. “Me too! I can dribble fast!”

“Oh, I know,” Meguru said with mock seriousness. “I saw you nearly take out that poor kid in the park.”

Maru’s eyes widened. “He was in the way!”

Meguru laughed so hard he nearly spilled his drink.

You watched them — the three of them — and something inside you ached. There was so much ease between them already, so much instinctive connection. It was beautiful. It was terrifying.

After the food arrived, the twins got busy demolishing their pancakes. Meguru sat quietly for a while, watching them, then turned to you.

His voice was soft, almost tentative. “You really didn’t plan to tell me, did you?”

You froze. The question was gentle, but it landed hard.

“I wanted to,” you said quietly. “So many times. But every time I saw you on TV, every time I saw how happy you were… I told myself it would only hurt to pull you back.”

He stared at his coffee. “You thought I’d see them as a burden.”

You sighed. “I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“And now?”

You looked at him, really looked — the golden eyes now quieter, the playful curve of his mouth trembling just slightly.

“Now I don’t know what’s right anymore,” you whispered.

He nodded slowly, exhaling through his nose. “That makes two of us.”

A pause stretched — not cold, but heavy.

Then Mika piped up, syrup on her chin. “Megu, are you gonna come play again?”

He blinked, startled, then smiled softly. “If your mom says it’s okay.”

Maru looked between you both, suspicious again. “You kissed her.”

You groaned. “Maru.”

Meguru laughed, eyes crinkling. “You’re never gonna forget that, huh?”

“Never,” Maru said proudly.

The sound of their laughter filled the café — light, contagious. Even you couldn’t help smiling.

For a few moments, everything felt simple again.

When it was time to leave, the rain had stopped. The air outside smelled clean, the pavement glistening. Mika skipped ahead, Maru bouncing his ball against the curb.

Meguru walked beside you, quiet. His hand brushed yours once — accidentally, maybe not. You didn’t pull away, and neither did he.

At the crosswalk, he finally spoke. “You know, I don’t want to rush anything. But I’d really like to be around. For them. For you, if you’ll let me.”

You looked up at him — the sincerity in his eyes nearly undoing you. “I don’t know if I can do this again, Meguru.”

“I know,” he said softly. “But maybe we can start with coffee.”

You smiled faintly. “Maybe.”

Mika called your names, waving from the corner. “Mama! Megu! Hurry!”

You both turned — and he laughed, that bright, familiar laugh that still sounded like home.

And as you crossed the street, the twins running ahead, you realized — whatever this was, whatever came next — the world had shifted again.

Not backward. Not forward. Just open.

A single message.

A small shift.

A sentence that changed the air.

Meguru: “I’ll probably have to fly back in two months. The league’s calling. Just for a bit.”

You stared at the screen until the words blurred.

It wasn’t the first time you’d read something like that from him, but this time felt different.

Because now there were two little people who would count the days until “just for a bit” turned into forever again.

You typed, That’s good, and deleted it.

You typed, The twins will miss you, and deleted that too.

In the end, you sent nothing.

Outside, the summer was changing — days growing shorter, the air carrying the faint chill of the coming autumn. You told yourself it was just another season shifting.

But inside, something else was breaking.

You watched Maru and Mika that night, their small bodies pressed close as they slept.

Maru’s hand rested over Mika’s hair, protective even in dreams. She murmured something in her sleep — “Megu,” — and your chest ached so sharply you had to turn away.

You’d been through the ache of his absence before. You could survive it again.

But they?

They would crumble under the weight of missing him, and you couldn’t stand to watch that.

So you decided — quietly, cruelly, lovingly — that it had to end before it began again.

The next morning, you told yourself it was only for a while.

You would answer his messages less.

You would cancel a playdate, then another.

You would start building that wall again — not out of anger, but protection.

He noticed quickly.

Of course he did.

Meguru: “You okay? You’ve gone quiet.”

Meguru: “The kids good?”

Meguru: “Did I do something wrong?”

You wanted to tell him everything — that you were terrified, that you couldn’t bear to see the twins cry at another goodbye. But the words felt heavy, like saying them would make the pain real.

So you didn’t.

You learned to answer vaguely, to stall:

“Just busy.”

“They’re fine.”

“We’ll see when things calm down.”

It killed something inside you every time.

The twins noticed first.

“Mama,” Mika asked one night, “why doesn’t Megu come anymore?”

You smiled softly. “He’s working, sweetheart.”

“But he promised,” Maru said stubbornly, his little fists balled in his blanket. “He said we’d play again.”

“I know,” you whispered. “But sometimes grown-ups can’t keep every promise.”

They didn’t understand, of course.

How could they?

For a month, you practiced silence — convincing yourself it was kindness.

But silence, you would learn, has a way of calling people back.

It was raining the night he came.

Not a storm — just a steady, whispering drizzle that painted silver lines against the windows. You were folding laundry in the half-light, the twins already asleep, when someone knocked softly at your door.

You knew that knock before you even looked.

Your hands froze. Your breath did too.

When you opened the door, there he was — standing in the hallway, rain in his hair, jacket clinging to him. His eyes met yours, wide and uncertain.

He didn’t smile this time.

“Can I come in?”

You stepped aside wordlessly.

He hesitated for a second before walking past you, the faint scent of rain and grass following him in. He stopped in the middle of the small living room, his gaze sweeping over the details — Mika’s half-finished drawing on the table, Maru’s ball by the couch, the faint hum of their soft nightlight from down the hall.

“You stopped answering,” he said finally, voice rough around the edges.

You stayed by the doorway, fingers curling around the frame. “I know.”

He turned to face you, his expression unreadable. “Did I do something?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

The single word cut through the quiet like a thread snapping.

You exhaled slowly. “Because you’re leaving soon.”

He blinked, confused. “That’s it?”

“That’s everything.”

He laughed once, without humor. “So that’s how it is? You just… disappear before I can?”

“Meguru—”

“No, really,” he said softly. “You think that makes it easier?”

You looked away. “It’s not about me. It’s about them.”

“Them?”

“The twins,” you whispered. “They’ve been through this before, just without realizing it. I can’t let them get attached again only to have to explain why you’re gone.”

He was silent for a moment, his jaw working. Then, quietly, “So you’d rather they think I stopped caring?”

“They’ll move on,” you said, though even as you said it, your throat tightened with doubt.

He took a step closer, the rain from his jacket dripping onto the floor. “And what about me?”

You blinked. “What?”

“What am I supposed to move on from?” His voice cracked slightly, soft but trembling. “You? Them? The life I missed?”

You closed your eyes, tears stinging. “Meguru, please. Don’t make this harder.”

He smiled then — not the bright one you knew, but something small and broken. “I’m not trying to. I just want to understand how doing this helps anyone.”

You said nothing.

He ran a hand through his damp hair, frustration and heartbreak bleeding into his voice. “Do you think I don’t lie awake every night wondering what I missed? Their first words? Their first steps? The sound of them laughing? You think I don’t see it every time I look at them — what I lost?”

Your breath hitched.

He took another step, closer now, his voice lower. “I deserve to be here,” he whispered. “They deserve that too.”

You shook your head weakly. “You can’t just walk in and be their father after six years.”

“You don't allow me to be their father!”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t angry. It was desperate.

A plea torn out of him more than spoken.

The sound filled the small apartment, echoing off the walls — and then died as quickly as it came.

A soft noise followed.

“Mama?”

You turned.

The twins stood at the end of the hallway, small and sleepy, eyes wide in confusion.

Mika’s voice was small. “What’s happening?”

Meguru froze.

Maru rubbed his eyes. “Why are you crying, Mama?”

You swallowed, trying to speak — but the words wouldn’t come.

Meguru looked between them, guilt and fear flashing across his face. Then he knelt slowly to their level.

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice trembling but gentle. “It’s okay. We didn’t mean to wake you.”

Mika blinked, eyes shiny in the dim light. “Why did you say you’re our father?”

He hesitated, eyes flicking to you for permission.

You nodded faintly, tears spilling over.

He turned back to them. “Because I am,” he said quietly. “I’m your dad.”

The silence that followed was a living thing — fragile, trembling.

Mika’s mouth opened, then closed again. “Really?”

He nodded. “Really. I should’ve been here sooner. I should’ve told you the right way.”

Maru frowned. “Then why weren’t you?”

Meguru’s throat worked. “Because sometimes grown-ups mess up.”

They were quiet for a long moment.

Then Mika took a slow step forward, her small hand reaching out to touch his. “You’re really our daddy?”

His smile broke then, tears slipping free. “Yeah. I really am.”

Maru came closer too, standing beside her. “You’re not leaving again?”

He swallowed hard. “I don’t want to.”

They both hesitated — then moved forward together, wrapping their arms around him.

Meguru’s breath hitched, and he pulled them close, closing his eyes like the world might fall apart if he didn’t hold on tight enough.

You stood by the door, tears running freely, your chest aching with too many feelings to name.

When he finally looked up at you, the expression on his face undid you completely — wonder, grief, love, all tangled in one impossible moment.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For everything.”

You shook your head. “You don’t have to be.”

He smiled faintly

Later, after the twins had fallen asleep again — this time between you both on the couch, their small hands tangled in his shirt — the world felt impossibly still.

Meguru sat quietly, his thumb tracing circles over Mika’s knuckles. His voice was barely audible. “I didn’t mean to tell them like that.”

“I know.”

“They looked so… confused.”

“They’ll understand,” you whispered. “They already love you.”

He looked up, eyes glistening. “And you?”

You hesitated, your heart in your throat. “That’s more complicated.”

He nodded slowly, a sad smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. It always was.”

Outside, the rain had stopped. The night hummed quietly, the kind of stillness that follows storms.

You leaned back against the couch, eyes on the twins. “They’ll want to see you again in the morning.”

“Then I’ll stay,” he said softly. “Just until they wake up.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

He sat there, watching the rise and fall of their breathing, his hand still holding theirs, his eyes soft with the ache of all the years he’d missed.

The morning of his flight arrived quietly, as if the world itself was trying not to wake.

The sky hung low with soft clouds, the kind that looked like they were holding back rain. You dressed the twins in their little jackets, hands trembling as you buttoned each one. They knew something was happening — their energy was different, heavier, quieter.

Meguru had told them the night before, sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, both kids curled against his sides.

“I have to go for a little while,” he said softly, brushing Mika’s hair from her face.

“For soccer?” she’d asked, voice small.

“Yeah,” he smiled gently. “For soccer.”

Maru frowned. “But we’ll come too, right?”

Meguru hesitated, then pulled him closer. “Not this time, buddy. But I’ll call. Every day, if you want.”

“You promise?”

He smiled, eyes glinting even as his voice wavered. “With all my heart.”

You’d watched them from the kitchen doorway — the three of them bathed in golden lamplight — and you’d realized, with aching clarity, that this was going to hurt all of you more than you could prepare for.

The drive to the airport was quiet.

Mika sat beside you, clutching her stuffed dolphin. Maru sat in the back with Meguru, his small hand resting in his father’s. The car filled with the low hum of traffic and the muffled sound of Mika’s quiet humming.

Meguru’s gaze kept flicking between the window and you in the rearview mirror. There was a softness in his eyes, the kind of love that hurts because it doesn’t know where to go next.

At one red light, he leaned forward, voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to come all the way in, you know.”

You shook your head. “We’re not saying goodbye in a parking lot.”

He smiled faintly. “Didn’t think you’d let me get away with that.”

The airport was alive with motion — announcements echoing, luggage wheels against tile, the smell of coffee and jet fuel. The twins stayed close, each holding one of Meguru’s hands.

He bent down to their level near the gate, his carry-on resting beside him.

“Okay, little monsters,” he said softly, smiling through the shimmer in his eyes. “You gotta listen to Mama, yeah?”

Maru’s chin trembled. “I don’t want you to go.”

“I know,” Meguru whispered. “I don’t want to either.”

Mika sniffled, pressing her dolphin against her face. “You’ll forget us.”

He froze, then gently cupped her cheeks, eyes bright with tears. “Never. You live right here, see?” He tapped his chest. “Right where the monster is.”

She giggled through her tears, but her small hands clung tighter.

He looked up at you then — and you saw the effort it took him to keep smiling. “Can I?” he asked softly, nodding toward them.

You nodded.

He kissed Maru’s forehead first, then Mika’s, each touch tender and full of unspoken love.

When he straightened, he stood before you for a long moment, neither of you speaking.

Then, suddenly, as if instinct carried him, he leaned in and kissed you too, you don't pull away — the kiss is soft, but trembling with everything he couldn’t say.

You froze, tears spilling before you could stop them.

He pulled back slowly, his voice barely holding together. “For luck,” he whispered.

You managed a small, broken smile. “You’re terrible at goodbyes.”

He laughed once — wet, fragile. “Yeah. I always was.”

The boarding call echoed overhead.

He looked at the twins again, their tear-streaked faces turning up to him, and his voice cracked. “I’ll call you tonight, okay? We’ll talk every day. I promise.”

Mika nodded fiercely, still crying. “Every day.”

“Every day,” he repeated.

And then he turned — slowly, like every step weighed too much — and walked toward the gate.

You stood there long after he disappeared through security, the twins pressed against your legs, the sound of their quiet sobs filling the air that still smelled faintly like him.

That Night

The apartment felt too still.

Maru sat on the couch, clutching the TV remote, eyes red. Mika lay against you, her small fingers tangled in your sweater.

You were about to suggest they go to bed when your phone buzzed.

Incoming video call – Meguru

Mika gasped. “It’s him!”

You answered.

The screen filled with his face — tired but smiling, the faint hum of an airport lounge behind him. “Hey, team.”

“MEGU!” the twins shouted in unison, tears immediately replaced by joy.

“Hey, my sunshine monsters!” he laughed, the sound crackling slightly through the connection. “You okay?”

Maru shook his head. “No! You left!”

Meguru’s expression softened. “I know, bud. But look, I’m still right here.” He tapped his chest. “And also here.” He pointed at the screen. “Technology’s a miracle.”

Mika giggled, wiping her eyes. “We see you!”

“And I see you,” he whispered. “The most beautiful view in the world.”

You smiled faintly at that, trying not to cry again.

He looked at you through the screen, his voice softening. “You okay?”

You nodded. “We’re managing.”

“Good,” he said quietly. “I’ll call when I land too. Just wanted to see your faces.”

“Love you, Daddy!” Mika shouted suddenly.

His eyes glistened. “Love you more, sunshine.”

Maru raised his hand, waving furiously. “Don’t forget us!”

He grinned through tears. “Impossible.”

The call ended with blown kisses and laughter fading into static.

The days slipped into rhythm — messages lighting up your phone every morning, voice notes before bed.

Sometimes they were short:

Meguru: “Morning, team. Tell Mama to eat breakfast!”

Other times, longer:

Meguru (voice note): “I dreamed we were all at the park again. Maru was beating me at dribbling, and Mika said my monster looked tired. I think she’s right.”

The twins lived for his calls — racing to the phone when it rang, laughing as he showed them his hotel room or the view from the stadium.

He’d send photos of his shoes, of late-night snacks, of random clouds that “looked like dolphins.”

You’d catch yourself smiling at them in secret.

Then came the texts for you alone.

Meguru: “I still feel that goodbye.”

Meguru: “You didn’t cry until I kissed you.”

Meguru: “Tell me you’re okay.”

You never knew how to answer those.

Some nights you did. Some nights you didn’t.

But you always read them.

And somehow, they always made you feel less alone.

Two Weeks Later

One night, he called later than usual — the stadium lights still bright behind him.

“Mika! Maru!” he grinned, sweat on his temples. “Guess what? We won!”

They cheered, clapping wildly. Mika jumped on the couch. Maru held up his soccer ball.

Meguru laughed, that same bright, boyish laugh that always seemed to light the world. “I told my team I had the best cheering squad in Japan. Guess I was right.”

Mika beamed. “We’re the best!”

“Always,” he said softly.

And when the twins finally drifted to sleep, you stayed on the call. Neither of you spoke for a while — just breathed, the connection humming softly between you.

He broke the silence first. “I miss home.”

You blinked. “Home?”

He smiled gently. “Yeah. You. Them. That little world we made without meaning to.”

Your chest tightened. “You’re coming back soon, right?”

“I will,” he whispered. “You’ll see me before the leaves fall.”

You smiled faintly, even though your throat ached. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“You better,” he said, his voice warm.

You said your goodnights then — soft, hesitant, full of all the things neither of you could name.

When you hung up, the apartment was quiet again. But the silence didn’t feel empty anymore.

It felt like a promise — fragile, flickering across oceans, carried on late-night calls and glowing screens.

And though distance stretched between you, it wasn’t the same as before.

This time, there was something to come back to.

Someone to come back for.

The station was crowded, full of the hum of rolling suitcases and the muffled announcements of arriving trains. You stood a little apart from the flow of people, the twins clinging to your hands and craning their necks toward the platforms. Your heart was a storm—too many weeks of late-night calls and messages condensed into a single moment of waiting.

Then you saw him.

Meguru stepped off the train wearing a faded hoodie and cap pulled low, travel bag slung over one shoulder. Even half hidden, he was unmistakable. The second his gaze found you, the noise of the crowd fell away. His smile came first—soft, disbelieving, and so full of warmth that it knocked the air from your chest.

You didn’t mean to move first.

You just did.

One heartbeat you were standing still, the next you were running. When you reached him, he dropped his bag and caught you with both arms, pulling you in so tightly that the world disappeared. The smell of rain and airport coffee clung to him, familiar and dizzying.

He whispered your name against your hair, voice trembling. “I’m home.”

You didn’t answer; your arms said everything words couldn’t. For a long moment neither of you moved. It wasn’t the reunion of a couple—it was two halves of the same ache finding their shape again.

When you finally pulled back to breathe, he searched your face as though to memorize it all over again. Something flickered behind his eyes—relief, love, exhaustion—and before you could think, he leaned forward and kissed you.

It was more a promise than a claim, but it carried every unsent message, every night of distance. Your fingers tightened in his hoodie as the warmth of it broke through weeks of restraint.

A small voice pierced the moment.

“Hey! We were supposed to hug first!”

You both turned.

Maru stood a few feet away, arms crossed, trying very hard to look stern while Mika bounced beside him, giggling. “Mama stole our turn!”

Meguru laughed, the sound breaking into a grin that crinkled his eyes. “You’re right, you’re right—come here, you two!”

They didn’t need another invitation. Mika launched herself forward, Maru close behind. Meguru dropped to one knee just in time to catch them both. The impact nearly toppled him, but he didn’t seem to care; he was laughing and crying all at once, holding them as if he never planned to let go.

“You grew again!” he said, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “Didn’t I tell you not to get taller while I was gone?”

Maru beamed. “I practiced soccer every day!”

Mika nodded solemnly. “I taught my monster to do flips.”

Meguru gasped dramatically. “Flips? I leave for a few weeks and my family turns into superheroes!”

Their laughter filled the concourse, bright enough that a few nearby travelers smiled as they passed. You stood a step back, watching them—a picture so full of light it hurt to look at.

Meguru finally stood, each child hanging from an arm like tiny koalas. He looked at you over their heads, and the grin softened into something quieter. “Thank you,” he mouthed.

You shook your head, smiling through the tears that kept threatening to fall. “Welcome home,” you whispered.

Outside, the evening air was cool and smelled faintly of rain. The twins skipped ahead, arguing over who got to hold Meguru’s hand first. He solved it by letting them each take one, glancing over his shoulder to make sure you were still there. You were.

The walk to the car was slow, full of chatter about school, drawings, new friends, and the match they’d watched on television where they’d shouted his name at the screen. He listened to every word, nodding, laughing, occasionally lifting one child into his arms when they got too excited.

When you reached the car, Mika climbed into her seat and leaned out to ask, “Daddy, are you staying forever this time?”

He crouched beside her door, tucking the seatbelt across her lap. “I’m staying as long as I can,” he said softly. “And when I have to go again, I’ll come back. Promise.”

Maru leaned forward from the other side. “You better.”

Meguru ruffled his hair. “Deal.”

Then he closed the door gently and turned to you. The last of the daylight caught the gold in his hair, the same shade that gleamed in Mika’s. For a moment, everything around you—the traffic, the city, the noise—fell away again.

He smiled. “I missed this. All of it.”

“So did we,” you said quietly.

He hesitated, then reached out and took your hand. It wasn’t dramatic; just fingers finding familiar ground. “Let’s go home,” he murmured.

You nodded, starting the car. In the rearview mirror, the twins were already telling him stories, their voices overlapping in excited waves. Meguru listened with that same, unstoppable smile.

And for the first time in a long while, the future didn’t feel like an unanswered question. It simply felt possible.

© an1m320v3r

•Masterlist•

[REQUESTS OPEN!!!]

[valentinesxoxo]

୨୧ MICHAEL KAISER who never expected his life to slow down like this.

it all started with a quiet night, when you hand him a small box with shaking hands. he looks confused at first, brows pulled together, sharp eyes softening when he opens it.

inside is the pregnancy test and it was positive.

for a second, he doesn’t breathe.

then his hands tremble. his lips part like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out. his eyes sting, and he turns his face away, embarrassed by how fast tears come.

he pulls you into his chest, holding you tight, like if he lets go, this happiness might disappear.

“i’m happy..” he whispers, voice breaking. “i really am.”

but later that night, when the room is quiet and the lights are off, his thoughts get loud. he stares at the ceiling, jaw tight. he finally admits it, barely above a whisper.

“what if i fail?”

“what if i become like him?”

he talks about his mother, the famous actress who left him behind like he was nothing.

and was eventually given to his father, who always was drunk and angry, with hands heavy with pain instead of love.

he says he doesn’t know how to be a dad when no one has ever showed him how.

you turn to him, holding his face gently. you tell him that fear already makes him different. you tell him that the fact he cares means he won’t repeat the past.

“you’re not them” you say firmly but softly.

he scoffs weakly. “you don’t know that.”

“i do” you reply. “because you’re already worrying about protecting someone you haven’t even met yet.”

throughout the months, you remind him again and again. when he flinches at the thought of holding such a small life. when he overthinks every little thing.

you’re always there, steady and warm, telling him he’s doing good.

shopping for baby clothes becomes something soft between you two. he pretends not to care, but he spends way too long looking at tiny shoes. his fingers brush over little shirts, and his eyes linger. he buys more than needed.

“we don’t need this many” he says, arms full of tiny shirts.

you smile. “you picked all of those.”

“…the kid might grow fast” he mutters, ears red.

when labor comes, he doesn’t leave your side for even a second. his hand grips yours like an anchor. his voice shakes as he tells you to breathe, even though he’s the one barely holding it together.

“breathe with me” he says. “no— wait, you breathe. i’ll just— i’ll stay right here.”

you squeeze his hand. “don’t let go.” you whined.

“never..” he replies instantly.

when your son is born, crying and warm and real, michael breaks.

he cries openly, forehead pressed to yours, tears falling without shame. when you place the baby in his arms, he freezes, then softens completely. his expression changes into something you’ve never seen before. pure love. pure fear. pure hope.

“thank you..” he whispers over and over. “thank you for trusting me with this.”

“…he’s so small” he breathes. “i can’t believe he’s mine.”

you look at him and whisper, voice tired but full.

“you’re going to be a good father.. he’s gonna appreciate you one day”

months pass.

your baby boy becomes attached to michael in a way that surprises him. he follows him around, reaches for him first, calms down fastest in his arms.

“dada!” he giggles, reaching for him.

michael laughs softly. “yeah, yeah, i’m here.”

he looks just like michael — the same eyes color, the same sharp features, especially same hair color — but with your softness, your expressions, your little habits, and hair type.

when your son turns four, michael comes home from training, tired and sweaty. the house smells like crayons and paper. he finds his son on the floor, drawing seriously.

then he sees michael.

“daddy!” the boy grins, holding up the paper. “look what i made!”

“what is it?” michael asks smiling.

“that’s you” his son points. “and that’s me and mommy!”

he smiles. “daddy, you’re the best dad ever!”

the picture is messy and colorful. stick figures. one tall one, one small one, and a heart.

michael laughs at first, then freezes. his chest tightens. he crouches down and pulls his son into a hug, holding him longer than usual.

“…hey” he whispers, “you know that means everything to me, right?”

“mhm!” his son nods. “i love you!”

that night, after putting him to bed, michael comes back to you quieter than usual. he sits beside you, face buried in your shoulder. his body shakes, just a little.

“i did it” he whispers. “i didn’t mess this up.” you hold him, fingers running through his hair, letting him cry on you.

because at the end, michael wasn’t just only successful at soccer.

he finally got successful with the family he always wanted.

© valentinesxoxo | all rights reserved | bluelock masterlist

[dronna-the-chameleon]

Read on Ao3 | Masterlist | One-shot | Tik tok Hiori Edit

♦ Fandom : Blue Lock [aged up character]

♦ Pairing :  Yo Hiori x pregnant!reader (established relationship)

♦ Content : ⚠️ unplanned pregnancy ○ pregnancy anxiety ○ childhood trauma ○ fear of parenthood ○ angst

♦ Synopsis : Everything was perfect until you found out you were pregnant.

♦ Words : Around 2.3k

♦ Dronna's note :

I’m afraid to share this fic... It’s not an easy topic but I tried to treat it as well as possible. English is not my first language. Enjoy your reading ♥

Hiori was damaged.

Hiori was damaged and haunted by memories of his childhood.

Hiori was damaged but it was insidious because he never let anything appear. 

When you fell for him, everyone said he was a green flag and they were right.

From the beginning, you were perfect for each other : both homebodies, both enjoying a quiet and peaceful life, both needing time alone. You shared interests and saw the world in the same way.

He needed a long time to open up to you, to put into words the struggles you had already noticed. You had been patient because you loved him exactly as he was : with his strengths but also with his silence and his wounds.

He always said he was lucky to have you, to be loved by you as if being loved was somehow unexpected.

You could feel the lack of affection he had experienced during childhood in the way he loved you. He loved his alone time, yes but every reunion (even if you had only been in another room while he stayed in his den) felt like a declaration of love. Emotionally and physically. He was clingy and needy as if he was afraid that you might leave him.

You knew he struggled with impostor syndrome. He felt unworthy, always talking to you as if you were something precious and out of his reach. And sometimes, all you wanted was to shake him and show him how amazing he was. But of course, he couldn’t see himself the way you saw him. Of course, that would have been too easy.

After a few years together, he seemed less insecure and became more able to speak about his fears. However, he never talked about his parents. He had cut ties years ago and acted as if they had never existed.

Whenever he needed reassurance, you never stopped reminding him how much you loved him. How much you loved every side of him. The brightest and the darkest.

And he loved you the same way : with your scars and your fears. Instead of dragging each other down, you brought out the best in one another. And slowly, together, you made peace with your past.

Everything was perfect. You had built a daily life that made you happy, your careers were thriving, and the love you shared had slowly healed your lack of confidence.

But there was something. A point of dissonance.

You had grown up without a family and wanted to build one.

He had grown up in a dysfunctional family and didn’t want one.

And it wasn’t the kind of thing you could ignore. Whenever you brought up the subject, he never directly said that he didn’t want children, he simply said he wasn’t ready. Not yet. Because he was afraid you might leave him. Afraid that your desire to become a mother would someday outweigh your love for him.

So, the day you found out you were pregnant, you left home for a few days and told him you needed to spend time with your best friend.

It wasn’t too late to terminate the pregnancy. After all, it was only a tiny cluster of cells.

You wanted to be a mother. 

But having a baby could mean raising it alone. You would never force Hiori to stay and he would never force you to abort.

A child could mean the end of your love story.

When you came back home, you found him in the den. You kissed the top of his head to signal that you were home. He didn’t take his eyes off the screen. He was playing Dead by Daylight (and of course, he had chosen the killer). Eventually,  he moved his headphones aside.

“Missed you,” he said, still focused on the game.

A stupid thought crossed your mind. Maybe this would be one of the last times you heard his Kansai accent. One of the last times you watched him play.

You didn’t reply, you couldn’t. Your eyes followed the killer moving across the screen while you waited for him to finish. When he won, he turned toward you with a proud smile, as if expecting praise. He leaned in to kiss you then stopped halfway.

“You okay ? You look pale,” he noticed immediately.

His tone, so loving and caring, almost made you cry but you clenched your jaw. He watched you carefully, frowning as he stood up from his chair.

“I’m not okay,” you said quietly.

Over the past few days, you had imagined dozens of ways to tell him but now all your speeches had disappeared. So you said it bluntly : 

“Yo… I’m pregnant.”

You both knew it had been an accident. Nobody was to blame. And maybe… maybe it had also been an opportunity you had secretly been waiting for.

Hiori didn’t say anything. He simply sat back down. You understood that he needed space so you left the room.

You knew he wouldn’t react with joy or greet the news with a smile but the silence was terrible. Unbearable.

Hours passed before he joined you in the bedroom. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked at you.

You expected the worst.

“First…” he said quietly. “How do you feel ?”

It was so like him. Always worried about you first. But it hurt to see him act as if there wasn’t a sword hanging over your relationship.

“Really bad,” you admitted, tears gathering in your eyes. “I don’t want to lose you.”

He seemed to understand immediately.

“Me neither.”

For the first time, he looked unable to find the right words to comfort you. He was struggling.

“Y/n… I’ll support you no matter what you decide.”

After this night, you never talked about your decision again and time passed until the seed became a little baby in your belly.

Hiori continued to take care of you the way he always had. He accompanied you to every medical appointment, prepared a room in your house, comforted you and supported you every day like the perfect father-to-be.

But he never talked about what he felt. He never admitted that he was afraid he wouldn’t love the baby. Afraid of being a terrible father. Afraid that the two of you would argue every day once the baby arrived. Afraid of losing you in one way or another.

Because he knew that love could disappear even when people stayed. Even when they built a family.

At night, when the house was quiet, he never slept a lot. He imagined the two of you becoming like his parents :  fighting about everything and, above all, fighting over the future of the only child in the house. And each time, he told himself that he wouldn’t only make you unhappy, he would make the baby unhappy too.

He had already started picturing the three of you as a dysfunctional family. He couldn’t help but imagine the worst.

He tried. He really tried to love the baby you talked about every day but the only thing he felt was fear. And the more time passed, the more anxious he became.

To him, the birth felt like the beginning of the end.

You tried to focus on the good part : Hiori had kept his promise. He stayed even though he didn’t want the baby.

You really tried to convince yourself that everything would be okay, that things would get better after the birth. But you knew nothing would magically be fixed once the baby arrived. The first months after birth were always the hardest for new parents : lack of sleep, anxiety, arguments over everything. Even for the strongest couples, it was a difficult period.

On the surface, Hiori hadn’t changed but you knew him too well. You knew he wasn’t happy.

So one day, while he was at practice, you packed your belongings with your best friend and left. You left while he was gone because you knew he would beg you. He would tell you he wanted the baby. He would tell you he was happy.

You knew he was ready to sacrifice the life he wanted for you.

And it wasn’t healthy.

It was the hardest decision of your life but you felt it was the right choice for everyone.

You promised yourself that you would raise this child with love. That they would never lack anything. That the two of you could still be happy without a father.

Around 8 p.m., you knew he had probably found the letter you had left in the kitchen. You explained your reasons and asked him not to come after you. For your sake. For his. For yours and the baby’s.

Hiori respected your decision. He never called, never texted. The only contact he kept was through your friend whenever you needed something left behind at your former home.

Hiori continued his life. Nothing seemed to change : he stayed in the same house, slept in the same bed, played the same games, left early for practice. And yet, he felt suffocated.

He never told anyone what had happened. It was too soon for him to open up and one of the reasons was shame. 

He had failed to protect you. Failed to make you happy. He hadn’t managed to keep his fears and insecurities to himself. 

And because it hurt, he kept living as if nothing had changed.

He packed your belongings and sent them to where you were staying (at your friend’s place), he sent money for the medical appointments, he forwarded your mail.

Even after the break-up, he was still perfect. And you could still feel his support even from afar.

One day, he couldn’t explain why but he walked into a toy shop. He wandered between the shelves without thinking. He looked at the different toys before stopping in front of the stuffed animals. His hand paused over a small sheep. And before he realised it, he was leaving the shop with the plush toy.

This strange impulse became a habit. Each time he missed you, he bought things online : baby clothes, toys, stuffed animals and little things for you.

He never sent any of it. The delivery boxes slowly piled up in the living room.

He tried to imagine the future. You weren’t married, you weren’t together anymore  but he was still the father.

And as a father, he had to do something. Maybe keep the baby sometimes when you would need rest. 

He started reading serious articles online about parenthood and about children growing up with separated parents.

Because he wanted to help you.

Because he wanted to keep supporting you.

And maybe, just a little, because sometimes he smiled when he bought a small gift for the baby.

Not because the baby was the last thing connecting the two of you but because imagining himself making the baby happy comforted him. And before he realised it, the baby had found a place in his life. Maybe not a conventional place but he knew he was still the father, even if you were separated.

And if you were okay with it, he wanted to be present in one way or another.

Gradually, he started thinking about the baby without thinking about you.

It was summer. He knew you had reached the beginning of your third trimester.

During a break, he grabbed his phone from his locker. He wanted to ask your friend whether you needed anything : money, supplies, anything. When he unlocked his phone, he saw several missed calls from her.

That wasn’t normal. He knew immediately that something had happened.

A few minutes later, after finally speaking with your friend, he left the stadium in the middle of practice.

He didn’t know how he managed to drive to the hospital without running a pedestrian over or crashing into another car. During the drive, he barely noticed the road. Praying that you were safe, praying that the baby was safe.

And for the first time, without even realising it, he felt like a father. He felt responsible for this child.

He found your friend waiting in the hospital hall. She repeated what she had already told him over the phone : you had fainted because of the heat and fallen. The doctor had asked to speak with the father. It was the usual protocol in case of complications.

“Complications ?” he repeated and his heart skipped a beat.

Hiori imagined the worst. His breathing turned shallow. His blood pressure felt unbearably high. Without another word, he followed your friend through the endless corridor wrapped in the familiar antiseptic smell of medical places.

It was unlike him but he forgot his manners. He didn’t greet anyone, he didn’t thank the people who held doors for him.

Your friend stopped in front of a room and quietly invited him inside while she waited outside.

You were lying in bed. He crossed the room in only a few steps.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to bother you, but the doctor said it was protocol whenever a patient is preg-...”

He didn’t let you finish.

“How do you feel ?”

His eyes stopped on your belly as he added : 

“And…Our baby ?”

You froze. Even when you were together, he had never called the baby that. When he saw the shock on your face, he felt his legs weaken.

“What ? Tell me.

— She’s okay,” you replied quickly, noticing how shaken he was. “She…

— She…?

— Yeah… It’s a girl.

— We’re having a girl…”

He didn’t say anything else. He felt a mix of relief, confusion and shock.

You reached for his hand. Offering silent comfort. You didn’t know what he was thinking but you could tell something inside him had shifted.

He stepped closer, your fingers still intertwined. Then he rested his forehead against yours. He used to do that. It was almost automatic. Except this time, he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Missed you,” he simply said.

He didn’t talk about the break-up. Didn’t talk about the boxes. Didn’t talk about how much he still loved you. There would be time for that later.

“Missed both of you.”

[venustrvck]

thinking about accidental pregnancy with oliver, about keeping the baby, or wanting to keep the baby and. you're not expecting him to stay, really you're expecting him to run. he's not serious about you, about this, neither of you are... and he's an athlete at the rise of his career, you're not expecting him to stay. he does.

if there is one thing that could override oliver's flightiness, his instinct to bolt, it is responsibility. and you've just dropped the biggest responsibility of his life in his lap. oliver's never committed himself to anything except for the responsibility he holds to others, whether as captain, son or now... a father, a responsibility you've tied him to with an umbilical cord. oliver aiku does not let go of responsibility; he builds his life around it.

when you tell him, you expect him to fade out of your life. you expect panic and for the urge to flee to overwhelm him, it's something you've made your peace with ever since the ultrasound.

(pregnancy tests can be unreliable, can give you a false positive, and that hope and joy that bloomed in your heart at the sight of those two lines? it felt too dangerous to nurture without absolute certainty. you had to make sure.)

(you're pregnant.)

there's panic, but he doesn't flee. he asks you, with low tones and serious eyes, what you'd like to do — something unspools in your shoulders, then, and you say with complete confidence that you'd like to keep it. this is your child. you want them more than anything. he doesn't flee then, either.

he drives you to every appointment, stays with you through each one, too. he sits on that chair and asks the doctor questions, asks after the baby's condition, their health, progress and risks. he's... a father, you've come to realize. a good one.

it takes nothing for you to fall in love after that. after all, what's been holding you back all this time is the knowledge that, despite his charm and charisma, oliver is... flighty, a man that's allergic to commitment, he's had a dozen men and women before you and he'll have a dozen more after you — he was never going to be present. so seeing him now, like this? his charm and his charisma coupled with his attentive support? a steady rock you can be sure will you hold up, unwavering under your weight, when you lean on him? reliable. constant. to see oliver aiku fully present with you, to see oliver aiku crystalized? he's beautiful.

you fall.

you understand now, the complete faith his team has in him, their steadfast loyalty and unfaltering affection. this oliver... he does not demand it, per se, but he gives so much of it that it becomes unquestionable to do the same.

you love him.

and years down the line, looking at oliver cuddle your toddler to sleep? you think to yourself that you're glad none of his exes had thought to baby trap him to keep him, because now... you know with absolute certainty that it would've worked.

[an1m320v3r]

You Have My Eyes Pt.2

Blue Lock! Alexis Ness x Reader

A secret, a child, and a love that learned patience after years apart.

Warnings: Angst; Fluf; implied smut; NOT PROOFREAD!!!

[Google translate was used, German readers you have been warned.]

[You Have My Eyes Series]

[You Have My Eyes - Alexis Ness - Part 1]

He turns away. Planning on walking to the door. And then—fabric tugs. A soft, tiny tug. He freezes. Looks down. Your fingers—even in your sleep—are clutching the sleeve of his shirt. As if your body refuses to let him go. As if your unconscious heart grabbed him before your waking brain could stop it. His breath stutters. He turns slowly, gently, terrified of waking you. Your hand tightens. Just slightly. Like instinct. Like memory. Like three years of longing you never said aloud. Ness’s knees almost give out. He kneels beside the bed, your fingers still clutching him. His voice breaks into a whisper made of awe and pain. “You… don’t want me to leave.”

Not a question. A realization. He lifts your hand with trembling fingers, presses it to his cheek, and lets out a quiet, shaking laugh. “I thought I was imagining everything today,” he whispers. “But even in your sleep… you’re holding on to me.” He leans his forehead to the edge of the mattress, eyes stinging. “I won’t go. Not if you need me. Not if she needs me. Not if your heart doesn’t want to let go.” He slides his hand under yours, intertwining your fingers. Then, so quietly he almost doesn’t breathe the words— “I’ve missed you every night. Every morning. Every heartbeat.” He shifts carefully, easing himself onto the floor beside you—not touching, not crowding, just close enough that your hand remains in his. He watches you for a long time. Then he whispers into the darkness: “I’ll stay. As long as you let me.”

You wake to the sound of soft crying. A small, hiccuping wail.

“Ma… maa…” Anja. Your eyes snap open. Your body feels heavy, warm, as if you slept a hundred years in one night. It takes a moment for your brain to catch up—where you are, what happened, why your face feels dry and tight from old tears. You sit up abruptly. And then you see him. Alexis. Kneeling beside your bed. His head resting against the mattress, cheek pressed near your arm. One hand limp beside yours, the other still holding your hand even in sleep. His breath is soft, slow. His hair messy, tips brushing his eyelids. A faint crease between his brows, like he fell asleep mid-worry. You blink.

Memory floods back in scattered pieces—your tears, his arms around you, the quiet sobs in the dark. You freeze. You hadn’t realized he fell asleep like that. Not touching you besides your hand. Not climbing into the bed. Not pushing boundaries. Just…Staying. Like a vow whispered without words.

“Ma… maa…” Anja’s cry cracks again, louder. Ness stirs. His shoulder shifts. His brow twitches. His fingers tighten weakly around yours—

Then his eyes flutter open. Confusion hits him first. He blinks, takes a shallow breath, tries to understand why he’s on the floor beside your bed. Then he looks up—Sees you awake—And confusion melts into something raw and terrified and soft all at once.

“Guten Morgen…” Good Morning… he whispers, voice rough from sleep. You swallow. “Good morning.” Then Anja cries again. Ness jolts upright immediately, eyes wide with panic.

“Oh— oh no— kleine Zauberer?” He stands too quickly, stumbling a bit on numb legs.

“Why is she crying? What happened? Did something scare her—?”,

“She’s just hungry,” you murmur. He freezes. Stares. Then exhales in relief, hand over his chest, looking embarrassingly shaken.

“Oh. Okay. Yes. Right. Hunger. That makes sense.” He swallows hard.

“Everything’s… new.” You watch him hurry to her small bed, dropping to his knees again—faster this time, less controlled.

“Anja…” His voice goes soft, warm. She looks at him through big tearful eyes. She hiccups. He melts instantly.

“Oh… you’re okay,” he whispers, brushing a curl from her face.

“It’s just morning. I’m here. I’m right here.” She reaches toward him. He nearly breaks. He picks her up carefully—awkward but gentle—rocking her instinctively. You stand slowly. Your heart tightens.

Part of you wants to run into his arms and let this moment swallow three years of pain. Another part wants to step back—far back—because you know how fragile this all is, how easily things can break again. You clear your throat, grounding yourself.

“Ness…” He turns sharply at the sound of your voice, like every cell in his body reacts.

“Yes?” Too fast. Too eager. It makes something in your chest ache. You look at him—really look—at the dark circles under his eyes, the red tinge of dried tears, the rumpled training jacket, his hand soothing Anja’s back, the absolute fear and love in his expression. Last night feels like a dream. A soft, painful dream. But this morning is real.

“T-Thank you for… staying,” you say quietly. His eyes widen. He looks down, shy, shaking.

“I only stayed because you held onto me,” he murmurs. Then he adds quickly,

“But I would have stayed anyway. If you asked. If you needed.”

You look at his hand holding Anja’s. His knuckles tremble slightly. He swallows. Voice fragile.

“Can I… still be here? Just for today? I don’t want to push. I don’t want to overwhelm you. I just— I don’t want to disappear on her first morning with me.”

You stare at him. Touched. Shaken. Scared. He feels your hesitation and his heart flinches visibly—eyes dimming, shoulders tensing.

“I know you don’t trust me yet,” he whispers.

“I know I hurt you. Or… the situation hurt you. And I know coming back into your lives overnight is…” He looks down.

“Too much.” Your chest squeezes. He lifts his gaze again—raw, hopeful, terrified.

“But please. Don’t shut me out.”

You don’t answer right away. He waits. He doesn’t breathe. Anja curls into his chest, calmer now, tiny fists gripping his shirt. And he whispers to her:

“Alles gut, mein kleiner Zauberer… Papa ist hier…” It’s okay, my little sorcerer… Papa is here… She just looks up at him. You’re not sure which hurts more—your fear of letting him in or your fear of depriving her of this. You inhale. Slow. Shaky.

“…You can stay. For today.” His breath escapes him in a trembling gasp. His eyes fill—not breaking, just overflowing. “Thank you,” he whispers. Like the words are a prayer.

The morning settles slowly into noon. Anja, now fully awake, watches Alexis with an intensity only toddlers and lovesick men possess. And Alexis… tries. Really, really tries.

You begin feeding Anja her breakfast. Alexis insists on helping. He shouldn’t have. He holds the small spoon like it’s a fragile artifact from a museum.

“This is easy,” he says with shaky confidence.

“We train with Kaiser every day, so this should be—” He lifts the spoon—Anja turns her head. Food drips down her cheek. Ness freezes.

“Oh. Oh no. I— I messed up. Schatz, I’m sorry—”

You can’t help it. You smile. He panics.

“Don’t cry, Zauberer— I mean— she’s not crying, I’m crying—wait—” He tries again. Anja grabs the spoon and throws it. He gasps like he’s witnessed violence.

“DID SHE— DID SHE JUST—? Why is she so strong??” You laugh despite yourself. He beams.

“Liebling— you laughed—!” You go still. His face burns red.

“I— I mean— I didn’t— It just slipped— I’m sorry—” He stumbles over his own feet, flustered. Anja claps. You look away, cheeks warm. He notices. His heart stutters.

Bathtime. He tries helping wash her face. She splashes him. He shrieks.

“I didn’t know toddlers had this much— force—!” She giggles and splashes again. He melts instantly.

“Okay. Fine. I surrender. You win. I am defeated by someone who can’t say full sentences.”

“Liebling— can you pass the wipes— oh God I said it again—”

“Liebl— sorry— I meant— you— uh— can you help—?”

“Liebl— okay, she threw a block at my head— please fix—”

Each time, he looks at you like he’s terrified he’s overstepped. But each time… Your heart squeezes painfully. Because you used to love the way he said it. You still do. And he knows it.

Sometime around late afternoon, Anja falls asleep in his lap. He sits completely still. Barely breathing. Eyes soft. You watch from the chair. He brushes a curl from her forehead, whispering:

“Mein kleiner Zauberer… du machst mich so stolz…” My little sorcerer… you make me so proud… She sleeps deeper. He looks up at you—and for a moment, it almost feels like years never passed. Then the moment breaks and you look away. He pretends not to notice the pain.

After dinner, after stories, after Anja’s last bottle, after she’s tucked into her small hotel bed again—Alexis lingers. Nervous. Hopeful. Shaking a little. You stand by the door, unsure what to expect. He clears his throat.

“So…” He rubs the back of his neck.

“Can I— see you again? Tomorrow?”

Your heart twists. You stare at the carpet. Then the words leave your mouth before you can soften them.

“…We’re leaving in the morning.” His expression empties in an instant. You see the exact second his heart drops.

“…What?” His voice is soft. Too soft.

“We have a train. Early.” You can’t look at him. Silence fills the room. Thick. Heavy. Suffocating. He steps forward. Just one step.

“Tomorrow morning?” His breath shakes. “You’re leaving tomorrow morning?”,

“Yes.” Another breath—broken.

“So I don’t get… another day.” His voice cracks. “Not even one more?”

Your chest aches.

“We didn’t plan to stay long—”,

“I know,” he whispers.

“I know. I’m not entitled to your time. I’m not entitled to anything.” He laughs softly, bitterly.

“I keep forgetting that loving you doesn’t mean I get to ask for more.” You look up. His eyes are glassy, but he’s trying so hard to hide it. You step closer—instinct—then stop yourself. He notices. His voice drops to a whisper.

“Will I see her again?”,

“I… don’t know.”

He closes his eyes. That hurts him. More than anything. But he nods slowly.

Because that’s what he’s always done—accepted whatever pieces you give him, even when they cut him.

“I understand,” he murmurs. You feel something sharp in your chest. He inhales shakily, forcing a smile that trembles at the edges.

“Then… may I walk you to the station tomorrow?”

Your breath catches. You almost say no. Not because you don’t want him there—but because you do. Too much.

“Alexis…”

He takes a step closer. Slow. Careful. Desperate.

“Please,” he whispers.

“I’m not asking for forever. Just one morning. One goodbye that doesn’t break me in half.”

Your throat tightens. You nod. He smiles—a small, heartbroken smile. Then he backs away.

“Thank you.” He exhales shakily.

“For today. For letting me hold her. For letting me be here.” He gestures toward Anja's sleeping form.

“I’ll… never forget this day.”

You feel tears sting your eyes. He opens the door. Pauses. Turns back one last time. Soft. Fractured. Hopeful in a way that hurts.

“Goodnight, Liebling.”

He disappears into the hallway before you can respond. And you don’t sleep at all.

The morning comes too fast. You barely slept. Ness didn’t either—you can see it in the redness around his eyes, the slight tremble in his hands as he waits for you at the train station. He stands at the platform entrance, dressed neatly, hair still damp from a rushed shower, breath clouding in the cold air. Anja is perched on your hip, sleepy, confused, clutching her bunny. The moment Ness sees the two of you, his face lights up—Then immediately breaks. He forces a smile. A soft one. A trembling one.

“Good… morning,” he manages.

“Morning,” you whisper. You’re both trying so hard. Too hard. He steps closer, slowly, eyes flicking between you and Anja like he’s memorizing every second.

“When will you arrive home?” he asks gently.

“Around noon.” He nods.

“I’ll text to… make sure you arrived safely. If that’s okay.”,

“It’s okay.”

He exhales—tiny relief, tiny heartbreak. The announcement for boarding echoes through the station. Your heart tightens. Ness swallows hard. He shifts his weight, reaching out hesitantly.

“C-Can I… hold her? One last time?”

You nod. Anja goes willingly into his arms. She rests her head on his shoulder, small fingers gripping his jacket. He closes his eyes briefly, overwhelmed.

“Hey, kleiner Zauberer,” he whispers shakily,

“Papa is so proud of you… so proud…” She looks up at him. Confused by the tremble in his voice. He kisses her forehead once, softly, lingering just a moment too long. Then he turns to you. And tries—really tries—to smile.

“Thank you… for letting me have yesterday. And this morning.”

You nod, throat tight.

“You deserve to know her,” you say.

His breath catches. He looks away, blinking rapidly.

“Goodbye… Liebling.”

You freeze.

He freezes.

Your eyes meet—You look away fast, swallowing the ache.

“Goodbye… Alexis.”

He hands Anja back. His fingers linger a second too long on her tiny hand. Then he steps back. One step. Two. His eyes shine. He bows his head, breathing shaky. And he turns away. He walks.

You try to stay strong. You really try. The train’s departure announcement blares overhead. You hug Anja closer—and then you feel her stiffen. Her breath hitches. Her small body trembles. She reaches out. Tiny arms stretching toward the man walking away.

“Pa… pa…”

You freeze. Your heart slams into your ribs. She tries again, louder, voice cracking:

“Papa!”

Ness stops walking. Dead still. You can’t breathe. Realizing that it's grabbing his attention Anja’s arms stretch toward him desperately.

“Papa!”

Ness turns slowly—as if afraid he imagined it. Tears already filling his eyes. She reaches for him again, sobbing, shaking:

“Papa! Papa!”

He covers his mouth, a broken sound escaping his chest. Your throat closes. Your heart caves in. You whisper her name, but she’s crying too hard to hear you. Ness takes one step toward you. Then another. Then he’s running. Not fast—just desperate. He stops right in front of you, staring at Anja with tears pouring openly now.

“She… she said…” He chokes on the words.

“She called me papa…”

You nod, crying silently. He looks at her, lifting trembling hands but not daring to take her without permission. She reaches again.

He takes her. He holds her tightly, burying his face in her hair.

“I’m here,” he cries softly.

“I’m here, kleiner Zauberer… Papa is here…”

She clings to him, tiny arms around his neck. He sobs silently—shoulders shaking, tears falling into her curls. You wipe your cheeks with shaking fingers. You can’t take this. You can’t take seeing him walk away again. Seeing her cry for him. Seeing him break for both of you.

“Alexis,” you whisper.

He looks up, eyes red, cheeks wet, breathing uneven.

“…Yes?” His voice is barely sound. You dig through your bag with shaking hands. Pull out a small piece of paper. A pen. Your heart races as you write. Your address. Your city. Your life. You hold it out to him. His breath stops. He stares at the paper like it’s a miracle. Like it’s salvation. Like it’s hope.

“…Come see us again,” you whisper.

His hand shakes as he takes the paper. He looks at you, eyes wide, tears falling faster.

“You… you mean— I— I can—?”,

“Yes,” you choke out.,

“You should come.”

He covers his mouth again, a sob slipping out. He pulls you into a sudden, desperate embrace—one arm around you, the other holding Anja, the three of you pressed together.

“I won’t lose you again,” he whispers into your shoulder.

“I’ll come. I swear. I’ll come.”

You tremble. Anja clings to both of you. And for the first time—the three of you feel like a family. Even if it hurts. Even if it’s fragile. Even if you’re still scared. He pulls back just enough to look at you.

“When can I come?” His voice trembles. “Tell me when. Tell me how soon. Tell me anything. I’ll be there.”

You breathe shakily. “Soon.”

He nods, tears falling.

“I’ll wait. I’ll be ready. I’ll do everything right this time.”

You bite your lip. “You already are.”

He breaks. Again. And for the first time in three years—it feels like the beginning again. Not the end.

Coming home feels wrong. Your apartment is warm, familiar, lived-in… but the moment you step inside, something inside your chest drops. Anja starts crying before you’ve even set your bags down. Not a tantrum. Not frustration. A soft, trembling cry. The kind toddlers only make when they’re confused and hurt but don’t know the words.

“Ma…maa…” She reaches toward the door you just closed. As if she expects someone else to walk in after you. Your throat tightens painfully. You pick her up, rocking gently.

“I know, baby… I know…”

She presses her face into your shoulder, sobbing quietly. You hold her tighter — because she’s not the only one who feels empty. That train ride back was quiet, too quiet. Your mind replayed the moment she said “Papa” over and over again. The look in his eyes. The way he held her. The way he held you. You swallow as you set her down to nap. Her tears dampen your shirt.

When she finally sleeps, you sit on the couch, phone in hand, staring at the last message he sent:

“Please text me when you get home. I’ll be waiting.” Your fingers shake. You type:

You: “We’re home.”

The message sends. Your heart doesn’t calm. Your apartment feels colder, bigger, quieter. He answers almost immediately:

Alexis: “Thank you. How is Anja? How are you?”

But what can you even say? You type back:

You: “Tired. She cried.”

His reply comes slower this time, like he’s struggling to find words.

Alexis: “I cried too.”

You press a hand to your chest. You don’t reply again. You can’t. Not right now. The rest of the evening feels heavy, every room whispering the same question you’re afraid to answer: Why does it feel so wrong without him?

Anja looks for him. Every morning. She toddles to the door and pats it lightly. Then looks back at you with confused magenta eyes.

“Pa?” Your heart cracks open a little wider each time. She holds her bunny tighter than usual, dragging it with her everywhere — the bunny he saw her sleeping with, kissed goodnight beside her.

When you say “Papa is not here,” she scrunches her face, confused. Then she gets frustrated, crying softly again. You hold her every time. Sometimes, after she finally falls asleep against your chest, you whisper:

“He’ll come, Anja… He promised.” And you try to believe it too.

The week stretches painfully. Every night, you lie awake, thinking about: His voice. His laugh. His trembling hands holding yours. His face when Anja said “Papa.” The way he whispered “Don’t disappear again.” You remind yourself of why you’re scared. Of why you kept your distance. But it doesn’t stop the ache. You open the fridge on Tuesday and find the little bottle of juice Anja liked in Munich, and you start crying in the kitchen silently, hands trembling.

On Thursday, you pass a man wearing a similar jacket to Alexis and your breath freezes for a full second — before you realize it’s not him. You feel stupid. And lonely. And overwhelmed. Your rational mind says: You can’t just let him back in. Your heart whispers: But he’s already in.

Back in Bastard München, Alexis walks into the locker room with swollen eyes and a blank expression. No jokes. No chatter. No smile. Kaiser stares at him for a long moment.

“You look like you got hit by a bus,” he says flatly. Ness doesn’t answer. He trains like a ghost. He showers in silence. He sits at his locker staring at nothing, towel in his hands, lost in thoughts you can’t hear.

Later that evening, he messages you again:

Alexis: “Did she sleep okay tonight?”

You wait fifteen minutes before replying:

You: “Yes. She slept.”

He answers instantly:

Alexis: “Thank God.”

Every day he asks. Every morning:

Alexis: “How is she?”

Every night:

Alexis: “Did she eat? Did she smile today?”

His messages are short. Respectful. Gentle. Afraid of scaring you away. But behind his calm words is desperation. He replays her voice saying “Papa” every night. He holds the scrap of paper with your address tucked in his wallet like a lifeline. He grips it so tightly the edges have curled. He keeps whispering:

“I’ll go soon… She needs me… They both need me…” But he’s waiting. Waiting so he doesn’t overwhelm you. Waiting for you to say when. Waiting for you to open the door yourself. And it’s killing him a little every day.

By Sunday: You look at your phone more often. You reread his messages. You wonder if he’ll stop reaching out. He doesn’t. He hesitates every time. But he texts. And Anja… Anja carries her bunny to the door again.

“Papa?” she whispers. You lift her.

“We’ll see him soon,” you whisper. You’re not sure if you’re lying. But even saying it out loud makes your heart flutter and hurt and heal all at once.

It’s Wednesday. You’re not expecting anyone. Anja is sitting on the floor with her blocks, humming to herself, bunny under one arm. You’re half-distracted in the kitchen, rinsing dishes, exhausted from work, from motherhood, from the quiet ache of the last week.

The knock on your front door is soft. Almost hesitant. You freeze. Another knock. Same pattern—gentle, careful, nervous. Your heart kicks into your throat. No. It couldn’t be—You walk slowly to the door, palms sweating, breath unsteady. You open it. And your heart stumbles..

On your doorstep stands Alexis, dressed in a neat hoodie and jacket, hair brushed, magenta tips glowing in the late afternoon light. He’s carrying things. Both hands full. A small paper bag. A stuffed animal. A bright blue wrapped present with a clumsy bow. A bouquet—of simple pink flowers, shy and understated. He looks up at you with eyes already softening, breath catching.

“Hi,” he whispers. He smiles—small, shy, trembling at the edges.

“I… I know I should’ve asked before coming. But—” He swallows.

“I couldn’t wait anymore.” Your chest clenches. He shifts, nervous.

“So… I brought gifts. F-For Anja. And… um… the flowers are for you.” He blushes violently, like he didn’t mean to admit that.

You open your mouth—no words come out. Before either of you speak again—sharp, excited squeal splits the air.

“PAPA!!”

Alexis freezes. His eyes widen—so much emotion hitting him at once he almost drops the gift bag. Anja barrels across the living room, stumbling once, arms outstretched like she’s running toward the sun itself.

“Papa!!” She slams into his legs. He collapses to his knees instantly, dropping everything except the flowers as he gathers her into his arms.

“Oh— oh mein Gott,” he breathes, laughing and sobbing at the same time.

“You— you said it— you remembered—!” She throws her tiny arms around his neck. He holds her like he’s afraid she’ll disappear again. She babbles nonsense—little excited sounds, half-words, all noise and love. He presses his face into her hair, shaking.

“I missed you, kleiner Zauberer,” he whispers, tears slipping freely again.

“I missed you so much…” She pats his cheek, confused by his tears. He laughs breathlessly.

“Papa’s… happy,” he murmurs. Your hand lifts unconsciously to your chest. You haven’t seen him smile like that in three years. Open. Raw. Overflowing with wonder. And then—He stands slowly, Anja perched on his hip, her arms looped around his neck. He looks at you. Not with desperation. Not begging. Just… hope. Quiet. Soft. Terrifying.

“C-Can I come in?” he asks. As if he isn’t already holding your daughter like she’s part of his soul. You swallow. Then step aside.

“…Yeah. Come in.”

He steps into your home, eyes scanning every corner with something between awe and heartbreak.

“This is where you live…” he murmurs softly.

“I— I’ve wondered for so long.” He sets the flowers gently on the counter, as if afraid to break them. Anja reaches for the gift bag, and Ness laughs.

“Okay, okay— it’s for you, Zauberer. Just— gently— gently—” She instantly rips the bag open Tissue paper flies. You laugh under your breath. Alexis beams.

“She’s strong,” he says proudly.

“She definitely didn’t get that from me.”,

“Well, she didn’t get it from me either,” you say. He freezes. Then smiles—tiny, warm.

He stands by the counter, shifting his weight, hands trembling slightly. He keeps glancing at you. Then away. Then at you again. He looks like he wants to step closer but doesn’t dare, respecting your space, your boundaries, your fear.

“Thank you for letting me come,” he says quietly. “Even if it’s just today.”

Your chest aches.

“It doesn’t have to be just today.”

His head snaps toward you. He searches your face, hopeful, terrified.

“…Really?”,

“Really.”

He smiles. A real, soft, relieved smile. The kind you remember from before everything fell apart. He holds Anja a little closer.

“Then I’ll make today… special.” You exhale, tension loosening just a little. You’re still scared. You’re still unsure. But seeing him like this—gentle, shy, hopeful, carrying gifts like an awkward young dad too nervous to enter his own life—It breaks something inside you. And heals it too.

Time does strange things when a family is rebuilding itself. Some days feel fast and bright. Some feel slow and tender. But all of them feel like something steady is being stitched back together. You don’t notice how the year passes—only how your life slowly reshapes itself around the presence of one man and one small girl with magenta eyes.

By spring, Anja begins talking more. At first just small words:

“Up.”,

“Mama.”,

“Juice.”,

“Again.”,

“Papa.”

At first, everytime she said Papa in front of Alexis again, he cried. Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just… tears slipping silently as he held her, his forehead pressed to her tiny shoulder. She pats his cheek to wipe them.

“Papa… no sad.” He laughs wetly.

“Only happy tears, kleiner Zauberer.”

By summer, she speaks in tiny sentences.

“Papa come soon?”,

“I draw for Papa.”,

“Papa sit here.”,

“My Papa!”

Every time she says it, Alexis melts into a puddle of soft, devoted emotion.

At first, his visits are careful. Nervous. Timed to the hour. He knocks softly. You open the door slowly. He steps inside like the space is sacred. But over time… He stops knocking. He becomes a fixture.

Every other weekend: brunch, walks in the park, Anja on his shoulders, your laundry day turning into family chores he helps with without asking. By autumn, he knows where you keep the mugs. He knows how you pack Anja’s snack bag. He knows your favorite tea. He knows you again. And you know him. The new him. Softer. Quieter. More grounded. More tender. He still gets flustered easily. Still calls you Liebling by accident. Still looks away when you catch him staring. But the desperation has softened. Replaced by something warmer. Something hopeful.

The first time he sits beside you on the couch, you both stiffen like nervous teenagers. He apologizes for sitting too close. You apologize for pulling your leg away too fast. You both laugh awkwardly. By winter, he sits beside you naturally — your thighs brushing, your elbows touching, your warmth mingling.

One night, Anja climbed into his lap and fell asleep across both of you. Your heads leaned together without thinking. Your shoulder touched his. He didn’t move away. He didn’t even breathe. You didn’t either. That was the first time you realized: This was becoming something again. Not what it was. Not what was lost. Something new. Something slower. Something safer.

After a long day of playing with Anja, you walk him to the door. He buttons his coat, hair messy, cheeks flushed from laughter. He looks at you. You look at him. And for once, neither of you look away.

“So…” he whispers,

“can I… see you two next weekend?”

“Yes,” you say softly. “Of course.”

He steps closer. Just a little.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

“For letting me… be here.”

Your breath catches. His hand lifts slowly, trembling—fingers brushing your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

“Liebling…” Only a whisper. You swallow.

“Alexis…” He should step back. He doesn’t. You should step back. You don’t. Your foreheads touch. His breath shakes.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers. You don’t. Your hands rise painfully slow, resting on his chest. And he knows. His lips brush yours first—barely—feather-soft—like a question. You answer by leaning in. The kiss is gentle. Warm. Shaking. Full of everything you’ve both held back for too long. He pulls back only when his tears wet your lips.

“S-Sorry,” he laughs quietly.

“I just— I’m really happy.”

You kiss the corner of his mouth.

“So am I.”

He goes still. Completely still. Then he smiles. A trembling, beautiful smile.

The next few months add new small miracles. Sometimes he stays late helping with dinner. Sometimes Anja falls asleep on him again. You offer the couch—softly, shyly, awkwardly. He always accepts. At first he lies stiffly, arms at his sides, afraid to make any noise.

Later, he begins to relax. He leaves a blanket here. His favorite mug. A hoodie. It starts to feel like he belongs. One rainy Friday, he’s wiping down the kitchen counter after dinner. You’re putting dishes away. He looks around your apartment. Then at you.

“Can I stay tonight?” he asks quietly.

“If… if that’s okay.”

Your heart flips. You nod. He smiles—small and relieved. He sleeps on the couch again. The next weekend too. And the next.

A storm rattles the windows. Anja sleeps soundly. You can’t. Neither can he. You walk out to get water and find him sitting on the couch, staring at the ceiling, hair messy from tossing. You whisper: “Couldn’t sleep?”

He shakes his head.

“You?”

You shake yours. Silence. Your heart races. And then—quietly, shyly, almost afraid of his reaction—you say:

“Do you… want to sleep in my room instead?”

His breath stops. He looks at you like you pulled the moon out of the sky and handed it to him.

“W-With you?” he whispers.

You nod softly.

“If you want.”

He stands so fast he nearly trips on the blanket.

“I— yes— I mean— only if you’re sure— are you sure—?”

You take his trembling hand.

“I’m sure.”

His eyes soften—melting, warming, overflowing. You lead him to your bed. You lie down first, facing the window. The mattress shifts as he lies behind you, careful not to touch. Then—Slowly, hesitantly, gently—He wraps an arm around your waist. You inhale sharply. He freezes.

“Is this okay?”

You nod, breath unsteady. Then—he pulls you closer—your back to his chest, his breath against your neck, his arms wrapping around you like he’s holding a miracle. His voice breaks softly.

“I’ve dreamt of this… for years.”

You turn slightly.

“Goodnight, Alexis.”

His arms tighten just a little—clinging—like he’s afraid morning will take you away again.

“Goodnight, Liebling,” he whispers into your hair. And for the first time in years— he falls asleep at peace.

From there, you slowly become official again. It doesn’t happen with a big confession. Or a dramatic speech. Or a “will you be my partner again?” moment. It happens quietly. It happens on mornings when he kisses your forehead before leaving. It happens on evenings when you save him a plate of dinner. It happens when he starts keeping a toothbrush in your bathroom, and you don’t comment on it, and he smiles like it means everything. It happens every other weekend when he arrives with a shy smile and leaves reluctantly, hugging you both too long. It happens on weekdays when you Video call him with Anja on your lap and he laughs at your tired hair and you roll your eyes when he asks if you’re eating enough. It happens in those soft, slow, steady ways that love tends to return when two people are careful with each other’s scars.

And one night, as he’s packing to leave, you grab his hoodie sleeve and whisper:

“Stay one more night.” He blinks, heart stumbling.

“Really?”,

“Really.”

He stays. After that night…nobody needs to label anything. You’re together. Again. Quietly. Naturally. As if love simply found its way home.

It’s a Sunday morning in late June. Ness is lying on his stomach on the carpet, building a block tower with Anja. You’re stretched on the couch, sipping tea, watching the two of them with a smile you can’t hide. Anja stacks the final block. It wobbles. She squeals. She claps.

“Papa look! Mama look! We make big! We make—” She pauses. Then beams so brightly it knocks the air from your lungs.

“We make it like family!” Alexis freezes. Actually freezes. His eyes go huge, glassy. He looks at you with a slow, breaking smile. You are speechless. Anja is proud of her tower. She has no idea she just shattered both of you in the best way. Ness pulls her onto his lap and kisses the top of her head, whispering:

“Ja… Familie…” Yes… family… You look at him. He looks at you. And the meaning settles quietly, warmly, deeply: You are one. Again. A family.

A few weeks later—Anja falls asleep early. Too early. You and Alexis sit together on the couch, the quiet unfamiliar. No toddler babbling. No toys clattering. No distractions. Just the low hum of the heater and the soft sound of him breathing beside you. He glances toward the bedroom door.

“…She fell asleep so quickly tonight.”,

“Mm.” He nods, fingers tapping nervously on his knee.

It’s been months of slow, innocent closeness. Months of rebuilding trust. Months of falling asleep beside each other with clothes on and lines respected. Tonight feels different. It feels charged. He notices the difference too. You can tell. He shifts. Clears his throat. Blushes.

“Would you like… tea?” he offers weakly. You shake your head. Silence stretches between you. He tilts his head slightly.

“Are you… okay?”

You swallow. Then—Very quietly. Very shyly. You say: “Alexis… do you want to join me in bed?” He jolts.

“O-Oh— yes— I mean— if you want— we can— go to sleep early— together— I don’t mind—” You shake your head again. This time meeting his eyes.

“I didn’t mean sleep.” He goes scarlet. Every shade of pink imaginable blooms across his cheeks, spreading to his ears.

“Ah— oh— I— you— really—?” His voice cracks painfully.

“You mean— mean—?”,

“Yes.”

His breath leaves him entirely.

“I—” He swallows hard.

“I would love to.” Another swallow.

“A… little too much.”

The room hums. Your face burns. His does too. He stands, nearly tripping on the rug. You giggle. He blushes harder. He follows you to the bedroom, hands trembling slightly. And when you close the door behind you—He pauses, searching your face with a softness that makes your heart fold in half.

“Only if you’re ready,” he whispers.

“I’ve waited so long… I can wait longer.”

You step forward. Place a hand on his chest. He shivers.

“I’m ready.”

His eyes flutter. He leans in— Kisses you slowly, tenderly, with the kind of reverence only someone who has lost you once could ever hold. He whispers your name like a prayer. His fingers trace the outline of your jaw. Your hands slide up his sides. His breath hitches. He cups your face like you’re something sacred. Clothes stay on a little too long. You laugh into his mouth when he fumbles nervously. He apologizes three times until you kiss him quiet. The night unfolds gently. Slowly. Softly. Nothing rushed. Nothing harsh. Just warmth. Skin brushing skin. His forehead pressed to yours. Your hands tangled in his hair.

He whispers “I love you” against your collarbone, trembling. You feel his smile when you breathe it back against his forehead. You fall asleep long after the lights are out—his arms around you, your leg tangled with his, your heart beneath his palm. His last words before drifting to sleep:

“I finally feel home.” And you do too.

Something changes after that night. Not in a dramatic, overwhelming way—but in the quiet, consistent small ways that make you realize he isn’t holding back anymore. For the first time in years, he isn’t scared to love you openly. And it shows.

The next morning, you wake with his arms around your waist, his face pressed into your neck, his leg thrown over yours like you’re a blanket he’s determined to keep forever. You try to wiggle out gently. He pulls you tighter.

“Mmm… nein,” no, he mumbles into your skin.

“Stay…”

It becomes a pattern. If he sits next to you, he always touches you: his hand on your knee his fingers tangled with yours his arm around your waist his head on your shoulder his nose brushing your cheek his pinky hooked with yours his palm on the small of your back He doesn’t even seem aware of it anymore. You giggle often—because every time he realizes what he’s doing, he blushes so hard he nearly combusts.

“Ah— sorry— I didn’t mean— I mean, I did mean— but— I—”

You kiss his cheek. “It’s okay, Alexis.”

He melts instantly..

He compliments you constantly

“Liebling, your hair looks soft today.”

“It looked soft yesterday too…”

“Well—yes. It’s always soft.”

“And you have beautiful eyes.”

“And your smile is— oh— uh— I’ll stop—”

You giggle. He turns bright red. He tries to help with chores… and fails adorably

Laundry? He shrinks one of his own shirts.

Cooking? He burns toast. Again.

Cleaning? He knocks a plant over. You laugh every time, and he smiles shyly like he loves being the reason you smile—even if it’s at his mistakes.

He kisses you whenever he can

On the cheek.

On your forehead.

On your shoulder when he hugs you from behind.

On your hand when he thanks you.

On your temple when you’re tired. Sometimes he kisses the tip of your nose, then hides his face like a shy schoolboy. You kiss him back. Every time. It only makes him clingier.

You sit beside Alexis? Anja toddles over and wedges herself between you. Alexis kisses your cheek? Anja gasps dramatically and climbs onto his lap like,

“No. Attention goes here.” One time you’re lying on the couch, Alexis behind you with his arm around your waist, when Anja stomps over, hands on hips, eyebrows furrowed like an angry little cat.

“Papa! Mine!” Alexis freezes. You burst into laughter. He’s torn between panic and amusement.

“Kleiner Zauberer… I am yours,” he laughs softly, lifting her into his other arm.

“But Mama is also mine.”

Anja gasps again—offended.

“NO! Mama mine too!!”

You laugh harder. Alexis blushes so badly you can feel the heat from across the room.

After that, she becomes vigilant. If Alexis so much as puts a hand on your waist:

“PAPA NO.” And she throws herself across your lap.

If Alexis tries to kiss your cheek:

“My Mama!” And she kisses your cheek first. If Alexis holds your hand: She pries your fingers apart and puts her tiny hand between both of yours. You giggle every time. And Alexis? He accepts it with the softest smile.

“Jealousy runs in the family,” he jokes one evening, watching her cling to your side like a koala. You raise a brow.

“Oh? And who did she get that from?” He blushes. Glances away.

“Don’t make me answer that.” But then he looks at you again—eyes soft, eyes warm, eyes overflowing with love—and leans over to kiss your cheek even with Anja glaring at him. You smack his arm playfully. Anja lets out a dramatic gasp like he has betrayed the kingdom. Alexis panics—

“Ah— Anja— Papa still loves you too—!” But you can’t stop laughing. And neither can he.

Over the weeks, this becomes your normal: Anja climbing onto Alexis constantly. Alexis wrapping himself around you like a limpet. You sandwiched between the two of them on the couch. There is no loneliness anymore. No empty nights. He touches you gently, lovingly, constantly— and for the first time in a long time, you feel wanted. Loved. Safe. And every time he accidentally slips a “Liebling” into a sentence, you smile because it no longer scares you. It feels right. It feels like home.

It happens late at night. Anja is asleep. The apartment is quiet. The street outside hums softly like a lullaby you can’t hear. You sit on the cold bathroom tiles, knees pulled to your chest, your fingers trembling around the small plastic device.

The positive sign is clear. Unmistakable. Your stomach drops. Your heart climbs your throat. Your breath comes out shaky. Again. Pregnant. With his child. Again. But this time… he loves you. He’s in your life. He’s in Anja’s life. He’s been trying. He’s been healing with you.

And yet—Fear wraps around your ribs like barbed wire. The memory of being alone the first time still haunts you. The memory of leaving Munich. The heartbreak. The silence. The tears in that bathroom three years ago. You press a hand to your mouth, tears streaming. You don’t know how to feel. Joy. Fear. Hope. Terror. Love. All of it swirls inside you until you can’t breathe.

It has been about a month since you last saw Alexis— soccer games had swallowed his schedule whole. The moment he sees you at the door, he beams, drops his bag, and pulls you into his arms with a warmth that nearly buckles your knees. You melt into him, holding him tighter than usual. He notices. His hands slide up your back, gentle.

“Liebling…? Are you okay?”

You swallow. Before you can answer—A small force slams into your leg.

“PAPA MINE!” Anja wedges herself firmly between you and Alexis, glaring at him as if he stole her favorite toy. Alexis laughs softly, lifting her.

“Okay, okay— Papa loves you too—”

Then Anja grabs your shirt with her free hand. “Mama too!” Alexis smiles at you over her shoulder. A real, soft, warm smile. And your heart hurts. Because you know what you need to say. And you’re terrified.

That evening, after Anja falls asleep early from excitement, you and Alexis sit on the couch. Your fingers twist nervously. His leg bounces with anticipation. You breathe in—

“I have news,” you whisper.

At the same time he says,

“I have news.” You both stop.

You gesture for him to go first. He nods, cheeks flushing with nerves.

He shifts closer to you, voice soft, trembling.

“I… um…” He clears his throat. His eyes flicker to the hallway where Anja sleeps.

“I’ve been thinking. A lot. Maybe too much.” He takes a breath. Shaky. Hopeful. Scared.

“I want to buy a house,” he says. Your heart stops.

“In Munich. Where you used to live. Somewhere safe. Somewhere big enough for Anja to have her own room, and— and where I can be close. Really close.”

You stare. He continues, words tumbling out.

“I want us to live together. Properly. As a family of three. No traveling back and forth. No long stretches apart. Just… waking up together. Eating together. Being together.” He smiles nervously.

“A little family of three. Just… us.”

Your throat burns. You try to speak—but tears hit your lap instead. Alexis panics immediately, reaching for you.

“Liebling? Hey— hey— what’s wrong? Did I say something— did I rush you—? I’m sorry— I didn’t mean—”

You shake your head quickly.

“I— I love it— I just—” Your voice breaks.

“I have news too.”

He freezes. Eyes wide. Breath caught in his throat. “O-Okay…” he whispers.

You take a trembling breath.

“I… I’m pregnant.” Silence. The world stops. You can hear nothing but your heartbeat. You can see nothing but his face—frozen, shocked, unreadable. His lips part slowly. His breath stutters. His eyes water instantly.

“...What?” he whispers, barely sound.

You nod. Positive. Unavoidable. Real.

“I found out last week. I didn’t know how to tell you. I was scared you’d think— I don’t know— that it was too fast or— or that I was repeating the past or—” Your voice cracks. “—that you’d be upset.”

He inhales sharply—like you stabbed him. “Angry?” He shakes his head violently. Tears spill immediately. He grabs your hands, clutching them with shaking fingers.

“Liebling— look at me—” His voice cracks so hard it breaks something inside you. You look up. And he’s crying. Not just teary—but truly crying, like you told him the most precious secret in the world.

“You’re having— a baby—” He laughs through tears.

“A baby. Our baby. Again.”

You nod, trembling. His thumb brushes your cheek, wiping tears away even as his own fall freely.

“I’m not angry.” He laughs softly, breathlessly. “I’m… honored. I’m terrified. I’m overwhelmed. But mostly—” He leans his forehead to yours.

“I’m happy.” You break. You fall into him, and he wraps his arms around you instantly, holding you close, holding you tight, holding you like you’re carrying the most fragile miracle in the world. He whispers into your hair:

“This time I won’t miss a single day. This time I’ll be here for every appointment. Every kick. Every craving. Every moment.” His voice trembles.

“You won’t be alone again. I swear it.”

You cry harder. He kisses your cheek softly. Then your forehead. Then your hands.

“And about the house…” He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes.

“Let’s make it for four.”

You laugh and sob at the same time. He kisses your tears away.

“We’ll be a family. A real one.”

You whisper:

“We already are.”

He smiles—A broken, beautiful, radiant smile—And pulls you into his arms again.

Pacing felt kinda rushed, sorry. :(

•Masterlist•

[REQUESTS OPEN!!!]

Tags: @shinning-stars @legendarydinosaurglitter

©an1m320v3r

[an1m320v3r]

You Have My Eyes

Blue Lock! Alexis Ness x Reader

A secret, a child, and a love that learned patience after years apart.

Warnings: Angst; Fluf; NOT PROOFREAD!!!

[Got a little carried away so it turned out a bit long.]

[You Have My Eyes Pt.2 — Alexis Ness]

You never expected the world to feel so dim. You never expected yourself to feel so dim. Maybe it happened slowly—like a candle flickering out over months, not seconds. Or maybe you simply woke one morning and realized that nothing moved your heart the way it once had. No excitement. No wonder. No anticipation for tomorrow. You didn’t even notice how badly you’d retreated into yourself until you found comfort in the quiet corners of Munich—the places where no one asked questions and no one expected your smile to be real.

You didn’t play soccer. You didn’t follow it. And you certainly didn’t know the name Alexis Ness. All you wanted that evening was shelter from the rain.

Munich rain is unforgiving. It doesn’t fall—it drenches, heavy drops splattering against stone and metal with a sound like thunder softened through water. You duck under the awning of a bookstore as the sky cracks open. Your coat is cold against your skin, hair dripping, the winter air biting at your fingertips. The city is reduced to blurry silhouettes and silver reflections. You inhale, the scent of wet pavement and paper drifting from inside the shop. And then— Footsteps. Fast. Light. Almost joyful.

You glance up just as someone dashes across the street—coat flying behind him, boots splashing through puddles. His hair, light brown fading into magenta-tipped ends, sticks to his forehead in soaked strands. He’s laughing. Actually laughing into the rain like it’s some kind of miracle. He skids to a stop right in front of you, breathlessly dramatic.

“Ah—entschuldigung!” Excuse me! he says with a grin, wiping water from his eyelashes. “I didn’t mean to splash you. The rain pulled me in.”

You blink. “The rain… pulled you in?”

He nods, utterly serious. “Rain magic. It’s stronger in winter.”

His eyes—sharp, shimmering magenta—look at you with a kind of intrigue that feels too direct, too intense for a stranger. You step back slightly. He steps forward slightly.

“I’m Alexis Ness,” he says, bowing with needless flair. “Midfielder. Magician. Part-time chaos victim.”

He holds a hand to his chest. “At your service.”

“…Midfielder?” you echo, awkward.

He brightens. “Fußball! Soccer! You know—”

“I don’t watch soccer.”

He freezes. Then his face lights up with something almost… relieved. “Wirklich? Truly? You don’t?”

You shake your head. He sighs happily, pushing wet hair back. “That’s refreshing.”

Why refreshing? You’re too caught in confusion to ask. Instead, you offer him your umbrella because he looks ridiculous—coat dripping, boots soaking, hair plastered to his forehead. “You’re going to catch a cold.”

“Impossible,” he insists. “Kaiser says I’m like a cockroach—you can’t kill me.”

You choke on a laugh. “Who’s Kaiser?”

The way his smile softens is bizarrely romantic. “No one you need to worry about.”

Before you can question it, he lifts his coat over your head, shielding you from the rain while stepping into the downpour himself. “May I walk you home?” he asks gently.

Not pushy. Not demanding. Just sincere. You should say no. Instead—

“…Okay.” Something shifts—subtle, barely there—in the air between you. Magic, he might call it. Whatever it is, it begins here.

Ness is… unusual. He appears everywhere, and he doesn’t even pretend it’s coincidence. The next time you see him, he’s waiting near your tram stop, leaning against a lamp post like he’s posing for some rain-soaked magazine cover. “You came,” he says softly, as if you had arranged it.

“You’re the one stalking me.”

He gasps. “Stalking? No, no. Following. Very different.”

“It’s not that different.”

He laughs, a little too delighted. “But you’re smiling—so I’ll take that as encouragement.”

You roll your eyes. But the truth is— You are smiling. And it feels strange. Rusty. Like rediscovering a muscle you forgot existed. He talks to you about everything and nothing. About the way magic hides in places people don’t look. About how winter sky makes him feel like he can fly. About how loneliness is easier when you pretend it’s a spell rather than a curse. You notice the way he looks at you—not like a stranger. Not even like a friend.mMore like someone who’s searching for proof you’re real. There’s a fragile hunger in his eyes sometimes, a flicker of desperation behind the cheerful mask. You understand it more than you’d like to admit.

He drops little German phrases everywhere, like sparks meant to ignite something in the air: “Du siehst müde aus…” you look tired....

“Darf ich dich begleiten?” May I walk with you?

“Mit dir fühlt sich die Welt leichter an…” with you, the world feels lighter.

“Du bist… besonders.” You are... Special.

You try not to think about what “besonders” means. But you do. Too often.

It’s raining again when it happens. He walks you home under your shared umbrella, his shoulder pressed lightly against yours, the warmth of him strangely comforting. When you reach your door, he stops. His breathing stutters. His fingers tremble. “Will you go out with me?” No hesitation. No buildup. Just raw honesty.

Your heart lurches—but you shake your head. “I’m not ready. For… anything like that.”

For a moment, something hollow flashes through his eyes. Then he smiles—soft, accepting. “No magic works the first time,” he whispers.

A week later, he finds you again—this time holding a small slice of sachertorte. “It’s my favorite,” he says, cheeks tinted pink. “I wanted you to try it.”

You taste it. It’s rich. Warm. Sweet enough to soften the edges of your day.

He watches you like your reaction is the answer to a question he’s been scared to ask. Then—quietly: “Will you go out with me?”

Your heart squeezes painfully. “I can’t.”

His smile doesn’t crumble. But something in his posture does. “I’ll wait,” he murmurs. “Magic takes patience.”

The third time, you find him sitting alone on a bench, head bowed, arms wrapped around himself like he’s holding broken pieces in place. “Ness?”

He looks up—eyes puffy, magenta irises trembling. “Oh,” he laughs weakly. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“What happened?”

“Kaiser said,” he whispers, voice cracking, “that I’m being childish. That I should stop chasing someone who keeps rejecting me.”

Your breath catches. “That’s not fair.”

“But he’s right, isn’t he?” Ness lifts a hand to his face. “Maybe I’m too much. Too intense.” He swallows hard. “Too… me.”

Something in your chest fractures. He looks at you—raw, vulnerable. “Even if I’m too much… will you go on one date with me? One chance. One moment where I can prove magic is real.” His hands tremble. Your heart breaks open. “…Okay.”

He stills. Then— “W-Wirklich?” Really?

When you nod, he bursts into messy tears, hiding his face in his sleeves. “Meine Güte… My god... you said yes… I can’t—oh God—don’t look at me—” You do look. And you think he’s the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen.

He takes you to a winter market. Lights glow like captured stars. Children laugh. Street musicians play soft, warm melodies under the darkening sky. Ness walks beside you, close enough that your hands brush with every step. He doesn’t take your hand—not yet. He’s too scared. Instead, he looks at you like the world is suddenly worth believing in. He buys roasted almonds and holds them out shyly. He drapes his scarf over your shoulders when you shiver. He wins you a plush momonga from a carnival booth and presents it like a trophy. “Behold,” he whispers dramatically, “your magical companion.” You laugh—and the sound makes his breath hitch. But the moment shifts when a familiar voice cuts through the winter air.

“Ness,” Kaiser sighs, strolling toward you. “I leave you alone for one day and you run off to… what is this? Courtship?” Ness goes stiff. Painfully stiff. “Kaiser,” he mutters. “Please don’t.” Kaiser smirks at you—evaluating, amused. “Oh. This is her?”

Ness steps half a step in front of you. Jealousy, protective, immediate. “Kaiser. Enough.” Kaiser chuckles. “Relax, Ness. I’m not stealing your little crush.” Your face burns. Ness’s does too.

The moment Kaiser vanishes back into the market, Ness exhales shakily. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “He’s… a lot.” “You’re shaking.” He flushes. “I get nervous when someone tries to take what I—” He stops himself, cheeks burning. “What’s important to me.”

The rest of the date is quieter. Softer. Full of shared glances and fluttering warmth. Then, under the falling snow, he stops walking. “Can I ask you something?” he whispers. You turn to face him. His lashes glisten with snowflakes. His breath clouds the air. His expression is terrified and hopeful in equal measure. “Will you be my girlfriend?”

Your heart thunders. He looks fragile. Breakable. Like your answer might crack him open. “I know you’re scared,” he adds quickly. “I know you’re not ready for big feelings. But I don’t want you to say yes out of guilt. You can say no. I’ll stay anyway.” You look into his magenta eyes. Lonely. Lovely. Longing. And you know. You know he’s the first person in a long time who makes you feel anything at all.

“…Yes,” you whisper. Ness goes completely still. Then— He crumbles into your arms. “Danke… danke…” Thank you... thank you... His voice is muffled in your shoulder, trembling. “You’re real… you’re mine… this isn’t a dream—right?” You hold him tightly. “It’s real.” He sobs softly, breaths warm against your neck.

And you realize: This lonely boy just found something he never thought he’d have. Love.

Ness loves with everything he is. When you wake up tired, he strokes your hair and murmurs, “Du arme Maus… you poor thing… come here.” When you're quiet, he studies your expression like deciphering sacred text. When you smile, he lights up like sunrise breaking through winter clouds.

You don’t notice danger. But he does. Someone flirts with you? He slides closer, fingers brushing yours. Kaiser leans too close? Ness gently shifts you behind him. “Genug, Kaiser,” he warns softly. Enough. Kaiser laughs. “Oh, you’re jealous.” Ness goes pink. “No. I’m… preventing unnecessary interference.” (He is very jealous.)

Little things break him open: A long hug. Your hand on his cheek. Your fingers brushing his magenta-tinted hair. Whenever you touch him, his breath stutters, and he whispers things like:

“Bleib bei mir…” stay with me…

“You make everything warmer.”

“I didn’t know the world could feel like this.”

He sends you voice notes in the morning. He walks you everywhere—even when it’s out of his way. He asks gently, “Can I hold your hand?” every time, even after you’ve given him permission a hundred times.

The first time you’re distant—just tired, not upset—he panics quietly. “Did I—did I do something?”His voice is tight, scared. “Please tell me. I can fix it. I’ll do anything.” You reassure him. He melts into your arms like he’s been holding his breath for an hour. “I can’t lose you,” he whispers into your shoulder. “I can’t go back to how things were before. Please don’t disappear.” And you hold him until he steadies.

Ness kisses like he’s afraid you’ll vanish mid-touch. Soft, slow, reverent. His hands tremble against your cheeks. His lashes flutter. He breathes your name like it’s a prayer. “You’re magic,” he whispers against your lips. “My magic.”

He notices your favorite snacks. He warms your hands in his sleeves. He memorizes your expressions. He listens—even to the things you don’t say aloud. And when you’re sad? He sits beside you quietly. Not filling the silence—just sharing it. “Let me hold it with you,” he murmurs. “Your sadness. Your loneliness. I won’t run.” And he never does.

Over time, you realize that Ness didn’t fall for you gently. He fell completely. You are the first person who ever heard his loneliness and didn’t call it childish. The first person who didn’t mock him for believing in invisible things. The first person who looked at him—not Kaiser, not the team—him. And he treats you like a miracle he isn’t sure he deserves. One night, as you’re lying together on your couch, his head on your lap, eyes half-closed, he whispers something you will never forget: “Before you… the world had no color.” He looks up at you through heavy lashes, voice soft. “You gave me my magic back.” He lifts your hand to his lips, kissing your fingers gently, almost worshipfully. “I’ll spend my whole life trying to give it back to you… if you let me.” Your heart cracks. And mends. And cracks again. Because this boy—this strange, bright, lonely boy—loves you with an intensity that should be impossible. And yet— It feels like home.

For a long time, loving Alexis Ness felt like standing in snowfall—quiet, soft, luminous. Even his intensity felt warm, like a blanket wrapped too tightly but still comforting. But seasons change. Schedules tighten. Reality whispers louder than magic. And you start to feel it first. Not because you loved him less. But because the world refused to pause for the two of you.

He tries so hard. Too hard. He Video calls from hotel rooms at midnight, eyes red with exhaustion but still smiling. “Nur kurz… just for a moment— I want to see you.” He sends voice notes before practice. He sends pictures of his meals. He sends little recordings of things that remind him of you: a winter sky, a song playing in the gym, a momonga plush in a store. But the more effort he gives, the more guilt grows in your chest. Because sometimes you’re busy. Sometimes you’re tired. Sometimes you can’t answer right away. And every missed call starts feeling like a crack in your foundation. “Ness, I’m sorry—”, “No, nein, it’s okay,” he insists, smiling softly. But his eyes tell a different story.

Your schedules only get tighter. His trainings stretch longer. Away games turn into months without breathing the same air. Every time he leaves, he clings harder. “Hold me a little longer,” he murmurs in bed, arms wrapped tightly around you. “Just… a little more. Bitte.” Please. And every time he comes back, he cries just from seeing you open the door. But even he can feel it. The more he tightens his hold, the more the space between you grows.

It happens on a cold evening. Your kitchen is dim, lit only by the soft overhead lamp. Ness stands by the counter, hair messy from training, duffel bag still by the door—he walked in minutes ago. He looks exhausted. Too exhausted to pretend. You watch him open the fridge mechanically, like his mind isn’t fully in his body. “Ness,” you say quietly. “We need to talk.”

He stops. His hand grips the fridge handle too tightly. After a moment, he closes it and turns around. “Okay.” His voice is barely above a whisper. You take a breath. The air feels sharp in your lungs. “I don’t think we can keep doing this.” He blinks. Then again. Slower. Like he didn’t understand the shape of your words. “...What?” You swallow hard. “It hurts too much. Waiting all the time. Missing each other. Trying to fit into hours that don’t exist.” His lips part. His breath catches. Color drains from his face. “No,” he says immediately.

“No—no, no—don’t—don’t say that.”,

“Ness—”

He takes a step forward. Then another. Until he’s standing right in front of you, shaking. “We can fix it,” he says desperately.

“We always fix things. I’ll adjust. I’ll sleep less. I’ll— I can try harder—”, “Alexis—”,

“I can make time. I swear. I’ll call more. I’ll—just—please—don’t—”

His voice breaks mid-sentence, cracking open something raw. “Ness,” you whisper, tears burning your eyes. “I don’t want to keep hurting each other.” He shakes his head violently. “No. No. Please—don’t do this. Don’t end us.” He grabs your hands—gently at first, then tighter when he feels you tremble. “I can’t lose you,” he pleads. His magenta eyes glisten, shimmering with frantic tears. “You’re— you’re everything. You’re my magic. Don’t take that away.” You choke on a sob. He presses his forehead to yours, crying openly now—silent tears falling onto your cheeks. “I’ll change,” he whispers. “I’ll be better. I’ll be whatever you need. Just don’t say goodbye.” His hands cup your face, trembling. His lips brush yours—not a kiss, just proximity, aching and desperate. “We can make it work,” he breathes. “Bitte…” please… Your heart shatters. “I love you,” you whisper. “But we’re breaking each other.” He flinches like you slapped him. “No,” he chokes out. “No, not you. Never you. Don’t—don’t say love past tense.” Your tears spill over. “We’re hurting, Ness,” you sob. “I don’t want us to resent each other.” He squeezes his eyes shut, shoulders shaking uncontrollably. “But I’d rather hurt than lose you.” That sentence nearly destroys you. You cradle his face, burying your forehead against his. “I don’t want to leave you,” you whisper. “It’s killing me.” He lets out a sound—broken, breathless. “Then stay.” You can’t. He knows. You know. And the moment the truth settles in the cold kitchen air, he collapses against you—arms tight, head buried in your shoulder, sobbing with a rawness that splits you in half. “I’ll never stop loving you,” he cries. “Even if you walk away.” You hold him as both your hearts break, tears soaking into each other’s skin. For a long time, there is no breath. No movement. No world. Just the two of you clinging to something that can’t survive anymore. When you finally let go— It feels like tearing out your own ribs. He steps back. Just one step. It’s enough to feel the cold spill between you. “Okay,” he whispers. His voice is empty. Hollow. “If this is what you want…I’ll let you go.” But he’s lying. You can see it in his eyes. He’d never let go if you didn’t pull away first. And so you do.

The silence is the loudest thing you’ve ever heard. Your apartment feels wrong—every corner still carrying his laughter, his tears, the warmth of his arms around you. The scarf he left behind still smells like him. Ness does not message you. Not once. Not because he’s healed—no. You know him. You know he’s doing it because if he reaches out, he won’t survive the answer.

Kaiser messages you once. “He’s not okay.” That’s all. No teasing. No smugness. Just honesty. You type back. “Neither am I.” You don’t send it.

Every night, you lie awake imagining him in some unfamiliar hotel bed, eyes red from crying, hands gripping the sheets like he’s trying not to call you. Every morning you wonder if he’s eating. Sleeping. Breathing. Part of you wants to reach out. To ask if he’s okay. To say you’re sorry. But you don’t. Because you’re afraid that seeing his name light up your phone will undo everything. That you’ll run back. That he’ll let you. That you’ll break each other again.

And so the week passes. Seven days. Seven nights. Seven moments where you almost dial his number. On the seventh night, you open your window. The winter air stings. The city lights blur. And for the first time since he held you in the kitchen— You let yourself cry for real.

Somewhere far away, in a hotel room that feels too big and too cold— Alexis Ness sits on the floor, back against the door, head in his hands. He whispers into the silence: “Bitte… Please… just one more miracle.” But there is only quiet. Only distance. Only heartbreak. The magic hasn’t disappeared.

It begins with a test. A small, stupid piece of plastic—white and shaking in your hand as if it knows it’s about to break your life open all over again. The bathroom feels too small. Too bright. Too silent. Your knees hit the floor before you even realize you’re falling. And then— You cry. Not delicate tears. Not cinematic softness. But the kind of sobbing that punches the air out of your lungs. The kind that burns through your ribs. The kind that feels like you’re grieving and living at the same time. A month after losing him—A month after forcing yourself to walk away— A month after believing silence was mercy— You find out you’re pregnant. Your tears drip down your chin and splash onto the test still clutched in your shaking fingers. You whisper the only thing you can manage: “…No, no… not now… not like this…”

But life does not care about timing. Life does not care about heartbreak. Life does not care about the promises you didn’t keep. Life chose this anyway. A miracle, Ness would have said. His eyes would have brightened— His hands would have trembled with joy— He would have knelt in front of you, pressed his face to your belly, whispered “wirklich?” Really? against your skin— But he wasn’t here. So you cried again.

You tell no one. Every day for the next month you wake up with the same war inside your chest: Tell him. Don’t tell him. Tell him. Don’t tell him. But the thought of calling him— Of hearing his voice crack— Of him begging, pleading, promising, breaking— You can’t do that to him. You can’t do it to yourself either. He was already drowning in grief from losing you. You were already drowning in guilt. Adding this? Adding fatherhood to that heartbreak? No. You tell yourself it’s mercy. You tell yourself it’s protection. You tell yourself you’re strong enough to do it alone. Even though the truth is. You choose silence because you’re afraid.And because you still love him. Too much.

So you leave Munich. A new city. A small apartment. A new job that doesn’t ask questions. You disappear.

Your pregnancy is not gentle. Morning sickness tackles you from weeks 6–14. You throw up until your ribs ache. You cry quietly into your pillow when the nausea won’t stop. Sometimes, when the pain gets bad, you find yourself whispering— “Ness… please…” But he isn’t there to hear it. By the time your belly begins to show, you feel like you’re living in two worlds: The world where you’re strong enough to do this alone. And the world where you miss him so deeply you feel physically sick. Your nights are the worst. You lie in bed, hand over your bump, and imagine his soft voice:

“Schau… look. Our little miracle.”

“Bleib bei mir…” stay with me…

“Don’t cry, Liebling… you’re safe.”

You imagine how he would have held you through every cramp. How he would have talked to your belly in German. How he would have cried when he felt the first kick. You imagine him promising: “I’ll be a good father. I swear. I’ll give them all the magic I never had.” And you cry every single time.

The sterile room smells like disinfectant. The lights hum softly overhead. Your hands are cold as gel touches your belly. When the doctor points at the screen, your breath stops. “Would you like to know the sex?” You hesitate. Then nod. “It’s a girl.” You inhale sharply. A girl. A daughter. His daughter. You bite your lip— hard— trying not to cry again. You whisper softly: “…Hello, little one.”

And for the first time, something warm flickers inside you. Hope. Fear. Love. All tangled. You walk out of the clinic clutching the ultrasound photo to your chest, tears slipping silently down your cheeks. That night, you place the picture on your bedside table and whisper: “I wish he knew. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” You tuck your face into your pillow and let yourself fall apart all over again.

You spend months searching baby name lists, trying to distance yourself from the past. But every name feels wrong. Too common. Too soft. Too cold. One night, lying awake with your heavy belly, a name flickers in your mind like a spark: Anja.

German. Beautiful. Soft. And suddenly you’re crying quietly because of course— Of course her name had to be German. Of course her name had to carry a piece of him, even if he never knew. “Anja…” You whisper it into your empty room. Into the dark. Into your loneliness. “It’s perfect.”

You give birth on a stormy night. Rain thrashes against the hospital windows. Thunder rumbles above the building. The world feels too loud and too soft all at once. Labor is long. Painful. Lonely. No hand to squeeze. No voice in your ear. No one saying “just breathe… I’m here.” You scream into the void. You sob through contractions. You cling to the bed rails like they’re the only things keeping you alive. And then— A cry. High, new, trembling. Your daughter’s first sounds. The nurse places her onto your chest and your breath stops entirely. She is— Perfect.

And also— Ness. So painfully, unmistakably him. Her eyes, still foggy but undeniably magenta. Her hair soft brown with magenta-tipped ends, like she borrowed the color straight from his heart. Your throat closes. “Oh my God,” you whisper, voice breaking. “You look like him…” The nurse smiles. “She looks like her father, then?” You stare at your daughter. “Y-Yes. Very much.” You cannot explain why you’re crying so hard. Why holding her feels like losing Ness all over again. Why every breath hurts and heals at the same time. You kiss your daughter’s forehead, tears falling onto her tiny skin. “Welcome to the world, Anja.”

You raise her alone. You learn to function on two hours of sleep. You learn how to soothe her colic. You learn how to hold her small body against yours and sway until she stops crying. And sometimes— When she sleeps on your chest just right— You swear you feel Ness’s presence in the room. A phantom. A memory. A piece of him living in her heartbeat.

People comment on her eyes all the time. “What a beautiful color!”, “So unique!”, “Oh my, she looks like she’s glowing—” And every time, you force yourself to smile. “Thank you.” But deep down, your heart squeezes so painfully it almost stops. Her eyes are magenta. Just like his.

You never teach her any German. Not a single word. You don’t trust yourself to speak it without breaking. But sometimes, when she babbles nonsense in her baby voice, the rhythm of the sounds reminds you of his accent. His warmth. His laugh. His soft “bitte” please and “schatz.” treasure Sometimes you cry silently while washing dishes. Sometimes you sit on the couch holding her tiny hands, whispering: “He would’ve adored you. He would’ve spoiled you. He would’ve cried more than you do.” You never take photos of yourself crying, but if you did, there would be hundreds.

Anja turns three in late winter. She is small and bright and curious. Her hair curls softly at the ends—light brown dipped into magenta like watercolor. Her eyes are glowing gems, warm and searching. She doesn’t know many words yet— learning slower than most toddlers. Just short babbles, soft phrases, little pieces of sound.

“Mama.”

“Up.”

“More.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Mine.”

Simple things. You never teach her German. You can’t. It hurts too much. You’re scared she’ll say something that sounds too much like him. But sometimes— When she sits on the floor with her plush toys, humming— When she looks at you with that soft, lonely expression— When her tiny hand pats your cheek when you cry— You feel him. Like he’s still here. Like he never left. Like the magic he believed in didn’t die after all.

One evening, you’re sitting on the couch, exhausted, watching her stack wooden blocks. She looks up at you suddenly. Her magenta eyes sparkle. “Mama,” she says gently, pointing at herself. “Anya.”,

“Yes, baby. You’re Anja.”

She smiles. Then she tilts her head— a gesture so eerily like Ness that your breath catches— and babbles something soft and melodic. It sounds almost like: “Za-va… maa… chuh…” Nonsense. Or maybe. Magic. You feel your throat tighten. Your eyes burn. You whisper into the quiet room: “You have his eyes…his colors…his gentleness…” Your voice cracks. “And you have the miracle he never got to see.” You pull her onto your lap. She settles against your chest, humming softly. You smell her hair— and faintly, impossibly— you almost smell him. You close your eyes. Three years without him.

Three years without his voice. Three years without his magic. But the miracle lives in your arms. Her little fingers curl into your shirt. “Mama,” she whispers again. And you realize— This is the part he should have been there for. This is the moment he should have held. This is the child he should have known. The heartbreak swells again, sharp and crushing. You kiss the top of Anja’s head, holding her tighter. Softly, painfully, you whisper: “I’m so sorry, Ness…You deserved to know her.” And the room falls quiet. The only sound is your daughter’s soft breathing. A miracle born from a love you never truly lost.

Munich feels different after all these years. You came only for the weekend — your parents wanted to see you, your friend insisted on coffee, and Anja… well, Anja just wanted to run around because sitting still has never been her strength. She’s three years old. Small. Soft. Curious. Magenta eyes shimmering like the child version of the boy you once loved. And you, stupidly, forgot how unpredictable toddlers are.

You’re standing outside a café, sipping warm tea, speaking to an old friend about harmless things — work, weather, how much you've changed since leaving Munich. Anja holds your hand. Then lets go. Then holds it. Then lets go again. You glance away for only one second — ONE — because your friend asks something. Your eyes shift up. You nod. You answer. And when you look down again— She’s gone. Your heart stops. “Anja?” You spin, scanning the sidewalk. Nothing. No small figure. No magenta eyes. No brown hair with magenta tips. “Anja?!” Your voice cracks. Your friend jumps to help, checking behind the benches, the corner, the tiny playground. But Anja is nowhere. Panic rises like a scream under your skin. You start running. Calling her name. Tears blur your vision. She would have wandered. She always does. But here? Here? Near the training grounds— near HIM — no, no, no— Your lungs burn. “Please,” you whisper to no one, voice breaking. “Please be safe. Please—please—” Your heart feels like it’s tearing apart.

The Bastard München training field is full of shouting and the thud of cleats against turf. Kaiser wipes sweat from his forehead, annoyed at the world as usual. Then he stops mid-motion. “Oi,” he calls out loudly, pointing. “Why is there a tiny thing running straight across the field? Did someone order one?” Ness glances over, uninterested. “Kaiser, seriously?” But the second he looks— His breath hitches. A little girl is waddling determinedly across the grass, arms slightly out for balance, hair bouncing with each step. Light brown. Soft. And at the ends— Magenta. Not dyed. Natural. Undeniable. Ness freezes. He blinks. Once. Twice. Again. Something tugs in his chest. “…She looks familiar,” he murmurs under his breath. Kaiser snorts. “What, because she has pretty eyes? Relax, she’s not yours.”

Ness rolls his eyes — but he’s already walking toward her, instincts pulling him forward. The little girl sees him approaching and stops. Her cheeks are rosy from the cold. She hugs a tiny plush bunny to her chest. And her eyes — her glowing, impossible, magenta eyes — look straight into his. His breath stutters. No. No, it can’t be. But something… something deep in him aches. He kneels slowly so he isn’t towering over her. “Hey, kleine Maus…” he says gently. “Are you lost?” She blinks. Then smiles shyly — the same shy curve he used to make when he was nervous. He feels something sharp twist in his chest. “What’s your name?” he asks softly. She doesn’t speak. Just tilts her head, curious. “Ah… not many words yet?” he murmurs kindly. “That’s okay.”

Kaiser calls from behind him: “Careful, Ness. Maybe she bites.” Ness ignores him, fully focused on the child in front of him. She reaches out — slow, hesitant — and touches his cheek with tiny fingers. He stops breathing. Her touch is warm. Soft. Full of innocent trust. And he feels something explode through his chest so suddenly he almost gasps. His eyes sting. His throat tightens. Why does this feel like— Why does she feel like— Why is his heart— She giggles when he makes a surprised expression, and he swears something inside him melts right into the grass. “You’re… adorable,” he whispers, voice betraying him. “Way too adorable…” She looks up at him again. Eyes shining.

And it hits him like a punch: She has his eyes. His exact color. His brightness. His softness. But he shakes his head violently. No. He’s imagining it. Coincidence. Just coincidence. Children don’t just show up looking like him. Right? Right…? He swallows. “Let’s find your mama,” he says gently, standing with her tiny hand holding his index finger. “Come on, kleine Zauberin…” little sorceress. The nickname slips out before he can stop it. Her eyes brighten, as if she recognizes the word magic instinctively. Ness’s heart hurts. Actually hurts.

You’re running. Breathless. Sobbing. Calling her name through the panic tearing your lungs apart. And then— in the distance— you see someone walking out of the field. Tall. Lean. Light brown hair with magenta tips. Head turned slightly as he listens to a small voice. Your heartbeat stops. No. No, please— In his hand, a tiny hand. Her hand. “Anja!” you cry, voice breaking. She squeals happily. “Mama!” And she breaks away from Ness’s hold, running toward you. You drop to your knees, scooping her into your arms, sobbing into her hair. “Oh God—oh God—Anja—baby— I’m here—Mama’s here—” Your friend catches up behind you, shaking with relief. You’re crying so hard you don’t even notice who’s standing in front of you— not at first. Not until he whispers your name. Soft. Shaken. Disbelieving.

“…You.” You freeze. Slowly, you lift your head. Alexis Ness stands a few feet away. His eyes — those beautiful, shattered magenta eyes — stare at you like he’s seeing a ghost. His breath stumbles. His hand trembles. And then he looks at Anja. Really looks. His entire world seems to collapse. He steps back once — just one step — as if hit by something huge and invisible. Kaiser’s voice fades behind him. The players blur away. The field dissolves. He sees only you. And the little girl in your arms. Her eyes. Her hair. Her face. Her tiny features shaped from pieces of him he didn’t know you kept. His lips part. No sound comes out. His knees almost buckle.

He whispers — barely audible: “…Meine… Gott…” My… God… He stares. Stares like he’s drowning. Stares like he’s dreaming. Then— Very quietly. Very broken. Very afraid. “Is she…?” He can’t finish the sentence. He can’t breathe. You hold Anja tighter, tears still fresh on your cheeks. And Ness’s voice cracks in half when he tries again: “…Is she… mine?” The field goes silent. The world goes silent. Only your heartbeat and his remain. Your throat closes. Your eyes burn. You try to speak— But emotion chokes the words. And Anja — sweet little Anja — peers curiously at him… Then reaches out toward him with a tiny hand. A hand that looks just like his, but smaller. Ness’s face crumples. He makes a sound — quiet, strangled, devastating — like his soul is splitting open. Tears gather fast in his eyes. And he whispers, voice breaking apart completely: “…Mein Kind…?” My Child…?

Alexis Ness stands in front of you, trembling so violently you worry his knees might give out. His magenta eyes—your daughter’s eyes—are wide, glassy, terrified. Anja is reaching toward him with her tiny hand. You can’t breathe. You can barely think. All you hear is the pounding in your chest and the quiet little sound Ness made— the sound of a man watching his world come back and fall apart in the same second. He swallows and says again: “…Mein Kind?” My child? His voice cracks down the middle. You clutch Anja closer, your heart racing. Your lips open—but nothing comes out. He takes a single step forward. Just one. But it feels like the ground trembles beneath you. “Is she mine?” he asks again, voice hoarse and breaking. “Please… please tell me she’s mine.” You look down at Anja. Her magenta eyes blink up at you, curious, innocent. Then you look at him. And your world collapses. “…Yes.” Your voice shakes. “She’s yours.” For a moment, absolutely nothing moves.

Then—Ness inhales sharply, like you stabbed air back into his lungs. His hand covers his mouth. His shoulders shake once—twice—and then the tears come. Not soft tears. Not quiet ones. His knees hit the grass. A sob rips out of him so suddenly, so violently, it knocks the breath out of you. He presses his trembling hands into the turf as if he needs the earth to anchor him. “Oh— mein Gott—” my God. Another sob. “I missed— I missed all of it— she— she’s—” He can’t even finish sentences. You stand frozen, tears burning behind your eyes.

Ness wipes nothing—lets the tears fall freely. “She’s mine…” he whispers again, voice crumbling. “She looks like me. She— she has my— eyes— oh God—” He looks up at you then. And what you see there destroys you. Not anger. Not rage. Devastation. Hurt. Betrayal. And love. So much love you almost fall under the weight of it. His lips part. “Why?” The word is barely sound. Just breath. Just pain. “Why didn’t you tell me?” You look away. But he shakes his head, tears still falling, voice breaking harder: “Tell me, bitte please— why didn’t you tell me I had a daughter?!” Your throat closes. Your arms tighten around Anja instinctively, protectively, even though he’s never been a danger and never will be. “Alexis…” Your voice cracks immediately. He steps closer on his knees, desperation pouring from him. “Did you think— I wouldn’t want her?” His chest rises, falls, too fast. “Did you think I wouldn’t love her? Did you think I wouldn't fight for her? For you?”,

“I was scared!” The words burst out of you, raw and shaking. You can’t hold them in anymore. All the guilt, loneliness, fear—it breaks out in sobs. You clutch Anja tighter. “I was scared, Alexis!” He stops breathing. You keep going—voice trembling, spilling everything you’ve buried for years. “You were already hurting. Our breakup destroyed you. I destroyed you.” You wipe tears you can’t stop. “And then I found out I was pregnant— and I couldn’t tell you. You were traveling. Exhausted. Falling apart. I thought… I thought telling you would shatter you.”,

“It did, it does—” he whispers. His voice is so quiet it hurts. “You not telling me— shatteres me.” You sob again. “I didn’t want to ruin your career. I didn’t want to make you choose between your dream and a child. I didn’t want to drag you back into my life just because I was terrified.” He shakes his head violently. “You thought being a father would ruin me?” His voice cracks. “Liebling… it would have saved me.” Your chest breaks. “I didn’t know how to tell you,” you whisper. “Every day I almost called. Every night. Every time she kicked. Every doctor visit. I wanted to say ‘Alexis, you’re going to be a father.’ But I— I couldn’t— I was so afraid—”,

“And I was so in love with you,” he breathes. “So in love I would’ve dropped everything. For both of you.” Silence. Painful, heavy, shaking silence.

Then—A tiny sound. “Ma…ma?” Anja squirms in your arms, reaching toward Ness again—her little hand opening and closing. “Mama…” Then, soft and unsure, she points at him. “Man…” Ness breaks all over again. Not with sobs—but with something softer. Fragile. Heart-wrenching. He lifts a trembling hand. “Can I…” He swallows. His voice drops to a whisper. “Can I hold her?” Your breath catches. You look at Anja. She looks at him. Her arms lift again, reaching. You nod. Ness releases a breath that trembles all the way to his bones. You lower her carefully.

His hands shake so badly you have to help guide her into his arms. The moment her weight settles against his chest—He collapses. Not physically. Emotionally. He holds her like she’s made of crystal. Like she’s a miracle that might disappear. Like she’s the first real thing he’s touched in years. His tears fall into her hair. “Oh… oh mein Engel…” My angel… He presses his cheek to the top of her head. “You’re real…” His voice is a broken whisper. “You’re real… you’re really mine…”

Anja blinks up at him, curious, tiny eyebrows scrunched. She reaches up with her little hand… And touches his cheek. The same cheek she touched before he knew her. His breath shatters. He closes his eyes, tears streaming. “You have my eyes,” he whispers. “And my hair… mein Gott…” She giggles. He laughs too—a strangled, watery laugh that’s half sob, half joy. “I missed everything,” he whispers, voice trembling. Her first steps. Her first laugh. Her first words. “I missed everything…” Your chest burns. You take a shaky step closer. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m so, so sorry.”

He looks at you over her tiny shoulder. There is heartbreak in his eyes. Pain. Confusion. But also—Love. So much love it drowns everything else. “We’ll talk,” he whispers. “When I can breathe again.” You nod through tears. He looks back down at Anja. His daughter. His miracle. He kisses her forehead gently, reverently. “Hello, Anja,” he whispers through tears. “I’m your Papa.” And the world, for just one fragile moment—stops hurting.

Ness holds Anja like he’s holding the last piece of sunlight left in the world. Her little body fits against his chest perfectly, her tiny hands gripping the collar of his training jacket, her magenta eyes—his eyes—staring curiously at the man who looks like her mirror. You stand a few feet away, heart breaking and rebuilding with every breath. He finally manages to inhale, shaky and uneven. “I won’t lose her again,” he whispers. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… true. A vow spoken from the deepest, most fragile part of him. His arm trembles as he adjusts his hold on her, as if letting go for even one second would kill him.,“I won’t,” he repeats, voice cracking. “I refuse. I lost her once without knowing. I’m not losing her again—not for anything, not for anyone.”

Tears start again, sliding down his face slowly, silently. He rocks her a little without realizing it. A natural sway. Instinctive. Gentle. She hums—soft, content—and rests her head on his shoulder. And that… destroys him. A soft, hopeless sound escapes his throat. “Oh, mein kleiner Zauberer…” My little sorcerer… The nickname slips out like breath. She lifts her head a little, confused by the language, blinking at him. Her tiny eyebrows scrunch. He lets out a weak, watery laugh. “She doesn’t understand German…” he says softly, voice tiny. You shake your head.“I never taught her any.” He doesn’t blame you. But the hurt shows anyway. A flicker—small but sharp. He presses his lips to her temple. “It’s okay,” he whispers to her. “Papa will teach you.” She stares up at him like he just spoke the moon into existence. But she say anything. Not any word at all. The silence of that hits him hard. You see it. He feels it. His shoulders tighten for one second before he exhales shakily and hides it in her hair. “It’s okay,” he tells himself as much as her. “She doesn’t know me yet.” He looks up at you.,And now that he’s steadier—now that he’s holding her—the fury, fear, and heartbreak behind his eyes finally burns through. “How long have you lived away from Munich?” Your chest tightens. “A few years.”, “And you came back just for today?” he questions. You nod. “We’re only here for the weekend.” He goes absolutely still. Shock slams into his expression—jaw stiffening, eyebrows lifting, a tremor running through his whole body. Then heartbreak fractures through him so visibly it hurts to watch.

“Just the weekend?” he repeats, voice soft, wounded. You swallow, nodding again. He closes his eyes—once, deeply—as if steadying his soul. When he opens them, they’re bright with tears.,“I’ll come to you.” You blink. “What—?”,

“I’ll come to your city.” His voice is hoarse but certain. “I don’t care where it is. I don’t care how far. I don’t care if it takes a train, a flight, if I have to run— I will come to you.”, “Alexis—”,

“No.” He holds your gaze, still rocking Anja gently. “I lost three years. I’m not losing any more.” The emotion in his voice nearly knocks you back. But the problem is—You’re scared. Of hurting him again. Of getting pulled back in. Of repeating the story you broke once. So you choose distance. “It isn’t that simple,” you whisper. He freezes. Something fragile in him cracks. A tiny, trembling break in his expression. “…You still don’t want me close.” The pain in his voice is so raw you almost reach for him. Almost. You don’t. And that hurts him more than any breakup could have. He holds Anja a little tighter—not painfully, just protectively—as if she’s the only thing keeping him upright. “Please,” he whispers, stepping closer. “Please don’t shut me out. Not again.” Your breath shakes. “Alexis… I’m not shutting you out. I’m just… scared.” His lips tremble. “So am I.” He swallows. “But I’m still here.” Your eyes sting.

Anja stirs in his arms, looking up at him again. She pokes his cheek gently, fascinated. He laughs—soft, broken, beautiful. “You like my face, hmm?” he whispers. She giggles. He melts. Then she babbles something incoherent. “Da—ba—muh—aa—” He freezes, hope surging wildly, desperately—But she isn’t naming him. Just noise. Baby sounds. His eyes dim. Not dull. Just aching. “It’s okay,” he whispers again, kissing her hair. “She’ll learn.” He looks at you. He’s trying to be strong. Trying not to crumble. Trying not to beg. But his voice cracks anyway. “Let me be in her life.” A step closer. “Please. Even if you can’t love me again— let me love her.” Your heart caves. You nod—slowly, carefully. His knees almost buckle in relief. And for the first time since the breakup three years ago—Hope flickers in his eyes. Small. Fragile. But real.

Ness wipes his cheeks quickly with the back of his hand as he stands, holding Anja close. She clings to his jacket like she’s known him her entire life. He turns toward the cluster of teammates who witnessed the scene. Some look confused. Some shocked. Some… entertained. Kaiser stands with crossed arms, face unreadable. Ness lifts his chin slightly — a fragile attempt at composure. “I’m done for today.” Reactions are immediate. “Eh? Already?”, “Ness, what happened?”, “Who’s the kid?”, “Man brought a mini-me?”, “Those eyes—bro, she looks like she copied your face.” Ness shoots them a wounded glare, cheeks pink — not from embarrassment but from emotion he can’t hide. He doesn’t answer the questions. Doesn’t explain. Doesn’t justify. He holds Anja a little closer, hand cupping her tiny back.

“She’s my daughter,” he finally says softly. Silence. Actual silence. And as the shock spreads like a wave, Ness walks away — steady, quiet, determined. No drama. No theatrics. He just walks straight back to you. And still—You don’t move. You stand frozen on the sidewalk outside the field, heart pounding, hands shaking. You don’t even know how to look at him. At her in his arms. At the family that should’ve been years ago. He stops in front of you, breath fogging softly in the cool air. “I’ll… walk you home,” he murmurs. Then quickly, nervously, “If that’s okay.” You hesitate. His shoulders tense like he’s bracing for a knife. Then—“…Okay.” His relief is small. Quiet. Barely a breath. But real. He nods once and steps beside you.

The three of you walk slowly toward the small hotel where you’re staying. You keep your arms wrapped around yourself; he keeps both arms wrapped around Anja as if someone might try to take her away. She has her head tucked on his shoulder, one hand curled into the collar of his jacket, the other clutching her plush bunny. She is already comfortable. Already trusting. Already attached. Ness keeps glancing at her every few seconds — terrified and overjoyed all at once — as if checking she isn’t a dream. He whispers things to her under his breath: “Alles gut, mein kleiner Zauberer…” It’s alright, my little sorcerer…

“Du bist so tapfer…” You’re so brave…

“Ich hab dich…” I’ve got you…

She doesn’t understand a word, but she hums softly each time he speaks, her fingers relaxing against his shirt. Your throat tightens painfully. He looks forward again, swallowing. “You don’t have to stay far from me,” he whispers. “You can walk closer.” You hesitate. He looks down. “…Okay. I understand.” But the understanding hurts him. It shows in the way his voice sinks, in the way his shoulder stiffens. You move closer anyway — not touching, not brushing — just less far. He exhales, shaky but grateful.

You stop in front of your temporary hotel. The sign glows weakly, the entrance small and modest. Ness shifts Anja carefully, brushing a soft curl from her forehead. “Here we are,” you say quietly. He nods. “Thank you for walking us.”,

“It wasn’t—” His voice cracks. “—a problem. It was… perfect.” You look away. He steps forward, gently offering Anja to you. But before you can take her—She grips his jacket tighter. And refuses. She shakes her head, burying her face into the crook of his neck. “Anja,” you murmur, reaching again. She only clings harder. “No.” A tiny whisper. Her soft baby voice muffled in his shoulder. Ness freezes. Completely. You can see the moment his heart breaks and heals at the same time. He smiles — a trembling, helpless, emotional smile — his eyes wet. “She… wants to stay with me.”,

“She’s just confused,” you try. But even you don’t believe it. He shakes his head slowly. “No. She knows me.” He presses his cheek to her hair. “She knows me.” Anja lifts her head, tiny hands cupping his cheeks as if she’s trying to understand why he sounds sad. He laughs a little, breathless, shaking. Then whispers to her: “Es ist okay, kleiner Zauberer… ich bleibe…” It’s okay, little sorcerer… I’m staying. She still doesn’t understand the words. But she understands him. Her small hands slide around his neck again. Tight. Trusting. Refusing to let go. You feel something deep inside you fracture. A quiet, painful realization: She recognizes him. Not from memory. Not from faces you’ve shown her. From something deeper. Something made before birth. Something magic. Ness looks at you, tears on his lashes. “Let me stay,” he whispers. Your breath catches. “Just for a moment longer. Please. And in that fragile, broken, miraculous moment— You nod. Slowly. Softly. He exhales like he’s been drowning for years. And holds his daughter closer.

You hesitate when he asks to stay. But Anja is still clinging to him. Arms around his neck, cheek pressed against his shoulder, breathing softly like he’s her safe place. It’s impossible to peel her away without breaking all three of you. So you nod. And Ness looks like you gave him oxygen. He follows you into the hotel room, footsteps quiet, holding Anja securely. The door closes behind him with a soft click. And suddenly—The room is too small. Too quiet. Too full of him. You keep your eyes on Anja. You don’t dare meet his.

You expected him to sit stiffly in a chair. To keep distance. To pretend to be “just a visitor.” But he doesn’t. He follows Anja like gravity. She waddles around the hotel room, exploring the corners, pointing at lamps, blankets, the sliding closet door. Every time she turns, Ness follows. Soft steps. Gentle hands hovering near her back. Eyes watching her every movement like he’s trying to memorize her entire existence. At one point, she grabs his finger. Just like earlier. He freezes—momentarily stunned—then smiles with tears threatening. “Do you like holding my hand?” he whispers. She nods. He chokes a little.

She shows him her bunny plush. Ness kneels on the carpet, letting her shove the toy into his face. “Oh— hallo,” he says seriously to the bunny. “Are you her bodyguard?” Anja giggles. Ness pretends to gasp. “Really? You let me be in your circle of trust? I’m honored.” Your heart twists painfully. She plays with his hair. While he’s sitting on the floor, she toddles behind him and touches his magenta-tipped strands. He goes absolutely still. Then—“You like Papa’s hair?” He corrects himself quickly. “—Alexis’ hair?” She hums, fascinated. He laughs softly, brokenly. “She recognizes the color,” he murmurs. “To her… it’s home.” You look away, swallowing a sob. She almost falls. She trips over the blanket. He catches her instantly—hands gentle but firm, drawing her close. “Ganz vorsichtig, Zauberer…” Careful, little sorcerer… She blinks at him, confused. But soothed by the voice. She rests her head on his shoulder again. Ness closes his eyes. And you see it—the way he clings to that tiny moment like it’s holy.

The sun sets. Streetlights glow through thin curtains. Anja rubs her eyes, yawning. You prepare her small travel bed, pulling the blanket up, placing the bunny beside the pillow. Ness stands near the table, frozen, afraid to ask—You break first. “…You can help,” you whisper. His eyes lift slowly. “Really?” You nod. He moves as if he’s approaching a miracle. He kneels by her bed, brushing a curl from her face with the softest touch you’ve ever seen from him. “Gute Nacht, mein kleiner Zauberer…” Good night, my little sorcerer… Her little hand reaches for him. He kisses her forehead. And for a moment—you see the father he would’ve been from the start. The father he should’ve had the chance to be. Your chest aches. He stands only when she’s fully asleep. He turns to you.

You step away reflexively. He notices. Of course he notices.

His face falls—just a small twitch, barely visible—but enough to tear at your heart. He takes a slow step forward. “…Can we talk?” His voice is low. Careful. Desperate in a way he’s trying to hide. You retreat half a step. Ness stops. His breathing stumbles. “Please,” he whispers. “You don’t have to run from me.”,

“I’m not running.”,

“You are.” He tries to smile. It breaks halfway. “You took a step back.” You look down. “I don’t know how to do this,” you admit, voice trembling. “I don’t know how to be near you without— without hurting both of us again.” He flinches. Then takes another small step toward you. “Then hurt me,” he whispers. “I don’t care.” Your eyes widen. His voice cracks completely. “I’ll take every wound again if it means I can stand close to you. If it means I can see her. If it means I can hear you say my name again.” You clutch the back of a chair, breath shaking. “Alexis…”,

“You think I’m afraid of pain?” He laughs—but it’s sad, broken. “I lived three years without the family I didn't know I had. That’s pain.” You swallow hard. He steps close enough that you feel his breath—but not touching. He respects your distance even when it kills him. “Just talk to me,” he pleads softly. “Look at me. Let me understand what you’re thinking. Don’t shut me out. Please.” You shake your head. “It’s too much.”, “I’m too much,” he corrects bitterly. “I always have been.” Your eyes burn. “No,” you whisper. “That’s not what I meant.”,

“Then why won’t you let me closer?” He’s shaking. Actually shaking. Tears cling to his lashes. “I can’t lose you again,” he whispers. “I can’t lose her. Let me try… please.” His voice drops to a broken plea. “Tell me what to do. Tell me how close I’m allowed. Tell me how slow to go. I’ll do anything. Just… don’t push me away.” Your lips part—But no words come out. And the silence breaks him. Just a little. Enough to show in his eyes. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch you. He just stands there, voice trembling: “I’m not asking you to love me back.” He swallows hard. “Not yet. Not today.” Another breath. Soft. Barely holding together. “I’m just asking you not to disappear before I get the chance to try.”

His voice is barely a whisper. “Please talk to me.” You swallow hard. Your heart is pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it. He takes another small step—close enough that the warmth of his body reaches you. But he still doesn’t touch. His restraint hurts almost more than if he had. You look down, fingers twisting nervously. “I don’t know how to do this,” you murmur. “I don’t know how to face you without feeling like I’m drowning.” His breath catches. “You think I don’t feel that too?” His voice trembles. “I’ve been drowning for years without you.” Your chest tightens painfully. “I didn’t tell you about her—” He flinches, tears jumping to his lashes again. “—because I didn’t want to break you”,

“And you did,” he whispers. “But I still want you.” You close your eyes. He shakes his head. “I’m not angry,” he says softly. “I was… but not at you. At myself. For losing you. For letting you walk away. For not being enough to keep you then.” Your eyes fly open. “Alexis— you were always enough.” He looks at you sharply, hope flickering in his broken expression. “Then why did you leave me alone with nothing?” His voice cracks. “I would’ve held you through everything. I would’ve changed my entire world for you. You know that.” You look away, tears burning. “I was scared.”,

“So was I,” he says hoarsely. “But I still wanted you.” You take a shaking breath.

“I didn’t know if loving you was enough.”

“I didn’t know if you’d choose me over soccer.”

“I didn’t know if you would stay.”

“I would have,” he says immediately.

“I would have chosen you. I would have chosen her. Every time.”

You shake your head. “You can’t say that now.”

“I can,” he argues softly. “Because I’ve never stopped loving you.”

Your heart stops. You stare at him—truly stare. His cheeks are flushed, eyes glassy, lips parted, chest rising and falling too fast. He looks destroyed. Loved. Lost. And hopeful. Hopelessly hopeful. “I didn’t stop,” he repeats, almost choking on it. “Not once. Not in three years. Not even when I thought you hated me.” Your eyes fill with tears. You look away—too overwhelmed, too scared, too full of emotion to speak. “Hey,” he whispers, gently tilting his head, trying to catch your gaze. “Look at me… please.” You don’t. Your throat tightens, your eyes blur, and suddenly—Something breaks. A sob rips out of you so abruptly you slap a hand over your mouth. Ness startles—eyes widening, breath hitching. Then—He moves. Slowly at first, testing your reaction.

Then without hesitation when he sees you crumpling. He steps forward—And you are in his arms before you can protest. His embrace is tight—desperate—shaking. His hands cradle your back and your waist, pulling you flush against his chest as if the fear inside him has escaped and taken over. You gasp at the sudden contact. He buries his face in your neck. His breath stutters. You feel his tears on your skin. “Let me hold you,” he whispers, voice trembling uncontrollably. “Please… I need to hold you. Don’t pull away. Not now. Not tonight.” You don’t. Because you can’t. Your sobs break loose completely, your body shaking against his. You feel small. Raw. Unraveled. “Hush… hush…” he whispers, rocking you slightly without thinking. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. I’m right here.” Your fists clutch his jacket, knuckles white. He tightens the embrace—strong arms wrapping around you like a shield. “Don’t apologize,” he whispers into your hair. “Don’t explain. Just… let me be here.” His voice is shattered. “I’ve wanted to hold you for three years.” You cry harder, collapsing into him. He clings tighter, as if terrified you’ll slip through his fingers.

At one point, his knees nearly give out and he sinks to the floor with you still in his arms, pulling you into his lap. You end up sitting between his legs, your forehead on his shoulder, his arms completely surrounding you. He doesn’t let go. He can’t. His tears fall into your hair. “You can hate me,” he whispers. “You can leave again. You can keep your distance. I’ll take anything. But let me have this moment. Please.” You shake your head, gripping him tighter. “I don’t hate you,” you choke out. “I never did.” He breathes out—sharp, broken. His hand slides up to cup the back of your head, holding you to him like you’re the last piece he has left. “Please…” His voice is barely a whisper now. “Please don’t disappear again.” You sob into his neck. He sobs into your hair. And for the first time in three long, painful years—You break together. And he clings to you like you’re the last miracle he’ll ever get.

You don’t remember falling asleep. One moment you were crying—collapsed in the arms of the only man who has ever truly broken you,and the only man who ever truly loved you—and the next… Nothing. Just heavy, exhausted darkness that swallowed three years of fear in one breath. Your cheek rests against his shoulder. Your body curled against his. Your fingers tangled in his jacket like you’re afraid of letting go. But you don’t know any of this. Because you’re finally asleep—not the brittle sleep you’ve known for years, but something deeper, warmer, safer. For the first time in three years… Someone is holding you. And Ness refuses to blink.

He stays perfectly still, back pressed to the wall, legs half-numb, arms aching—But he won’t move. Not an inch. His chest rises in small, uneven breaths. His eyes trace your sleeping face with reverence so raw it’s almost painful. The tears dried on his cheeks long ago, but the emotion never left his eyes. He whispers things you can’t hear: “Du bist hier…” You’re here… “You’re real… please stay real…” Every few minutes his gaze flickers to Anja—small, peaceful, asleep with her bunny tucked under her chin. He stares at her so long his eyes grow wet again. “That’s my daughter,” he breathes to himself, voice shaking. “My little Zauberer… and you’re here… both of you…” He still can’t believe it. He touches your hair gently—barely brushing it, terrified he’ll wake you—then immediately pulls his hand back, chest trembling. He whispers: “I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you. But please… let me try.”

Your breathing stays soft, steady, warm against his neck. He forces himself to exhale, to gather the courage to shift. He slides one arm under your knees, the other around your back, lifting you slowly, carefully, as if you’re made of thin glass. Your head lolls against his shoulder. He freezes. But you don’t wake. He stands, cradling you gently, his heart pounding so hard he feels dizzy. He carries you across the dim hotel room—the soft hum of streetlights outside, the hush of the heater, Anja’s tiny breaths filling the quiet. He sets you down on the bed. He should leave. He knows he should. He planned to. He planned to lay you down, cover you with the blanket, check on Anja one more time… and then disappear into the hallway before morning could make things harder. He stands there for a moment, staring at you. Your eyelashes still wet. Your lips parted slightly as you breathe. Your hand limp on the blanket. He whispers: “I’m glad you slept. You’ve carried too much alone.” His voice wavers. “I’ll go now. I’ll let you rest. I don’t want to push. I don’t want to scare you away.”

He turns away. Planning on walking to the door. And then—fabric tugs. A soft, tiny tug. He freezes. Looks down. Your fingers—even in your sleep—are clutching the sleeve of his shirt. As if your body refuses to let him go. As if your unconscious heart grabbed him before your waking brain could stop it. His breath stutters. He turns slowly, gently, terrified of waking you. Your hand tightens. Just slightly. Like instinct. Like memory. Like three years of longing you never said aloud. Ness’s knees almost give out. He kneels beside the bed, your fingers still clutching him. His voice breaks into a whisper made of awe and pain. “You… don’t want me to leave.”

Not a question. A realization. He lifts your hand with trembling fingers, presses it to his cheek, and lets out a quiet, shaking laugh. “I thought I was imagining everything today,” he whispers. “But even in your sleep… you’re holding on to me.” He leans his forehead to the edge of the mattress, eyes stinging. “I won’t go. Not if you need me. Not if she needs me. Not if your heart doesn’t want to let go.” He slides his hand under yours, intertwining your fingers. Then, so quietly he almost doesn’t breathe the words— “I’ve missed you every night. Every morning. Every heartbeat.” He shifts carefully, easing himself onto the floor beside you—not touching, not crowding, just close enough that your hand remains in his. He watches you for a long time. Then he whispers into the darkness: “I’ll stay. As long as you let me.”

© an1m320v3r

[You Have My Eyes Pt.2 — Alexis Ness]

•Masterlist•

[mikaiswolfsbane]

And then they were three (alt ending)

𓏲ּ𝄢ft. itoshi sae

𓏲ּ𝄢a/n: ‎. I sincerely apologize for the jumpscare in the original, yes I will be paying for everyone's therapy also lowkey blaming @hyuckiedotcom for bullying me✌️

‎"stop ignoring me, it's annoyin-" sae immediately gets the words in his mouth striped away as he saw you on your knees cleaning the spilled food, headphones attached to your ears.

‎turning to throw the paper towels in the bin your soul almost leaves your body as you find Sae staring into your face with concern. You let out a small yelp, pulling off your headphones, "Sae! you can't sneak up on people like that."

‎‎"you scared me, I thought you fell or something. what are you doing on the floor?"

‎‎"I made the most delectable salad just for it to fall." you grumble throwing the lettuce into bin, a paper towel wiping the salad dressing off the floor. Sae gently pulls you up and on to your feet taking the paper towel from your hands and cleaning it himself.

‎‎"you act like I'm a lazy bum, sae."

‎‎"if the shoe fits. You could probably burn water if I left you alone for long enough." snorting you move to the pot hoping to salvage the remnants your rice but clearly that was futile.

‎ ·✶·

‎‎groggily rousing from your sleep you get up checking the time. 3:30 am and some random person was making it their personal mission to make a noise, that someone being Sae.

‎‎The light from the vacant room illuminated the rather dark hall way, sae hunched over as he assembles a bassinet.

‎ "lukewarm hamer." he mutters as he tests the stability of bassinet, the frame work collapsing at the slightest weight placed on it.

‎‎"I know Bob the builder is rolling in his grave, right now." you snickering walking over to him, a small frown etched on his face. "Why do you have a hammer when this clearly calls for a screwdriver?"

‎"translation issues"

‎‎"You're telling me you interpreted the instructions wrong in you own language?" you laugh even harder.

‎"you're not very helpful."

‎‎as your laughing stops you playfully pull Sae's cheek finding his baby stress admirable. "let's try assembling it together, this time correctly."

‎‎you grab a bunch of pillows setting them next to sae, before plopping on them and rubbing your baby bump. Opening the overly folded paper you skim over the instructions, "yeah you weren't kidding, what the fuck am I reading. oh the first step is to grab that long one and this one and screw them together"

‎‎"Are you sure?"

‎"nope! im just going based of the pictures and vibes." which only makes Sae's lips twitch in amusement as he completes your instructions.

‎‎After days of slaving away 2 hours your bassinet was finally complete, during those two hours you got up multiple times to either use the bathroom or make some snacks while sae was building.

‎‎it was now time to test the stability of your handiwork by putting a bunch of miscellaneous objects to get to the average weight of a baby.

‎‎"Try it now" sae instructs handing you one more item to complete your totally full proof, scientifically sound experiment.

‎"3... 2... 1" you toss the book in, "It works! I guess we're not that bad at building thin-" the structure creaks before breaking apart onto even more pieces than you began with.

‎‎"Good job, you broke it"

‎‎"we probably should have gotten a readymade one from the start."

‎ ·✶·

‎‎Itoshi Sae almost passed out from utter shock and relief, his hand painful from all the squeezing you did. Never in his many years of being alive had he heard you curse as much as you did. If he wasn't so worried about how risky it was to give birth maybe he would have laughed.

‎‎But he is now officially a father, the sound of a baby crying was awfully surreal, his hand gently caressing your face as you slept beside your daughter. Her eyes were a perfect mix of your eye colours but with the iconic itoshi bottom lashes. Her hair being pink like his, and her small nose being just like yours.

‎‎She is absolutely adorable.

‎ ·✶·

‎‎"She did not get that from me" sae mutters as he cuts the crusts from the sandwiches.

‎"oh really? then why she going around school calling everything around her tepid"

‎‎"she probably got that from Rin"

‎‎"Don't blame this on Rin, he visits like every two months" you deadpan, your daughter watching bluey unphased by the conversation.

‎‎You carried her for 9 months just for her to be a carbon copy of her father, both having the same disinterested expression, both calling everything tepid, she even unironically took a liking to soccer.

‎‎If there was one thing you promoted while raising your daughter was the fact that she would have to choose her own sport to do. You didn't want her picking soccer because her dad was a popular midfielder but rather out of genuine interest and love for the sport.

‎‎However sae was absolutely ecstatic when she picked up soccer as a extracurricular activities at school. Now the three of you were off to a parent and kids sport day. You had already packed everything, an umbrella, sunscreen, water and with sae on food duty you with you being ready to leave.

‎‎The minute he was done with food, your daughter was already enthusiastically dragging the two of you out of the house and towards the car.

‎‎The moment your daughter and Sae stepped onto the field all eyes were on the fact that Itoshi Sae would bother himself with attending unimportant school events.

‎Most of the times you would be the one to pick your daughter up, so whenever your daughter would say her father was The Itoshi Sae she was often met with "that's amazing sweetie, is he your favourite soccer player."

‎‎"no, he's my father" your daughter says blankly, another undeniable resemblance to her father with her bluntness.

‎‎"I'm sure he is" her teacher her would say.

‎‎The highlight of your day was watching Sae and your daughter compete in a father-daughter soccer game. It truly was comical seeing the stoic midfielder professional pass a ball to a six year old, their passes awfully coordinated and in harmony.

‎‎The other teams were definitely not winning with this duo on the field.

©Mikaiswolfsbane 2026

tags: @2versionsofmeinthisworldd @voidst4r @iluvitoshis @fyyirou @eyaxxxx @jjustone-chance

[teeth-farie]

Kinktober Day 3: Impact Play

Mammon/GN Reader

☞. . . This one turned out a little longer, oops!

The brothers seemed to listen to punishment better when it was dealt by your hands. It started with when you snapped at them, raising your voice and putting them in their place purely with shock. Whatever they did wrong, they fixed it that day. Mammon…Mammon was a little different. He’d much rather deal with a punishment from you than Lucifer, though that didn’t keep him from his usual shenanigans. Eventually, stern talking to’s weren’t cutting it.

“Mammon, I have reason to believe you’ve been selling my things.” You haven’t even raised your voice, and Mammon resembles a kicked puppy. “Lectures haven’t been cutting it, I’m going to start taking physical measures with you.” The low lights of your bedroom highlight that pang of fear almost perfectly. It’s gone before it came. “Yeah, yeah, go ahead and tie me up already.”

You rummage around your wooden chest, retrieving something sleek and dark. “Actually, no. I’m going to punish you the way humans do.” You sit down on the edge of your bed, setting the paddle within your reach. Mammon swallows thickly, heat blooming on his face. “I-I mean, y-you,”

“Over my knees, this is your punishment.”

Mammon slowly shuffles over, averting his eyes every time he finds you still staring at him. “S’ weird,” he grumbles, yet he bends over your lap nonetheless, crossing his arms in front of himself. Just the feeling of your hand on his back makes him jump. You guide your hand down his tailbone, resting it on his rear. “I won’t start with the paddle just yet.”

Oddly enough, Mammon finds himself a little disappointed. That disappointment fades with the first hit, the fabric of his jeans cushioning the full force of your hand. He hides his face in his arms, biting down on his bottom lip. You hit again, dissatisfied with the lack of sting. “I’m pulling your pants down.”

“Wha-!”

You reach under him, where his crotch presses against your thighs and flick open his button. It takes a few tugs to get his tight jeans off, yet Mammon makes no effort to get away from you. You pull his jeans down under his ass, exposing black underwear. You decide to keep his underwear on him, if only to spare him from a complete strip of dignity.

The next spank is far more satisfying, a resounding slap! echoing from your palm. Mammon yelps, legs kicking out behind him. “That’s one,” you reel your hand back and hit again, slapping under his thighs. It elicits a high whimper this time, muffled by his arms. “Two,” he gasps out without your prompting. You raise a brow, a smirk spreading on your lips. “That’s right, go ahead and keep counting.” You punctuate your sentences with a few more spanks, focusing on his right cheek. “Ow! Three! F-four, five!”

“Tell me what you did wrong, why you’re here.”

Mammon swallows, panting in the crevice of his elbows, his hot breath fanning back at him. “I-I took your stuff.” He keens as you grab the lean fat of his ass, squeezing it between your fingers before spanking finally again. “Sixxx,” he practically drools, cursing himself at the interested twitch his dick gives. “Hm, you don’t seem too sorry,” you sigh with mock disappointment.

The shuffling clues Mammon in that you’ve grabbed the paddle, a surge of fear and excitement pooling in his chest.

You rest the paddle on his ass, the resin cool against his heated skin. It’s about the same color as his underwear, a smooth voided black. Mammon braces himself, lurching forward when the paddle comes down on his ass with a thwack!

“Fucking—seven!”

Thwack! Smack!

“E-eight, nine! M’sorry, I’m sorry!”

You put as much force into the next hit as you can, an actual moan slipping from his lips. “Ten,” he croaks, and it’s abundantly clear how hard he is, straining in his underwear. Mammon’s shaking violently, stomach clenching with his wracking body. He feels like he’s on fire, and you didn’t even smack his bare flesh. “You did good, you took your punishment like a good boy.” Your praise coats his senses like a balm, and Mammon feels like he’s floating. “M’good?” He slurs, feeling loose and unscrewed from his body when you begin guiding him back up.

He slumps against your lap again, clinging onto your shoulders. “Yes, you are! Punishment’s over, it’s all done.” You lean forward and press a kiss to his forehead.

Mammon melts, lips parting in a whimper. “How about we take care of this now?” You ask gently, pressing a fingertip to the swollen tip of his cock. He groans, weakly rutting his hips up. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he stutters, his head thumping onto your shoulder. You keep rubbing him through his underwear, tapping the little puddle of sticky fluid building at its peak. Mammon’s breath is hot against your neck, his drool collecting in the crook of your shoulder.

You begin pumping him to the best of your ability, yet he doesn’t seem to mind the restricted mobility. His toes curl in his boots, fingers squeezing tighter into the meat of your arms. “S’good, so good,” his stomach tightens, a warmth pooling below his navel. “Go ahead and come for me,” you whisper in his ear, gently rubbing underneath the head.

He keens, his entire body tending as liquid warmth spreads under your hands. “Ah-hah, hnn,” Mammon falls limp, arms loosely curled around you. “I d-didn’t, I didn’t sell it,” he begins, his voice cloudy and hoarse.

“Sell what?”

“Your stuff. I just took it, yaknow? S’ in my room—I missed ya.” You gently rub over his back, a curl to your lips as a low purr rumbles from his chest. “That’s ok, you can keep it.” You know full well of his horde, you’re just wondering about the day he’ll crack and try to take you too.

[enchantedstarfish]

I love this so much cause he's literally a masochist, evidenced in game.

[mymommykinkismywholepersonality]

<Spending the night with Mammon and praising him and stuff, Mammons's like "O-of course you would wanna please the great Mammon!" And reader just agrees and keeps praising him while making a complete mess of him.

I'm depressed and horni so I needed something soft to cope :,)>

"Can't believe Beel did that, what a knuckle head." Mammon grumbled, unfolding the futon next to his bed.

"The house took some damage but I'm mostly relieved no one got hurt." you sigh falling back on Mammon's bed and inhaling deeply. To your dismay it didn't smell as strongly of him as you would've liked, frowning you realizing he must have changed the sheets.

"No one got hurt? Ha! That won't be the case if you keep me up all night with that foghorn snorin' of yours!" Even with his back facing you, you could hear the smile in his voice. Honestly he was a loud mouth and greedy (duh) but he had a heart of gold. At least for those he cared about, and you were lucky enough to become one of those special people.

"Hey golden boy, can you come here for a minute?" Sitting up you patted the spot next to you. Confused but without protest he granted your request asking you what was wrong. "I'm really grateful you let me stay with you Mammon, and giving me your bed none the less."

"Well I wouldn't make you stay with Beel after the incident, you must've been pretty scared. But don't sweat it human, you can pay me back later. Man you're so lucky that THE Great Mammon is so generous!" You felt your heart squeeze at his signature laugh. Feeling mesmerized you didn't realize you were leaning in so close until you saw his face explode with color.

"W-w-what are you doing human!" Contradicting his panicked face he didn't pull away giving you that boost of confidence needed to take action.

Without hesitating you pushed him back onto the bed before straddling him. "I know Luci chewed you out pretty good but you didn't deserve that, I wanna make it up to you and thank you. Do you want me to?" Slowly you began to grind right above his crotch.

"I-um. I- Uhh" The color slowly started to spread down his neck and to his ears while he desperately tried to think of answer.

Of course you'd seen him flustered before but this was a new level! It kinda suited him so you decided to tease. "You what? You gotta use your words if you want me to keep going baby boy." You leaned down and crossed your arms on his chest, noses now almost touching. The poor boy still seemed to be in a daze so you tugged gently at one of his strand of hair before rolling it between your fingers.

"I mean o-of course! I'm the great Mammon after all! S-so I suppose if y-ou're short on grimm I can accept this payment instead."

You moved your hand from his hair to his cheek softly caressing it. "What a merciful debtor, I'll give you my best, someone as great as you deserves that and nothing less. Let me take care of you." You pecked his lips giggling at how he tried to sit up to get more, gently stopping him.

Sliding his jacket down his arms,you made sure to kiss the top of each hand as they slipped out of it. Next you untucked his shirt and ran your hands gently under the hem before slowly sliding it up his torso. As you scrunched up the fabric you leaned down to trail kisses over his stomach, not leaving an inch without feeling the warmth of your mouth. By the time you got to his nipples he was shifting underneath you grinding his bulge into you and letting out breathy whines but you let him, moving your attention to his brown nubs.

As you spent more time on the sensitive spots his whines became more audible but he didn't complain, instead he arched his back so you could have more access. After you made sure each nipple would be sore the next day you continued sliding his shirt upwards, holding his arms over his head a bit like cuffs. Keeping his arms in that position you started leaving marks along his neck, on his collar bones, and even one on his jaw.

Grinding back down on him you moved your mouth next to his ear. "You're such a pretty boy for me Mammon, being so good. Letting me take care of you." After leaving a mark under his ear you continued your praise, "You're such a good boy, aren't you my good boy?" Finally looking at his face, you felt your core throb. His cheeks were flushed, lips swollen but open letting out short pants, shining from drool, and his eyes were glossed over and wide looking at you with so much warmth and affection. "Mammon," you repeated finally getting his attention. "Aren't you my good boy?"

He quickly nodded in agreement. "Yes! Yes! 'M your good boy! Please, please, keep going! I'll be good still! Promise!" He sounded so beautiful out of breath and desperate for you to continue. Fortunately the urge to spoil him was stronger than the one to tease him.

"Relax darling, I'm gonna take care of you, don't worry your pretty little head ok? Just be patient for me." You said reassuring him, removing some hair that had begun sticking to his forehead. He nodded again, eyes still trained on your every movement.

Sliding your hands up, slipping the shirt off completely, you held his wrist and began to kiss them. You reveled in the needy moans he let out as you harshly sucked on one. Finally you kissed each of his palms, tickling the skin. "Good litte boy, making so many pretty sounds. Can you help me and get these out of the way bubs?" After you unbuttoned his jeans, Mammon quickly raised his hips trying desperately to be rid of his woven confinements. Being just as eager you decided to pull his underwear and pants down in one go, revealing his hardened cock.

"L-like what you see?" Still panting he managed a prideful tone avoiding eye contact. You couldn't help but admire your handy work; skin flushed, covered in marks and sweat, pupils dilated, dick dripping, and hands pulling the sheets off the mattress.

"Baby boy, you're so gorgeous. So pretty, so good. You really are. I'm gonna make you feel even better now, ok?" Quickly removing your clothes, except your bra, you positioned yourself over his erection. As impatient as you were he never answered so you took his chin in one hand, other gripping his shoulder. "Love, I need you to use your words."

"I-I want this! Please Y/n! I need this! N-need you!" He pleaded grabbing your wrist with both hands. Smirking into the kiss you'd pulled him into, you finally sank down onto his length. The warm contrast to the cool air making him moan loudly; with that, you entered his mouth, completely dominating the kiss. Even though you were as close as you could possibly get, Mammon still moaned for more in-between kisses. It was really hot, he wanted "more" and yet your tongues were intertwined, chests rubbing against each other, his cock inside you, these thoughts prompted you to slowly move your hips, grinding on him.

"Mammon, you're such a special boy. You're so strong, and clever." You panted out between pulling yourself up and down his cock. Halting your movements and clenching around his length you grabbed his face, forcing eye contact. Even if you hadn't been clenching around him before the way he was looking at you would have changed that. Resting your forehead on his you gazed into his teary eyes. "You're my precious boy, don't forget that ok?" The poor boy was so overwhelmed he just nodded before bringing you into another kiss. It was long but more slow and romantic, by the time you separated your hands were tangled in his white locks. Still catching your breath you began moving up and down again with his hands gripped onto your sides.

You didn't know how long it'd been, caught up in the feeling of his dick, and hands, and gaze. But before you knew it he was warning you of his oncoming orgasm. "G-gonna cum y/n! You're ma-aking me c-cum!" His tongue fell out after he managed to pull himself together enough to be coherent.

"Aw, good b-boy. Good job telling me. S-so, proud of you." After you finished your sentence Mammon let out a whiney moan, nails digging into your hips as he thrusted up into you. The sight of him coming undone brought your orgasm and as you were finishing he was still riding out his high.

After his grip had loosened on you, you pulled yourself off him. But as soon as you were off him, he was on your lap, legs and arms wrapped around you while he nestled his face into your neck. You were still in a daze so you both sat in silence listening to the other catch their breath. "Th-thank you Y/n." He whispered quietly into your neck.

Fingers finding their way to his hair you gently start to massage his scalp. "No thanks necessary Mammon, it was my pleasure. And besides, I meant everything I said, you really are so amazing. I'm glad I can be here with you." Slowly you two fell asleep, futon forgotten.

<Poor futon :,) Anyways hope you liked it, remember I'm not a writer. Have a good day/night <3>

[thedevilsdom]

dom gn reader x mammon, lots of praise, massaging, hand jobs

--

You love him, so it's easy to tell when your baby boy is so stressed. Mammon doesn't like to make a big deal of it just because it's not what's expected of him. He's supposed to be jokey and fun, irresponsible and selfish all the time. But you see through that, and you know just how much stress he's under. It isn't as though Lucifer doesn't hold him to the same high standards as everyone else.

So you decided that you should do something to assist him. Just a bit.

A perfectly innocent massage.

"Just take your shirt off and lay down on your stomach," You say, gesturing to the bed and showing him the bottle of lotion you have in your hand. "Let me take care of you?"

Mammon had a hard day today. With grades coming in, Lucifer obviously wasn't very happy with his performance and, well... Mammon doesn't ever tell you the details about what happens after that. He mostly just complains vaguely, but you get the gist.

He doesn't question it as he pulls his shirt off, giving you a lovely view of his abs and chest before moving onto the bed. You take a seat on the back of his thighs and put some lotion on your hands. Mammon looks over his shoulder at you, watching your every movement intensely.

"You're sure this is just gonna be a normal massage?" He asks.

"I know you've had a rough day," You rub the lotion across your hands, warming it up, "I don't want to tease you, I just want to take care of you a bit."

He relents as your hands begin to work over his shoulders, doing your best to help the tight knots in his back. You're not trained, but you can tell by the sounds he's making that you must be doing something right.

As you massage lower down his back, you feel his skin heating up under your touch. His breath is quicker, too. You know what's going on.

"Does that feel good, baby?" You coo as you press your thumbs down at either side of his spine and he lets out a low groan and nods his head against the pillow. "I love doing this for you, you know."

Your poor baby is so touch starved. He's starved of love and affection, too. Before you came along, you don't know how long it'd been since he was touched in a way he actually desired, in a way that made him feel loved and wanted and cared for. In those ways that you touch him that make him melt and make his eyes fill with tears. You remember your first time with him when he was nearly overwhelmed by the sensation and the feeling of being truly loved.

"Oh, my sweet baby," You hum, leaning down and nuzzling against his neck as your hands continue further down his back. He gasps, trying to smother it into the pillow he's clutching to his face, but you hear it. "This feels nice, doesn't it? I love taking care of you, I love you so much."

As you speak, you finish working on his back and simply run your hands up to his shoulders as you lean back and move off of him.

"Turn over, let me do your front, too."

He tenses up under you.

"D-Do people usually massage the front?" He asks, words muffled by the pillow.

"I dunno, but I want to. Plus I still have some lotion on my hands." You shrug. "I won't if you don't want it but-"

"N-No! I do, uh..." He looked away as he rolls over, hips settling on the bed and torso propped up by his elbows. Your eyes track down his body, from his heated face down his chest and stomach, down to the obvious bulge in his pants.

You don't mention it, you don't even acknowledge it as you start to massage his chest, again working from the top down. Like this, you can really feel his stuttering, rapid breaths as you work.

"You really are so pretty," You say. You spare him, not looking into his eyes as you speak. He gives a little hum just to acknowledge your words while you move down. You don't spend as long as you did on his back, arriving at his hips pretty quickly.

"My love," You hum, one hand resting lightly on the tent in his pants.

"I'm sorry! I'm not used to it a-and you kept-" He starts to stammer out excuses, but you cut him off.

"You want me to take care of you here, too?"

The sentence knocks the wind out of his chest.

"Please." He's breathless. You move again and lean back against the pillows next to him. He knows exactly what to do, it's his favorite position after all.

Mammon sits between your legs, leaning back against your chest. You take the opportunity to kiss his neck and leave sweet little nips there.

"My good boy," You purr. Warm hands stroke down his abdomen, making it to his pants. His belt comes undone with little effort, and you undo the zipper and push his garments down, all while Mammon watches with bated breath.

You free his cock from the confines of his clothing. He tenses up, looking off to the side, embarrassed by how aroused he is.

"You just need someone to take care of you, baby," Your slick hand makes contact with his length and he gasps. "I love taking care of you, it makes me so happy to take care of you."

And he sobs. Just a quiet little noise from his throat.

"Oh, my love," You stroke him slowly, your other hand gently rubbing up and down his front, sometimes lingering to tease his chest. "You're doing so good, just like that."

He's not even doing anything, but the praise makes him even hotter. He whines and just accepts. He takes everything you give him because he's never wanted anything more. One of his hands holds your wrist, the other reaches back to hold the back of your head as you kiss his neck.

"So good," He whimpers, "Love you, ngh-"

"Yeah, darling?" You smile against his skin, he feels it and he keens. "I love you too, I love you so much." Your free hand makes it up to his neck and you just let it rest there. He doesn't have a collar on right now, but he doesn't need one to feel like he's yours. "If I could live off of just loving you, I would."

His voice is just being used for soft pleas and little cries. Declarations of love. Begging. Swearing to devote himself to you forever. Nothing else feels so right on his lips, besides your own of course.

Your thumb strokes over the head of his cock and his hips twitch up. His body tightens over yours, under your hand.

"Does my baby want to cum?" You purr, "I want you to cum for me. Just let yourself feel it." Your hand picks up the pace.

Without your words and without you with him, the slow pace you'd taken up with your hand would have never been enough to get him anywhere, but now he feels so close. The rampant heat inside him keeps dialing up and up, and he wants his release.

Just as he's about to cum, you bite down on his neck and he's gone.

He cries out, desperate and hot as his orgasm crashes through his body, it uses him. Cum stripes his stomach, up to his chest, pooling by his navel, painting his front. His hips buck and thrust up into your attentive touches until he's finally spent and panting on the bed, leaned against your chest.

"So much," You giggle as you look over him, glancing at the mark you left on him and making sure that it's not too bad. "That felt good, didn't it, baby?"

"Mmh," He can hardly think in the aftermath. You find it endearing, how easy it is to fuck him dumb. You take some tissues and start cleaning him up while he catches his breath. Once he's all clean, he curls up against you like a child.

"Thank you for letting me take care of you," You smile, pressing a kiss to the top of his head while he nuzzles into your neck.

"Thank you for taking care of me," He mutters, "I know it's a lot of work."

"It's hardly work if I'm doing it for someone I love."

You love him. You really do.

--

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[demon-fucking-therapist]

Good Boy, Greedy Boy

A/N: Please be gentle with me, it's my first time... writing actual smut for this fandom. A short bit of soft dom reader with Mammon because he deserves to be spoiled a little.

Tags/warnings: afab reader (no pronouns used), dom reader, bottom reader, sub mammon, mammon is greedy and that translates to having a size kink, use of sex toys, flagrant overuse of the term 'good boy', Mammon is a little whiny.

“Mammon, I know you’re greedy, but this is a bit silly,” you tell him gently.

He whines into your neck, where he’s hidden his face. If you thought crowding Mammon against the headboard would stop him from wrapping himself around you, you were sorely mistaken. You straddle him and Mammon makes weak little bucks of his hips, mindful to be obedient and not truly fuck into you. It’s like he somehow wants to force his bottomed out cock further inside.

Or perhaps it was just a consequence of grinding down on the toy inside him, hips twitching whenever it rubbed against his prostate. The toy was the biggest one either of you owned, and yet-

“Need more,” he whines. You tug his soft white hair back until he lifts his face and looks at you. Mammon is truly beautiful after you’ve worked him over for hours, white lashes wet with unshed tears and all tension gone from his face. “Please?”

You sigh, knowing you spoil him too much. But how can you help it? When he’s good for you like this, taking what you give him, asking so nicely…

“How about this,” you begin, and immediately Mammon is hooked on your every word. You smile and kiss his nose. His hips buck hard and sudden and you both gasp at the sudden pleasure. “I’ll buy you an even bigger toy. Maybe something inflatable, so my greedy boy will always have what he needs.”

Mammon flushes with pleasure, opens his mouth-

“After you get me off.”

Mammon isn’t perturbed at all, just smiles mindlessly and rolls his hips with more enthusiasm. “Thank you, thank you, thank you-“

Though his cock inside you feels incredible, filling you to a comfortable stretch, your clit is feeling grossly neglected. With the way Mammon’s fingers are clumsily scrambling against your back, you don’t trust him to play properly either.

“Can you be trusted with a toy, good boy?” you ask him and Mammon lights up, nodding. Good boy always gets him happy, eager to please, and when you press a vibe into his hands and help him switch it on, he leans away from you for the first time tonight.

You both groan when he presses it to where the two of you are connected, the buzzing finally convincing you to ride him properly. Mammon’s face goes right back into your neck, mouthing mindlessly against your skin, but he’s your good boy right now, and he doesn’t let the vibe fall away. It’s pressed into your clit, sometimes slipping in the wetness to find his dick and vibrate through your body.

While you rise and sink down on him again and again, Mammon squirms beneath you. “Gonna cum, gonna cum, gonna cum-"

You wait until your own edge to give him permission, your “go on, good boy,” all he needs to let go. Your own orgasm makes you pull his hair hard - but you know Mammon likes a bit of pain.

You guide Mammon to lie down before you slip him out of you and begin to work the toy out of his ass. He’s boneless but watching you with clear adoration, one shaky hand reaching out to hold yours.

You really do love to spoil him.

[ghoulfriendfangs]

(Crawls into your inbox all decrepit and weak) please…..spare some mammon dumbification…..

Mayday mayday! They need Mammon dumbification, stat!

🂱 Mammon Dumbification HCs 🂱

{top/dom!mc, bottom/sub!Mammom, gn!mc, pact play, dumbification, a little bit of possessive Mams, biting.}

Mammon first brought up the topic over text. It was around midday, when the two of you had the House of Lamentation to yourself. You thought about heading to his room, but decided to just write back from yours.

Mammon: I read this real weird article about pacts.

About people using them to, uh, get creative.

“Creative how?”

Mammon: Well, I saw uh… some people like to use their pact to put their partner in some kinda trace. And they both get off on it!”

“Are you interested in trying it?”

Mammon: Well, a little. I mean, it’s real interesting, ain’t it? I mean, I’d kinda like to see if a human like you could really have that much power over the Great Mammon.

“So you are interested.”

“I’m alone in my room.”

♡ ♢ ♧ ♤

Mammon sits next to you on the bed, facing towards you and nervously licking his lips. He’s flushed red, his hands curled into fists. He’s excited, but a bit nervous. He’s never done anything like this before… and he’s mostly worried he’ll embarrass himself in front of you.

But isn’t the thought of that rather exciting as well?

You trace your hands up his back, starting by his waist where his leathery wings flap around you, up his spine and over all the pretty white marks, all the way to his shoulders. “Relax a bit,” you command, and his shoulders slump. You massage them as a reward, and he moves a bit closer to you.

“Relax… relax your mind, Mammon.” He shivered again, parting his lips in a gasp of relief. His eyes were beginning to get a little cloudy, with pangs of hunger within them.

“Just completely relax, my treasure. Don’t worry, just focus on feeling good.”

His tongue began to peek out, a little drool coming off in drops. He mumbled, something, “s’good,” was the only coherent bit.

♡ ♢ ♧ ♤

You gently push him back onto the bed, and he flops over with a gasp. “Nnngh, ey human! Careful pushin around the… a-actually,” he shivers, “could you do that again?”

“You want me to push you again?” You raise an eyebrow.

“F-feels good, it ah, it’s cause you’re real strong. How’d you get so strong for a… a human, huh? You’re like… a human, but you’re strong.”

You put a stop to his babbling by crawling over him, placing your knees around his waist, and your hands on his shoulders, pushing him deep into the bed.

“Mmmh, see? Strong human. Good, good big strong human. That’s my human.”

“What do you want next, my treasure?”

“Mmmh,” he replied, wiggling around to try and take off his pants.

“Do you want me to touch you?” You coo.

“Nngh, that’s a good idea! S-smart human, you always kn-know just what to do, ha-ahh..”

♡ ♢ ♧ ♤

While under the dumbification spell, Mammon gets much, much more possessive. As the Avatar of Greed, he wants you all the time, he can’t help it. A part of him wants to keep you to himself, but at the same time he knows that isn’t right.

But once he’s under your spell, he can’t help himself but to cling close to you. All he knows is master makes him feel so, super good, so master needs to stay with Mammon.

He pouts and whines every time you take your hands off him, even if it’s only a moment. And if you try to get up? No way, human! He clings tightly to you, wrapping his arms and legs around you.

He might even make like he’s going to bite you, snapping his teeth around the air your hand just occupied, always just a moment short of actually biting you.

You could try to punish him for it, but when you try, he gives you big puppy dog eyes and lets out a genuine damn whine. He even tries to kiss your hand where he nearly bit you. Could you really stay mad at such a sweet little dog?

♡ ♢ ♧ ♤

As you fuck him, Mammon wiggles around even more than usual. His wings flap desperately, and he moans tremendously loudly. He babbles about how good you feel, how he wants to feel every inch inside him.

All of Mammon’s obedience goes out the window in favor of chasing each impulsive whim, every opportunity to grasp a little more of you, to feel you a little deeper, to feel more of your strength. He wraps his arms around you tightly, so tight you might even have to remind him to loosen up so you can thrust faster. He’ll apologize, but he’ll definitely do it again.

Finally, when under the spell, he cums a lot quicker than normal, and you slow down to check in on him… only for him to start wiggling and moaning.

“M-more, fuck me more, I want more, m-make me cum more, more, more!” He whines, grinding himself against you. “S-speed up again, please gimme more. Please, pleaase!”

“Relax, Mammon,” you coo and go back to smacking your hips against his, and he gasps with relief, mumbling both gracious thanks and demands for even more.

You’re going to be trapped with the needy Avatar of Greed for quite the while.

[d3vilishd0m]

holy fuck pussyjob with mammon... edging him while he begs and cries.. im so ill im sorry

ough yesss

--

Mammon's stiff cock is sandwiched between your pussy and his stomach, throbbing and leaking while you rock your hips back and forth. This wasn't about getting either of you to orgasm, you more cared about Mammon in the midst of it.

As it stands, his head is tipped back and his hands viciously grip the sheets, knowing better than to try to guide your hips faster or slower. He knows not to take what he is not given. You have everything here, all the control, the power, and the responsibility to give him only what you feel like he should have. He loves it.

"Baby, come on," He whimpers, "I've- you- it's been so long-!" He can't really figure out his words. You've edged him many times, yes, but it still isn't enough for you to feel like he should cum.

"Yeah?" You lean down, slowing your hips but not stopping. You cup his face gently, "I know it's a lot, darling. But I know you can hold out longer."

"Please!" He yelps.

"Poor baby," You giggle down at him, only making his cock throb harder. "You'll get your orgasm when I decide, okay? So all you can do is take it. Do you understand?"

"Y-Yes, Master."

Mammon's a drooling mess now, and you can't wait to break him down even further.

[fanfic-gallery]

Hey, if you don't mind, could I request the smutty prompt “Is there some space left in that bathtub?” w/ Mammon?

Little massage [NSFW MDNI]

✎ Mammon x Reader

✎  “Is there some space left in that bathtub?” Mammon gulped, his flushed features darkening, marine eyes sliding over every once and awhile to stare at your figure..

✎ Tags: gn! reader, smut

✎ CW: porn with slight plot, dom! reader, sub! mammon, accidental eavesdropping, masturbation, thigh riding, handjob

: ̗̀➛ Manager’s/Author’s note: OHOHOHO~~~ of course I don’t mind! At first hand, the prompt kinda leans into more of Asmo’s side of things but we can make this work! No problem >:D Hope you guys enjoy~ 

It would be an understatement to say Mammon hasn’t been like himself recently. Marine eyes behind shaggy silver locks turning away not daring to look at you, booking for the nearest door whenever you linger around his vicinity. Though, he really just couldn’t help it, not when he’s just been dying to get a taste of you since that day of accidently overhearing you pleasuring yourself in room.

Your breathy moans, soft groans and melodic whines replaying in his head like a broken record. The erotic scent of your arousal spilling over as you continue your assault deep within the confines of your clenched walls. Just imagining them tightening around his dick was enough for him to break, staining his sheets and hand in white, the stickiness seeping onto his skin as he breathed deeply.

It was already proven difficult to be around you, his face flushed to the point of no return, your touch every now and then grazing upon his skin, your gaze stripping him out of everything he has without you even knowing. How can he keep his composure up when your voice is already a reminder to the sweet harmonies you were letting out that day. God, even just thinking about it makes his trousers grip onto his skin tighter.

Maybe he could let off some steam with a hot bath?

Yeah that will probably do the trick!

So there he was, the great Mammon, sitting in a tub full of bubbles. Steam fogging up the mirror, his tan skin shimmering under the light, highlighting his figure and built. As his mind was slowly drowning in the warmth enveloping him, he heard a creek coming from the bathroom door. He tsked, getting up from his laying position, waiting to tell off the person when they face.

“Mammon?” He stumbled, falling head first into the clouds of bubbles. You rushed over only for a hand to quickly rise from the surface, his head popping back up with a splash, throat in a coughing fit once air reaches his lungs again.

“W-wHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?!”

“I was going to use the bath, and I thought no one was in, since, erm.. it was so quiet-”

COULD HAVE AT LEAST *coughs* K-kNOCK FIRST!?”

“Well I’m sorry your majesty-”

You pouted slightly, you really didn’t meant to accidently stumble across a drenched Mammon when deciding to enter the bathroom. You really wanted to have a nice long bath. But the lack of attention from your little demon lately and the want to cleanse yourself off brought upon an idea.

“Is there some space left in that bathtub?” Mammon’s eyes snapped back and widened, marine pupils only ever glancing off once a while to catch glimpses of your sculpted body. His already flushed face darkening with every passing second, his limbs giving up on the strength to hold his body up anymore, ‘causing him to slip back into the water below him.

“If you’re uncomfortable you can just say-”

“n-NO!” He got up again, hacking out the water flooding his organs.

“I- mean, w-whatever..”

“Heh, thanks Mammon~”

You carefully sank into the tub, resting your towel to the side before breathing out a sigh. It wasn’t long before you felt yourself pinned to the walls of the bath, Mammon’s legs intertwined with yours, warm palm finding its ways to your cheek, chest pressed upon his, beating hearts syncing together.

“Mammon-”

The conversation was lead to a silence, only the sloppy sounds of your lips crashing with his echoed the room. His taste was intoxicating, the sweet and bitterness of Demonus staining your taste-buds as you sank into his lips further. Your wandering hands finding support on his shoulders, leaning closer and closer, closing any caps to get more of the addicting taste.

“Hah~.. more..”

He pushed on further. Now his lap found its place on yours, softly grinding himself on your thighs, rocking back and forth like an attention seeking child. Tongue trailed and glided across your exposed flesh, canine teeth chewing at your collar slightly, blue and purple bruises blooming, crescent like markings on full display. You huffed quietly, patting his wet locks as you indulged in the pleasure between your thighs and the pain of the bites.

“Who’s m-my greedy little boy~” Mammon whined louder, tucking his head down and draping it over your shoulder, creeping into the crooks of your drool stained neck. Sharp white nails kneading and gripping at your skin, leaving you in moans, bottom lip being chewed between your jaws.

“aH~ clo-close! Please d-don’t stop~..”

You giggled, reaching below the waters and tugging at his dick, fingers warped and moved, up and down, ripping a gasp from the demon above you. You returned the favor, nibbling and nipping at his flushed skin, bites and marks not as visible yet would still cause a storm in the household if any found out.

“Don’t be too loud now, darling, wouldn’t want them to find you doing such dirty things here~ or maybe you’d want that~”

“Ye-yes~ hah.. want them to k-know you’re mINE!” Mammon nodded almost to the point his head might break and fall off, hips dragging itself across your thighs harder and faster, ripples in the water splashing and spilling over the walls, drenching the floor below.

It wasn’t long till a vibration beneath you, slender hand covering over his mouth, muffling the moan he slipped out, marine eyes rolled over almost hitting the back of his skull. Tiredly, he laid at your shoulder once again, snuggling into your warmth and hugging at your frame.

“Oh, I didn’t say I was done with you yet~”

[demon-fucking-therapist]

Dom Reader, Yandere Brothers - Greed Part 2

The series: You become the master of seven unruly brothers - and they don't want to let you go so easily. How it happened, and what it means for each of them.

Tags/warnings for this section: dom reader (obviously), yandere Mammon (obviously), afab reader (no pronouns used, addressed as 'master'), finger sucking, handjobs, Mammon murders and MC is into it, plot at the beginning porn at the end. Descriptions of gore/a dead body - if you're familiar with the ring of greed in Dante's Inferno, think that. Frankly excessive use of 'good boy'.

Note - reader's genitals are not mentioned in this fic, but they are AFAB for the rest of the series, so keep that in mind.

Minors DNI.

Greed Part 1

-------

Things with Mammon had been... different, after that night.

There are no well-kept secrets in the House of Lamentation. Your weekly visits to Belphegor were proof that even Lucifer couldn't keep things hidden for long. News of you and Mammon's encounter spread quickly, and everyone had their own opinion on it. You survived Lucifer's icy glare that morning at breakfast and every morning after - and now, two weeks later, the House of Lamentation seems to have settled once more into an uneasy peace.

Mammon had changed too. He had been... sweeter.

It started small. He'd get you little trinkets - never delivered by him, always by his crows. Plausible deniability, you guessed. If you rejected them, he could put the blame on the birds.

Then slowly he escalated when you responded positively. A small bouquet of flowers on your desk. Some chocolates he'd delivered straight to your room so there was no chance Beel would find them. Last weekend, he'd taken you shopping and Mammon had told you to go wild - and while you made sure he was still a good, responsible demon with his money, you did let him spoil you a bit.

It was adorable to watch Mammon's chest puff up with pride, his smile the brightest thing in the Devildom when you thanked him for his latest present. When you wore the clothes he'd paid for. When you called him your good boy.

So you aren’t entirely surprised by the heart shaped box on your desk when you walk into your room after class. It's the most openly romantic gift yet, the tin delicately embossed with swirling golden patterns over the red surface. No brand gives you a hint of what chocolate or biscuits lay within - or perhaps it was some piece of jewellery?

You drop your bag onto your bed before walking over to your latest gift with a smile. Mammon had gotten detention - again - so you know you're going to have to wait about an hour for his return. You’d have to thank him then.

Your smile drops once you open the box.

You stumble back, falling against the floor with a jolt of pain that whipped your already racing heart into a frenzy. A hundred possibilities whirl through your head, each more dire than the last.

Had someone gotten into the House of Lamentation, into your bedroom, to leave this for you? Had one of the other brothers done it? Was the Lucifer’s way of warning you off? There’s no way it could be an intruder right? Were you really as alone in the room as you thought?

The smell wafts from the box to where you sit and you taste copper on your tongue. You're convinced someone's going to leap out from under your bed or out of your closet any second and yet you can’t get your legs working to move, to flee - to find anyone, even Lucifer.

There, in the pretty heart-shaped box, lays a heart.

Your initial moment of panic gives way to your brain trying to rationalise.

The heart was not human - didn’t even seem to be from anything humanoid. Demon Anatomy isn’t a subject you're supposed to take until next semester, but you're pretty sure even Beel’s literal heart couldn’t be that big. No one had attacked you while you were half-incapacitated on the ground and when you look around, you realise there aren’t many hiding spaces in your room.

So. One of the brothers or an invited guest.

You pick yourself off the ground and examine the heart closer, breathing slowly through your mouth.

Yeah, definitely too big to be a human or a demon. Or an angel. You think.

It looks more like something Cerberus’ size, but you know it’s not the HoL’s resident hound, because you’re pretty sure that thing is unkillable to everyone but Lucifer.

All in all, it’s a heart. You’re never going to figure out what it’s from on your own, but you can tell a few things about it. The remains of the veins and arteries still attached have been sliced neatly. Only one bears more damage - from the size you figure an artery. Whoever cut this one tried to hide it, but you can still see where there must have been a puncture just above where it was removed, the ragged edge remaining at odds with the rest of the smooth cuts.

Okay.

You put the lid back on before you think about fingerprints. You just can’t stand the smell anymore.

Your feet carry you to the library and you’re halfway there before you realise you’re holding the box. You don’t go back and put it down. Your room still reeks of heart and you have a disturbing mental image of Beel eating it.

Maybe an anatomy textbook might give you a clue as to what it is. Or maybe-

“Good afternoon, MC,” Satan greets from his armchair.

You don’t have a pact with Satan yet, but you like to think you’re on good terms with him. While he had asked you to shut Mammon up next time, Satan hadn’t seemed at all upset about the development between you and his brother. Just the noise level.

“Hey,” you croak back. Satan looks up from his book, noticing for the first time something is wrong.

“Ah,” Satan says. There’s a knowing look in his eye as he sniffs the air, examining the box in your hand. “I was wondering when this would happen.”

"When what would happen?"

Your voice is still higher than you'd like and you're not sure how to feel about Satan's calm demeanor. Perhaps sensing your distress, Satan smiles. It's probably meant to reassure you.

"Let me see?" he asks, gesturing for you to bring the box over. You sit on the table as he pops the box open, your leg bouncing nervously.

The heart is still there which is a strange relief. You'd half convinced yourself you'd imagined it, but now Satan's looking at it and this isn't solely your responsibility anymore. Eventually he stands and places the box on the table - next to you - and pulls a few books from the shelves.

"The heart belongs to a Dessowary."

"A what-"

Satan opens one of the books to a page depicting a large flightless bird with wicked claws. The illustration provides a demon for scale - the bird is nearly twice its height.

"They're quite rare, but very skilled predators. Usually subsist on vegetation but if provoked, or just hungry, will attack other creatures or even demons." Satan speaks with a certain puff in his chest and you can't help but be drawn in by his explanation. He turns the page to show you an anatomical drawing and yep, the heart matches.

"Why was it in my room?" you ask slowly, fingers brushing over the pages. The smell is starting to get to you again. Rot.

"Dessowaries are fast. It's what makes them dangerous and also extremely difficult to kill. In fact, of all of us, Mammon's speed is what makes him the only one capable of consistently taking one down - without the use of traps, anyway." Satan gestures towards himself and you wonder about how casually he says it, wonder how often the brothers went hunting before your arrival. "It's for you. To demonstrate his capacity as a hunter."

"Like... like a..." Your mind heads straight to mating displays - or cats that drop dead mice at their owner's feet.

"In the Devildom, this is quite common as a part of courting." Satan shrugs and passes the other book to you, an old and dusty tome with a title in cursive script you strain to read. Etiquette and Courtesy in the Matters of Courting. "Mammon is trying to show off to you, basically."

"Oh."

The explanation goes a long way to calm you, but you still have a few questions. You flip through the pages of the book, eyes lazily scanning a few sentences.

"So, what do I do?"

Satan shrugs at your question. "Mammon knows a decent amount of human culture, but I doubt he knows much about the romantic endeavours of humans. The serious ones, anyway. If you explain to him that this is not done in the human world, he'll probably be embarrassed, but he'll understand."

You nod along with his explanation with a frown. This is weird but... Mammon clearly didn't have bad intentions. If anything, he was trying to do the right thing by Devildom culture. Trying to take this seriously if what Satan said was any indication.

"Or..." Satan trailed off.

"Or?" You meet his eyes. Satan had a look on his face you tended to associate with Lucifer about to have a bad time.

"This is a cultural exchange program, after all. You could always just... partake in Devildom culture."

You look at the box beside you. At the heart inside it.

"Is there a way to get rid of the smell?"

-------

Mammon had given you a bright smile when he noticed the box in pride of place on your shelf.

Over time, you got used to the idea. Mammon was still your demon, your first man as he insisted. Maybe you’d forgotten for a bit exactly what demon meant, but you're sure you could accept him for who he is. Love him for who he is, even.

Mammon’s blush, you're delighted to see, spreads down to his chest, tinting his skin even darker. You swallow his moans with kisses and use his hair to grip him closer.

“Thank you, Mammon,” you whisper and he bucks up, his beautiful eyes meeting yours. His smile is gorgeous.

It would take a week for you to realise that you might’ve encouraged something you can’t control.

———

Devildom Botany is one of your favourite subjects.

For one, turns out humans can't be allergic to most Devildom plants. The teacher's also pretty welcoming and seemed genuinely excited to have a student who actually asked questions. Not to mention the more practical subject - planting, pruning, writing down observations on the effect of different light levels and feed - gave you a break in the day.

The only downside was the jerk sitting next to you.

Your three pacts had gotten your demonic classmates to stop looking at you like a snack, but it hadn't warmed all of them up to you. Beel's Fangol team were friendly to you, Majolish employees were very eager to help you, and the entire Devildom Navy was apparently now at your beck and call.

Not this asshole, though.

You sort of wish he was stupider. If those light pushes turned into shoves, or if he nicked you with those claws he was so willing to show you, then you'd have something to show to others. A clear justification, in front of all your classmates - including Mammon - to push back against what he was doing.

But unfortunately, he was a little too smart. Always subtle. Never enough to justify snapping back, not unless you wanted everyone to think you were weak. For the most part, you could ignore him anyway.

Until today.

One of your three plants, the three you'd raised from seedlings, that you'd spent all semester working on, is totally destroyed. Your frozen gerbera, carefully grown and protected from any heat source, is melted - its flowers still dripping with their protective icy sheen while its stem dried and withered from the heat

Your mandrake and blood moon flowers seem okay, but you'd worked hard on that gerbera. You feel Mammon's arm wrap around your shoulders as you gently check the base of the plant, confirming what you'd feared. There's no way to salvage it.

Your teacher tuts sympathetically. "Looks like it got too hot overnight."

After a discussion, it's clear your grade won't be hurt by this. Anyone could've messed with the cooling charm on the pot. You'd been growing some of the more difficult plants anyway, so just the two remaining would be enough to pass. Even pass well!

But that plant had been months of effort. You'd been proud of it. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes that you push down. You aren't going to cry in front of the whole class. Especially when you meet eyes with that asshole over the remains of your frozen gerbera and you know he'd done it.

Mammon convinces you to skip the next class - it isn't hard. You're still filled with jittery, nervous energy, your hands are shaking, and you feel stupid. It was a plant, hell, it was an assignment.

But it was months of your hard work, and Mammon never once judges you for your tears.

------

A few days and a movie night with your pact demons later, you feel better.

Lucifer, in a rare show of genuine thoughtfulness, had gotten you a little frozen gerbera pot for your room. Beel had shared his lunch with you for the past two days. Levi had you playing video games that got out some of your lingering anger.

Mammon, meanwhile, was out past curfew.

You wait with the door to your room open, knowing you'd hear him come in. Mammon breaking curfew isn't entirely weird, and it wasn't even that uncommon for him to forget to text you back if he was on a winning streak at the casino or dealing with some witches.

It's just the aftermath of the flowers that has you a bit nervous, you tell yourself. Mammon isnt’t acting strange at all.

Tension you hadn’t realised you’d been holding relaxes as you hear the front door open and close, Mammon’s soft footsteps headed towards your room. There's another odd sound though - a dragging, a thumping, like a sack being pulled and kicked around.

You poke your head into the hallway and froze. Your hand grips the door tightly.

There in the hall is Mammon, in his demon form. Blood splatters his body and stains his clothes - you can’t see any injuries on him - and the sound was-

It takes you a moment to realise that the thing Mammon was holding had once been humanoid. You can see the memory of limbs in the twisted form. The torso at the centre, what was once a head - now barely more than blackened and charred skin stretched over a skull, some parts still glistening wet muscle, jaw unhinged in a final, desperate scream. Mammon carries it with two golden hooks embedded into the thickest parts of its flesh, cursing as he struggles to find a solid grip when the skin kept - kept sloughing, melting off-

You don’t know what sound you made. Your elbow might’ve knocked against the door, you might’ve gagged at the sight, but suddenly Mammon’s eyes are on you and you flinch back.

“Shit,” he says.

You back off into your room and hear his approach again. Mammon finds your doorway, dropping his macabre package just outside. You've backed yourself against the bed without meaning to, but Mammon keeps a respectful distance.

He scratches his neck awkwardly. It's such a simple, painfully Mammon gesture it could’ve made you laugh.

“You weren’t supposed ta… I wanted to clean it up, give it to ya tomorrow… why are you still awake?” That last part comes out accusatory and tugs something free, some part of you that can’t, won’t see Mammon as a threat.

“I was waiting for you, jerk,” you say, and marvel at the smoothness of your voice. “Next time text me back.”

Mammon has the decency to look guilty. Not for murdering whoever that victim had been. For worrying you.

“Sorry, I just… wanted it to be a surprise.” Mammon meets your eyes, bright blue and gold shining in the dim light of your room. Covered in blood and with the stench of burned flesh drifting through the room, he looks incredibly sincere. “I’m trying to take this seriously, y’know? I’ve not really… I wouldn’t do this for just anybody.”

"Who is that?" you ask slowly.

Mammon blinks. Twice.

"Right, forgot humans don't have the same sense of smell." Mammon walks back to the corpse and you don't understand what he's going to do until he's reaching into the chest, hand slicing through loose, burnt flesh and rib bones cracking and pulling out the heart.

All you can think of is steak. Crispy on the outside, still red on the inside.

"How's that supposed to help?" you choke out, your eyes fixed on the muscle in your demon's hand.

Mammon frowns. “Yer sense of smell’s that bad, huh?”

You nod.

You have an idea. You aren’t an idiot - or maybe you are, for having a calm conversation when you should be screaming in fear. Mammon was dressing this up as something he did for you and you're pretty sure that was a demon. There's only really one option here.

Mammon confirms it.

“The bastard from botany. He made ya cry.”

You take in the sight of your sort-of-boyfriend, wings and horns on display, covered in blood, with a heart in his hand.

That heart once belonged to a living, breathing person. A jerk, sure, but you didn’t know anything else about him. Maybe he wasn’t a complete dick. Maybe he had loved ones, a family. Maybe he had some redeeming qualities. Maybe-

Okay, that justification isn’t working right. But the point isn’t that, is it? Mammon wasn’t treating this as anything weird. Satan had told you hunting and proving yourself as a demon was a common part of courting. The question is simple.

Were you okay with this?

You look at the way Mammon watches you, cheeks heated, eyes shining blue and gold - the melted, charred skin of his kill - the heart he offers to you, all because you were hurt by that asshole. The way the blood highlights the lines of his muscles, a beautiful, powerful demon, willing to put all that strength to use for you.

Were you okay with this?

Absolutely.

“Mammon,” you whisper. “Against the wall, okay?”

You’ve never seen Mammon move faster. His back hits the wall. His legs spread. You can see him pose, you can see Mammon going into model mode - showing you his best angles, making himself as appealing as he could be.

“Good boy," you whisper and he squeezes the heart in is hand.

That could be a problem.

"Mammon, listen to me closely, okay?" You eye the body still in your doorway - your open door, but at least this time of night most of the other residents would be asleep or on another floor. The only real risk was Beel on a snack run. "I don't want to get blood on me."

"'Course not," Mammon grins and you'd never really noticed how much sharper his teeth are in this form. "No part of this bastard deserves to touch you."

Your heart swells with affection - and you're starting to realise you might be a bit more fucked up than previously thought, but that amount of introspection could wait until later.

"So I'm going to need you to control yourself and not squeeze that heart until it bursts."

Mammon nods, adorably determined, and you get to work on those leather pants.

His demon form comes with a handy zipper and you can’t decide whether that’s surprising or not. It’s definitely convenient as you expose Mammon to the cold of the room, your hand quickly wrapping around his dick to warm him up.

His groan reminds you of your promise with Satan.

“Open,” you order and Mammon’s mouth follows your command before his brain can even catch up to him, his eyes half-lidded with desire as you take control.

“Get my hand nice and wet, hm?” You twist your fingers around Mammon’s mouth, playing with his tongue, prodding at those sharp teeth. Mammon focuses on his task beautifully, sucking and licking and lightly nipping at your fingers, his moan muffled as you force them further into his willing mouth.

In your other hand, Mammon’s cock is catching up to the situation. He gets excited adorably quick but you hold off on stimulating him too much with your dry hand, keeping your strokes light.

It’s still got Mammon rocking his hips back and forth, chasing the feeling of your fingers, pleading with his body for you to give him what he wants.

You take both your hands away and he growls in protest.

“Remember what I told you,” you order, unmoved by his puppy dog eyes. “No blood on me.”

“None! And even if there was I’d clean it off you-“

“None, Mammon.”

“Yes, Master.”

Mammon grumbles at your stern tone but perks up quickly when your other hand pushes into his mouth, sucking the digits eagerly.

With his makeshift gag in place, you take your hand, soaked in saliva, to his cock.

The reaction is immediate. Mammon groans deep in his throat, the vibration travelling all the way through your arm, while he rocks his hips forward to meet your touch. His eyes flutter closed and you watch as the rest of his body relaxes - his arms and wings dropping to his sides, his knees barely holding him up, his head tilted against the wall. Only his mouth and his hips work hard.

The heart is left hanging from his hand, half-forgotten for now.

Mammon only ever meets your pace, never trying to make you go faster. Knowing he’s being rewarded, knowing he’s been good, seems to have worn off the desperate edge he usually carries.

You jerk him off at a steady pace, taking the time to appreciate his exposed chest, the leather that covers his body. The little metal spikes that dangle from his jacket jingle with every thrust and his wings flutter and shake.

“Such a pretty boy,” you praise and watch his expression shift as he whines, trying to force your fingers further down his throat. Drool starts to gather around the corners of his mouth.

You twist your hand around his cock and Mammon stiffens and jerks, his entire body tensing - his claws squeezing into the heart before stopping, forcefully relaxing himself.

“Good boy.” It sometimes hurts your heart just how responsive Mammon is to praise, how desperate he is for it, but when he tilts forward and rests his forehead against yours you can’t bring yourself to complain. Even as you feel him swelling in your hand, precum aiding your movements, he’s still careful to keep most of his weight on the wall, to not just collapse against you with his blood-covered clothes.

You meet Mammon’s eyes as you speed up. You find his usual blue and gold gone glassy, wet. The new angle of his head encourages saliva to drip around your fingers from his mouth to his chest.

His teeth graze you lightly and he makes an apologetic noise but he’s still sucking you down eagerly and you make a note to get him a nice, big toy later.

“Let me know when you’re close,” you order and Mammon responds instantly, bucking his hips and whipping his head back. The hand holding the demon’s heart is working it like a stress ball, the dead muscle now bruised and softened.

“You can cum when you want, as hard as you want.” You speed up to match his pace now, the way his hips buck, planting your feet hard into the ground so he doesn’t end up throwing you back with the force of his thrusts. “But not a drop of blood on me, remember.”

Mammon has always been so easy to read and you know this is a challenge for him. Know he aches to throw himself against you fully, wishes he could tense and shudder and move they way he wants, but still you can see him smile around your fingers.

Mammon doesn’t just want to cum, he wants to cum for you.

And so he does.

Your fingers can’t fully muffle his shout. His entire body is drawn into the motion, his head thrown back, his chest pushed out - his cock pulses in your hand, cum covering your palm, his stomach, and dropping to the floor.

Mammon’s hand squeezes, his claws dig in - but before the heart can burst his wing flies up, shielding you.

Even in ecstasy, Mammon follows your orders. There’s not a speck of blood on you.

You release him, wiping saliva on your pants as Mammon drops to the ground. His hands fly behind his back - trying not to grab you, stain you with blood - but his nose comes forward to press against your crotch.

“Master,” and you can see he’s out of it, in the floaty space he goes to when he’s following your orders, when he’s just being your sweet, obedient Mammon. “Need to get you off too.”

You gently force him back by his hair, looking into those pretty, wide eyes.

“We need to get you in the shower, Mammon.” You tug him up again, careful to be slow and not tip him over. Mammon’s legs are still shaky and even with his demon strength, you’re pretty sure a stiff breeze could knock him over right now.

“Can I get ya off in the shower then?” he asks, and you can see a hint more of your mischievous demon come through.

“After we get the worst of that filth off of you.”

Mammon grins, triumphant, as if he’d just made a good deal. You roll your eyes and start to tug him towards your bathroom, but first-

“Can you please get rid of him?”

Mammon looks between you and the charred body still in your doorway. He groans.

“Fine,” he mutters, tucking away his spent cock and grumbling.

“I’ll heat up the water for us,” you promise and Mammon, predictably, perks up again.

Mammon moves the body out of your sight but you’re not going to be able to forget it.

Objectively, it was a horrific sight. The empty eye sockets, the twisted limbs, the gooey mess of the flesh beneath the charred skin… and yet all you’d been able to focus on was that Mammon had done that for you. Would do it again, for you.

Maybe you were getting too used to the Devildom.

[demon-fucking-therapist]

Dom Reader, Yandere Brothers - Greed Part 1

The series: You become the master of seven unruly brothers - and they don't want to let you go so easily. How it happened, and what it means for each of them.

Tags/warnings for this section: underwear thief, dom reader (obviously), yandere Mammon (obviously), afab reader (no pronouns used, addressed as 'master'), under-negotiated scenes/kink (though a safeword is in play and a check-in happens), use of the pact for sexual purposes, riding, orgasm delay/denial, this part is less yandere and more smut but it leads into yandere stuff I swear. The smut just got out of hand.

Minors DNI.

Now with a Part 2

---

You weren't entirely thrilled about being kidnapped from your world and tossed into an entirely new one. Pushed into a new school, surrounded by creatures that look at you like you're a meal, and suddenly dealing with 6 (actually 7, but you only learn that later) housemates.

Forced to complete homework you can barely understand, a guardian demon with no concept of personal space, and a voice in your head begging you to free him, you resign yourself to a shitty year.

But a discovery late one night in your room makes things much more interesting.

Mammon

"Sit!"

The single word sends him to the ground from where he was going through your drawers. Mammon yelped as he landed solidly on his ass.

You'd just had a long tutoring session with Satan and your brain was starting to hurt. You did not need Mammon trying to steal your shit on top of that.

It takes your tired brain a moment to realise the drawer Mammon had open was filled with your underwear.

Your exhaustion is swiftly replaced by rage, and you repeat your command - "SIT" - until Mammon is left with his chest pressed to the floor, panting, knees barely hold his hips in the air.

"What do you think you're doing?" you demand, standing over him. His eyes are trying to look up at you, but he won't meet your gaze, settling on staring at your legs, your folded arms, the book you'd borrowed from Satan.

Mammon huffed. "Figured you'd hide your expensive shit in some stupid place. Same as most humans."

And that - that didn't sit right.

Mammon had pulled a lot of shit in the months you'd been here, but despite it all, he'd never once stolen from you. He was nosy, sure. He had a terrible understanding of boundaries.

But a thief? To everyone else, yeah, but not to you.

It's out of character enough that it's got you squatting beside him. Mammon still won't look at you properly.

"Are you like... okay? Are the witches pulling anything?" It felt weird to respond with concern when Mammon is for sure the one in the wrong here, but for better or worse, you and Mammon were usually pretty good together. This was weird.

"No." Mammon insisted, squirming a little, trying to escape the pact. The movement makes you roll your eyes and draws your attention to his body, and-

Well.

Well shit.

"Mammon," you say, and something in your tone must tip him off, because he clearly realises that you know. His voice rises and he's saying something but all you can really pay attention to is the way his dick twitches where it's straining against the fabric of his jeans.

And you have some things to consider.

You're pissed. At Mammon, at being kidnapped, at being drawn into their whole fucking family drama with Belphie, at being treated like a fool for not knowing things you never had a chance to learn.

You're bored. Devildom Law sucks. You've been studying for 2 hours and you're still not sure you understand the readings.

You could fix one of those problems right now.

"Mammon," you cut off whatever he was saying. Mammon's cheeks are flushed, his breathing heavy, but he's still hard as ever as far as you can tell. "Do you... know what a safeword is?"

Your demon gapes at you. You think for a minute you've broken him, and that doesn't change when he starts stuttering out curses and questions faster than you can understand, but you wait him out until you repeat the question.

"'Course I do, human," Mammon was so painfully trying to act tough but his wet lips parted with every breath. You could see him calculating where this could go. He was finally looking you in the eyes, too.

"Colour system? Red for stop, yellow for slow?"

"Like I'll need to-"

"Safeword out if you want me to stop," you order. The pact shuts him up, but he nods. Mammon's breathing is getting heavier and he keeps shifting around as much as your command will let him, clearly uncomfortable trapped chest down ass up on the floor.

"How do you feel about me using the pact?" you ask him. Mammon growls.

"How d'ya think, human-"

"Mammon," you say, and-

And you don't even give an order, but you can feel the surge of power between you. Your power over him. And Mammon can feel it too.

"It's good," he spits out, face burning. You swear you see tears in the corner of his eyes. "It- fuck, it's good."

"Okay. Flip yourself over. Take off the jacket and your pants."

You don't need to make it an order, but you let a little bit of a command slip through. Mammon responds fast, flipping onto his back and raising his hips, fumbling with his belt. His jeans catch on his ankles and you sigh as you realise you're gonna have to help him out.

You toss the jeans and boxers away while Mammon throws his jacket somewhere. The black shirt stays on, the hem riding up on his waist.

You take a moment to look.

Mammon is painfully hard. The whole thing is red and swollen, his dick already leaking precum onto his stomach. Your demon bites his lip and mumbles something about making you pay for the view even as his cock twitches in interest at your stare.

You consider your options. Mammon is a nice average length, not large enough that you worry about how it’s going to fit but big enough for a nice stretch. You weren’t planning on fucking Mammon today, so you have a distinct lack of lube, toys, or anything else that you could mess around with in easy reach. There is also the issue of Mammon looking seconds away from blowing his load untouched.

“Don’t cum.”

The order makes him shudder and groan before he even fully registers it. You can see the moment Mammon’s brain catches up.

“What?!” he protests, raising his head as much as your command will let him. His scowl is even less intimidating than usual with his desperate expression.

“Only good boys come, Mammon. Maybe I’ll let you if you do well.”

Mammon grumbles. He doesn’t safeword.

His expression quickly slackens once more as you remove your own pants, keeping your top on but opening up the buttons. His eyes follow the fabric as it drops to the ground, flicking back up and finding the space between your legs.

You straddle his face, forcing his head back onto the wooden floor with enough force to indulge his masochism.

“You’re going to eat me out until I can take that gross dick of yours,” you tell him. You can already feel his tongue trying to reach for you before you’ve even properly sat down. “You can use your fingers to help. Tap on my leg three times to stop, okay?”

Mammon nods enthusiastically.

“Okay?” you repeat, harsher.

“Yes, master,” Mammon whines and fuck. You drop down onto his tongue, grinding against his face.

Mammon adjusts your hip with one hand while the other sneaks between your pussy and his mouth, gathering up slick and saliva, helping him find your clit. The first time he shyly wraps his tongue around it you buck against his face and Mammon letting out a long, drawn out groan that vibrates against you.

Mammon is passionate, to say the least. You can’t help but roll your hips against his mouth, gasp when one finger finally enters you - gentle and slow, in stark contrast to the actions of his tongue. Mammon’s eyes are half-lidded and if it weren’t for his clever fingers and silver tongue you’d think he was already fucked dumb before anything even touched his cock.

Mammon has to be experienced, no virgin's this good, but he's whining and moaning like he's never been touched before. He's so hard it looks painful, and if you hadn't walked in on him trying to steal your underwear you'd feel sorry for him. As it is you just grind down harder, only allowing him some air when he slips another finger inside.

You pull yourself away when you feel ready - commanding hands off when Mammon tries to keep you stuck to his face - and sit on his stomach, your fluids mixing with the inhuman amounts of precum already there.

Mammon is breathing heavy, glassy-eyed. You run your hands over his chest, cooing gently until he comes back to himself, eyes focusing on you.

"Hey, cutie," you say softly. It's the only kindness you intend to give Mammon tonight. "How are you doing?"

Mammon gulps heavily. His hands hover over your hips where you haven't yet removed your last command. A single word lets him grip onto you, squeezing into the fat of your hips.

"I'm... why'd ya stop?" Mammon whines. His hips try to buck but he's still stuck to the floor. His face is flushed but he's talking to you, which you take as a good sign. He licks his lips, then does it again when he tastes you on them.

"I'm going to put you inside me now, okay?" Mammon sputters and chokes on his words, but that's pretty normal for him. "Are you ready?"

"I- yes, human!" he snaps. Your frown is enough to cow him into submission once more. "Yes, master, please. I want inside you so bad. Please."

"Better," you reply with a smile.

You cut off his next complaint by lifting your hips and sinking onto him.

Your own groans are easily outmatched by Mammon's. He fits nicely, just as you thought he would. Mammon had prepared you well and while you'd probably rushed yourself a bit by just dropping straight onto him, at least you can take a moment to adjust. Mammon's certainly not going anywhere.

"You need to quiet down," you tell Mammon, but this time you don't attach a command to it. He bits his lip and squirms as much as he can, trying his best to do what you say. "I didn't lock my door."

Mammon groans - quieter this time, at least - and his head falls back onto the ground with a sharp sound. "Yer a tease."

"I don't think you can say that right now." You roll your hips to emphasise your point and one of his hands flies to cover his mouth. "Just don't get us caught."

You alternate your speed - sometimes going hard and fast, chasing that high, but slowing down before you can reach it. You purposely avoid playing with your clit too much. You want this to last, you want to really punish Mammon. You don't think you've ever been wetter.

Mammon tries to buck up into you but all he can really do is wiggle his hips and watching his frustration and helplessness rise only makes you want to push him further.

It takes minutes for Mammon's vocabulary to be reduced to pleas, whines, and the occasional apology. His hands, the only part of him he can control properly right now, roam your body. Sometimes settling on your chest, clumsily playing with your nipples - sometimes gripping your hips hard enough to hurt - eventually, endearingly, settling on holding one of your hands.

You ride him until your legs hurt, until you're starting to feel a little brainless. Turns out edging yourself fucking hurts after a while. You decide it's time to end this.

Mammon is long past complaining about being your living dildo, his volume rising again as you increase the pace in your final push, your hand circling your clit like your life depends on it. You watch Mammon's face the whole time, the tear streaks, the way his hair is starting to slick with sweat, the way drool has started to gather at his lips. He's a mess, this beyond powerful demon is a mess, and it's all for you-

As you cum you know this is going to happen again, that you can't just have him once. You ride him through it and fall against his chest, heart racing. The only sound that fills the room now is sound of harsh, heavy breathing.

Mammon eventually gets squirmy again, escalating to a sharp groan as you pull yourself off. Your legs feel like jelly and you curse when you realise you left your water bottle in the kitchen.

You resign yourself to catching your breath and getting it later when Mammon grumbles.

"Hey, hu- Master," he corrects himself at your glare. "Um, aren't ya forgetting something?"

Mammon's hands hover over his dick and you realise that he's already well-trained enough to not touch himself without your permission. He's a good boy when he's like this, but...

You don't want to reward bad behaviour.

"You want to cum?" you ask innocently, making your way to your feet. You manage to hide your wince as your legs stretch out after... a while on the floor.

"Please. I- I know I did bad, but I'll be good I swear, I won't do it again, so please-"

Mammon shuts up when a pair of your underwear lands on his face.

It's not a fancy pair, nothing particularly sexy. But his hands fly to his face and he holds it like it's precious gold.

"You can sit up and lean against something," you tell him, and Mammon scrambles backwards to your bed, props himself up against the mattress. "And you can cum if you jerk yourself off into those panties."

"Thank you, thank you, thank - fuck-"

Mammon wraps your underwear around his dick, fisting himself harsh and quick. He's not going to last. You can see it in the way his eyes roll back, hear it in the way he calls your name. You can practically taste it.

When he comes it's with a full body shudder and a loud cry. There's no way no one's heard you two now. His cum dribbles out of your panties and you settle down beside him to scoop it up and press it back in.

"Hey, sweet boy," you call softly. "Can you stand?"

Mammon, eyes closed, nods. You ruffle his hair and he growls a little at the feeling of his cum on your fingers.

"We need to take a shower, okay? Think you can handle that, good boy?"

Mammon finally opens his eyes, meeting yours with obvious, unfiltered, sleepy affection. It makes you smile. You're definitely in too deep.

"Can I clean you up?" Mammon mumbles.

"Of course."

As Mammon pulls himself up, you take your dirtied underwear and shove it in the pockets of his jeans.

Good boys should clean up their own messes, after all.