it's an unassuming glass jar sitting on the top shelf of his fridge, of all things, that has oliver aiku reeling under the staggering weight of a realization that has him swaying in place at nine o'clock on a sunday morning.
he blinks, slowly pushing aside the jar in search of the strawberry jam that's tucked behind it.
oliver stares at the closed doors of the fridge as he sits at the table chewing on a piece of toast, as if looking at it long enough will somehow change what's inside.
his phone vibrates.
he jumps.
(and something behind his ribcage jumps, too, when he sees your name flash across the lock screen.)
oliver aiku doesn't like pickles. he's never cared for them, never cared to buy them.
you, on the other hand?
the ceramic tiles are cool against oliver's feet as he crosses the kitchen and opens the doors again, frigid air licking against the heat that crawls down his neck as the sight before him remains the same.
in the five or so months that you and oliver have been casually fooling around, he's learned a lot about you.
you're terrible with house plants, you like dogs better than cats. you're halfway decent at driving a stick shift. you love rainy days, you refuse to drink orange juice with pulp.
and you love pickles.
they're your favorite late night post-sex snack, particularly when you're too tired to make anything else and it's too late to eat anything substantial. following the first time that oliver came back to bed after washing up and you were nowhere to be found, he's since learned that means you're usually propped up on the counter in your kitchen in the dark wearing his shirt with a jar of pickles beside you.
and somewhere along the way, oliver unconsciously started buying pickles for his apartment, too, without even realizing it.
he reaches out to pick at a torn edge on the label, but instead of tearing it off, he smooths it back down against the cold glass.
oliver breathes in slowly as something foreign and new settles in his chest.
a/n: UHHH RANDOM IDEA I WAS LIKE WHAT IF AIKU CHANGED FOR THE READER AND ALL SO YEAH HERE ENJOYYY !! (人 •͈ᴗ•͈)
Oliver Aiku x Reader !
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Game Changer
Oliver Aiku had always been a womanizer. It wasn’t a secret—everyone knew. He had a reputation for being smooth, cocky, and utterly incapable of taking relationships seriously. To him, love was just another game, and he played it well.
But then you came along.
At first, he treated you the same way he treated every girl—flirty remarks, lazy smirks, and an overconfident attitude. He expected you to fall for his charm, just like everyone else did.
But you didn’t.
You saw through his act, brushing off his advances with an amused smile. “Is that the best you’ve got?” you’d teased one day, making his usual smirk falter for the first time.
It drove him crazy.
The more you ignored his flirty comments, the more he wanted to get closer to you. But it wasn’t just about the chase. Something about you was different. You weren’t impressed by his status as a pro athlete, nor did you fall for his usual sweet lies. You challenged him, made him think, made him want to be better.
And before he knew it, he was changing.
The late nights out, the meaningless flings, the empty flirting—it all started to feel... hollow. The thrill he used to get from it was gone, replaced by something deeper, something terrifyingly real.
One day, he found himself sitting alone in his apartment, staring at his phone. He could go out. He could call someone, find a distraction.
But all he wanted was you.
The realization hit him like a freight train. He didn’t want to be that guy anymore—the guy who broke hearts without a second thought, who treated love like a game.
He wanted to be yours.
So, he changed.
At first, his teammates didn’t believe it. “No way,” they laughed. “Aiku settling down? That’s a joke.”
But then they saw it—the way he no longer flirted with random girls, how he actually listened when you spoke, how his playful smirks turned into genuine smiles whenever you were around.
One night, as you walked home together after one of his games, he finally confessed.
“I used to think love was just a game,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “But then you came along, and now I don’t wanna play anymore. I just want you.”
You looked at him, searching his face for any trace of his old self. But all you saw was sincerity—a man who had changed, not because you asked him to, but because he wanted to.
So, you smiled, reaching for his hand.
And just like that, Oliver Aiku—the infamous womanizer—had finally lost his game.
Or maybe, for the first time, he had actually won.
can i say something abt oliver aiku bc yea sure he's a cheater and also gets into situationships and leads his partner/s on but LISTEN. TO ME. (yappatron 3000 ahead. beware for angst)
this is a guy who never crawled out of the wreckage of That One Relationship he had where he truly loved his partner (you). you two had a healthy relationship but it had to come to an end for whatever reasons (you breaking up with aiku first) and left him devastated. it left him standing under the rain wondering what part of him wasn't enough.
you were gone. whatever the story was, the ending wasn't his choice, and it eats him alive even if he accepted the breakup.
he can't move on. he keeps your photos. he doesn't even bother changing his phone wallpaper because it has your smile in it, and refuses anyone to take a peek. he scrolls through his phone, pausing on pictures that make his chest ache, laughing at your old jokes in his head and wondering if you ever think of him the same way.
some of your things linger inside his bedroom—books, a scarf, or a single piece of glove you keep losing bc he can't bring himself to return/throw them away (you tried to take your stuff back, but he begged to at least keep one, a single reminder that keeps him tethered to you, to what he has lost. and you relent.)
he scrolls through your socials at 2 a.m., pretending he's just curious but its really longing wearing a cheap disguise. he's happy that you're doing fine, so proud to see you thrive, but he hates that he's not there to see your happiness up close. he wonders if you still watched his soccer matches, if you cheered when you shouldn't have.
he still buys your favorite snacks bc its muscle memory. he buys flowers for no one, because they remind him of you. he gets up in the mornings hoping to receive a text from you, to wake up next to you where the breakup was nothing but a nightmare. he brews coffee for two even though he drinks alone, wishing that you were next to him.
so whatever relationship he has right now… they'd vanish if you knocked on his door tomorrow. because no matter what, no matter if he has the most beautiful woman he has on his bed, he never stopped loving you.
TW; cheating (from oliver's side), fem!reader, reader wears makeup and kitten heels, saes your best friend, sae secretly likes you. reader is (was) oliver's girlfriend. w.c; 0.5k
you don't think you've been more heartbroken in your life then witnessing the man you love on top of another girl. fingers pressing borderline bruises into her hips, her face contorted in pleasure, the same way you were a few days prior. the more the lustful scene burns into your memory, the more choked up you get.
the nameless woman under him shrieked in shock once she saw you standing motionless at the door, flinching you out of your trance. like a statue, you watch them both fumble nude under the protection of the covers, hastily putting their discarded clothes back on.
oliver aiku stands in front of you, in nothing but his boxers, more like a lost chick then the usual confidence he radiated.
he tried to soothe your oncoming tears, but you just pushed him away, your kitten heel traipsing out of the room and into the dark living room. he attempts to embrace you, but you recoil from his touch as though he runs red–hot, and his arms drop back down his sides.
"get the fuck away from me."
it's all you manage to heave out in the moment, your face scrunched with strong revulsion. you feel lightheaded from sobbing so violently, your flawless makeup in absolute ruin. you couldn't describe the anger that came over you at his pained expression. he didn't deserve to downcast such a pitiful look on you.
it was almost ridiculously credible how much he was trying to excuse his 'out–in–the–open' cheating, and all you could do was let out a bitter laugh–well, that's what you thought you did. but it came out more of a broken strangled sob than anything.
you don't want to spend another second here. the walls feel like they're closing in on you.
he follows you out the door to seek you out, but he's stopped when he bumps into the hard chest of someone.
oliver's features form into a scowl when he sees itoshi sae in front of him, his former teammate and your very dear best friend. the usual indifference in his sea–glass eyes are absent, only darkened with contempt and impatience.
sae had been on face time with you when you had first entered oliver's apartment. you had forgotten to hang up in the heat of the. moment. he had heard everything, and as soon as he had made sense of the situation, he had swiftly grabbed the limp car keys on his coffee table, his heart rate gradually picking up with each passing minute.
"i think we're done here." he says out–loud in a typical sae fashion, but this time it's got an edge of threat. more like a silent saying of, 'back off.'
and although oliver wants nothing more then to pick a fight right now, he's not stupid. he watches sae step away from him, and in almost a blink he's by your side. a protective, gentle familiar hand finds itself on your back, and your lip quivers at the vulnerability begging to spill out.
a rough thumb brushes away the smudge of mascara and fresh tears collected under your eyes, before following to tuck the unruly strands of hair behind your ears.
"let's go home, cariño." it's tender towards you, soft, like a lover's call. purposely loud enough for oliver to hear as clear as day as you're led back to sae's car.
oliver has a gut feeling he's lost you forever, and not just because of his infidelity.
blue lock: playmaker's choice | masterlist
request by: anon
prompt: aiku + soulmate au
a/n: feel free to read my series "all-star training" on wattpad, it's edited so the story flows nicer and there's also an extra five chapters not on tumblr of sae and reader's date
in oliver aiku’s world, everyone was born with a mark, a faint shimmer near the collarbone or the wrist. it looked harmless at first, almost like a scar that caught the light in the right angle. but the moment your soulmate came near, the mark would flare gold, a pulse of warmth that spread through your chest like a heartbeat that wasn’t your own.
people called it the rule of two.
you and the one you’re meant for, bound by invisible law, fated to find each other. reject the connection, and fate takes what it gave.
for most, it was romantic. a guarantee that no one had to be alone. a security blanket woven by the universe.
but to aiku?
it was a leash.
he’d grown up watching people chase that promise like addicts, lovers clinging to marks, crying over destiny, letting something cosmic dictate their hearts. it disgusted him.
he had better things to do.
like becoming the man everyone wanted.
“fate’s overrated,” he’d said once during a magazine shoot, smirking as the photographer laughed. “why settle for one person when the world’s full of options?”
it became his motto. oliver aiku, the man too good for destiny.
and he lived like it.
luxury apartments, flashing cameras, women whispering his name after matches. he was blue lock’s prince of scandal, a defender who made football look like a seduction. he knew how to make people melt, how to make the crowd scream.
and when his teammates teased him about the dormant shimmer on his wrist, he’d just shrug and say, “guess my soulmate’s scared to meet me.”
it was easier to joke than admit the truth, that sometimes, late at night, when the world went quiet, he’d stare at that mark and wonder if someone out there was waiting.
then he’d shake it off.
he didn’t need anyone.
because love, as far as aiku was concerned, was a game of control, and he refused to lose.
♕♕♕
one morning, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. the mark glimmered faintly, like sunlight through smoke.
for the first time, it moved.
a dull pulse, once, twice, then stillness.
he froze.
the faintest whisper of warmth brushed his chest. it was gone before he could breathe, but it left his pulse uneven. his throat dry.
“…weird,” he muttered, rolling his sleeve down.
he brushed a hand through his hair, straightened his necklace, and forced a grin at his reflection. “must be nothing.”
and maybe it was.
maybe it was just his imagination.
but as he walked out the door, the faint glow lingered under his skin, a warning the universe whispered softly: you’re running out of time, aiku.
♕♕♕
it happened on an ordinary afternoon.
aiku was sitting outside a café, sunglasses low, idly scrolling through his phone. another post about him, the tabloids were still milking the “blue lock’s bad boy” angle. he smirked, half-proud, half-bored. fame was only fun until it wasn’t.
then his wrist burned.
a sharp, sudden flare of light seared through the skin beneath his sleeve, so bright, so alive he almost dropped his cup. his chest stuttered, the mark pulsing wildly, faster, faster, like it was trying to break free from him.
“what the hell…” he whispered.
and that’s when he saw you.
you were just crossing the street, nothing dramatic, no spotlight, no music cue, but the world tilted anyway. his breath hitched. his heart forgot its rhythm.
because the glow on his wrist was answering one that shimmered faintly on yours.
soulmate.
his.
you didn’t notice him at first. you were focused on your drink, balancing a bag on one arm, hair catching the sunlight just enough to look unreal. but then the mark on your wrist flickered, you froze, looked up.
your eyes met.
and everything else fell away.
he’d always thought the “soulmate spark” was a myth, poetic nonsense. but in that instant, aiku felt it. the strange pull in his chest. the way the air thinned between you. the sense that some invisible thread had finally found its other end.
he should’ve been elated.
instead, he panicked.
you blinked, startled by the glow, then at him. “uh… your wrist-”
he tugged his sleeve down. “yeah. i, uh, guess that’s a thing.”
you tilted your head. “a thing?”
he smiled, practiced, easy, the one that made people melt. “you know. the whole soulmate fairytale. didn’t think mine would show up in broad daylight.”
you raised a brow. “you don’t sound too thrilled about it.”
there was a teasing note in your voice, but it hit something raw in him anyway.
he chuckled, leaning back in his chair, trying to hide the storm in his chest. “guess i’m just not used to fate doing me favours.”
“or you don’t like not being in control,” you shot back before you could stop yourself.
that made him laugh for real. a low, surprised sound. “you don’t even know me.”
you smiled. “you’re right. but i’ve seen enough interviews to tell you like getting the last word.”
he should’ve been annoyed. instead, he was intrigued.
something about you made him feel exposed in a way cameras never could.
still, he forced a shrug. “so what now? you want a photo? proof for your friends that you bagged the oliver aiku?”
the way your expression shifted, a flicker of disbelief, then hurt, cut deeper than he expected.
you took a small step back. “no. i just thought maybe we could talk.”
he froze. the mark pulsed once, hopeful, alive.
then he smirked, crueler this time, the kind meant to push people away. “you’re sweet. but i’m not really the soulmate type.”
and with that, he stood up, tossed a few yen onto the table, and walked away.
he didn’t look back.
not even when he felt the mark on his wrist pulse again, this time weaker, trembling, fading to nothing.
♕♕♕
that night, aiku lay in bed, his arm thrown over his eyes. the mark was quiet now, dull beneath the skin, like something dying slowly.
he told himself it didn’t matter.
he’d chosen freedom. he didn’t need some stranger dictating his future.
and yet, when he finally drifted off to sleep, the last thing he saw was the look on your face, the way you’d said talk, not love.
as if you would’ve given him a choice.
as if he’d thrown away the one person who actually might’ve stayed.
♕♕♕
at first, it was small things.
aiku missed an easy pass during practice. a misstep that normally would have gone unnoticed became the headline of every sports tabloid. “oliver aiku fumbles again, is the star losing his edge?”
he laughed it off. “bad day. nothing to worry about.”
but the mark on his wrist throbbed faintly that evening, an invisible pulse he couldn’t quite ignore.
the next week, sponsors began to cancel appearances. invitations to high-profile events vanished. the women who used to flutter around him now laughed awkwardly before leaving the room.
he tried to charm them anyway. smiles. quips. the signature tilt of his head. nothing worked.
oliver aiku, the man who had never been denied, was suddenly irrelevant.
and yet, he refused to look at the real reason.
it’s coincidence. luck.
people are fickle.
i’m still untouchable.
but each night, the dreams came.
in them, you were there. standing silently, wrist outstretched. the mark glowed brightly, pure gold, reaching for him. and each time he moved to take it, to say something, anything, you would fade. your voice, your touch, your presence, gone.
he would wake drenched in sweat, chest tight, and tell himself it wasn’t real.
it didn’t stop the losses.
matches he should have won slipped through his fingers.
friends stopped returning calls.
interviews became critiques of his attitude, not praise.
he tried ignoring the mark. he tried sleeping with someone new, to feel control again. nothing worked. the glow of the soulmate connection haunted him even in strangers’ faces. every time he closed his eyes, it was you.
one evening, he found himself staring at the sky from the rooftop of his apartment building, lights of the city below flickering like a warning.
“why now?” he muttered, voice rough. “i said no. i walked away. why is it-”
the mark on his wrist burned black. not gold. not alive. just pain.
it spread through him like poison.
the universe had begun taking back what it had given.
aiku’s hands shook as he pressed them against his knees. for the first time, he felt helpless. not on the pitch. not in front of cameras. not even with women fawning over him. helpless.
he had thought the rules didn’t apply to him. he had been wrong.
and somewhere in the city, probably already long gone, you existed without him.
the thought was unbearable.
he wanted to call you, to explain, to bargain, to force the world to give him another chance. but he didn’t know where you were. the streets, the cafés, the familiar corners he might have found you, all empty.
he had thought he was invincible.
he had thought he could escape fate.
now, all he had was regret.
and a mark on his wrist that pulsed faintly with what could have been hope, or a warning he had ignored too long.
♕♕♕
it hit him one rainy evening.
aiku sat alone in his apartment, the city lights blurred by water-streaked windows. his hands gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white. the glass of scotch he had poured moments ago sat untouched, condensation dripping onto the polished wood.
every instinct in him screamed to ignore the emptiness. pretend it was just another low season. pretend it didn’t hurt.
but he couldn’t.
because he could still feel it.
the mark on his wrist, once a faint shimmer, now pulsed darkly beneath his sleeve, a reminder, not of what was, but of what could never be.
he remembered you.
your first and only meeting.
he had let it slip.
he walked away.
aiku closed his eyes, leaning back in the chair, his jaw tight. “i thought i could… cheat it. i thought i could keep control. i thought… i was untouchable.”
the words caught in his throat. he had no one to argue with. no one to reassure him. no one at all.
finally, he did what he had resisted for weeks. he searched.
every café you might go to. every corner of the city he assumed you liked due to a gut instinct.
and everywhere he went… nothing.
no trace of you.
the realization hit like a punch to the chest: you were gone. not just physically, but completely, your connection to him severed by the very choice he had made.
he collapsed to his knees in the middle of the empty street, rain soaking his hair and jacket. the black mark on his wrist throbbed painfully, a silent accusation.
“i… i can’t fix it,” he whispered, voice cracking for the first time. “i… i can’t get you back…”
somewhere above, the universe was quiet. no magic, no warning, no second chance.
and the bitter knowledge that he had been given everything that day in the café, and he had thrown it away.
for the first time in his life, oliver aiku felt powerless.
and it was excruciating.
♕♕♕
weeks passed. the tabloids went from adoring to scornful. headlines mocked him with biting precision:
“oliver aiku: fallen idol or fickle star?”
“the bad boy’s decline, what happened to blue lock’s heartthrob?”
“is aiku losing control on and off the field?”
he laughed it off at first, of course. charm was his armour. but every time someone ignored him, avoided him, or laughed at him behind his back, that laugh became a hollow echo.
even on the field, nothing was the same. passes he once delivered instinctively now slipped through his fingers. shots that would have curved perfectly into the goal sailed wide. he lost his rhythm. he felt the eyes of fans and critics on him, weighing, judging, and the weight of it made him nauseous.
it’s bad luck. that’s all it is, he muttered to himself, swallowing back the fear growing in his chest.
then came the nights.
alone in his apartment, the city sprawled below like a glittering cage, aiku replayed that same interaction he had ever had with you.
he had laughed at fate, at the idea of a soulmate. and now, he couldn’t even summon the courage to call you, to find you. he had burned the bridge before he even tried to cross it.
every attempt at distraction failed. new acquaintances seemed distant, hollow. women who once hung on his charm turned cold, uninterested. he tried lavish parties, reckless nights, and empty flirtations, but all of it felt meaningless. each fleeting thrill left him emptier than before.
even his own reflection betrayed him. where there had once been confidence, now there was exhaustion. where there had been pride, now there was shame. and under his sleeve, the black mark throbbed like a dying ember, a constant, aching reminder of the choice he had made.
♕♕♕
months turned into a year.
he stopped being the newsmaker. sponsors replaced him with younger, more vibrant stars. fans whispered about him in the past tense. friends began to drift, politely, reluctantly. invitations to events dwindled. he walked past cafes, restaurants, gyms, all the places he had once frequented, only to realize he was invisible.
he tried to convince himself it wasn’t real, that it was just life catching up to him. but deep down, he knew. he had rejected his soulmate. and the universe had responded.
the loneliness was a quiet, gnawing thing. not the kind that could be fixed with charm or money. not the kind that could be laughed off or distracted with parties. it seeped into him like a shadow, relentless, persistent, and impossible to outrun.
♕♕♕
one evening, the final blow came.
he had tracked a rumour, maybe you had been spotted in the city. maybe. the faint hope made his chest ache. he asked around. friends of friends. strangers who might have crossed paths with you.
nothing.
gone. completely.
someone finally answered with soft clarity, “they moved on. they… found someone who treats them right.”
aiku’s stomach sank. not just because of the loss of you, he had expected pain, after all, but because he realized it was permanent. he couldn’t bargain, he couldn’t chase, he couldn’t undo the choice.
that night, he walked the empty streets until the city lights blurred into nothing. the black pulse of the mark beneath his sleeve seemed to whisper: you are alone.
he tried to drown it in alcohol, in women, in anything to reclaim the life he had lost. but the universe had sealed it. the curse, if he dared call it that, had stripped him bare. every comfort, every power, every advantage, gone.
oliver aiku, who had once ruled hearts effortlessly, who had been untouchable and adored, now knew the cold bite of helplessness.
the women he tried to charm smiled politely and walked away. his friends nodded awkwardly and kept their distance. even on the field, his own instincts betrayed him. he stumbled, fumbled, failed.
the mark never glowed again. it didn’t need to. he knew.
you were gone.
and the life he had so arrogantly assumed would be his forever had crumbled into ash.
♕♕♕
years passed.
aiku walked through the city as if it were a ghost. the streets were familiar, yet every corner whispered of what he had lost. once, he had thrived in this world, lights, applause, women, fame. now it was hollow.
he had no entourage. no interviews. no fans screaming his name. his apartment was sparse, quiet, almost sterile. the mark on his wrist had faded long ago. he didn’t even try to hide it anymore. he didn’t need to.
because the pain was deeper than any mark, deeper than any punishment.
he remembered you.
sometimes, late at night, he imagined seeing you across the street, smiling faintly, unaware of the chaos he had caused in his own life. he would reach out, desperate, but the world would hold him back. the gap was permanent.
aiku had once been untouchable. now, he was invisible, not because the world ignored him, but because he had given up the one person who could have made him feel truly alive.
on the rare nights when he allowed himself to think of you fully, he whispered your name into the empty apartment, a soft confession, a plea, a lament.
“i should’ve just… i shouldn’t have left that day.”
the city lights reflected in his eyes like distant stars, cold, untouchable, untamed. he could have everything he had once craved again, but none of it mattered anymore. fame, wealth, power, charm, all meaningless.
all he had left was memory.
and in the quiet moments, when the world gave him space to breathe, he could feel the ghost of the mark, pulsing faintly beneath his skin, a reminder of what he had thrown away:
the one person meant for him.
gone.
and oliver aiku, playboy, star, man of the world, was left to live a life that no longer belonged to him.
He strutted across the room, hair damp, body shining with sweat, and water bottle in hand. You never thought working from home with your boyfriend could get any better.
You don’t know if Aiku realizes just how much of a distraction he is whenever he decides to work out in the living room. And of course he positions himself right where you can see him through the door. His grunts and counting, his gasps and heavy breathing, he’s too irresistible… and you’re in the middle of a very important meeting. You messaged your counterpart to take note for a moment since you needed to get your “caffeine fix,” and he just replied with a "👍🏼". Good enough.
With that, you took your sweet time walking up to Aiku. You grabbed him by his crop top (because Aiku suddenly loves crop tops, and you’re absolutely getting him more for Christmas) and pulled him down into a kiss. You didn’t care about the sweat seeping into the blouse you specifically put on for that meeting. You heard him hum and felt him smile against your lips, one hand sliding to your waist to pull you closer. “What’s all this?” he asked, that lazy drawl in his voice making everything worse.
“You’re very tempting, mister.” Your fingers pushed his hair back, the sweat at the tips dripping onto your arm. He chuckled, turning his head to kiss your wrist. “Finish your meeting, sweetheart,” he murmured, eyes dark and stupidly smug. “Then we’ll do something about it.” He winked.
You nodded, biting your lip, and already so, so wet just thinking about what’s coming after the meeting.
This panel is seared into my memory i'm afraid. If this is confirmed a crop top, then God save me.
Other than that, this is a common occurence with my s/o, J.
synopsis: The gala of the century where the sports world’s youngest athletes and coaches get together to receive the fruit of their hard work is a glamorous event of the year. So what happens when his plus one gets distracted with another player who doesn’t even play in the same field as him?
a/n: the dilemma i had whether to pair karasu w tsukishima or kuroo was hard asf. also, obviously, in this au Kuroo is a professional volleyball player alright? ty.
characters: sae i., ushijima w., oliver a., oikawa tōru., karasu t., and kuroo t.
Itoshi Sae—cold room and stare
Being the partner and plus one of Japan’s best midfielder meant having a front-row seat to every stage including the one for tonight’s event.
Taking your place, you patiently scrolled on your phone while Sae was whisked away for solo shots and interviews.
After a while tho, you started to genuinely shiver.
The room was well-air-conditioned, and while most people solved that problem with a few drinks from the open bar, you had passed on the free alcohol—leaving you to curl up in your seat, trying to generate any warmth possible.
Already using your third tissue, suddenly a low voice beside you said,
“May I offer you my blazer?”
Looking up, your jaw almost dropped.
Taking his seat next to you was none other than the volleyball star, Ushijima Wakatoshi himself.
Shocked, you somehow managed to stammer out a “thank you” as he carefully draped his blazer over your legs, the warmth instantly chasing away the goosebumps. And before you could stop yourself, the inner fangirl emerged—you asked for a quick picture, which miraculously turned into a short but surprisingly easy conversation before he was called away again.
Standing up, you offered to return his blazer, but he just shook his head politely and took off.
That’s when Sae finally came back.
“What’s that on you?” he asked, eyeing the fabric across your legs as he sat down beside you.
“Oh, you won’t believe who I just met! You know Ushijima, right? He offered me his blazer because it’s freaking cold, and I even got a picture, look—”
Interrupting your rambling for a second, Sae quietly shrugged off his own, and placed it over your legs instead, neatly folding the other blazer.
“Jealous?” you teased, a smirk making its way to your lips.
He rolled his eyes, but leaned closer anyway, his voice low enough for only you to hear.
“Yeah,” he murmured, “because now you smell like him.”
A beat of silence passed before he left a gentle kiss along your jaw, whispering, “And I don’t like that.”
Oliver Aiku—your one and only
Oliver considered himself to be quite the handsome gentleman. Fans screamed at the sight of him, paparazzi took the most pictures of him, and you—his beloved girlfriend—never missed a chance to compliment him.
That’s exactly why he really couldn’t grasp what was so charming about that certain Oikawa Tōru you were currently talking to.
Sure, the guy was tall with a face that could be someone’s high school crush, and, okay yeah, his muscles looked defined too.
“Maybe it’s the tan,” Oliver muttered under his breath, but Sendou, of course, caught it immediately.
“Are we talking about the extremely hot volleyball player over there who just got back from Argentina and is currently gawking at your girlfriend?”
“I’m half-Swedish. And hotter,” Oliver retorted, taking an aggressively loud sip of champagne.
“Right, right. Totally beats him. I mean, I heard he was a captain in high school too—”
“I’M CURRENTLY YOUR TEAM CAPTAIN, YOU JERK—”
Before he could lunge at the salmon-haired, Sendou quickly shushed him by pointing toward the scene unfolding across the room (to save himself)—Oikawa had actually gathered the courage to approach and make small talk with you.
Oh no…
You were volleyball nerd too…fuuck…
Yet, as much as he would’ve liked to interrupt, he let you have your moment…for about ten minutes before his name was called on stage to accept an award behalf of the team.
As he went up, quickly flashing his trademark grin to the crowd, and adjusting the mic, Oliver smoothly slipped in a not-so-subtle line at the end of his speech.
“Lastly, I’d like to thank my girlfriend for always cheering me on—yup, right there in the crowd, looking way too stunning for anyone else to even try.”
The camera panned to you, smiling bashfully while Oikawa chuckled from the sidelines, silently admitting to defeat.
Your boyfriend sent a smug little wink your way before finishing his speech as the crowd applauded.
Now the whole world knew.
You were taken.
And so was he.
Karasu Tabito—crow and cat
“You think I can ask for a pic?” you whispered to your boyfriend, who gave you a bored look before shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t know, babe, but you can definitely ask me for one,” he said, draping an arm over your shoulders.
You sighed at his sarcasm, before slowly turning your head toward him, a mischievous glint in your eyes already telling him that something bad was about to happen. “Y’know…” you started, clinging to his arm.
He knew that tone way too well.
“You could totally just ask him if I could take a picture,” you offered with confidence, already pushing your phone toward him. “Come on Tabi, be a man. My man. Man up—”
“No. No. And no,” Karasu immediately refused, resisting your pushing him toward the volleyball player.
“Please, please, please…”
He tried to hold on for a few minutes, before his iron wall collapsed.
“Ugh. Fine. I hate you,” he muttered, giving up and started to slowly, veeery slowly, walk toward the volleyball player.
“Excuse me,” Karasu said, tapping the other’s shoulder as he turned around, a sly smile on his face.
“A fan?” Kuroo asked, tilting his head and looking Karasu up and down.
Your boyfriend loudly snorted with an annoyed smile before pointing to you, waving a few meters behind him. “You wish. But, unfortunately, my girlfriend is,” he said, wiggling your phone in hand. “She’s a shy bunny, so she asked me if you could take a picture with her.”
Kuroo chuckled, eyes flicking between the two of you, before calling you over. “She’s got good taste. In volleyball, at least.”
Shaking hands with your idol, you stepped closer to the player, grinning, while your boyfriend opened the camera app with a look that screamed kill me now.
As Kuroo leaned in, perhaps a little too close—you felt the air around your boyfriend shift.
“Curiosity kills the cat.” your boyfriend said, glaring at the other man. “Step back.”
“Awh,” Kuroo said, grin widening, “you sound a little territorial.”
“Cats scratch. Crows peck,” Karasu replied flatly, his grip tightening around the phone. “I’d suggest keeping your distance before one of us does both.”
The other’s laugh was loud and amused. “Noted.”
The sound of a shutter clicked, followed by an irritated scoff.
“Thanks so much!” you said cheerfully, stepping back.
Kuroo winked. “No problem. Hope you got my good side, birdman.”
Your boyfriend deadpanned, stepping closer to you. “You mean your only side.”
Rolling your eyes, you dragged Karasu away before a full-on animal documentary could start.
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 — Meguru Bachira]
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.
suck oliver’s cock and you’ll have him marrying you as soon as he recomposes!!
loves seeing your head bobbing and taking his dick, how you cry and roll your eyes, the bulge in your throat being recorded by his phone because there’s no way he can miss that. you feel his beefy thighs tensing up beneath your hands as your nails dig into his flesh, the pace of his hips and how he guides you by the grip on your hair is almost too overwhelming. almost — because the pleasure is better than any sensation of soreness in your throat later.
he looks so good from your point of view, though. manspreading in all his muscular glory, head tilted back yet still making eye contact with your glossy eyes as his free hand rests on the couch’s arm. the smirk in his face make your dripping pussy clench around anything, aiming for him, even if you have the time of your life sucking him off. massaging his heavy balls. swallowing around him. licking his tip. drinking each drop of his cum. listening to his panted praises.
so good. you suck him again just to please yourself, even though he insists that is your turn. no way you’re stopping now.
oliver fucking aiku whistling when you put on a pretty little dress and asks for a twirl. oliver aiku kissing you in the elevator and hallway with hunger because he's to impatient till you get to the door. oliver aiku fucking you on the entryway credenza with your clothes still on just panties pushed to the side and his zipper undone enough for his cock to be out.
a/n . . . thanku sm anon !!!! i hope u love this ahahah matt is so bae ; slightly suggestive at points, fluff, fem reader
★ he calls you "babe" with zero inflection, always mid-sentence. "babe can you pass the lighter" or "babe your shirt’s on inside out again". it sounds throwaway but you catch the smirk every time.
★ his bed’s a mess. crumbs, tangled sheets, hoodie pile in the corner. but somehow he keeps your spot clean. he always straightens the pillow you use.
★ when you stretch or bend over near him, he always whistles low and fake. every time. "damn" like he hasn't seen it a thousand times. it’s dumb. it’s routine. you secretly love it.
★ bites his controller when he’s mad. not even aggressively. just like a dog gnawing in frustration.
★ he’s always warm. not just body heat — comfortable. like laying on him is your natural position. you sprawl across his chest and he just keeps gaming like it’s normal.
★ he stands behind you while you’re at the sink or stove — not on purpose, just because he’s drawn to you like a heat source. he’s close. too close. chest brushing your back, arms on either side of you. doesn’t move.
★ you’ll be sitting there, hoodie halfway zipped, and he’ll casually pull the zipper down a few inches while still holding a controller.
doesn’t say anything. doesn’t even look. just… adjusts.
★ will pull you into the bathroom while he brushes his teeth. spits, wipes his mouth, and kisses your shoulder like it’s routine. like mint and skin go together.
★ cleans his goggles with the edge of your shirt. not even distracted. just does it while you're talking. the fabric stretches, his knuckles graze your chest, and he doesn't say a word.
★ his voice drops when he’s half-asleep — scratchy, thick, wrecked. and when he says “c’mere for a sec” in that tone? your knees almost give.
★ has a habit of tapping rhythmically on your thigh. while you’re talking. while he’s zoning out. doesn’t realize how hypnotic it feels until your breath catches.
★ turns his whole head when you walk into the room. every time. doesn’t play it off. just watches you like you’re the only real thing in the building.
★ he lets you ramble. for hours. sprawled on the couch, pacing in the kitchen, sitting on his lap while you go off about something niche — he doesn’t interrupt. he just nods, eyes on you like you’re the main quest.
★ lets you sit between his legs while he plays. at some point his hands drift from the controller to your thighs and he doesn’t move them back.
“i can still reach the buttons. s’all good.”
★ when you're talking and flailing your hands, he grabs your wrist mid-sentence just to feel your pulse.
“you’re wound up,” he mumbles, like that wasn’t already obvious.
A/n: I’m still new to writing so I’m sorry but I tried my best + I wrote this on a plane 😭🙏🏼💞 hope you still like it!
Word count: 1,760 words
The base was loud tonight, as per usual — laughter, gunmetal clinks, the hum of too many voices bouncing off concrete walls. You stepped inside, already quite familiar with the haze of cigarette smoke and the ever-present scent of leather and gun oil.
He’d always told you it wasn’t the kind of place for you. Too dangerous, too messy. But you were quite stubborn and besides, you’d learned long ago that danger didn’t exactly keep you away from him. There were times when you went to their mafia base to drop something off, but it would always be really short since you also didn’t particularly want to get involved in dangerous stuff, especially when members weren’t in the best mood.
You didn’t see Mello right away.
“Hey! Y/N!”
Greg’s voice rose above the rest, bright and genuine, and a second later the tall, broad-shouldered member of Mello’s crew was weaving his way toward you with a grin. Greg was one of the goofiest and kindest guys in the mafia. He was only 19, so he still didn’t particularly see all the “horrors” like other members did. He was always too kind and nice to everyone, which sometimes didn’t work for him since other members didn’t take him seriously and sometimes sent him off to help in the kitchen. But was it really a bad thing? He was such a sweetheart, after all.
“Man, it’s been ages,” he said, already leaning down a little as if to meet you at eye level. His toothy grin was plastered on his face as per usual. “What, Mello keeping you locked away somewhere? Guy’s greedy.” He chuckled, shaking his head before adding, “You brighten this place up way more than he does. No offense to him, of course.”
The corners of your mouth tugged into a smile despite yourself. Greg had that effect on people, his words weren’t smooth, but sincere in a way that made them land.
“Maybe he just didn’t want me to see the mess you all live in,” you teased back, glancing around at the used cigarettes on the floor.
Greg gasped theatrically, clutching his chest like you’d wounded him. “Ruthless. And here I thought we were friends.”
You laughed, and it came easily. Greg’s boyish grin widened like he’d won something. He started in on another joke, some rambling story about the last mission he went on, his hands flying dramatically as he mimicked the explosion and how some guy from another mafia fell when trying to run away from him. You couldn’t help but giggle, shaking your head.
It was harmless — Greg was harmless. But not everyone saw it that way.
From across the room, Mello sat in his usual spot, one boot propped on the rung of a chair, leather creaking as he leaned back. His head was tilted just slightly, eyes fixed on you and Greg. He hadn’t touched the chocolate bar in his hand, though the wrapper was already mangled, melting where his gloved hands gripped it.
He said nothing. But his gaze was a blade.
Greg didn’t notice. If he had, he would’ve backed down immediately. Instead, he leaned closer, lowering his voice in mock conspiracy. “Seriously though, you could do better company-wise. I mean, look at this bunch.” He waved vaguely at the rest of the crew, who were only half-listening, some already smirking at his antics. “You sit with me, and I’ll actually make you laugh instead of glaring at you all day.”
That earned another small laugh from you — but this one caught in your throat when you heard it.
snap
The chocolate bar cracked loudly in Mello’s grip.
Your eyes flicked to him. He still hadn’t moved, still hadn’t spoken, but his jaw was tense, lips pressed in a hard line, eyes glinting like firelight against the dim glow of the room.
Greg kept going, oblivious.
“And hey, I make a mean cup of tea! That’s gotta count for something, right? Better than Mello’s dark chocolate diet.”
A few chuckles rippled through the crew.
This time, Mello did move. Slowly. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, gloved hands steepled. His eyes locked on Greg with a steadiness that cut through the laughter like ice water.
“Greg.”
Just his name. Nothing more. But the tone, low, measured, coiled like a whip — made the room go still.
Greg’s expression dropped a little at hearing Mello’s tone. He leaned back a little from you, turning his head just enough to make eye contact with him.
“Yes, Mello?”
“You talk too much.” The words were calm but stern, landing like a warning shot.
Greg laughed it off awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry, I was just trying—”
“Sit down.” Mello interrupted the youngest member, tone sharper this time.
That was enough for Greg to back off, giving you one last sheepish look before sitting back down in his previous seat next to the other members. You sighed softly and gave a glance to Mello. However, he still wasn’t directly looking at you, but by the judgment of his sharp glare it was clear that Mello was jealous.
That’s when Matt decided to leave a very unnecessary and mocking statement.
“Damn, that was a painful watch, man.”
Matt’s voice drawled across the room, making you turn and look at him. There he was, sitting slouched in his chair, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, goggles pushed back on his head. His thumbs were still lazily pressing buttons on his controller, but that smirk on his face made it clear that he was watching everything unfold, including Mello’s reaction.
“Gotta admit,” Matt went on, because he clearly wanted to make more drama, “Greg’s got some charm. ‘You brighten this place up’ smoothhh, mannn. Gonna have to steal that one.” This time he turned to you and deepened his voice mockingly: “Y/N, baby, ditch that scar-faced grump and come laugh at my stupid jokes.”
The room cracked up, the rest of the members’ laughter booming, especially Greg’s.
But you knew better than to laugh at that. You froze, because Mello’s chair scraped harshly against the floor when he stood.
The laughter died instantly.
He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. The air around him was electric, sharp enough that no one dared move as he stalked across the room, boots striking hard against the concrete. His gaze was on you now.
When he reached you, he didn’t stop. One gloved hand caught your neck, pulling you closer to him, and before you could even process, you were pressed against him and he kissed you roughly. It was very long and passionate as well as harsh — the kind of kiss that knocked the air from your lungs. He pushed your body against the wall, his own pressed tightly to yours. Ending the long kiss from lack of air, he bit and pulled your lip roughly, making you wince.
The base was silent. Every eye was on him.
He then grabbed your wrist and pulled you to the couch he had been sitting on earlier, settling you on his lap, his firm hand gripping your hip.
He leaned his head down, his breath lingering on your ear, and whispered, “Do you think I made it clear enough for them now that you are only mine, hm?” He bit your earlobe lightly.
Needless to say, every next time you ever came to the mafia base, you always sat on Mello’s lap without even getting the chance to greet everyone.
L was perched on the sofa as usual, a fork full of cake halfway to his mouth, when you spoke suddenly with an elongated 'L'. Your tone was sweet, almost hesitant, like you were about to ask him for the whole world. So imagine his surprise when you simply requested to be taken to Bass Pro Shop.
He blinked. “I don’t believe we are in need of any sporting goods.”
“We're not. I just want to see the fish.”
“The… fish?”
“They have a massive aquarium. It’s magical. There’s a catfish the size of a small child.”
L paused. “A catfish the size of a small child? Interesting.”
You gasped. “So we can go?”
'Why would someone want to visit a commercial establishment solely for ornamental fish?' He muses to himself before responding, "I’ll bring my laptop. The relaxing atmosphere may assist with my concentration.”
The fish tank was everything you had dreamed of. Enormous catfish loomed like sleepy sea monsters. Schools of shiny baitfish sparkled under the lights. A gar slithered ominously near the glass.
L sat on the bench, memorized by the fish and the size of the aquarium, but he was more fascinated with watching you be so pleased by such a simple pleasure. Fascinated by your fascination. He studies your expressions of awe and wonder as he watches you feed quarters into the fish food dispenser with childlike glee. He watches you press your hands to the glass, naming the fish like they're old friends, and thinks your the most curious phenomenon in the room. He smiles softly as he listens to you narrate "what the fish are thinking".
He leaves slightly before you so he can surprise you at checkout with a giant fish plushie. And, though he will never admit it, he enjoys the quiet, calm, simplicity you bring to his life; how you can still find magic in the little mundane things in life.
After the trip, L had changed his screen saver to a live motion background of ocean creatures and he installed a large aquarium at HQ to surprise you with.
“She was right,” he murmured, watching the fish in the aquarium. “There is something calming about their presence.”
After the trip, it's not uncommon to find L, looking widly out of place in a sporting goods store, just watching the fish when life feels like it's all moving too fast.
Light Yagami
Light Yagami was reviewing files when you skipped up to him.
“Light, I need to go to Bass Pro Shop. It’s urgent.”
He didn’t look up. “We’re not going fishing.”
You roll your eyes, "I know. I just want to look at the fish."
Light sighed. “You want to go to a retail store to look at fish?”
“Yes.”
“This is irrational. Why not just go to an aquarium?”
“You can look at these fish for free.”
He chuckled. "Is that really the reason? If you want to go to an aquarium, you know money's not a problem."
You didn’t even juustify such an absurd attempt to sway your desires. You simply cross your arms and stare at him.
“…Fine. But we’re in and out. 15 minutes.” Hs gives in.
The fish tank was everything you had dreamed of. Enormous catfish loomed like sleepy sea monsters. Schools of shiny baitfish sparkled under the lights. A gar slithered ominously near the glass
Upon seeing the tank, he chuckled softly to himself. “Hmm. So this is what people waste their time on.” However, he's secretly startled by how impressive and beautiful it actually is.
He wanted to dismiss the whole thing as silly, but deep down he finds your enthusiasm kind of charming. It annoys him that he smiled watching you press your face to the glass. He's trying not to fall harder for you over something so mundane.
'She’s ridiculous.' He thought to himself. 'Why does this make me… smile, though?'
There's a warmth he can’t shake when he sees you laugh at a turtle or gasp at a fish with a “funny face.” He wonders if he’d be a better person if he saw the world like you do.
As time passed, two hours to be exact, you were naming the fish, and Light was lowkey arguing with a child about fish anatomy.
After your little rendezvous, Light lay dramatically on his bed, one arm flung across his forehead. 'Did I… enjoy that?'
He remembered the massive bass that stared into his soul, and how you had tried to get a fish to “boop your finger.”
He sat up suddenly. 'No. No distractions. I am justice. I am not… a man who enjoys fish.'
Then he glanced at the tiny plush bluegill you secretly dropped in his coat pocket. He didn't throw it away.
Mihael Keehl
Mello was in the middle of bitching about Near to Matt when you came running in like the you were about to tell them the building was on fire, screaming "emergency".
They both stared at you, impatiently waiting for the announcement as you caught your breath.
“We need to go to Bass Pro Shop. Now.”
He blinked. “That's the emergency?”
“There are FISH. Huge ones. I want to see them. With my eyeballs.”
Mello stared. “We’re literally fighting a criminal empire, and you wanna look at FISH?”
You taunt. “And you wanna bitch about your boy crush, let's go!”
Mello sighed and grabbed his coat. “If the fish aren’t badass, I’m starting a fire in the camping aisle.”
The fish tank was everything you had dreamed of. Enormous catfish loomed like sleepy sea monsters. Schools of shiny baitfish sparkled under the lights. A gar slithered ominously near the glass
He feels his chest squeeze when you light up and run to the fish tank. He wants to pretend he is unphased, but he lowkey thinks you're adorable.
'She’s… happy. Because of fish. That’s adorable. And stupid. And adorable.'
Mello had complained the whole way there but ended up growing emotionally attached to one of the fish. Your excitement rubs off on him and he ends up getting competitive trying to name more fish than you. His protective side also coming out to play as he sends death glares to anyone who tries to come between you and your fish.
Before you leave, he buys you a keychain and a bag of jerky.
After your excursion, Mello stared at the ceiling, arms crossed behind his head, a chocolate bar resting on his chest. He thought about how you had dragged him from aisle to aisle and how he had genuinely bonded with a bass.
“Antonio was a real one,” he mumbled.
He considered going back to liberate him. 'I could fit a tank in the hideout… Maybe one of those waterfall filters…'
Mail Jeevas
Matt was deep into a game when you dropped onto his lap. “Emergency. Pause.”
He paused his games and looked up at you from beneath his goggles, waiting for elaboration.
"I wanna see the fish."
“Fish?” He inquired, skeptically.
“At Bass Pro. Giant ones. Take me. It’ll be fun.”
Matt squinted at you. “Is this code for something?”
“No. Actual fish.”
He thinks for a brief second. 'That’s random. But she’s excited, so I’m down.'
He shrugged, pausing his game and closing his DS. “I guess I’m in.”
The fish tank was everything you had dreamed of. Enormous catfish loomed like sleepy sea monsters. Schools of shiny baitfish sparkled under the lights. A gar slithered ominously near the glass
He honestly loves how weird and spontaneous you are. He finds your fascination adorable, especially when you make up stories about the fish.
He's living for your energy. The bouncing in place excitedly? Adorable. He loves seeing you go full kid in a candy store-mode over some fish.
'She’s happier looking at fish than I’ve ever seen her on her birthday. That’s cute as hell.' He thinks to himself.
He buys you fish food pellets so you can feed them like a Disney princess, and of course, he has to have pictures of this. He also rates the fish with you.
“That one’s a 9/10. Strong eye contact.” He says, followed by, “Yo. That’s a chonky fish.”
He's actually kinda into the whole fish watching experience, pointing out cool fish facts like he's your personal aquarium guide. He even emotionally adopts a fish that looks particularly sad.
After you grow bored of the fish, you wonder the store. He found an underwater camera in the fishing section and, of course, bought it immediately.
After your little field trip, Matt kicked back in his gaming chair, feet up, goggles on, watching the videos he took of you. You were smiling, laughing, and waving at the fish like a kid on a field trip.
He grinned. “Worth it.”
Nate River
Near was stacking dominoes when you sat beside him.
“Nate. Fish. We need to go."
“I’m busy.”
“You can bring your puzzle. I’ll carry it. But I need to commune with a gar.”
Near paused. “Gar?”
“Long. Sleek. A prehistoric vibe. Like you, but scaly.”
He considered it. “Fine. I suppose this could be a useful learning experience.”
The fish tank was everything you had dreamed of. Enormous catfish loomed like sleepy sea monsters. Schools of shiny baitfish sparkled under the lights. A gar slithered ominously near the glass.
Near doesn’t quite get the appeal, but he likes how animated you become when you first see the fish.
He analyzes the fish tank setup, “Efficient ecosystem. Excellent filtration design.” And, memorize fish names, just so he can talk to you about them next time.
He spends a solid ten minutes analyzing how the fish behave in relation to the tank layout.
After some time, he becomes more focused on you. At first, he confused as to why you are talking to the fish like they're people, questioning if you know they can't understand you.
But then he watches you smile and the way you softly tap the glass and says “Look! That one blinked at me!” Something gentle shifts in him.
'She finds magic where most people don’t even look.' He keeps that thought tucked away like a secret.
After your trip, Near sat in silence for a moment, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny pebble you had found at the bottom of the fish tank display.
“You said this was ‘the pebble of enlightenment,’” he whispered to no one. “I am inclined to believe you.”
wammy boys when s/o pulls them for a kiss by the belt 👉👈
Yum, yes, please and thanks!!! Did it more like when you pull them in by their belt, hope that's okay!
Warnings: 18+ / MDNI / suggestive, very soft. I think... / L is the oldest with 32
L: He finds the gesture appealing, and seductive in such an intimate, short gesture that he can't help but feel a tickle in his tummy. L responds as quickly as his mind allows him. Leaning mere inches from your face, he mutters, "What are you doing next?"
Mello immediately responds by pulling you close and tugging your hair back to expose your neck. It's all his now, to suck, nibble, bite, and kiss. He loves the tiny breaths it draws from you. You can see his hard cock through the tight leather.
Near: It surprises him, you're usually never this forward, but fuck, he kind of loves it when you are. Feeling this wanted is as new as exhilarating, and Near is there for anything you want to do to him, ready to give in return.
Matt: The glow in his eyes burns as bright as the computer's screen. The craving lingers for a second before he responds, taking your hands in his own. Oh, don't back up now baby, please, he wants you so very bad.
Synopsis: Mello and Near are handcuffed together and the cuffs will not come off unless certain specific circumstances occur...they require your assistance.
Warnings: Explicit smut
A/N: I know this is different.. I had to get creative. I felt a forced situation was the only way Mello and Near would ever do this together. For the anon who suggested poly- I hope you enjoy this.
wc: 1.8k
_________________________________________
You’re curled sideways in an office chair, one leg draped over the armrest, a cold energy drink sweating in your palm. The ops room is a wreck of cluttered desks, empty takeout boxes, loose wires, the smell of three different kinds of instant noodles clinging to the air like regret.
Mello’s pacing like he’s got a bomb ticking under his skin. Every few laps, he runs a hand through his messy blond hair like it personally offended him.
Near’s on the floor, cross-legged in a sea of puzzle pieces, holding a stylus between two fingers and methodically building a tower of numbered data cards. He hasn't looked up in at least forty-five minutes.
Matt’s the only one enjoying himself. He’s half-sprawled on a desk, red goggles pushed up to his forehead, Game Boy forgotten in his lap, a smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth as he digs through a dusty lockbox labeled ARCHIVE: CLASSIFIED – UNUSABLE ARTIFACTS.
“Hey,” he calls lazily. “You guys ever hear of ‘conflict-resolution cuffs’?”
Near doesn’t respond. Mello doesn’t stop pacing. “The fuck is that, a kink toy?”
Matt pulls something shiny from the box. Metal glints under the overheads—sleek cuffs, silver but inscribed with something that shimmers when he tilts them.
"Magical containment? Binding rituals? You know how they loved that esoteric bullshit"
Near speaks without looking up. “Most of the Archive is unstable or unproven. Do not engage with any items marked in red.”
“They weren’t red,” Matt says, squinting. “They were.... more of a soft rose gold.”
Mello mutters, “If this is another one of your dumbass jokes—”
“Relax.” Matt flicks the cuffs open one-handed, grinning. “They probably don’t even—”
He’s suddenly beside Near. Near looks up. First mistake. Matt snaps one cuff onto Near’s wrist with a sharp click.
“Matt.” Near’s voice doesn’t change, but his fingers freeze mid-stack.
Mello whirls. “Are you fucking kidding me—”
Before you can say a word, Matt turns and slaps the second cuff onto Mello’s wrist.
Click.
There’s a flash of cold light—like a camera bulb and static hitting skin—and then the air feels wrong. Heavier. You feel it. The room does. The whole dynamic shifts.
Mello’s hand twitches. The chain between their wrists is taut. Seamless. No lock. No hinge. No keyhole.
“Matt—” you start, rising.
Matt’s already backing toward the hallway, arms raised in surrender. “Hey, look. If it makes you feel better, I genuinely didn’t think it would work. I was just bored.”
“You moron!” Mello yells, yanking at the cuff. The chain doesn’t even creak. “You cuffed me to him?!”
“You’re welcome!” Matt’s already halfway out the door, grabbing his console on the way. “You two have unresolved tension! This is basically therapy!”
“This is magical fucking bondage therapy!” Mello shouts.
Matt winks at you before disappearing into the hallway. “Good luck, sweetheart. You’re their emotional support peacemaker now.”
The door slams shut.
You've been reading up. The archives are vast. Obscure tomes on magical devices. You finally find it—Soulbind Cuffs: R13 series. Intended as a last-resort bonding tool for high-stakes diplomacy or… couples therapy??
You read the fine print.
Cuffs will only disengage upon shared, consensual emotional alignment. Intimacy accelerates process. Completion of mutual release—emotional, physical—breaks the tether.
You reread that line five times.
Then look up. The boys are glaring at each other across the coffee table, one shared wrist between them. Mello’s sweating, hair stuck to his cheek. Near is tapping a Rubik’s Cube, unblinking.
You clear your throat.
“So. I figured it out.”
Two sets of eyes snap to you.
“They won’t come off unless you both—” you gesture vaguely “—achieve mutual climax. Together.”
Dead silence.
Mello goes red instantly. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“It’s magic!” you throw your hands up. “It doesn’t care about gender or preference or grudges. It wants to see two bonded souls climax together. Emotionally. Physically. Whatever. It's metaphysical synergy.”
Near’s head tilts. “A forced sexual ritual.”
“Don’t call it that,” you groan.
Mello’s voice drops. “We’re not doing it.”
Near nods. “Agreed.”
You sigh. “Then you’ll be like this forever.”
“I’d rather die,” Mello snarls.
“I’d rather wait,” Near says blandly.
You just shake your head.
Mello growls, yanks at the cuff again—still nothing.
You don’t speak either. You just walk toward them. Unhurried. Hands loose at your sides. You kneel in front of them—between them—rest your palms on your thighs. Steady. Present.
“I’m not saying you two have to fuck each other.” That gets their attention. You breathe. “But I can help. If you let me.”
Mello narrows his eyes. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
Near’s eyes are fixed on your mouth. “You believe... you could stimulate both of us to simultaneous orgasm?” His voice is calm, clinical, but there’s a flicker there. A pulse under his skin.
You sigh. “You’re the ones chained together. Unless you’ve got a spell I don’t know about, this is the only way.”
Mello rubs his face. “I can’t believe this is happening. With him.”
“I’m not pleased either,” Near replies, adjusting the angle of his knees.
“Oh shut up, you don’t feel anything.”
“I feel irritation...you are the source.”
_____________
The room’s warm. Lamp low. No one’s talking anymore. The air feels loaded, like static—like something wants to snap.
You’ve peeled your shirt off, unhurried, sitting cross-legged in front of them on the rug. Mello’s leaned back on his hands, arms tense. Near sits perfectly upright, but his jaw flexes.
They’re both watching you. Their bodies still separated by the inch-thick chain, wrists close but nothing else. They refuse to touch.
So you crawl forward.
“This isn’t about you two liking each other,” you murmur, reaching up to rest a hand on each of their thighs. “It’s about needing each other. Right now. In this moment. To get out of this.”
Mello doesn’t answer. He’s biting the inside of his cheek. Near nods once, robotically.
You start slow. Fingers first, brushing over the front of Mello’s pants. He’s already half-hard. No surprise. All that rage, tension, frustration—it’s sitting right there under the surface, waiting to break.
He lets out a breath through his nose, sharp and ragged. “Don’t tease.”
“I’m not,” you whisper.
You turn to Near, and his eyes are on your hands, blinking slow. His cock is delicate, flushed against pale thighs. You palm it gently. He exhales.
Mello scoffs. “Bet he’s never even been touched.”
“By people with manners? No,” Near replies evenly.
“Fucking hell—” Mello grits
“You’re really responsive,” you say, and smirk when he glares.
You turn to Near, he doesn’t even blink. Just watches the whole time as your hand slides against him. His breath stutters when your fingers close around him.
You stroke them both—two different bodies, two different pulses. Mello wants pressure. Speed. Your wrist aches trying to keep up. Near needs rhythm, precision. He twitches if you deviate. They’re both trying so hard not to show how much they want this.
“Still emotionless, Near?”
His voice is breathy, distant. “Physical responses are not proof of emotional depth.”
Mello barks a laugh. “You’re hard as fuck. What’s that—data collection?”
“Observation,” Near says, eyes fluttering as your thumb brushes his tip.
Two different rhythms. Mello fast, tight, frantic. Near slow and steady, your thumb circling the head of his cock in lazy little patterns that make him twitch. They’re both panting now, shoulders rising and falling like they’ve run miles.
Mello’s eyes are glued to your chest. “Fucking take it off.”
You smile and unhook your bra. Mello groans. Near reaches up like he’s unsure if he can, but you guide his hand to your breast and gasp as his thumb brushes your nipple.
Your moan gets both of them to freeze.
“She’s loud,” Mello mutters. “You like that?”
Near presses his palm against you. “It may assist with... alignment.”
Mello snorts. “Just admit it turns you on.”
“Admitting that would alter the results,” Near murmurs.
You laugh softly, then lean back to peel the rest of your clothes off.
When you’re fully naked, they stop arguing. They’re just watching. You crawl up into Near’s lap, straddle him, and reach back for Mello.
You guide him behind you, feel the burn in your thighs as you press back into his body. Mello groans as his cock glides between your cheeks, hands gripping your hips.
“Still want to kill each other?” you whisper.
Near is breathless. “Temporarily... distracted.”
Mello’s mouth is against your neck now. “You’re lucky you’re hot.”
You slide down onto Near first. His cock fills you, inch by inch, and his breath punches out of his lungs. He’s frozen beneath you, gripping your thighs like they’re lifelines. Then you brace yourself and reach back—
Mello pushes in slowly. Gritting his teeth. “Jesus, fuck—”
You’re full. Too full. Both of them buried deep in you, your whole body trembling as you try to breathe around the feeling. They don’t move. Just pant. Wait.
“Move,” Mello growls. “Please.”
You do. It starts slow—grinding your hips, feeling both of them rub against your walls, your insides pulsing around them. Mello thrusts once, sharp. You cry out. Near groans softly, his head tipped back.
You ride Near with long, rolling motions, your clit brushing against his stomach. Mello fucks into you harder now, faster, his hands sliding up your spine. One of his fingers tangles in your hair, pulling just enough to make your breath catch.
“You’re taking it,” he growls. “So fucking good.”
“She’s very warm,” Near says softly. “Tight. Applying correct amount of pressure.”
“You say that like you’re grading an assignment,” Mello snaps, but his voice cracks on the last word. He’s close. So close.
You’re shaking now—full, stretched to your limits, Near seated deep inside you while Mello drives in from behind, his pace steady but cruel, testing your limits.
You’re not just between them—you’re the bridge. Their bodies only joined through yours. And they’re not giving in easily.
“I don’t see how this is supposed to help,” Mello growls against your shoulder. His breath is ragged, cock twitching inside you with every grind. “He’s not even touching you right.”
Near blinks up at you from below, cheeks flushed, hands tightening on your waist. “Incorrect. Her pupils dilate when I stroke her clit counterclockwise.”
You laugh through a gasp. “He’s not wrong.”
Near’s thumb slides between you, slow and exact, pressing just under your clit in a way that makes your body jerk. Mello’s grip tightens. You feel the cuff pulse with magic, heat flaring between their wrists like it knows they’re teetering.
You roll your hips forward, squeezing both of them from inside. Mello groans. “Shit—don’t do that—”
You smile, breathless. “You close already?”
“I’m not—” he growls, but he thrusts harder, desperate to regain control.
Near’s voice is thin now. “I believe your pelvic rhythm is faltering.”
You moan, sharp, overstimulated now. Near’s cock presses deliciously against that tender spot inside you, and Mello’s rutting deep, his thrusts rough enough to make you tremble.
“Come on Mello, prove you’re better,” you whisper. “Fuck me harder.”
That does it.
Mello grabs your hips and slams into you, rhythm quickening, chasing something now. You gasp, clutching Near’s shoulders, your body caught between them like a live wire. The air smells like sweat and sex and magic burning out.
Your moan cuts them off—high and broken, thighs trembling as your orgasm threatens again, creeping up, so damn close.
You clench around both of them. They both twitch. You slow your movement just enough to make them groan.
“Don’t stop,” Mello growls, panting now. “I swear to god—”
“She’s edging us,” Near says, tone somehow still flat.
“She’s gonna kill us.”
You’re close. But you don’t let go yet.
You slow it down again—grind forward, rolling your hips just right. Near twitches inside you, whimpering, his forehead pressed to your chest.
You glance over your shoulder. Mello’s watching you both like he’s been denied air. You lean back into him, and he licks a stripe up your spine. He’s losing control. You can feel it.
“She’s gonna cum,” he pants. “You can feel it. She’s—fuck—she’s squeezing so hard—”
“We have to time it,” Near gasps.
“I know.”
Mello’s hand snakes around you, joining Near’s, both thumbs pressing your clit now in rhythm. You scream—raw and real—as your orgasm surges up, almost there—
But you don’t fall- Not yet. You ride the edge. Over and over. Your body clenching, thighs shaking, everything strung tight as they both work you toward it. One more second. One more thrust. One more slow, circling press—
And then Mello snaps.
“Now—fuck—now—”
Near arches under you, voice breaking.
And you let go.
It hits like fire—every nerve bursting open, you're clamping down, you scream—legs shaking, body convulsing around them as you lock down hard, milking them. as both of them cry out, twitching inside you, pouring into you, their hands locking on your body as they lose everything.
The cuffs explode.
A flash of white light. A high-pitched crack. Metal hitting the floor with twin clinks.
You collapse, limp and slick with sweat, breath heaving in your throat.
Mello slumps forward, panting against your back.
Near goes still beneath you, eyes closed, his chest rising and falling fast, but even.
Nobody speaks. Until—
“You edged me for fifteen minutes,” Mello says, voice hoarse.
You smile. “You needed the attitude adjustment.”
“She’s... efficient,” Near murmurs.
You roll off them with a groan. “I need water”
No one moves for a while. Then Mello says, “You’re seriously not gonna look at me right now, are you?”
“I’m preserving what little sanity I have left,” Near murmurs.
“You literally came while I was inside her.”
“So did you.”
“I hate this.”
From the hallway, you hear:
“Yo, did it work?” Matt’s voice. “Are the chains off?”
Mello throws the broken cuff at him. “I hope your controller gets stuck on ‘up.’”
Matt grins and ducks. You laugh. Your thighs hurt. Your whole body aches. But the cuffs are gone. “Next time he plays matchmaker, I’m burning the Archive.”
This is so awkward, but I was wondering if you could write hcs for if the reader called L, Mello, Near, and Matt "daddy" or "sir" or something else along those lines during sex? 😭 (if not that's totally fine I just got a mental image of Mello being like "what-" and I'm seeking other opinions lol)
🐸~ loll!! don't worry i have gotten much worse requests than this, this isn't at all awkward. this request seemed fun lol i hope u enjoy! i love u lots and thanks for ur support<33
nsfw ahead, gn!reader, sub!reader
how they'd react to being called daddy/sir during sex~ wammy boys
matt
~ it just slipped from your lips in the heat of the moment. you had been really hazy and a bit delirious and matt had been deep inside you when it just popped out. and yes, it did catch him by surprise for about half a second since he wasn't expecting it and it wasn't something you'd ever called him before. but in the same half a second he was caught off guard, matt decided he loved it. he doesn't say anything about it in the moment, but it was the way you said it, with your shaky voice barely coherent and your pretty eyes crossed, overwhelmed with pleasure. matt takes it as a sign that he's doing a really good job, and best believe he makes it his mission to get one of those out of you again every time you two get intimate. on the other hand, expect pretty relentless teasing about it. matt both finds it amusing and a hell of a turn on how easily he can get you off, how he can make you just lose yourself like that.
~ "hey, matt, can you get that over there for me?"
~ "don't you mean daddy?"
~ "you are the worst."
mello
~ mello is someone who enjoys being in control during sex. so when you moan that in this pathetic, trembling voice, pleading with tears pricking the corners of your eyes for him to keep going, it's really such a rush for him. the brief moment of surprise at the unexpected title is quickly swept away by the surge of pride, almost arrogant in its nature. you've fully surrendered yourself to him; your pleasure is in his hands; you've acknowledged his power over your body. he'll probably get rougher in the moment, and later on in future intimate encounters he'll outright make you say it, denying you any release until you do, over and over and over.
near
~ although near does usually prefer it when you both are equals during sex, he can't help the swell of satisfaction in his heart when you call him that. after all, he has an ego like every other man on this list, and near gets something out of being at least somewhat in control, even in your sexual encounters where he does normally prefer not for anyone to be dominant. it's not like he needs to hear you say it every time, but near certainly doesn't mind when you do. besides, it means you like what he's doing and he's making you feel good, which is what he wants most.
ryuzaki
~ he probably spends the most time being surprised out of anybody else on this list. he doesn't have anything against it- besides, it would probably kill the mood if ryuzaki paused mid-sex to ask about it and what brought it on- but he just is somebody who likes having answers. so he may or may not literally interview you about it later- did he do something different? is that something that might happen again? what prompted you to call him that? he must know, even if you can hardly even sit up or form a full sentence yet.
