[nghtwngs]

my kryptonite is older blond men; currently, majorly dexpilled.

byf 18+ mdni! | carrd | masterlist | fic recs | ao3 | ko-fi

minh she/her 20s seasian | dc. marvel. whovian. cinephile.

PULLED ISSUES

i wanna make you so proud shane maguire x reader, fluff, angst, smut, friends with benefits, unresolved romantic tension, hurt/no comfort, slow burn, pining, 8.8k

“jesus, i would’ve never taken you as a rough kisser.” rick flag

MINH’S FAVORITES

vampire love benjamin “dex” poindexter x vampire!reader, fluff, angst, smut, established relationship, vampire au, romcom, hurt/comfort, canon-compliant, 10.3k

the world in blue, black, and red nightwing!dick grayson x reader, angst, pining, 1.5k

[showhay]

desert

oikawa tōru x dry!f!reader

oikawa has a fat crush on you, a human brick wall. wc: 3.2k, request

the floor of the aoba johsai gymnasium was cold, hard, and unforgiving, which was fitting because it perfectly matched the emotional vibe you had been radiating for the last forty-five minutes.

oikawa was currently defying several laws of physics and human dignity by sprawling himself across the polished wood, his chin resting on his crossed forearms as he tracked your every move. to the untrained eye, he looked like a golden retriever that had been left out in the rain and was now begging for scraps. to iwaizumi, he looked like a pathetic biohazard that needed to be swept into a dustpan and thrown into the nearest incinerator.

but to you? you were just putting your water bottle into your duffel bag.

“y/n-chan,” oikawa crooned, his voice hitting a pitch that only dogs and desperately lonely teenagers could hear. “did you see my serve today? the one where i absolutely obliterated the water bottle on the other side? it was like a meteor strike. a beautiful, majestic, athletic marvel.”

you pulled the zipper of your bag shut. the noise it made was significantly louder than your actual response.

“yeah,” you said.

oikawa’s soul practically left his body and did a little victory dance before slamming back into his ribcage. ‘yeah. she said yeah!’ that was an affirmative! that was a confirmation of his existence! she had perceived him!

“wasn’t it amazing? didn’t it make your heart do a little flip-flop? like a pancake?” he scrambled to his knees, ignoring the protesting creak of his joints. his brown eyes were wide, glittering with the intensity of a thousand burning suns, and if he had a tail, it would have been clearing the equipment off the nearby benches. “i practice that just for you, you know. to dazzle you. to sweep you off your feet so violently that you require medical attention.”

“cool,” you replied.

you slung the bag over your shoulder and stood up. you didn’t look at him with disdain, which was the tragedy of it. you didn’t look at him with annoyance. you looked at him with the calm, neutral serenity of a person observing a moderately interesting boulder.

oikawa clutched his chest, gasping for air as if you had just physically reached in and squeezed his lungs. he was so violently down bad for you that it was actively lowering his blood pressure. he was a puddle. a heap of absolute mush. if you told him to go bark at a passing car, he would ask which brand of sedan you preferred him to target.

iwaizumi walked past, dribbling a volleyball, and used his free hand to shove the back of oikawa’s head. “stop acting like a dying victorian maiden, shittykawa. she’s trying to go home.”

“iwa-chan, you brute! you’re interrupting a monumental romantic breakthrough!” oikawa shrieked, popping up to his feet like a jack-in-the-box powered by pure desperation. he smoothed down his alien-themed t-shirt and bounced over to your side, refusing to let the heavy atmosphere of your nonchalance crush his spirits. “y/n-chan, let me carry your bag. it looks heavy. it looks like it’s weighing down your delicate, beautiful shoulders, and as your future husband, it’s my sworn duty to protect your posture.”

“it’s just towel and a water bottle,” you noted, handing it to him anyway because, hey, free labor is free labor.

the way he seized that bag was nothing short of feral. he held it against his chest like it was a sacred relic containing the secrets of the universe, inhaling deeply as if your fabric softener was the finest french perfume. it was terrifying, really. if anyone else did it, you’d probably call the police. but oikawa carried an aura of chaotic, puppy-like sincerity that made his borderline deranged behavior feel strangely domestic.

you started walking toward the exit, and he fell into step beside you instantly, his stride matching yours with a precision that hinted at hours of subconscious practice.

“so,” oikawa started, his voice dripping with hopeful honey. “since we’re both done and the sun is setting in a highly cinematic fashion, would you care to accompany me to get milk bread? my treat. i’ll buy you anything you want. i’ll buy you the whole bakery. i’ll buy you the plot of land the bakery stands on.”

“sure,” you said, shoving your hands into your jacket pockets.

oikawa stopped dead in his tracks. his brain short-circuited. the internal gears jammed, sparks flew, and a tiny windows error sound echoed in the depths of his mind. sure. you didn’t say no. you didn’t give a vague excuse about having to wash your goldfish. you said sure. he covered his face with his free hand, letting out a high-pitched, muffled whine of pure, unadulterated adoration. you were destroying him. you were picking him apart atom by atom with single-syllable words. he was a grandmaster at volleyball, the great king of the court, a heartthrob with a fan club that required crowd control, and here he was, reduced to a quivering mess of jelly because a girl who talked like an automated text-to-speech program agreed to walk to a convenience store with him.

“y/n-chan,” he whined, jogging to catch up again, his face flushed a furious shade of pink. “you can’t just do that to a man’s heart. it’s fragile. it’s a delicate ecosystem. you are global warming and i am a helpless polar bear.”

“it’s just bread, tōru,” you said mildly.

hearing your voice utter his first name caused his knees to buckle. he actually stumbled, catching himself on the doorframe of the gym. “say it again.”

“what?”

“my name. say it again. put me in a coffin, y/n-chan. bury me six feet under with the sweet, sweet sound of your voice.”

you blinked at him. your face remained a masterpiece of blankness, though the corner of your mouth twitched by approximately half a millimeter. “tōru. let’s go.”

he let out a sound that could only be described as a tea kettle reaching maximum boiling capacity. he followed you out of the school gates, clutching your gym bag to his chest with enough force to fuse the fibers together, grinning like a complete and utter madman.

the walk to the convenience store was a masterclass in contrasting energies.

on the left, there was you: walking in a straight line, hands in pockets, looking like you were contemplating the existential dread of a monday morning. on the right, there was oikawa: vibrating at a frequency that was probably disruptive to local radar systems, talking at a rate of two hundred words per minute, and aggressively gesticulating with his free hand.

“and then i told matsukawa that there was no way his block was better than mine, because my blocks are fueled by the power of love and aesthetics, whereas his blocks are fueled by spite and bad memes. don’t you agree, y/n-chan? don’t you think my presence at the net is like a gorgeous, impassable brick wall made of marble and gold?”

“hmm.. well, you’re tall,” you offered.

oikawa pressed a hand to his forehead, reeling back as if you had struck him with a physical blow of overwhelming affection. “tall! she thinks i’m tall! i’m a giant in her eyes! a colossus! a titan of romance!”

“i mean, objectively. the door frames are a struggle for you.”

“it is a struggle i gladly bear for you! i will duck under every doorway in the world if it means i can stand by your side!” he leaned in closer, invading your personal space with zero shame and one hundred percent intent. his shoulder brushed against yours, and he didn’t pull away. instead, he leaned into the contact, walking with a slight tilt just to maintain that friction. “you’re a little smaller compared to me. it’s adorable. i want to put you in my pocket and carry you around like a little hamster.”

“i would suffocate,” you noted, your voice monotone.

“worth it! the pure joy of being near me would sustain your oxygen levels!” he laughed, a bright, bubbly sound that filled the quiet evening air.

it was a strange dynamic, and anyone watching from the outside would assume oikawa was harassing a very bored stranger. but the truth was, you weren’t bored at all. your heart was doing heavy metal drum solos against your ribs, and the warmth radiating from where his shoulder pressed against yours was making your ears burn. you just weren’t built for grand displays of emotion. your brain didn’t process feelings through your face or your vocal cords; it processed them by simply existing in the space someone carved out for you.

and oikawa was carving out a space the size of a small country.

you reached the convenience store, the little chime at the door announcing their arrival. oikawa immediately made a beeline for the bakery aisle, dragging you along by the sleeve of your jacket.

“okay, y/n-chan! the feast of champions! what do you want? chocolate? strawberry? this one that looks like a bear? i’ll buy them all. i’m a sugar daddy. i have pocket money and i’m not afraid to use it.”

“just the plain milk bread is fine,” you said, pointing to the shelf.

“classic! elegant! pure! just like your soul!” oikawa grabbed three packs of milk bread, a carton of strawberry milk for himself, and your favorite drink, which he had memorized three months ago after intense, covert observation that borderlined on espionage.

at the counter, he paid with a flourish that was entirely unnecessary for a transaction involving baked goods. he took the plastic bag from the cashier, hooked it over his finger, and beamed down at you.

“to the park! to consume our victory meal under the stars!”

the park was mostly empty, save for a few stray pigeons and the distant sound of traffic. you both sat down on a wooden bench under a streetlight that cast a warm, yellow glow around you. the air was crisp, carrying the scent of cut grass and the looming promise of spring.

oikawa tore open a pack of milk bread and held it out to you with both hands, looking like he was offering a sacrifice to an ancient, powerful deity. “the finest bread in the prefecture for the finest girl in the universe.”

“thanks,” you said. you took a bite. it was soft, sweet, and comforting.

oikawa ripped off a piece of his own bread and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing happily. for a few glorious seconds, there was silence. the boy who never stopped talking was actually quiet, his eyes fixed on the sky where the first few stars were starting to poke through the twilight.

you looked at him out of the corner of your eye. without the exaggerated expressions and the dramatic whining, oikawa was breathtakingly handsome. the soft yellow light of the street lamp hit the bridge of his nose and the sharp line of his jaw. his brown hair was messy from practice, a few strands falling over his forehead. he looked human. soft.

he caught you looking.

instead of teasing you or making a loud joke, his expression softened into something so tender it felt illegal to look at. his lips curved into a small, genuine smile that didn’t reach for the cameras or the fan girls. it was just for you.

“y/n-chan,” he said softly, his voice dropping an octave, losing its performative edge. “you have a little bit of bread on your face.”

before you could lift your hand to wipe it away, he leaned in. his movements were slow, deliberate, giving you all the time in the world to pull back. you didn’t. you sat there, frozen, as his thumb gently brushed against the corner of your lips. his skin was warm, a little calloused from thousands of volleyball reps, but his touch was as light as a feather.

he didn’t pull his hand away immediately. his thumb lingered on your cheek, tracing a small, slow circle. his eyes were dark, focused entirely on your face, and the sheer gravity of his gaze made you feel like you were being pulled into orbit around him.

“you’re really pretty,” he murmured.

your heart skipped a beat. then it skipped another one. your face, usually a fortress of indifference, betrayed your face burning so hot it could rival the sun. “it’s dark. you can’t see.”

“i have 20/20 vision when it comes to you, my love,” he whispered, leaning in a fraction closer. his breath smelled faintly of sweetness. “i could see your beauty in a pitch-black cave during a power outage. i could feel it. you radiate it.”

you swallowed hard. your vocabulary, which was already limited to bare-minimum survival phrases, had completely evaporated. you were running on emergency backup systems.

“tōru,” you managed to say, your voice a little breathless.

“yes, darling? light of my life? center of my solar system?” he was smiling now, a blinding, beautiful thing that made you want to hide your face in his jacket.

“your face is very close.”

“is it? i hadn’t noticed. maybe i should get closer to investigate the phenomenon,” he teased, though his eyes weren’t joking at all. he looked at you with such intense, unbridled devotion that it made you feel like the most important person to ever walk the earth.

you gathered all the emotional energy you possessed, reached up, and placed your hand over his, which was still resting on your cheek. your hand was smaller, cooler, but as soon as you made contact, oikawa’s eyes widened.

you didn’t pull his hand away. you just held it there, leaning your face slightly into his palm.

“i like you too,” you said. it was simple. it was plain. it lacked the metaphors about polar bears and ancient gods. but it was yours.

oikawa ceased to function.

he didn’t scream. he didn’t faint. he just stared at you, his mouth falling open slightly, his eyes blowing wide. a single tear, dramatic and glistening, actually welled up in the corner of his left eye.

“y/n-chan,” he breathed, his voice cracking like a middle schooler going through puberty. “did you... did you just confess to me? is this real? am i dreaming? iwa-chan definitely hit me too hard with a volleyball and i’m currently in a coma in the nurse’s office.”

“you’re not in a coma,” you said, pulling your hand back, though the blush on your face hadn’t faded one bit. “don’t make me take it back.”

“no! absolutely not! no refunds! no returns! the transaction is complete!” oikawa surged forward, wrapping his long arms around your waist and burying his face in the crook of your neck. he squeezed you so tightly you could hear the air leaving your lungs in a soft huff. “oh my god, you like me. you actually like me. i’m the luckiest man alive. i’m the king of the world. aliens are real and they are witnessing my triumph.”

you sat there, engulfed in the scent of sweat, expensive shampoo, and strawberry milk, feeling the violent thudding of his heart against your chest. you slowly raised your arms and wrapped them around his broad shoulders, patting his back awkwardly.

“tōru, you’re squishing me.”

“i’m fusing our atoms together so we never have to be apart!” he wailed into your shoulder, laughing and sniffing at the same time. he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes brimming with a manic, overwhelming affection that made you dizzy. “this means we’re dating. i’m your boyfriend. i get to hold your hand in the hallways. i get to carry your books. i get to fight off all the unworthy peasants who dare to look in your general direction.”

“sure,” you said, the small, rare smile finally breaking through the ice of your expression.

oikawa let out another high-pitched noise of pure bliss and kissed your cheek. it was loud, sloppy, but it was the most romantic thing that had ever happened to you.

𓏵

the next morning, the entire aoba johsai volleyball team was gathered in the gym for morning practice, but productivity was at an all-time low.

this was because oikawa was sitting on the bench, staring at a small, hair tie on his wrist with the expression of a man who had just been handed the keys to heaven.

“he’s been like that for twenty minutes,” matsukawa whispered, leaning on his broom. “it’s creepy. he looks like he’s trying to communicate with it telepathically.”

“it’s her hair tie,” hanamaki said, shaking his head in pity. “he stole it from her bag yesterday after she confessed. he told me he’s going to frame it and hang it over his bed.”

iwaizumi walked over to oikawa, holding a clipboard, and looked down at the captain with pure, unadulterated disgust. “shittykawa. if you don’t stand up and start stretching in the next five seconds, i’m going to serve a ball directly into your spine.”

oikawa didn’t even flinch. he just lifted his wrist, pointing to the hair tie. “iwa-chan, look at it. look at the craftsmanship. the elastic integrity. the subtle hue of emerald green. she gave it to me.”

“she didn’t give it to you, you kleptomaniac, you took it when she wasn’t looking,” iwaizumi snapped.

“she didn’t stop me! that is a non-verbal agreement of romantic entanglement!” oikawa stood up, clutching his chest dramatically, his eyes shining with tears of joy. “you cannot comprehend the depth of our connection, iwa-chan. we speak on a higher plane. she says ‘yeah’ and it means ‘i love you with the burning passion of a thousand supernovas’. she says ‘sure’ and it means ‘let us elope to a tropical island and build a dynasty of gorgeous, athletic children’.”

you chose that exact moment to walk into the gym, holding a stack of clipboards for the coach. you had your normal, unreadable expression on your face, your hands moving mechanically as you set the clipboards down on the table.

oikawa’s head whipped around so fast he probably gave himself whiplash. “y/n-chan! my beloved! the morning sun of my life!”

he bolted across the gym floor, sliding on his knees for the last three feet until he was bowing at your feet, resting his forehead against your sneakers.

“good morning,” you said, looking down at his brown hair.

“it is a glorious morning! the birds are singing, the sky is blue, and you are here to bless my eyes with your presence!” he looked up at you, his chin resting on your shoe, blinking with massive, watery puppy eyes. “give me a percentage, y/n-chan. how much do you love me today? on a scale from one to a billion?”

you looked at him for a long, quiet moment. the entire gym went dead silent, everyone holding their breath to see how the resident dry-humored manager would handle the absolute weapon of mass affection kneeling at her feet.

you reached down and patted the top of his head twice, like you were praising a particularly obedient golden retriever.

“hundred.” you said.

oikawa let out a noise that sounded like a deflating balloon, collapsing entirely onto the floor in a heap of pure, unadulterated bliss, fully convinced that he was the main character of the greatest romance novel ever written.

n: as you can see, i gave up on not using honorifics since it gives life whenever it’s oikawa. also there’s a little height comparison PLEASE PLEASE DON’T TORCH ME

tōru’s taglist 1/3

@lsirria @cvntyandfasionable @the-bloopsters @trulyylee @nelinkythoughts @kukikoooo @sleepykeijiii @briestrom94 @averys-place @reverd-ck @sxnnee @anzuuhoshi @evilari111 @rabbitcola @nivabiva @yeonette @forgottensniper @katzline @michexoxo @meonelixir @asthmaticasma @pelicanpizza @x3nafix @han0vyc @keiob @depressinglyobsessed @babybird-meena @ghostwifeyy @bigdaddyyaoii @mptality @crystal-lilac @methiart @wensurr @emotiandon @alyriaschoenheit @rafsbeloved @suha-reads @adagio4strings @sillylule @horanghaepaws @imjustanobody2024 @hibernatinghamster @olliesoxenfree @mitzukita @griffincorn @fiannee @tsukkislala @starzlytoetsie @nekoffie @littlemissfix-itfic @kuroofangirl67

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners !

iloveu

[itadoriahh]

a pic from yuuji’s camera roll <3 little harder to look back on after shibuya but he can’t bring himself to delete it (it’d be like losing them all over again)

[nghtwngs]

How am I just realizing now that in addition to writing my favorite Shane fic, you also wrote one of my favorite Dex fics, Vampire Love???

Ugh, you’re so fucking talented. 💖

Is there any chance of us getting a deeper look into how vamp!reader and Dex met and got together?

omg vampire love is one of my fav fics i’ve ever written so thank you so much!!! you’re so kind ahhh and i wrote your favorite shane fic?? that’s such an honor wow

i definitely want to write another installment in the future since i had a lot of fun with those characters!! i’d love to go more in depth with reader’s struggles with vampirism and the bloodlust that comes with it! and probably dex helping reader come to terms with it or smth

i’ve been trying to think of a meetcute for vamp!reader and dex for awhile now, but i honestly just totally blank 😖 but i imagine it’s probably either something just as absurd as the night they found out each other’s secret, or something totally way too normal for very abnormal people like them, and no in-between 😭

forgive me for not having finished the sequel to i wanna make you so proud, i am currently going through major writer’s block and have not had the motivation lately to continue it. i was going so strong 😭 but every time i open the draft now, i immediately close out of it haha

[katebeckets]

Timeless favorites [18/?] ⤷ 1.14 — “The Lost Generation” (1927)

[catopoliscat]

next time / kento nanami/fem!reader.

who would have thought that kento nanami was a virgin? not you. not after this long. perhaps he was saving himself for someone. perhaps he was waiting for you.

tags: nsfw. 18+. fem!reader. afab reader. penetrative sex. alcohol. dry humping. virgin!nanami. mutual pining. friends to lovers. creampie (wrap it kids). unprotected sex. touch-starved!nanami. canon!verse. you've known nanami since school. tinges of angst. nanami wanted you bad lmao. it's love babey. reader has experience. no use of y/n or any other placeholders. ever. wc: 7.7k. a/n: i kind of fear nanami's a little ooc here lmao, but i've spent too long on this so fuck it we ball he deserves this

also how mad would you be if i said this was set a week before shibuya arc be honest

mdni.

You’re a bottle and half of zinfandel deep when Nanami tells you. 

Although you’re both a little warm, tipsy perhaps, you didn’t think either of you were quite drunk enough for this conversation just yet. It was a regular occurrence for the two of you to share a drink on a Friday, or a bottle in more pressing times. 

There were more bottles than glasses, lately. 

It was just two old friends, catching up. Talking. Complaining--usually about Satoru. Often you’d reminisce on easier times. Warm summers in the Jujutsu High courtyard, the cold tin of a soda in your hands, a bottle of water in his. Quiet talks of dreams and eventualities. Ignoring the gaping absence of a third at between you. 

Tonight though, you’re not sure when the topic had changed. Somewhere between the last dregs of the first bottle and the beginning of the second, the conversation had grown more sombre than usual. Talk of love and relationships always seemed to make the air heavier around the two of you, for different reasons. A stark air of loneliness that not even the most tart of white wine could overpower.

You had offhandedly mentioned turning down one of the windows you had met on your last mission. He had been younger than you, still full of life where the holes in yourself had long since emptied it out. You had shaken your head, flattered, but tired. There were better options for a man like him, still full of hope and vitality, a whole life ahead of him… when you knew any day yours could be cut deftly short. 

You had told yourself it had little to do with the fact that the man’s bright smile had reminded you of another, so many years ago.  

In the quiet of Nanami’s living room, swirling the last drops of your wine in your glass, you had mentioned that you had no real desire for relationships anymore. Other than sex, of course, but only sexual. A temporary release, one of the few you had left. Nameless faces and hurried touches. Sometimes clinical, sometimes primal. Always quick, and never the same person twice. 

You know?

To which Nanami had replied, “No.” 

Misunderstanding the gravity of what he was saying, you had raised an eyebrow, a curious smile playing at your lips. “Not one for one-night stands?” 

It occurs to you distantly that you don’t know a lot about Nanami’s romantic life. Close as you two were, or so you liked to believe, he had never really mentioned it. And you had never asked. 

Nanami had shook his head in response to your question, and you had nodded. It aligned with his character, you thought. As cold and stoic as he liked to act, you couldn’t imagine a world where he would use and discard someone. He felt too much, cared too much. He would love too much too, if given the chance. If he gave himself the chance. 

In your musings, you had almost missed what he had murmured next. 

“I’ve never had sex at all.” 

Kento Nanami. A virgin.

The confession has your lips parting, your eyes blinking. Once, then twice, akin to an owl. You glance down at your wine glass for a moment, as if it had been the slightly smeared glass that had been speaking to you instead, and not the esteemed stoic sorcerer you had known for the better part of ten years. 

You look over at Nanami on the couch, but he’s staring at the carpet, his expression contemplative, almost pensive. His brows are drawn taut, a small knit on his forehead. His lips are drawn into a thin line, a slight crease in his chin. There was a specific emotion dancing in his eyes. You almost dared to use the word vulnerable.

It seems… ridiculous. Nanami? Attractive as he was? Kind, considerate, hard-working, to a degree. A woman’s dream. In another life, perhaps your dream too.

Had it not been for Nanami’s serious demeanour, and the fact that ‘joke’ and ‘Nanami’ rarely went together in the same sentence, you might have thought he was pulling your leg. A joke between friends. 

But he wasn’t. He very clearly wasn’t. 

“That’s… fine,” you finally say after a small moment, fearing you had let the silence linger too long. “There’s no rush for these things.” 

Nanami’s hum is short and clipped. Gruff, almost. He still refuses to meet your eye for now, and you make no move to change that. You get the distinct feeling that this newfound vulnerability doesn’t stem from him never having sex, but rather, the reason why he’s denied himself - because you know for a fact it has little to do with opportunity. 

You had lost track of how many women you had watched Nanami turn down, clipped and short, yet always polite. 

The silence is heavy between you. In the other room, you can hear the hum of his refrigerator, the buzz of the bulbs in the lights. Nanami’s apartment has always been quiet, but this silence feels suffocating. Paired with the wine, your head feels thick, your tongue thicker. 

A few moments pass, and as the revelation of his virginity settles into your stomach like seltzer water, you realise… it makes sense. Nanami wasn’t the type to use someone for sex, even if eager. He’d only have sex with someone he was in love with. Someone he trusted at the very least. 

And Nanami, as he had told you and a few others before, refused to entertain the thought of love whilst he was a sorcerer. No one with two working brain cells needed to ask why. He wasn’t alone in that choice, either. 

You toy with the stem of your wineglass whilst you toy with a reoccurring thought in your mind, one that you entertained often, but had yet to voice aloud. 

“You shouldn’t keep depriving yourself, Kento,” you say quietly. The use of his first name, rarely used in your adulthood, garners you a glance from him. It’s a small sign that you’re taking this seriously. 

“I’m not deprived of anything.” 

You scoff at that, small and quiet. “You deprive yourself of a lot, apart from pain,” you drawl, setting your wine glass down on the coffee table. Like always, the wine and Nanami’s masochistic tendencies have your tongue loosening more than it should. “I understand not wanting to have sex with anyone you’re not in a committed relationship with. It’s kind of… admirable, and definitely you.” You fold your arms across your chest, fixing him with a stare that he still refuses to meet head-on. “But why deny yourself the chance of love?” 

In the back of your mind somewhere is a voice chanting ‘hypocrite’, but you ignore it. Nanami, however, does not. 

He finally turns his head to face you, the lines underneath his eyes seemingly heavier in the dim light of his apartment. An eyebrow arches. “And meaningless sex is different?”

You scoff again, louder this time. “It’s not meaningless just because I don’t love my partner.” 

“Or even know their name?” 

You raise a sharp eyebrow, your own lips now pressing into a thin line. A part of you wants to retort, to snap, but you remember the vulnerability in his face from a few moments ago, and you just about hold your tongue.

With an exhale, you grab the half-empty wine bottle off of the coffee table instead and gesture for Nanami to hold out his glass. He does, and the glug of the wine fills the space between you.

“You ever thought about it?” You ask, filling up your own glass. In your peripheral, you see him sit quietly for a moment before he nods his head. 

“I’m only human.” 

You hum. “You should experience it,” you add. You swirl the wine in your glass once before bringing it up to your lips. “Even once. Even if it means nothing.”  

With one glance, you can tell immediately that the idea doesn’t sit right with him. It was easy to forget sometimes how rigid and traditional he could be. Formalities that few seemed to care about these days. Always on the things you least expected. 

“I couldn’t,” Nanami replies, shaking his head. 

Oddly, you feel the desire to insist. Days of a sorcerer were short, and getting shorter every year. Younger than yourself and Nanami had already died long before they would ever have the opportunity to touch another, kiss another; to feel the warmth of a body against your own. They would never know what that distinct pleasure was like, even if they desperately wanted to. Time was infinite to the young, until it wasn’t.  

It occurs to you quickly that you’re thinking of Haibara, and everything you and Nanami had experienced that he never would. 

Something must show in your expression because Nanami raises an eyebrow at you. You swallow, before setting your glass back down on the coffee table with a dull clink. You look at him, your face surprisingly collected and casual for what you’re about to ask. 

“What about me?” 

Nanami’s questioning look only deepens for a moment, before something passes by his eyes. His lips part, his version of a falter. You know he knows what you’re implying, but still, he asks, “…what about you?” 

“What if we had sex?” You say without hesitation. “You know me. You trust me.” 

Nanami falters further. He straightens in his seat, his glass resting on his thigh, the thick muscle straining against his slacks. His whole body is thick with a tension you usually only see before a fight with a particularly highly graded curse. A vein protrudes from his neck.

His eyes flick between your face and your own glass, clearly wondering if it is time to call this night done, but you rise from your seat before he can, taking a small step toward the couch he’s sitting on. 

You sit down next to him, a little closer than you usually might. He doesn’t move away. Your thigh brushes against his, and this close, you can hear his breath hitch in response. 

“I’m not going to push this any further, Kento,” you say quietly, “but I’m letting you know it’s an option.” 

Although you and Kento were hardly affectionate with one another like most friends, you decided to take a chance tonight. You had already taken several, what was one more?

Reaching out, you take his glass from his hand and set it next to yours on the coffee table. Hesitating only a moment, you place your hand on top of his, your fingers curling around until your fingertips touch his palm.

His hand is stiff and warm underneath your own. The bones and knuckles press against your skin.

Something in the back of your mind is wondering why you’re pushing this at all. Would it matter if Nanami died without experiencing the pleasures of the body, really? Would the world stop turning for either of you? You know if Nanami really wanted to, if he felt the want, the desire - then he could leave this apartment right now and find someone willing, someone other than you. He could have done so years ago, during those few years he had masqueraded as a normal human being with a nine-to-five. 

You were risking a friendship over… what? The implied hopes and dreams of a dead fifteen-year-old? Haibara was dead. It didn’t matter to him whether Nanami experienced the things he never could. 

Nanami’s gaze flickers between your eyes for a moment, and this close, you can see the faint traces of the wine staining his lips. Your gaze must linger for a touch too long because his tongue swipes across his bottom lip. The pink skin glistens with the faint glimmer of his saliva.

When you look up, you see his eyes trained on your own lips, before they quickly flick back up to meet your eyes. 

“We’re friends,” he murmurs, his voice low, slightly thick. 

“And we always will be,” you reply.

He glances down at your hands. Somewhere between your own thoughts and Nanami’s reiteration of your friendship, your hands had interlocked, fingers intertwined like vines. He was gripping your hand a little too tightly to be comfortable, but you didn’t flinch. 

You’re not sure whether it had been your subconscious doing, or his. 

“I… can’t,” Nanami mutters finally, closing his eyes for a moment. “Not like this. Not… now.” 

Something clenches in your heart at his rejection, although you had expected it. You’re not sure if it’s because he’s denying you, or himself. 

You smile softly nonetheless and nod. “If you ever change your mind, you know where to find me,” you say quietly, going to pull your hand from his grip and give him some space. 

Only he doesn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightens slightly. 

Your eyes flick between his hand and his eyes, still trained on your face. You raise an eyebrow, your lips parting to speak, but he beats you to it. 

“But I’d like to kiss you.” 

Something resembling a very quiet ‘uh’ pushes past your lips in a long exhale.

You’re not sure why the idea of kissing him felt more… intimate than the fact that you had offered your body to him only seconds prior. You’re not sure why there’s a prickle of heat at the back of your neck or your lips burn with a sudden need.

“Nanam-“

As if remembering himself, he shakes his head slightly, blinking away whatever stupor had just possessed him. He looks away, his grip on your hand loosening, but not quite pulling away. 

“I… don’t know why I said that,” he mumbles. “You should go-“

Your free hand is already gripping his chin, turning his face toward yours a little too sharply. A subtle grunt leaves his throat as he looks at you, his gaze foggier than usual. From the wine, you, or the whole situation? Who knows. 

Fingers against his neck, feeling the quickened thrum of his pulse, your thumb brushes against his chin, pulling the skin until his lips naturally part. You feel Nanami’s shaky exhale against your lips as you lean forward, warmth breath mingling with yours, the scent of wine heavy on the air. 

You close the distance slowly, giving him time to stop this, to pull or push away. To draw an end to this nonsense before it went any further. 

Instead of pulling back or pushing you away, he closes the gap so quickly your noses almost bump together. 

The first press of his lips against you feels hurried and unsure. It’s off-center slightly, barely hitting the corner of your mouth, but Nanami is quick to correct it. He slots his lips against yours more firmly the second time, his lips parting to capture yours fully. You feel a rush of air against your cheek as he exhales through his nose. 

The kiss is unhurried, curious almost, yet there’s a subtle urgency in it that surprises you. Your free hand moves from his chin to his jaw, fingertips softly caressing the sharp curve of it. The sound and feel of his sigh against your lips makes you shiver, and you become enamoured with it. 

Enamoured with him.

You part your lips further, your tongue swiping against his bottom lip, finally tasting the remnants of the wine that you had spotted earlier. An odd sound builds at the back of his throat before his mouth parts too, his tongue brushing against yours. 

Something changes quickly then. His hand, larger than you ever really noticed, cups the back of your neck, his calloused thumb pressing against your jaw, drawing you closer. Your other hands, still intertwined, seem to tighten around one another like a snake's coils. The wet smacks of your lips grow louder in the quiet of his apartment, just about overriding the sound of increasingly ragged breaths, borderline panting. 

Your head feels thick. Dizzy. The kiss is indulgent, almost sloppy now. Nanami’s tongue is in your mouth, exploring every crevice, tasting you with an eagerness you hadn’t thought he was capable of. Every time you brush your tongue against his, your taste buds wetly sliding against his own, a small sound rumbles in the back of his throat, somewhere between a groan and grumble. 

After a moment that feels like an eternity too short, you pull back slightly, just enough to see his eyes as you open yours. Nanami denies you this, however, because when you open your eyes, his are still closed, almost scrunched. A faint frown tugs at his brow. 

He leans forward until his forehead rests against yours. The heat of his skin against yours feels searing, your noses softly brushing against one another’s. He sighs deeply, as if pulled from the back of his chest. It almost sounds like defeat. 

“Kento-“

“I want you,” he breathes out, and your voice almost hitches as you feel rather than hear his voice. It’s a deep, husky sound, more rumble than syllable. But there’s a crack in his tone belying a raw vulnerability that you weren’t familiar with. Not from him.

His eyes finally open, looking up at you from underneath his brow. His hazel eyes are almost black, you realise, the familiar colour you’ve always admired swallowed up by a sea of coal. You wonder if yours are the same. 

He’s trembling too. You can feel his fingertips shake where they press against the nape of your neck. 

“I thought you didn’t want… this,” you murmur. ‘Sex’ suddenly feels too…

“I changed my mind,” he replies, a touch too quickly for you to believe that he was thinking clearly. 

But God, did you want him too. You want him so fucking bad it almost makes you ache. Your feelings toward Nanami had always been friendly, respectful. He had been your closest friend, your ally, your confidant. You had been through so much together. You liked him, every part. 

And somewhere along the way, between the four years apart as he pursued a different life and the first time you had hugged him when he finally returned, Gojo grinning over his shoulder… you think, that like had changed to love.

It quickly occurs to you that you weren’t pushing Nanami to experience sex for fear of him missing out. That was you. You were scared of missing out on him.

It’s that revelation that makes you pull back slightly, and Nanami’s eyes widen a little, some of the hazy fog clearing. His hand slides from the back of your neck, falling limply against the couch next to your thigh. 

“I… I shouldn’t have put you in this position,” you mutter, glancing away, staring at the two wine glasses on the coffee table before looking back at him. “It’s your choice. Your first time should be on your terms, not because I think you’re missing out or depriving yourself.”

You go to remove your hand from his, but once again, his grip tightens, but there’s a tenderness to it this time. A gentle squeeze, almost begging you not to go. Not yet. 

He looks serious now, staring at you squarely, as if about to deliver a mission report, and its the first familiar expression you’ve seen on his face thus far. He swallows thickly, the only thing belying his hesitation. 

“I said I couldn’t have a one-night stand.” 

You frown. “And th-“

“I don’t want this to be a one-night stand.” 

Some of the breath flees your lungs as you look at him. His lips are still pink and slightly swollen from kissing, his cheeks still slightly flushed from the wine and your touch. You become distinctly aware of the scent of his cologne, faded but warm from his skin. It’s soft, smoky almost. You have the urge to bury his nose in the crook of his neck and breathe.

You know what he’s trying to say, what he’s trying to ask. You know what he wants because you want it too. You realise you’ve wanted it for a long damn time. 

Words fail you. They feel… inadequate to describe what you’re feeling, what you desire, what you’ve always desired buried down underneath the guilt and trauma. 

But you still can’t bring yourself to say it out loud. Not here. Not yet. 

And neither can he.

You’re not sure who makes the first move, all you know is that your lips are pressed against his and he moans into your mouth as if something had finally let go. It’s like a cork had finally been released, a lifetime of pent-up feelings pouring out in one gush. 

His hand is back at the nape of your neck, holding you tightly this time, unwilling to let go. His lips part more readily with every press, his tongue seeking yours with a pinpoint determination. You skip his jaw this time altogether, aiming straight for his hair that you’ve been dying to touch since… you don’t know when. 

The hand that had been holding yours hostage finally releases, only so his fingers can brush against your waist. His fingers brush against your ribs through your clothes, tugging you closer until you’re rising up onto your knees on the couch just to oblige. He’s tilting back, his broad shoulders bumping against the couch cushions behind him - and it’s only distantly you register it’s because you’re pushing him back against it. 

Something shouts at you in the back of your mind to take your time, to savour this, to savour him. You may want each other badly, but this is Nanami’s first time. It should be done carefully, respectfully, the way he would treat you if this position had been reversed. 

But then Nanami’s hand has moved from your waist to your thigh, blindly grabbing it as he pulls it over his lap. Before you know it, you’re straddling his hips with a huff against his lips, and something like a sharp, pained groan leaves his lips. 

You pull away from his lips with a ragged breath, concern knitting your brow until you realise what the cause of his groan was. 

Straddling him, you can feel the pulse of his desire underneath you, the hard ridge of the bulge in his pants pressing insistently against your core through your own clothes. One hand is grabbing your hip tightly, almost too tight, as his forehead rests against your shoulder. The other hand is on your thigh, his thumb digging into the plush flesh there. 

His breathing is ragged, extremely so. Hot puffs fall against your skin. You weave your fingers through his hair softly, and you watch with reverence as a strong shudder rolls down his spine in response.

“We can stop, if you’d like,” you murmur against his ear, going to rise up on your knees to give him a little breathing room.

“Don’t,” he grunts, the grip on your hip and thigh quickly stopping you. He exhales again, a shaky sound as he keeps his forehead stamped against your shoulder. His voice emerges again, barely audible, slightly pained. “...I’ve wanted this for so long.”

Your grip in his hair tightens in response. In a flood, memories of him rush through your mind. A thousand different glances, subtle touches, small clues. Even in school, the way he would linger, a touch closer every time Suguru or Satoru would appear. The hand at the bottom of your back in a restaurant. The way he would lean in to hear you in a crowded place. 

The way his arms had tightened around you when he had returned after four years away. I missed you too, almost inaudible against your ear. 

Nanami didn’t want a one-night stand. What was the point of sex at all, if it wasn’t with you? 

The thought has you rolling your hips down against his before you can stop yourself, feeling the firm length of his cock grind against your core. A moan leaves your lips, and something guttural leaves his. 

The hand on your thigh moves up to your other hip, pulling you down tighter against him as if he could slide inside you right now. “Don’t tease,” he hisses between clenched teeth. He turns his head slightly, his lips brushing against your neck. He leaves a searing, open-mouthed kiss against your pulse point. “Not now, not after this long.” 

“You think you’re the only one who waited?” You pant as you grind again, firmer this time. His hips buck against yours in response, a muffled groan leaving his lips, imprinted against your neck. You can feel his cock throb against you, twitching against the fabric that separates you. 

“…you wanted this too?” He breathes out after a moment. 

You nod, though you doubt he can see it from the way his face is buried against the crook of your neck. “Since you came back. Since you hugged me back and said you missed me.” 

His hands move from your hips to wrap tightly around your waist as if he couldn’t bear for a single slither of space to be left between you two. His hips jut up against you once again, a ragged breath leaving his lips. It seems the idea of you wanting him for so long the same as he had the same effect on him as it had on you. If not more. 

He holds you a little tighter, running the sharp point of his nose along your throat as he tilts his head up. Finally, finally, he breaks free of your neck to look up at you, lips parted, eyes almost desperate. 

With a thick swallow, Adam’s apple bobbing, he goes to say something but falters, and murmurs your name instead. His dark eyes flick between your eyes and your lips. His cock twitches underneath you. 

“Please,” is all he can croak out, and the moan that almost leaves your lips would have been primal. 

You nod your head, giving his shoulders a small squeeze, pushing him back slightly. He seems reluctant to let go, but finally relents after a little insistence, reclining back against the couch. His arms unwind and his hands drop to your hips. He looks up at you, clearly waiting for your lead. 

You sit back slightly on his parted thighs, the muscles firm and supportive underneath you. Letting your hands fall from his shoulders, you drag your fingertips slowly down over the expanse of his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin through his wrinkled shirt. As your fingers skate over his abdomen, you feel the muscles flex and roll. Nanami looks at you readily. 

“We should do this properly,” you murmur, your eyes trained on the lower buttons of his shirt, near the waistband of his slacks. “In a bed.” 

Nanami, to your surprise, shakes his head quickly, giving your hips a small squeeze. “We’ve waited long enough.” 

You raise an eyebrow but don’t disagree. Despite the need, the ache, the pulse of your own core, you can’t help but think of if the positions were reversed. The image of candles, roses and soft music fills your mind, Nanami’s guiding hands and murmured praises. It would be slow and romantic. Perfect. 

“Nanami,” you breathe out, almost chastising. With the way his cock is pressing against you, you have no doubt he’s not thinking clearly right now; the thought of having what he had wanted for so long within his grasp clouding rational thought. 

He shakes his head again, a lock of his mussed hair tickling his brow. “Next time.” He shifts, sliding down the couch a little more and spreading his thighs - and in turn, spreading yours. He grips your hips tighter, pulling you a little closer until you’re seated right on top of him. “Next time,” he repeats in a groan. “We’ll go slow. I’ll explore every inch of you, taste you. Now, I just want…” He exhales an unsteady breath, sounding like your name. “I just want you.” 

Your fingers linger near his shirt's lower button, and one of Nanami’s hands unclasps itself from your hip to gently grasp your wrist. He guides your fingertips to the belt buckle, the metal cool against your hot fingers. 

You meet his eyes once more, and his gaze is a paradox of firmness and vulnerability. He’s nervous, you think, but ready. Almost desperately so. 

Without another word, your other hand reaches down to join your other one, and your fingers are surprisingly deft as you slide the leather through the metal. Nanami watches your hands with rapt attention until the belt is loose. Your fingers slide over the metal button of his slacks, and you don’t check in this time. You pop it open before sliding his zipper down, the crackle of the metal teeth as loud as a gunshot between you.

A small sigh of what you think is relief leaves his lips as the fabric parts, giving you a small glimpse of the dark boxers underneath, straining over his cock. A small wet patch blooms at the top, wear his tip would be, and a shudder runs through you. 

Your fingers tuck into the waistband of his underwear, lingering for a moment. You look up at him at the same time he looks up at you. Without a sound, Nanami lifts his hips and you rise up to your knees. 

With a few firm tugs, you manage to inch his slacks and boxers down enough to free him. A small huff leaves his lips as the cooler air of the apartment hits his overheated flesh, and you watch in rapt attention as his cock twitches, the flushed tip glistening already.

It’s longer than you expected. Thicker too. Uncut. A prominent vein runs up the underside of it, and you have the sudden urge to follow it with your finger, or your tongue. 

Nanami shifts underneath you, and you realise you’ve been staring a touch too long.

You pull your eyes away from his cock to meet his eyes, and his breathing seemed to have quickened. Anticipation is making him stiff, almost antsy, a rare sight on a man you’ve rarely ever seen anything of other than composed. 

It’s endearing. 

Reaching down, you satisfy your own urge and run your fingertip up his shaft, following the vein, feeling it pulse steadily to the rhythm of his heart. Nanami’s hips twitch, his eyelids fluttering. Dark eyelashes tickle his cheeks.

When you curl your fingers around him, gripping him firmly at the base, his eyes shoot open, snapping to the sight of him in your palm. You give him one pull upwards, and a bead of pre-cum wells in the divot of his slit. 

“Fuck,” comes out in a very quiet, gruff choke. Your eyebrows rise in surprise, a small smile on your lips. Nanami didn’t always curse, and especially not like that. 

“Language, Nanami,” you tease, and his eyes flick up to you, something indignant and impatient in his eyes. You usually weren’t one to tease, and he wasn’t one to be teased. 

You continue to stroke him slowly for a moment, rubbing your thumb against the sensitive tip. You fingers quickly become tacky, the glide of your hand more fluid, until the lewd wet noise starts to rise to the same level as Nanami’s breathing. He grunts with every upward stroke, his hips twitching underneath you. Had it not been for your weight on top of him, you get the distinct feeling he’d be bucking up into your palm a little more eagerly. His head falls back against the couch, lips parted, his eyes fluttering closed once more as he relaxes more into the sensation. 

It occurs to you that you’ve seldom seen Nanami this relaxed. 

“Are you sure you want to do this here?” you ask, “with me on top?” 

He nods but doesn’t open his eyes. His hands run up from your hips to your waist, a soft caress. “It’ll be… easier for me- hah-“ Another choked groan leaves his lips as you give the head of his cock a small squeeze, and Nanami’s hand flies to your wrist in a blink, stopping you from making another move. 

You feel his cock throbbing in your grasp, and Nanami’s straight-up panting now, his eyes slightly wild as he tilts his head up to look at you. It’s an arousing reality to know that you had just pushed Nanami dangerously close to the edge without even meaning to. 

“I won’t last,” he murmurs, looking up at you, his eyes shining.

 You realise quickly that he’s actually asking a question. Are you sure? 

“This time,” you reply with a small smile. With his hand still around your wrist, you give his cock another squeeze, and he grits his teeth, that vein in his neck protruding once more. You can see the taut muscles in his abdomen flexing from where his shirt has bunched up. 

As much as the idea of making Nanami cum, right here, right now, appeals to you, you relent for now. You’d love nothing more than to watch him spill into your palm, to see the euphoria and bliss play out on his face… but that was for another time. The next time, perhaps. 

You release his cock, letting it fall back against his lower stomach with a dull smack, making him hiss through his teeth. Leaning forward, you brush your lips against his throat, nipping at the skin softly. 

You guide his hands to the waistband of your own bottoms, and he wastes little time in following your unspoken order. The press of your lips against his throat clearly distracts him, but he manages to pull down your clothes enough to leave you in your underwear. You kick them off the sofa haphazardly, not leaving his neck for a single moment. 

He catches you off guard when his hand immediately dives for your sex, cupping your heat through the dampened fabric. You stutter against his neck, gripping onto his shoulders for support in response. 

Your eyelids close, goosebumps erupting across your skin as you feel just how wet you are. “Nanami,” you gasp.

“Kento,” he whispers quickly. Once, then twice, he rubs his palm along your clothed pussy, something guttural building in the back of his throat as you buck down into his touch. “You’re… so wet.” 

The wet spot on the fabric clings tightly to your folds, doing very little to dampen the sensation of his touch. His fingers are exploratory, a tentativeness that belies his lack of experience with this, but his touch, the fact it’s him, here and now, makes up for it all. 

You can’t remember the last time you enjoyed a touch such as this. Not like this. 

Despite toying with Nanami’s cock until he almost burst, hypocritical impatience gets the better of you, and you remove your hand from his shoulders to tug down your own underwear, kicking it off to join the growing pile on the floor. Bare from the waist down, Nanami’s eyes roam over the exposed skin almost hungrily. 

Both calloused hands run up your thighs, pressing into the soft flesh slightly. You see his hand move for your pussy once more, but your fingers are curling back around his cock again before he can distract you. 

Next time, keep parroting in your mind. Next time you can both endure hours of foreplay; touching, kissing, tasting, the whole nine yards. You promise to make him cry out before he even sinks inside you, to run your tongue along every inch of his skin until you’re sick of the taste of him. You’d know he’d do the same. 

But you two had waited long enough. 

Gripping the base of his cock again, you brush it up against your heat, your own slick smearing across him. Nanami’s eyes almost roll back into his head, but he closes his lids before you witness it. You’re faring little better, the mere sensation of having him against you like this, the tip of his cock rubbing up against your clit sending you dizzy. You angle your hips, and just feeling the thick head press against the tight, slick ring of muscle is enough for a moan to already tumble past your lips. 

Something flickers in Nanami’s gaze as he opens his eyes again, honing in on the sight of you braced above him like this. He grips your hips, his touch light, merely supporting you for now. You look back once into his eyes, and go to check in just once more, but he leans forward, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s little more than teeth and raw need. 

His lips pressed against yours, you sink down, the wider head of his cock slipping inside you. Your lips part in a soundless gasp against his mouth, swallowing the ragged groan that leaves his throat. The stretch is slightly more than you’re prepared for. Distantly, you think, skipping foreplay wasn’t the wisest idea, but desperation, need, pushes you forward regardless. 

So you sink down further, inch by inch, and as he slides deeper and deeper, his grip on your hips grows tighter and tighter, until the force of his fingers dulls the ache of his cock kissing your cervix. 

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp as you finally bottom out, hips sitting on top of his. You realise you’re breathless, and that cowgirl might not have been the best position for taking someone of his size. Certainly not in one go, like you just had. 

Nanami is fairing no better. His mouth is agape, his biceps trembling where he clings to you. He seems dazed, winded, panting into your mouth as his arms wind against you. He pulls you forward, and you both moan as his cock seems to slide just that little bit deeper. 

You’re dizzy, strained, stretched out far more than you can ever remember being before. Your eyes are scrunched closed, your forehead knocking against his. Everything feels distant and muffled. It takes you a moment to realise Nanami’s muttering something repeatedly in fragmented gasps.

When you open your eyes, he’s looking at you almost panicked, his eyebrows knitted upward. His teeth are bared, gritted - and it’s now you notice that you’re clenching around him so tight that you’re not sure if you’re causing him more discomfort than pleasure.

You swallow thickly, trying to catch your breath. You’re flushed, prickly heat blooming across your chest and neck. You shift a little, and something pained rumbles from the back of Nanami’s chest in response.  

“Do you want me to stop or-“

“Don’t,” he grunts, his fingers shaking against your back. “Don’t move.” 

The throb of his cock inside you is insistent, and it takes everything in you not to clench tighter around him in response. You know he’s close, dangerously close, and as much as you want to rise up on your knees and slam yourself down on his cock until he’s begging you to stop, you clench your jaw and relax. 

You bury your face in the crook of his neck, kissing his skin softly; small pecks and affectionate touches. He shivers, and his cock still pulses, but slowly, muscle by muscle, he relaxes too, ragged pants dissolving into hot, muted breaths. His arms around you loosen, holding now, not gripping. 

“Tell me when you want me to move,” you whisper against his ear, pressing a small kiss to the lobe. 

He nods, brushing his cheek against yours with a soft sigh. His hand moves from your back upward, until he cups the back of your head, drawing your lips back to his. It’s a soft kiss, loving; slow and sensual slides of wet skin mingling with gentle exhales. Before you know it, and before he says, you’re rolling your hips greedily, just grinding against him for now. 

A guttural sound leaves his lips. His forehead feels hot and sticky pressed against yours like this, a strand of his hair tickling your cheek. 

You feel his thighs shift, widening as far as the slacks still around his thighs can allow, feet planted more firmly into the carpet. The first roll of his hips is disjointed, off rhythm with your own, but the slight drag of his cock against your walls has you moaning brokenly. The second roll, a little more confident, has you pressing your hips down to meet it, and your back arches like a cat.

“Fuck yes,” you moan, your voice thick and throaty. You moan his name, wait for the third shallow thrust, and meet it. “You feel so fucking good.” 

He looks up at you like you hung the stars, his eyes widening at the sound of his name tumbling past your lips like a fractured halo. He loses his rhythm, but you soon pick it back up for him, starting to use your thighs to slide more eagerly down his cock. It’s still shallow, Nanami’s arms around your waist preventing you from really going for it, but you’re unwilling to part from the closeness for now. 

You bounce a few inches at a time, the dull clap of your hips and the lewd squelch of your hot cunt wrapped tight around him filling the air of the apartment. With each bounce, a grunt pushes out from his chest, hot breath fanning across your face. 

Nanami, though inexperienced, starts to let his body guide him. His hips buck up to meet you more confidently, and the growing force of his movements has you keening, fingernails biting into his shoulders. 

You look square into his hooded eyes, breath mingling, and see the flush across his skin, his lips glistening with saliva. You moan again, higher pitched this time, and Nanami’s next thrust has you jolting up a little, nose bumping against his. You clench around him again, and his brow knits together. 

“S-Shit,” he pants, his hips starting to jolt more readily, pushing a little too forcefully into you, quickly losing his rhythm. “I’m not… I’m not going to last…” His movements quicken, grow more erratic, and you’re not even sure he realises. “… you’re so fucking… tight.” 

The last part is little more than a throaty whisper, his voice cracking. You stop meeting his thrusts and instead, widen your stance, tighten your core, and let him take what he needs. The movement, though small, isn’t lost on him, and he looks up at you, emotion swimming heavily in his dark gaze. 

He thrusts up grow more erratic, sloppier, something like a grunt leaving his mouth with every dull thwap of his hips against your ass. His arms tighten around you, fingertips pressing into your skin. A groan, a hiss, and a swallow. The couch creaks and strains. 

“N-Next time - hah - next time… I want t-to feel you cum around me,” he pants, his arms starting to shake. “I’ll give you everything, anything, fuck, I-I’ll keep going until… until… God-“ 

He’s barely pulling out now, a mere inch is all he’s moving, the head of his cock bullying against the soft spot right next to your cervix. Choked, high-pitch moans are the only sounds you can make, and you distantly note you’ve never sounded like before. Not ever. 

You’re getting there, you realise. Not quite close, and definitely not as close as him, but the way his cock fits inside you, the slap of his hips against you, the way he’s looking at you… it’s pushing you there fast. 

But it’s not quite enough. 

“I’m close,” he gasps. “I… where…” 

“Inside,” you reply without hesitation. Something passes by his eyes, a small flicker of concern, perhaps, swimming in the sea of lust and arousal. You try to find your bearings enough to tell him it’s okay, you wouldn’t have taken him inside if you weren’t protected-

-but then his cock is twitching inside you, and Nanami is shaking, shaking underneath you, his thighs jolting, nearly bucking you off his lap altogether. 

With one last slam of his hips against you, buried as deep as he could possibly ago, a long, primal groan leaves him. It’s deep, visceral, easily mistaken for something pained - and it might be the most divine fucking sound you’ve ever heard in your life. 

He buries his face against your throat as his hips buck involuntarily a few times, and you shiver as you feel that familiar warmth bloom inside you. He’s giving you everything, or what feels like it. Your pussy flutters around him, and his fingertips press into you so tight you wouldn’t be surprised to see bruises. 

His heart is hammering against your chest, the thump pounding even in your own chest. Ragged pants and a heavy quiet settles over the living room. His cock continues to twitch inside you, growing weaker with every thud of his heart. 

Nanami doesn’t pull his head from your throat for a long while, his nose pressing into your skin as he pants against you. 

After a moment, he finally swallows. “… I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I… I should have made you-“ 

“Shut up,” you murmur against his warm hair, breathing in the faint scent of sweat and his shampoo. He seems to get the picture, of what you were trying to say. He always did. “Next time,” you add anyway, just to be sure. 

He lifts his head from your skin, looking up at you blearily. You smile fondly as you see his face again, the harsh lines on his brow and his eyes smoother now, no longer creased as they always seemed to be. He looks… so much younger, you think, like this. Relaxed. Sated. 

You brush some of his sweaty hair out of his face, and his eyelids flutter at the brief contact. He seems exhausted, you think.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs as he looks up at you. “I don’t want this to…” His palm moves against your back, sliding down your spine. “I want you. Properly. I always have.” He swallows. “Always.” 

Your eyes soften. He looks at you expectantly, almost vulnerably. 

“You have me,” you murmur in reply, finally. “Properly.” 

A small smile tugs at his lips, and it’s warmer than you’ve ever seen before. Genuine. Light. It’s as if a decade of weight lifts from his broad shoulders, if only briefly. 

He pulls you close once more, his lips pressing against yours softly, lovingly, and the world seems to fade away. 

For now, of course. 

masterlist.

[nghtwngs]

too many of my fictional boyfriends are dead, it’s so fuckin lame

[esshee]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐔𝐒

「 You liked to maintain a safe distance from him, orbiting around him but never closing the gap. 」

✩ pairing. oikawa tooru x gn!reader

✩ genre. angst to fluff, hurt/comfort, romance

✩ warnings. mentions of alcohol, insecurities, slow burn, pining, manga spoilers, reader has hair long enough to tie

✩ wc. 16k

✩ a/n. finally posting this fic! it’s been in the works for years, so i’m glad it's finally complete...

hq!! masterlist

You knew of Oikawa since junior high.

The two of you had attended Kitagawa Daiichi but ran in completely different circles, never crossing paths despite being in the same year.

You only knew of him because you’d been in the same class as his best friend, Iwaizumi Hajime, during your second and third years. While you hadn’t been particularly close, he’d been your deskmate in your second year. You both got along enough to strike up amiable conversations with each other but only in class.

Well, you suppose you were somewhat friendly with one another as he’d felt comfortable enough to gripe about Oikawa’s antics and relentless fangirls for you to listen to and laugh over.

From Iwaizumi, you knew that Oikawa Tooru was a silly, loud, and dramatic boy. But you also knew that he was, in his best friend’s eyes, one of the hardest-working volleyball-loving idiots in the entire world.

From his fangirls and your classmates, you knew that Oikawa Tooru was tall, handsome, charming, and athletic—and had an obnoxiously large and loud fanbase.

His name would roll off the tongues of adolescent and teenage girls, accompanied by dreamy sighs. They’d all looked up to him as though he was Prince Charming or the handsome male lead of a shoujo manga. And, in all honesty, you couldn’t blame them, even back then when you hadn’t known him personally.

He was everything a prepubescent girl could ever want from a guy. From good looks to an approachable persona, he effortlessly sold the image his fans had crafted of him. He hardly turned down the attention and only fuelled their advances, easily dishing out winks and smiles for them to greedily eat up and feed into their romantic fantasies of him.

Hell, you’d even caught some guys who’d scoffed at him flush at his impeccable fan service.

He was a celebrity—untouchable for mere plebeians like you, belonging in a separate world for those who were bolder, brighter, and far away.

In hindsight, you wondered if you would have harboured an unrequited crush on him as your peers had. There was no denying the effortless draw he had over people. The only reason you probably didn’t was that you’d nursed a silly crush of your own. One that had annoyingly carried over into the beginning of high school but fizzled out as you simply grew out of it.

Ultimately, your path did eventually cross with Oikawa’s in Aoba Johsai.

By some mysterious twist of fate, you wound up becoming the manager of the boys’ volleyball team.

Takenouchi Hina, the third-year manager back when you were in your first year, had been on the lookout for a new manager. Later, she admitted to you that she’d wanted to snatch up a first year who hadn’t chosen or joined a club; it had been to her luck that you were one of the last students in your class who hadn’t joined a club by her timely hunt, torn between Home Economics and Photography.

During one lunch period, she’d approached you with a warm smile and invited you to watch their practice before you could completely rule out the volleyball club. Being the good kouhai you were, you couldn’t bring yourself to deny such an earnest plea. And so, after class that day, you awkwardly trailed behind Takenouchi and hesitatingly followed her into the gym, wondering how rude it would be to excuse yourself when you were already there.

Very rude, you’d decided and continued to obediently shadow your senior.

“Takenouchi-san! Hello!” A boy called out from the other side of the court as the two of you drew closer to where the coaches stood.

The greeting caught the attention of the other gym-dwellers, and you found dozens of curious eyes falling on your awkward form trying to hide in the shadow of their manager.

Oh, God. Help me.

The sheer number of people just staring at you intimidated the ever-loving shit out of you. Why were teenage boys so intimidating and imposing and—

A deep voice suddenly cut your thoughts short, and you instinctively turned to the call of your name, eagerly latching onto the familiarity in the voice. Relief immediately flooded your veins and soothed your nerves as you found solace at the sight of the familiar speaker.

Over on the other end of the court, your old classmate, Iwaizumi Hajime, stood with a dumbfounded look on his face—slack jaw, wide eyes, and all.

Is it really that surprising to see me in the gym? Momentarily, you couldn’t tell if you should have been offended by how surprised he appeared. Rather than dwell on that stray—and semi-depressing—thought, you pushed it aside to give him a jerky wave and strained smile.

Your eyes swept past him, intending to survey the rest of the gym before the inevitable and dreadful introductions. However, you unwittingly met the gaze of a certain Oikawa Tooru, who’d been watching you and Iwaizumi with what you could only describe as curiosity and cautious intrigue.

You studied him for a moment longer before tensing and glancing at Takenouchi as she introduced you to the rest of the team. On cue, you greeted them with a proper 90-degree bow and soft stutter of “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

After you straightened up and stiffly accepted the team’s loud greetings, you found yourself studiously avoiding Oikawa’s (still!) curious gaze on you. There was something piercing about his stare—something that made you, honestly, intimidated by the guy you’d heard so much about in junior high.

It felt weird being in the same space as him. You didn’t actually know the boy personally, but you’d heard so much about him from other people—even people close to him like Iwaizumi. It sort of felt like you knew him, but at that moment, you realized that you never really had proper face-to-face interactions with him in your three years at Kitagawa Daiichi.

And for some reason, that made you feel incredibly awkward and a bit like a creep.

In your first year as the volleyball team’s manager, you had slowly but surely gotten closer with the players—especially the ones your age.

Hanamaki Takahiro and Matsukawa Issei were both easygoing guys, so it didn’t take long before you shared inside jokes with them and sought them out for company during lunch. And you had probably felt most comfortable with Iwaizumi out of pure familiarity and an established sense of rapport.

The three of them had helped you comfortably ease into your new role, freely lending a hand as needed, much to your relief and appreciation. Within a couple of months, you even felt comfortable calling them your friends.

That wasn’t to say you didn’t get along with Oikawa—because you did. It did take him a bit longer to warm up to you, having approached you with guarded eyes in the first few months. You were fairly certain that he only started to truly respect you after you’d helped Iwaizumi treat a jammed finger from an Interhigh match against the reigning champions, Shiratorizawa.

Frankly, Oikawa had defied your expectations.

Perhaps it was because you weren’t his best friend like Iwaizumi or a pining fan, but you were surprised by just how cool and indifferent he could be to others. Sure, he was polite and all, but you had seen the calculating glint in his eyes as he watched you, seemingly evaluating you and your every action.

It was only after that jammed finger incident that the ice in his eyes had completely melted, and he started to approach you with genuine smiles. From there, forging a friendship with Oikawa had been surprisingly and pleasantly easy. You found his dramatics amusing, and he seemed to enjoy your reactions, sometimes amping up his antics, if Iwaizumi was to be believed (he had a tendency to exaggerate when it came to the matters of his best friend).

But your friendship with Oikawa did not just end there. In some respects, the setter had come to trust you the most in certain matters over the others.

“Oikawa,” you called out to the boy glaring across the net, his chest rising and falling with each breathless pant.

Staying back after practice and watching over him had been a recent development, starting from the beginning of your second year. The brunet had come up to you one day after club activities and asked if you could stay back with him for extra practice—apparently, the coaches had only permitted it on the condition that someone else stayed back to supervise.

You hadn’t understood why at first, but after having sat through multiple overtime sessions with him, the answer became abundantly clear.

Oikawa had a propensity of working himself to the bone.

You were genuinely concerned for his health and well-being. Sometimes, he looked downright exhausted as the two of you cleaned up. You’d always offer to clean up by yourself, afraid that the boy would topple over or collapse on his way home if he moved around anymore.

Naturally, he brushed aside your offer, insisting that you stayed back for him, so he needed to repay the favour. Any further protests and snatching of balls from his hands went ignored and snatched back. To avoid having the boy expend any more energy, you relented but made sure to take care of the more tedious and laborious tasks as discreetly as you could—though you had a sneaking suspicion that Oikawa picked up on that and played along to keep you happy.

At first, you’d stayed behind because he’d asked. After the first few times, you stayed behind to keep an eye on him to assuage your worries—not that seeing him push himself so much ever really did.

You became a constant presence in the court, worriedly watching Oikawa as he pushed himself with a hunger and drive you didn’t think you could ever understand. You admired him for it, nonetheless.

“Geniuses make me sick.”

The venom in his voice made you tense as you helped Oikawa gather up the balls scattered all over the court.

“What?”

He clutched the ball in his hands tighter, trembling in a way that accentuated his frustration and despair. “I can’t stand geniuses. They don’t need to put in as much effort as I do to pull off the same stunts. If geniuses and people like me put in the same effort, the geniuses will win as long as they have a team of equal skill with my team.”

You startled as he suddenly snapped his head up and gave you an intense look. Envy, anger, hatred, desperation, and sadness swirled in those chocolate orbs, leaving you feeling oddly winded as though he’d sucker-punched you with the unmitigated force of his emotions.

“It’s so unfair.”

Your heart broke at the unadulterated grief and anguish in the boy’s voice.

You could sort of understand where he was coming from, having witnessed those who were effortlessly smart and comfortably sitting at the top of the class while you had to put in the work and tirelessly study to keep up with them. It wasn’t fair, and sure, sometimes, you were bothered by it, but it wasn’t something that… ate you alive. Those were simply the cards you were dealt with. You were alright with being average—content with it, even.

Oikawa evidently wasn’t. In fact, he seemed to abhor the very idea with every fibre of his being.

Life wasn’t fair. And that was a plainly irrefutable truth—one painful in its simplicity yet exhausting in its web of complicated intricacies.

But you didn’t want to say the wrong thing, not knowing nearly enough about volleyball to provide a proper response to such a weighty and loaded statement. You honestly thought Oikawa was a brilliant player. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t a natural-born “genius” or whatever.

He shone brightly on the court, positively beamed with a child-like joy you couldn’t comprehend for simply playing the sport he loved more than anything else in the entire world. You might have been more envious that he had such a life passion if you did not get a glimpse into the suffering it also caused.

“It is unfair,” you found yourself agreeing.

Oikawa blinked at you owlishly, clearly not having expected such a response. You absently wondered if all he’d heard until that point was disagreement or a challenge to his impassioned words.

“Don’t discredit the fruits of hard work, Oikawa,” you told him softly but with firm conviction. “Your dedication and effort will surely pay off.” It had to. You refused to believe that such a dedicated and talented individual like Oikawa would not reap the rewards of his passionate drive and effort.

Surely, the world wasn’t that cruel.

You’d expected more of a fight from the brunet, seeing how passionate he was earlier, but he curiously remained silent.

You watched as the high-strung tension in his shoulders loosened, and a thoughtful look chased away the dark looming cloud of hatred and frustration that’d previously taken over his usually clear eyes.

“I… see.”

You let your eyes linger on him for a few beats longer before giving him space. Just before you averted your gaze, you noticed the boy slowly mouth the words you’d said to him as he curled his hand into a tight fist over his chest.

Don’t discredit the fruits of hard work.

Something about your friendship with Oikawa changed after having bore witness to that moment of vulnerability. You couldn’t put your finger on exactly what it was, but it certainly felt like he had let all of his remaining walls down around you—walls you hadn’t even realized he still had up in the first place.

You had grown a lot closer to him—and quickly, too. He actively sought you out during practice to whine and cling to you the way he did to Iwaizumi. The first time he’d done that was the day immediately after that moment, so you had been taken aback at his sudden bout of silly affection. However, you were adaptable. And so, you and Oikawa developed your own brand of friendship. Unlike the ace, you entertained Oikawa’s clinginess but poked fun at him in your own way instead (one that refreshingly did not involve your fists and sharp looks).

When you were apart, he texted you frequently, striking up random conversations and asking the strangest but admittedly interesting questions about alien life. You found yourself glued to your phone more than usual, giggling quietly in your room as you read through his far-fetched albeit entertaining conspiracy theories about JAXA and life on Mars.

It surprised you just how easily and effortlessly you clicked with Oikawa. You could be both silly and serious without any judgement from the boy. Although he’d been the guy you were most distant with on the team in your first year, he was probably the member you were closest to by your second year.

And going into your third and last year of senior high, he was both one of your best friends and a great menace in your life.

“Oh, Manager-chaaaan,” he sang before clutching onto your arm with his two hands.

You merely grunted in response, letting him pull you away from your desk. You’d learned the hard way that some things weren’t worth fighting when your opponent was the Oikawa Tooru.

“Yudacchi insisted we join him for lunch today,” Oikawa heaved a dramatic sigh as though Yuda was causing him a great inconvenience—which you knew wasn’t the case as the boy cared for his teammates more than he liked to admit. “So it’s not going to be at Iwa-chan’s as usual.”

“What, why?” you furrowed your brows, wondering what Yuda wanted. As Seijoh’s volleyball team was rather large, not all those in the same year hung out with each other. Sure, you were all friendly and got along fine, but the club had broken off into smaller friend groups. You mostly stuck around the starting third years: Oikawa, Iwaizumi, Hanamaki, and Matsukawa. While you all were somewhat friends with Yuda, Sawauchi, and Shido, they stuck to themselves outside practice.

“He said he wanted to talk to us all about something.”

“All of us?” you queried dubiously. “What could he possibly want from all of us?”

Oikawa shrugged and simply pulled you along.

There was no need for him to keep holding onto your wrist as you were following after him willingly. For a split second, you considered telling him to let go, but you couldn’t bring yourself to open your mouth and say the words.

Mystified by your own reaction, your eyes fell to his fingers, which were wrapped soundly around your wrist. He had long and almost elegant-looking fingers with pretty nail beds. You knew he took care of them obsessively, insisting that if a nail was even a millimetre too long, it threw off his tosses.

You didn’t know if you believed him (the millimetre part, that was) but entertained him, helping him pick out new nail files whenever his old ones grew dull.

Either way, his meticulous routine and care for his hands paid off. They were probably the most well-groomed hands you’d seen from an athlete. You’d have thought that volleyball players who built up calluses from constant contact with fastballs would have hands that were rough to the touch.

It was almost unfair just how much Oikawa had won the genetic lottery. From his princely looks to his athletic abilities, he was a bit too perfect. If he hadn’t opted for sports as his career path, he probably would have made it big in the entertainment industry.

The call of your name pulled you out of your strange thoughts.

Shit.

Heat rushed to your cheeks as you met Oikawa’s amused chocolate brown eyes. Flustered, you tried to sputter out an excuse for your blatant gawking but fell short of any coherent stream of thought when he suddenly leaned in.

He gazed deeply into your eyes, and a slight smirk graced his lips.

He’s too close, you shrieked in the safe confines of your mind.

You fidgeted in your spot, cursing Oikawa for the twitter-pated effect he had over you. His gaze appeared to melt with unbridled softness and another indescribable emotion. The look stole your breath away, and your fingertips tingled as a pleasant yet electrifying thrill coursed through you.

Unable to handle any more intense sensations, you directed your eyes to your feet.

To both your relief and disappointment, Oikawa pulled away the slightest bit, and you heard a quiet chuckle. Then, he gave the back of your hand a cheeky little tap with his finger before finally—mercifully—letting go of your wrist.

What the hell was that?

You stood there, still as a statue, while Oikawa blithely entered the classroom with a notable bounce in his steps.

You sucked in a deep and long breath for four seconds and held it for seven before letting it out slowly through your nose—eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.

Those traitorous butterflies in your stomach settled a bit, and you felt… well, like yourself again.

Without another moment to waste, you strode inside and glanced around to see where the team was gathered in Yuda’s class.

“Oh, it’s our Manager-chan,” Hanamaki caught sight of you and waved you over to where your friends had pushed together a few desks by the window.

“Hey,” you greeted everyone as you took the empty seat between Hanamaki and Matsukawa. Looking up from your seat, your eyes met Oikawa’s amused ones.

Still embarrassed from whatever the hell happened by the door, you found that you couldn’t hold his gaze and immediately looked to Yuda.

“Is this everyone?” The aforementioned boy asked Sawauchi on his left.

“I think so?” Sawauchi gave the entire group a cursory scan.

“Yeah, it is,” Shido confirmed.

Without a moment to waste, Yuda slammed his hands down on his desk, “Listen.” Your clubmate’s antics embarrassingly captured the attention of the rest of the class. Mercifully, once they noticed who had caused the commotion, they all turned back to their own friends and ignored the boy.

You couldn’t help but wonder just how commonplace Yuda’s theatrics were for his classmates to turn away without so much as batting an eye. As much as you liked your fellow third year, you found yourself looking down at your lunch to avoid meeting the gaze of his classmates.

“We’re all the same age, right?” he continued, evidently oblivious to your discomfort.

You exchanged wary glances with the others at the table.

“Right…”

“We’re all friends, right?”

“Right…” This one was said with more hesitance, but luckily, Yuda didn’t seem to notice.

“It’s our final year! We need more team bonding moments!”

While the sentiment was nice, you didn’t think Yuda was going about it the right way, seeing as the rest of the team shared discreet cringes.

Matsukawa nudged you by the side and leaned in to whisper, “How long do you think this will take?”

You grimaced, “Maybe the whole lunch?” Yuda, though a kind and well-intending soul, was not the most… concise. He had a tendency to ramble and go off on tangents as he circled around the point he was trying to make out of pure passion.

“Damn,” the middle blocker chuckled and straightened up. “I think you’re probably right.”

Sorry, Yuda, you sent the fellow third year a silent apology.

You tuned out the rest of Yuda’s ramblings and leaned back into your chair, tilting your head to stare up at the ceiling. Your fellow clubmate could go on for ages if he wanted to, and you’d learned that it was best to let it out of his system.

With that thought, you fixed your posture, opened your bento, and pulled out the chopsticks you’d packed.

You gave an internal cheer as you realized that your mother had put in the leftover tonkotsu from dinner and happily shoved a big piece into your mouth.

Just before you could chew down on the tonkotsu, you heard someone call your name. Perking up, you instinctively turned your head in the direction the voice came from.

You promptly swallowed the tonkotsu and blinked in surprise. “Nakamura?”

“Hey,” the boy smiled. “Long time no see.”

Nakamura Seiichi was, by all means, an average high school boy. Though rather plain-looking with an average build and height, he was friendly and had an endearing charm about him. It was those very traits that had you carrying a crush on him throughout junior high.

“I see you’re with Iwaizumi, too,” he nodded before giving your friend a wave. “Long time no see.”

“Hey,” Iwaizumi gave him a friendly nod back.

“You guys on the volleyball club together, was it?”

“Yeah,” you replied. “I’m just the manager, though.”

Nakamura’s lips curled into that boyish and friendly smile of his. “Yeah, I think I heard that from our old classmates. I’m on the student council as treasurer… though you probably already know that.”

You nodded and let out a quiet chuckle, “Most people know the third years on student council, yes.”

Nakamura gave a sheepish laugh as he rubbed the back of his neck. Then, he glanced up at the clock and grimaced. “I have to run—student council meeting, actually.”

“Yeah, go ahead,” you waved in understanding.

“Well, I’ll see you both around,” Nakamura waved back before leaving the room.

Your eyes trailed after Nakamura, shocked to realize that his presence didn’t fill you with the same jittery nerves and butterflies as it once did. It was a small thing but felt more monumental than it actually was. It felt like you’d shed that last bit of your junior high self and were seeing the changes within you.

You tapped your finger on your chin and shifted your gaze back to your friends. Amazingly, Yuda was still at it and hadn’t seemed to notice the exchange. You gave a cursory glance over at each of your friends to notice that Hanamaki and Matsukawa were actually listening but with a suspiciously mischievous glint in their eyes. Iwaizumi appeared to be half-listening as he chomped down on his yakisoba bread.

You stopped short at Oikawa, not having noticed that he had been watching you for who knows how long. There was something in his eyes that you couldn’t describe, but it was intense. A part of you wanted to desperately avert your gaze, but the more stubborn and traitorous part couldn’t bear to look away from him at that moment.

He’s beautiful, your mind supplied unhelpfully.

At that horrifying realization, you finally fixed your eyes on your bento box.

Senior high was very short. Each year passed by in a blur, but the sentiment rang particularly true in your last year at Aoba Johsai.

Volleyball had ended on a bittersweet note. While you could proudly declare that your team had relentlessly fought—tooth and nail—to the bitter end, it still hurt that their efforts fell short. Their blood, sweat, and tears weren’t enough to reach their longtime goal of making the Spring Nationals.

Hell, they didn’t even manage to make it to the finals against Shiratorizawa after facing an agonizing defeat to the rapidly evolving Karasuno.

Nevertheless, you were proud of them and yourself.

The plays they pulled against Karasuno were astonishing. Watching the match on the bench left you on the edge of your seat, waiting with bated breath for the ball to drop on the other side of the court.

You were grateful to have been part of a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Who would have thought you’d get involved with volleyball, or sports in general, as you had the opportunity to in high school? You didn’t think you would ever get involved with volleyball in the same capacity but had an inkling that you would follow the sport for a long time—it wasn’t like Oikawa would let you stay out of the loop with his declaration that his journey with volleyball was nowhere near ending after high school.

And it was finally the day of your graduation.

You were glad you had the opportunity to cry with the rest of the volleyball team at the crushing realization that you would not see each other in the same capacity next year. You didn’t want a repeat on graduation day and, mercifully, found yourself laughing with your friends as you all reminisced on past memories and talked about your plans.

The air was filled with a blend of bittersweet nostalgia and anticipation for the future. It truly felt like a chapter of your life was ending, but that only meant another chapter was starting.

You had been with the rest of your friends when Oikawa suddenly sauntered up and grabbed you by the upper arm.

Startled by the sudden contact, you whipped your head to see the boy not looking at you but at Iwaizumi. The latter merely shook his head and glanced between you and Oikawa with a strange smile toying at his lips.

“Wha—” you sputtered as Oikawa tugged at your arm.

You shot Iwaizumi a startled look as his best friend started to drag you away from the rest of them. He only gave you a knowing look and turned back to Hanamaki and Matsukawa, who hadn’t so much as blinked at the intrusion.

That traitor!

Enraged by your friend’s betrayal, you fiercely glared at the back of his head, fervently hoping that he would feel it and take pity on you—or save you out of fear over your wrath.

But Iwaizumi did not move or show any indication that he felt your glare as you only got further and further away from him until you lost sight of him among the sea of students.

Once you could no longer see your friends, you hesitantly shifted your attention to the boy in front of you. As much as you wanted to ask Oikawa where he was taking you, for some reason, it did not feel right to break the weird silence.

Tension lined Oikawa’s shoulders, contrasting the gentle yet firm grip on your wrist. He did not look back at you at all as he kept maneuvering you through the crowds.

Amazingly, no one approached him. You couldn’t help but wonder what his face looked like for it to ward off even the most persistent of his fans. A part of you wanted a glimpse, but another part of you didn’t. You were, frankly, scared of what you would see.

Inwardly, you were grateful that Oikawa didn’t hold onto your hand. Your palms were cold and clammy as your nerves got the better of you. That time before lunch with Yuda had already cued him into his effect on you—you didn’t want to give yourself away any more than that.

The silence and trek stretched on for what felt like hours when, in reality, it had only been a couple of minutes.

Eventually, Oikawa came to a stop as he wrenched open a door and ushered you inside. Instantly, you recognized that he was taking you to the roof.

Will it be empty? You wondered doubtfully. You imagined it was the perfect place for some graduating students to say their goodbyes or have private conversations away from peering eyes.

“We’re here,” Oikawa announced, breaking you out of your thoughts.

“Oh, wow, there really isn’t anyone else,” you blurted out as you scanned the shockingly empty roof.

“I’ve been keeping my eye on it,” he admitted sheepishly. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

You remained quiet for a few seconds, studying your friend’s form. “What is it?” you finally asked.

Oikawa shoved his hand into the pocket of his jacket and seemed to fiddle with something in it.

“I have a present for you.”

“A present…?” you eyed the hand in his pocket dubiously.

“Yep, will you accept it?”

“As long as it isn’t weird,” you nodded slowly.

“It isn’t weird! Promise!” Oikawa defended, looking mildly offended.

“Alright, then… What…?”

“Tada!” In typical Oikawa Tooru fashion, he’d brandished his gift with unnecessary flair, sticking his hand out to you as he winked and shot you his signature disarming grin.

Although it was not unlike him to put his flair to things, it felt a little out of place and forced. You could see the nerves and tension in his usually naturally charismatic and charming smile—the corners gave a nearly imperceptible twitch.

You glanced at his hand to see a little button smack in the middle of his palm. At the sight of the gift, you pursed your lips and arched a brow at him skeptically. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Oikawa?”

He beamed down at you unflinchingly, “Giving you my button, of course!”

You stared at his jacket and noted that his second button was indeed missing and likely the one he was offering you.

“Why are you giving this to me?” You queried cautiously. Did he know what giving the second button entailed? Knowing Oikawa and his popularity, he had no reason not to know.

But there’s no way he’s giving it to me of all people, right?

He must have noticed your doubts as he immediately adopted a grave face and called you by your given name. “Listen, carefully. I…I want to tell you something.”

A shiver went down your spine at the serious use of your name. Normally, Oikawa would say it playfully, though he didn’t use it too often either.

“Uh…” you tried to string together a coherent response but found that he’d rendered you speechless—a common occurrence as of late.

He gently grabbed your wrist and pressed the button down firmly into your palm. “I’m giving this to you for the same reasons other guys give away their second buttons.”

You gaped at him, opening and closing your mouth a few times in a fruitless effort to say something—anything in response to this earth-shattering…confession.

Wait, is this actually a confession? It can’t be. No way.

You needed to clear the air.

“Oikawa, I—”

“Tooru.”

“What?”

He averted his gaze.

“Call me Tooru… just for this moment. Please.”

Oh, maybe this is real.

“Tooru,” you acquiesced in a shaky tone.

The boy before you sucked in a sudden deep breath. He appeared oddly nervous—unlike his usual demeanour—and seemed to be trying to calm himself. Ironically, the sight only set your nerves to life as butterflies came to life and fluttered in your stomach as you put two and two together.

His nerves…the freaking button, graduation day. Is he actually…?

“Is this… are your, uh, feelings—”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

In all honesty, you didn’t know what to say. Oikawa was leaving for Argentina in a few days, tirelessly working and pushing to make his dreams come true. It was a little cruel of him to confess his feelings when he couldn’t even stay.

I like you, too. Those words lingered at the tip of your tongue, and suddenly, you were gripped with the need to let Oikawa know your feelings as well—that you reciprocated his feelings.

You looked up at him, set on telling him, but something in his face gave you pause.

You couldn’t completely place your finger on it. It was something soft. Something sad. Something so heartbreakingly tender.

You studied him for a few moments longer before it finally clicked.

Oikawa knew. He knew that his feelings weren’t one-sided. He knew that confessing now put you in a pickle.

He gently reached for your hand and laced your fingers together.

You both stared at your hands, marvelling at how well they fit together. Warmth emanated from his fingers and palm, and you realized just how cold yours had been. It was pleasant. Comforting. It was like Oikawa—the way you knew him. Not the way his fans knew him. Not the way Iwaizumi knew him. Just you.

He was your Oikawa in a weird way.

That thought ushered a flush to your cheeks, and you couldn’t help but look down at your shoes in embarrassment. Stop. He’s not my anything.

How horrifyingly embarrassing.

Before you could shrink into yourself, Oikawa gently tugged on your joined hands, drawing you into his warm atmosphere. You stumbled at first but quickly regained your balance as Oikawa let go of your hand and wrapped his arms around you instead, pulling you in even closer.

What.

You froze for a moment, totally caught unaware by the boy’s actions. But soon enough, you felt yourself melt into his warm embrace. You raised a hand to his back and felt him immediately hold you tighter in his arms before cradling the back of your head with one hand.

It was in that tender action that you realized that you both knew and understood.

He wasn’t even planning on staying in the country. Oikawa Tooru was meant for greater things in life, higher summits. Saying those sweet yet forbidden words would hurt more, given the circumstances. Knowing what those words sounded like from his lips, in his beautiful voice, saturated with heart-wrenching sincerity, would hurt all the more.

You would simply have to bury those words deep in your heart and lock them away.

Still, you closed your eyes and basked in your shared warmth. And as you held him in your arms, just as he held you, the beat of your heart danced steadily against your chest to the melody of your feelings singing from its locked cage.

[12:47 PM] Oikawa: I’m in Japan for a bit. Wanna hang out and catch up?

You stared down at the text as you bit down on your thumb nervously.

It had been a few years since you graduated from high school and a few months since you graduated from university. In the hustle and bustle of school, you hadn’t had the opportunity to see Oikawa the couple of times he’d visited Japan—specifically, Miyagi. Sure, you managed to keep up with him via video calls, messages, regular calls, and all that, but it just wasn’t the same. You could afford to delay your responses as needed—besides, with the time zones, it was a rarity for you to hear back from him right away, and vice versa.

But now… you were minutes away from interacting with Oikawa in real time with no delays, no mulling over your words, and no anxious waiting for replies.

[1:23 PM] Sure, do you wanna go anywhere in particular?

You read over your text again and scanned through your brief conversation. Ultimately, you and Oikawa had chosen to meet by Skytree to do some sightseeing—well, more like you playing the tour guide for Oikawa’s Tokyo trip.

You were, admittedly, nervous. It had been over four years since you’d seen Oikawa in person, so your scheduled reunion felt… monumental. It felt like you were breaking off from the familiar and comfortable rapport you’d built up over the years.

And so you stood outside Moomin House Cafe, which Oikawa had insisted on visiting before making your rounds around Skytree. You took another quick peek inside and had to admit that it was rather cute. It was a supposed “anti-loneliness” cafe, and the decor certainly created a warm atmosphere even as you looked in from the outside.

The warm spring breeze swept through you and let a stray hair loose from your scrunchie. You huffed in annoyance and reached up to undo it when someone else had beaten you to it.

Alarmed, you whipped your head back to see Oikawa smiling down mischievously at you, scrunchie in his hand. 

“Oikawa!?” you reeled back in surprise, watching as he pocketed your scrunchie with a cheeky grin. 

“That’s me!” The brunet winked and lifted his fingers into a peace sign. “Long time no see, Manager-chan.”

“Yeah,” your words came out in a breathless rush. “It has been a long time, hasn’t it?”

After graduation, the distance between you and Oikawa had grown bigger—almost insurmountable. He lived across the globe, chasing after his dreams with that hunger you’d seen since high school.

And now, he was right in front of you, and the distance grew smaller. You hovered in his orbit, close enough to see and admire but never daring to touch.

He’s beautiful, you couldn’t help but think to yourself.

Like clockwork, a wave of horror crashed over you—a stupidly common occurrence every time you’d made that realization, even back in freaking high school.

You cleared your throat in an attempt to distract yourself from those warring feelings. “So, want to go in?”

After catching up on each other’s lives over a cup of coffee, you and Oikawa decided to make your trek to Skytree. Having already visited a couple of times in university, you led him to the Skytree Gallery, allowing him to “ooh” and “ah” at the models and historical photos.

Once he’d had his fill of learning about the history of the tower, you took him to enjoy the view from Tembo Galleria, the highest observation deck of Skytree.

“Have you ever been here at this time?” Oikawa asked.

You shook your head. “No, I visited when it was dark since that’s when I finished most classes.”

“The night view must be nice. You should take me here again when it’s dark next time.”

You couldn’t help but quirk a little smile at the prospect of a next time, liking the thought—the delicious promise—of seeing each other again. “Yeah, definitely.”

A comfortable silence fell between the two of you.

Oikawa turned back to the windows with a thoughtful look on his face. “Miyagi was all I knew,” he admitted as he took in the city view with shining eyes. “Adjusting to Argentina was hard.”

You nodded slowly. “I mean, you went alone and away from home. There must have been a lot of barriers you had to overcome in the process.”

“Yeah…” He got a distant look in his eyes as he seemed to reminisce about days past.

You let him be, wondering if he’d ever given himself a moment to really think and reflect—to be proud of his accomplishments as many others were—as you were.

Fixing your gaze on the breathtaking afternoon view of Tokyo, you felt a sense of peace. You understood why so many people took comfort in viewing the city from a far distance or great heights. Everything looked smaller and put things in a different perspective.

As it was still bright outside, you could see some office workers—the poor souls, working on a weekend—hurrying back into their office buildings with a coffee in hand. It was funny that while it had only been a few months since you started working at your plain old office job, you related to them more than the students who were seemingly on break and enjoying the nice weather, likely taking a break from their studies.

Life moves on. The sentimental thought struck you suddenly as one student in particular—if their Waseda hoodie was to be believed—tackled their friend waiting for them by a bench excitedly as though they hadn’t seen each other in a long time.

With that thought, you fell into a thoughtful silence, reminiscing on your high school years, which simultaneously felt like yesterday and eons ago.

Quietly, but comfortably, you followed Oikawa as he walked around the observation deck to admire the city view from all angles.

It had been a peaceful and quiet affair, and you felt so relaxed as you took comfort in simply being with Oikawa.

“Welp! I think I got my fill of Skytree. Have anywhere else to go, Tour Guide-san?” Oikawa asked playfully as he stretched his arms behind him.

You thought for a moment before taking a quick glimpse outside. “Up for a walk?”

“Sure,” he shrugged.

“We’re gonna have to cross Oshinari Bridge,” you explained as the two of you made your way out of the observation decks. “There’s a quaint little park—Oshinari Park—it’s quite nice but nothing special. We can kill some time before grabbing some dinner.”

“Sounds good. Lead the way!”

As you’d said, Oshinari Park was not anything special. In all honesty, it wasn’t even worth touring around, but it served its purpose. You wanted to kill some time before dinner and expend enough energy to feel hungry.

After you’d walked around and worked yourselves up to hunger, you and Oikawa entered a nearby izakaya.

Thankfully, there was an empty table when you’d arrived, so you were swiftly seated upon your arrival. After some contemplation, the two of you ordered karaage, agedashi tofu, and some beer.

You laughed through a mouthful of karaage, mindful to cover your mouth with a hand as the other reached for your beer cup.

He laughed along as well. “Man, nothing beats authentic Japanese food!”

“How is the Japanese food in Argentina?”

“It’s alright,” Oikawa shrugged. “Pretty standard for Japanese places outside of Japan. Buenos Aires has some pretty good restaurants.”

“Bu—Bue…no…?”

“Buenos Aires,” he repeated slowly with an amused grin.

“Buenos Aires,” you nodded resolutely as you repeated the name, albeit with a thick Japanese accent. “Your Spanish accent sounds pretty good to my non-native ears.”

“Well, I’ve had a lot of practice.” He shrugged nonchalantly before redirecting the conversation back to you, “Do you come to izakayas often?”

“Sort of?” you hummed. “After work, some coworkers invite me to grab drinks with them. Sometimes it’s at an izakaya, sometimes it’s not.”

You took another swig of your beer and gingerly plopped a piece of tofu in your mouth.

“It’s like those scenes in anime and dramas!” Oikawa giggled.

“Hardly,” you rolled your eyes. The slight delay in your movement keyed you into the fact that you were drunker than you’d expected.

The man giggled some more.

“Are you getting drunk, Oikawa?” You couldn’t help but laugh at how… giggly and gleeful he seemed.

“Hardly,” he threw your previous words back at you. “Just… happy, I guess.”

“O-Oh…” you looked down at your fingers and twiddled your thumbs. “That’s… good,” you finished lamely.

“Yeah.”

The slightly choked response made you look up in confusion and concern.

His gaze made your breath catch in your throat.

Even in your less-than-put-together state, flushed cheeks from the alcohol and all, he stared at you as though you’d placed the stars in the sky.

You couldn’t bear the weight of his gaze, so you looked down at your shoes and let your hair fall and curtain you from him.

“I… missed you,” Oikawa said in an uncharacteristically timid voice. “I meant to say this earlier, but… you—you look good.”

“Oh, uh, thanks,” you stared down at your food, unable to look at him. “I—I missed you, too.”

The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. Briefly, you wondered if others could feel it from their seats.

He called your name in a choked voice.

You sighed and let your hand inch closer to his. After a fleeting moment of hesitation, you hooked your pinky to his.

I’ll allow myself this much.

You heard Oikawa heave a shaky breath before he curled his pinky tightly around yours.

“We broke up.”

You paused in the midst of chewing on a piece of tempura and gazed across the table.

You had unexpectedly run into Matsumoto Ayaka, your high school classmate, after getting off work and making your way to the station.

She had looked excited to see you—likely excited to see a familiar face in a city far from home. But now, she looked wistful. Her brows slightly furrowed and lips pursed as she peered over your head, eyes not focusing on anything in particular but staying still.

“Oh, uh, I’m sorry to hear that,” you floundered, taken aback by the suddenness of her confession. A brief moment of silence had overtaken you both as the waiter brought over your entrées to the table.

“No,” she shook her head, eyes focusing back onto you. “Sorry to spring it up on you. I just…”

“Haven’t had anyone to talk about it with?” you finished gently, watching as your former classmate seemed to struggle to verbalize her feelings.

“Yeah…” Matsumoto hung her head.

You waited for a few moments, but Matsumoto did not seem to know where to start, simply lost in the storm brewing inside her heart. “Do you want to talk about it?”

She hesitated before peering up at you impishly. “Can I? I know I kinda sprung it on you, but—”

“It’s alright,” you assured her. And you meant it. While you hadn’t been the closest with Matsumoto in high school, you had been close enough to have somewhat deep conversations—those that went beyond just the simple and trivial pleasantries.

“Did you know that Shin went pro?”

You nodded. “I heard. There aren’t many alumni that make it to the big leagues, especially for soccer.”

“It… was rough,” Matsumoto admitted in a soft voice. Her eyes glazed over, lost in a haze of beautiful memories, even as she continued speaking. “We had to be careful. He had some overzealous fans, so he wanted to keep me safe. We were careful… but… that can really mess with your head, you know? I felt like, I don’t know, a dirty little secret?”

You hummed and nodded so that Matsumoto knew you were listening. Frankly, you didn’t know what to say and felt it was more appropriate for you to listen and let her get things off her chest.

“I started to grow bitter,” Matsumoto sighed in a painful combination of resignation and self-blame. “I kept thinking things like ‘He’s not even an idol. Why do we have to go to such extents?’ and ‘Is he even that popular in Portugal?’ I started to resent him and picked fights with him. It was like… I wanted to get under his skin. I wanted him to feel a portion of what I felt.”

She paused and hung her head, voice coming out weak and defeated. “I hated the person I was becoming… and the person that I was.”

Your heart clenched for your high school friend. Matsumoto had always been a sweet and self-assured person. She never came off as overly confident nor arrogant; she had a quiet sort of confidence about her, a comfortability with herself and an understanding of her character.

It was odd to see her so downtrodden and uncertain. Although you hadn’t been the closest with her, it still hurt to see a friend in such spirits. 

“It made me question: can I really be happy like this? Is a relationship that’s so… so… closed off healthy? I wanted to be like any other happy young couple—holding hands in public without having to mask up and disguise ourselves. I’m just ordinary. Average Japanese office worker. Average in looks, average in my freaking salary, average in, like, everything!”

As the impassioned words left her mouth, the sympathy you felt for Matsumoto mutated into something deeply personal. Every syllable pricked at your chest, spreading a cold, suffocating haze of self-doubt from your heart straight to your fingertips—like a storm cloud violently overtaking a clear sky.

“He asked me to move to Portugal with him.”

A tense silence fell between the two of you. 

You stared at Matsumoto with wavering eyes, waiting with bated breath for her to continue. 

“I guess… I guess I couldn’t take it anymore,” Matsumoto sighed defeatedly. “Being with him clawed away at my insecurities—which isn’t his fault, don’t get me wrong! I know that perfectly well!”

You just nodded numbly in response.

“But…it made me think that I needed a break,” she admitted in a defeated voice. “I needed to take a good look at myself. I’ve grown and felt like we’ve grown apart, if that makes sense.”

You could feel the strain in your face as you fought to keep your cool, trying your best to not let her words put a fucking mirror up to you and see you in Matsumoto’s shoes. The pain, the resignation, the insecurities, the uncertainty—the beast born of those unspoken and repressed feelings clawing away at your chest one excruciating chunk at a time, manifesting into a physical hurt and suffering.

This will be your future! You can’t let it happen to you! Look at you right now; the mess you are right now! Do you think you can handle being like Matsumoto right now? The insidious voice inside you screamed.

Fighting hard to keep your cool, you reached for your cup and sipped on the tea, letting the familiar, slightly bitter taste ground you.

“I’m sorry you felt that way,” you said, realizing you had stayed silent throughout the entire conversation. 

“I’m doing better,” your former classmate managed a crooked smile. “I had to learn to pick myself up alone. I relied on Shin a lot, so it was hard at first, but I managed.”

She rested her chin on her palm and tapped her cheek with her index finger. “Shin was my first love. I thought we were gonna get married and have kids by now.”

You hesitated but decided to bite the bullet. “Do you… still want to be with him? I mean, would you take him back if he chased after you again?”

Matsumoto closed her eyes as she hummed in consideration. “I’d like to say no because of how hard it was, but a part of me still misses and loves him.”

It was both an answer and a non-answer. An oxymoron that spoke to the complexity of love—one that you knew very well.

You, and evidently Matsumoto, were a pendulum, swinging to and fro between wanting to recklessly chase after the thrill of a good romance and wanting to ground yourself in reality and live without any unnecessary risks.

Ultimately, that was what it was: a risk. Love was a risk, and it was up to you to decide whether it was worth the risk or not. 

Her hand fell from her face and gently folded over her other hand. Matsumoto opened her eyes and looked into yours intently. “So, if I were to give you one word of advice, it would be to stay clear from pro athletes. Especially if they have big dreams and ambitions. You might just end up getting caught in something bigger than you expected.”

Your pulse raced at her words, wondering if her intent gaze could see right into the depths of your heart.

“Right,” you nodded jerkily. “I won’t.”

The next time you see Oikawa again is a year later when you have enough vacation days stocked up to go abroad for once. He’d bugged you endlessly to visit Argentina. You had your reservations since it was an unknown country to someone who’d grown up and stayed in Japan for, basically, all their life.

Alas, you somehow found yourself walking down the jet bridge of your plane to Ministro Pistarini International Airport.

This is a dumb idea.

The thought repeated itself over and over and over again in your head like a mantra. Regret swelled up in your chest as you clutched tightly onto your carry-on bag. And it only continued to balloon as you claimed your luggage, went through immigration, and slowly dragged yourself to the arrivals terminal gate.

Each step was one step closer to him.

The sheer reality of it threw your mind into a frenzy.

With each step you took forward, your fingertips buzzed with anxious anticipation. Beyond the crowd of passengers ahead of you, the excited calls of names sounded along with the squeaking of shoes hurrying against the floors.

The sounds grew progressively louder until you could see the people waiting at the terminal gate. With a stuttering heart, you scanned the groups of people until your eyes settled on one familiar figure.

And there he stood, with his hands in his pocket as he scanned the terminal.

Your footsteps slowed as you got closer and closer to him. Your eyes greedily drank in the sight of him, cataloguing the changes in his appearance since you’d seen him last. He had filled out considerably, his shoulders broader and posture more commanding—the undeniable physical transformation of an Olympic athlete. He wore a pair of round glasses and donned a white t-shirt, well-fitted grey pants, and white shoes.

The changes weren’t major or drastic, but they were, nevertheless, there—there as a gentle yet harsh reminder of the lengthy time spent apart from him.

He spotted you and immediately lit up in that endearing way of his—eyes wide and brows drawn slightly up as the ends of his mouth curled up in that boyish grin of his.

“Hey,” he greeted with a wide smile as you stopped a good foot away from him. “Long time no see.”

“Yeah, hi.” You returned with an equally big smile.

“Welcome to Argentina!” he stretched out his arms excitedly and suddenly pulled you into a tight hug, closing the distance between you two.

You froze for a brief moment but returned the embrace. “Thanks. Glad to be here.”

“You’re finally here.”

“Yeah… I’m… finally here.”

And you’re close to him, sitting across from him at some restaurant he had pulled you into. Your fingers curled around the napkin in front of you as your eyes wandered and scoured the place with a curious glint.

“Like it?”

You glanced back at him and felt your lips involuntarily rise at the sight of his eyes twinkling under the ambient lights.

“Of course. It’s beautiful.”

He gave you a soft smile in response. “It’s one of my favourite places.”

Unable to hold his stare, you fixed your eyes on the menu laying atop the table. “What do you recommend?”

Oikawa hummed thoughtfully as he swiftly scanned the menu. “How about I surprise you?”

“Uh…” you floundered, wondering if it was safe to trust the man across from you. After all, he had a penchant for teasing you at the most opportune moments.

“C’mon!” He pouted, seeming to have guessed where your thoughts had trailed to. “I wouldn’t do you dirty for your first taste of Argentina!”

“I… guess so,” you acquiesced albeit with the slightest hint of distrust colouring your voice. 

“Just trust me,” he shot you his signature disarming wink. Then, he waved down a waiter and ordered your dinner with practiced ease.

As you watched Oikawa confidently hold somewhat of a conversation in Spanish, you couldn’t help but admire his grit and drive.

The man had been crazy enough about his dreams that he left his friends and family at home, only to carve out a new home in a totally foreign country. It was so like Oikawa to fit right in with all sorts of people. You remembered how he would sometimes fill in as a setter for a university team during practice matches and harmonize perfectly with completely new teammates.

In some weird way, that familiarity comforted you. The man before was still Oikawa Tooru, your old senior high—and junior high—classmate.

After the waiter left, you and Oikawa took the time to catch up, filling each other in about things mentioned in passing over the phone or updates to texts. It was… nice to finally share the things you had wanted to share in full with him. There was only so much a phone or text could do—you had been robbed of seeing how his laughter seemed to brighten the atmosphere around him. Being in his presence raised your spirits, and you found yourself growing more animated as you shared the silly moments you had mentally bookmarked for him.

As the conversation fell into a comfortable lull, the food was ready and set on your table.

“These are empanadas,” he pointed to the dish that resembled gyoza to some extent. “And you have choripán in front of you.”

“Chouripan?” You echoed as you eyed the hot dog-looking dish dubiously. “That’s what they’re called?”

“Choripán,” Oikawa corrected in a damn near flawless Spanish accent. Sure, you weren’t a native speaker, but in the short time you’d already spent in Argentina, you had been surrounded by Spanish. Your keen ears had listened intently whenever Oikawa conversed with a local, and you were fairly sure that his accent and pronunciation were even better than you’d seen him last.

You listened intently as he carefully explained the difference between the Argentinian choripán and Japanese chouripan. More than the actual explanation itself, you found yourself captured by how passionate he seemed about describing anything related to the cultural differences between his national and ethnic identities.

Conversation flowed easily out of the two of you. With Oikawa’s exciting adventures as an Olympic athlete, he had a lot of interesting stories to tell. And you listened intently, finding it unbelievable yet so natural that Oikawa managed so many great feats already.

“I… missed you,” Oikawa confessed slowly, sliding his hand closer to yours on the table.

You stared down at his hand, waiting with bated breath as it inched closer and closer to yours.

He hesitated for a moment before gingerly linking his pinky with yours in a painful reminder of that cozy night in the izakaya. In fact, the dim and ambient lighting of the restaurant you were currently at seemed to overlap with the image of the izakaya in your mind’s eye.

It amazed you how warm it was having his pinky connected to yours. It wasn’t just a physical warmth but one that emanated from within. A hearth that drew you in and smoothed out the knots in your tense shoulders—knots that only accumulated in his absence.

For a tempting moment, you almost caved. Suddenly, the words buried deep in your heart that had remained there for years seemed to want to let loose.

You were so close to the edge. You were teetering on the edge of a line you both religiously did not cross for your sakes.

But you took a look at Oikawa again. And reality slapped you in the face.

You needed to pull back from the dangerous waters. It wasn’t like the waters were violent and crashing tides. No, if anything, they were calm and still—and that was what scared you from ever dipping your feet into them.

You didn’t know what your touch would do to these still and peaceful waters of your relationship. And so, you strayed from ever diving in.

Besides, you were just a regular office worker in Tokyo, and he was a professional volleyball player. Perhaps Ushijima had been onto something with that infuriating plant analogy. 

You were a single blade of grass in an ordinary field. Oikawa was a shooting star, burning brilliantly across the night sky for the entire world to admire. The distance between your worlds was simply too vast. There was no earthly way you could ever hold a candle to his exuberant brilliance.

At that thought, you gently pulled your hand away from him. His eyes tracked your every move, watching until you clasped your hands together tightly, fending off the desire to reach out to him and feel his warmth.

Finally, his eyes trailed up to your face, studying you with an inexplicable look. “Where did we go wrong?” His voice cracked towards the end.

A lump formed in your throat at his teary question, but you merely shook your head and bravely looked up at him with glassy eyes of your own. “I don’t know.”

Soon, your trip came to an end. You had seen Oikawa every day despite his busy schedule. Every time you expressed your concerns, he’d brush you off with a light yet meaningful laugh.

Nevertheless, you were grateful for his hospitality. Thanks to Oikawa, you got to know the more local spots in San Juan as opposed to solely tourist areas. Every single day of your stay had been amazing, and you fell for the charm of the country you truly hadn’t known anything about before your visit.

With your carry-on bag on your back and phone and passport in one hand, you scoured your terminal for a seat. Thankfully, you were early and had plenty of seats to choose from, so you decided to sit by the windows.

Oikawa hadn’t dropped you off at the airport or seen you off there. And you were grateful for that.

There was something about saying goodbye at airports that felt…too sentimental. Too significant for whatever you and Oikawa were.

As you sat at your terminal, awaiting your flight, your phone buzzed on your lap and the screen lit up to reveal a text that sent your heart racing.

[10:49 PM] Tooru: I miss you already.

A single dry chuckle escaped from the back of your throat, raw and gritty.

You sat at your cubicle in a daze for a few more moments, allowing yourself to feel the exhaustion of working overtime with yet another deadline looming over your head for the entire week. You were unable to formulate much coherent thought, having used up all your brain power throughout the long and hectic day. Your stomach was empty, but you didn’t feel particularly hungry, even though you had skipped lunch and dinner—you’d completely bypassed hunger by that point and were simply left feeling tired and drained.

But, it was a Friday, a merciful end to your long and arduous week. You had a couple of days of rest and reprieve—you could sleep in the next morning without a care in the world. You could laze around in your apartment without having to worry about deadlines and proposals for the next two days.

With that promising thought, you started to gather your things, turned off the computer, and slung your bag over your shoulder. You bowed to your poor colleagues left in the office and dragged yourself to the lobby to wait for the elevator to arrive on your floor.

After pressing the down button, you stood back and stared blankly at the shiny tiled floor.

Should I eat or just go to sleep?

You genuinely worried over whether you could muster up enough energy to cook some instant ramen or not. The last remnants of adrenaline had completely vanished into thin air at that point. The trek home would likely eat up the remaining bits of your energy as well.

Maybe I should just—

Suddenly, your purse vibrated against your waist, shocking you out of your reverie. The muffled sound of your ringtone went off in the quiet lobby, growing louder and clearer as you fished your phone out of your bag.

Without bothering to see who was calling, you swiped your finger across the screen to answer the call. “Hello?” Your voice came out more tired and lifeless than you’d intended.

“Why, hello to you too, sunshine,” came a familiar deep and sarcastic voice.

“Give me a break, Iwa,” you grumbled, relieved that it wasn’t someone you had to put a front with. “I’m dead tired.”

“Sure sounds like it. Where are you?”

Then, the elevator pinged, and the doors slid open to reveal an empty cab.

“At the office.” You stepped into the elevator and pressed G to lead you to the ground floor of the office building.

“Still?” Your friend queried in a notably concerned voice.

“Overtime.”

There was a pause.

“You down for yakiniku?”

Iwaizumi’s gaze always seemed to pierce through your façade, leaving you feeling as though you were stripped bare in front of him.

You squirmed in your seat as he studied you for a moment longer before finally letting out a sigh.

“What’s with you and Oikawa?”

You immediately averted your own gaze away from your friend and fiddled with the napkin by your cup of tea. “Nothing.”

“Sure,” he responded sarcastically.

“No, really,” you insisted, eyes turning back to look at him. “Nothing’s going on.”

Iwaizumi paused at that before he started tapping the table with his index finger. “And? What do you want?”

I want him.

Your breath caught in your throat. You couldn’t bear to speak the words into actuality.

But the desire burned you from the inside, crawling up your throat, desperate to get out.

You clenched your jaw tightly.

He waited. And waited. And waited.

But you stubbornly kept quiet.

“Why are you so scared?” Iwaizumi probed in a gentler tone. “I don’t get it. Oikawa doesn’t treat you the same as others.”

“He treats me as a friend.”

You internally winced at the uncertainty underlying your voice. Your mind traitorously thought of the stupid button you’d put into a cute ring box—it had a pretty little bow and all.

You were a goner and you knew it. Hell, maybe everyone who knew the two of you knew it.

Iwaizumi shook his head, “Bullshit.”

You heaved a long and heavy sigh.

Even if you were to pursue something with Oikawa, would it really last? He had a bright future ahead of him—one that he’d fought tooth and nail for. And he’d already made some impressive yet scary leaps to reach his dreams. To stand on the Olympic stage, he dropped his Japanese citizenship for an Argentinian one.

How the hell would a relationship with an Argentinian even work? You sure as hell weren’t going to up and leave your roots for a relationship. You didn’t have anything in Argentina other than Oikawa, and he would get so incredibly busy that—

Iwaizumi stood, chair scraping against the floor at his movements. “Look, I can’t convince you of anything, but…”

You watched curiously as he shoved a hand into his jean pocket and wrenched out a familiar scrunchie.

“What…?”

“I told Shittykawa to give this to you, but he wanted me to be the messenger.”

Your brows furrowed. “Messenger?”

“Oikawa said he’s going to be at ‘your spot’ by Skytree,” Iwaizumi continued. “You should probably go now if you want to catch him.”

“Wait, Iwa, what?”

He held your gaze, his expression entirely serious as he spoke your given name. It was stern, yet enveloped in a deep, protective warmth—an expression that was fundamentally, purely Iwaizumi. Your mouth snapped shut. Despite years of unbreakable friendship, he had never once addressed you by your first name.

“You deserve to be happy,” he said quietly. “Oikawa’s my friend, but so are you. I want you to be happy.”

A lump formed in your throat.

“I know that relationships are not needed for people to be happy, but…” he trailed off and shot you a meaningful look. “But Oikawa makes you happy.”

He grabbed hold of your limp hand and pressed the scrunchie—the silly little thing—down in your palm.

“Go.”

What in the shoujo manga am I doing? You couldn’t help but let loose an incredulous laugh as you ran to where he was supposedly waiting.

You felt so ridiculous. This wasn’t like you.

And frankly, you weren’t entirely sure where “your spot” was supposed to be, so you just followed your heart, as cliché as it was. The place that had the most… emotional memories was the izakaya.

Tipsy giggles spilling out of lips. Eyes glazing over with wistful adoration. Pinkies linking together in an unspoken and uncertain promise of something.

Yes, that was indeed your spot—at least, it was in Tokyo.

And wasn’t that quite the thought; you had multiple “spots” with Oikawa—you had one back in Miyagi and another in Argentina of all places. You wondered if Oikawa considered them his “spots” with you as well.

After all, you had gone to multiple places together, and all those places held special memories—some greater than others.

Your mind drifted back to the anticipation of meeting Oikawa for the first time since he had left Japan in front of Moomin House Cafe.

Yes, your ponytail had come loose from the breeze… and he had taken your scrunchie. 

You shoved your hand into your pocket and gave the scrunchie tucked away a squeeze.

You had completely forgotten about it, not having fully processed that Oikawa hadn’t given it back on that day, too caught up with… him to realize that it had been gone in the first place.

Your fingertips tingled as heat rushed up from your heart to face.

Lost in your thoughts and of days passed, you didn’t notice your surroundings until you nearly got shouldered by a pair of drunk university students near the izakaya.

“Ah,” the one who seemed more sober shot you a glazed over glance. “Shorry ‘bout that!”

Before you could come up with a response, you caught sight of him in your peripherals.

There he is. Your heart raced and your palms grew sweaty as you halted in your steps and just…admired him.

There he was, Oikawa Tooru, in the flesh, leaning against the front of the izakaya, paying no mind to the passersby.

He appeared deep in thought but seemed fidgety at the same time. His arms were crossed over his chest, and his left foot rested against the brick wall behind him. He was tapping his index finger against his bicep in an irregular rhythm, and his left knee bounced restlessly.

You sucked in a deep breath to settle your nerves and let it all out slowly, letting your shoulders relax to release all the tension that had been built up.

Then, you raised your chin and took a resolute step forth.

Oikawa looked up at the crunch of gravel at your feet and immediately straightened up.

“You came…” he murmured, staring at you as if he couldn’t believe it.

You took a couple more steps forward and nodded slowly. “I… was with Iwa.”

He examined you for a couple of moments longer. His eyes traced over all your features, not missing a single detail as though he was an artist staring down at his magnum opus. A wistful smile blossomed from his lips, giving him an ethereal sort of melancholy that made him so achingly beautiful.

He really could have been a model, you thought.

Unable to stand the tension, you opened your mouth to break the silence, but Oikawa held up a hand.

“Wait,” he requested weakly. “Let’s talk… somewhere else.”

You gazed into his chocolate eyes before giving him a slow nod. “Okay.”

He waited patiently as you considered the places you could go. 

Perhaps it was the nostalgia and sentiment of the place that got to you, but a sudden thought took hold of you and wouldn’t let go.

You chewed on your bottom lip as you rolled that idea over and over in your head. Is it really a good idea to walk down memory lane? You wondered before promptly brushing it aside.

“I have somewhere in mind,” you uttered into the silence that had fallen between you.

Oshinari Park was surprisingly quiet. Only a few scattered commuters hurried through the paved pathways, striding briskly toward their next destinations; no one lingered the way you and Oikawa did, walking at a leisurely synchronized pace, drinking in the rare stillness the city had to offer.

You stared up at the warm incandescent lights and listened to the gentle flow of the river. Occasionally, a little splash broke through the soft rhythm of Oshinari Park as fish swam up close to the surface before flittering away with a flick of their tails.

As you walked with Oikawa next to you at a safe distance, uncertainty and doubt crept in, clouding your initial confidence and conviction to open your heart to him.

It was an excruciatingly familiar feeling—an insidious demon that sucked all the warmth in you and left you feeling cold and numb in that tight suffocating bubble of insecurity and doubt.

The longer you lingered in Oikawa’s bright presence, the more uncertain you felt. His presence only emphasized the contrast between the two of you: where he was bright and brilliant, you were dark and dull.

With a heavy heart, you drank in the intimate scenery before you. The river was a wonderful sight to see in the ever-so-busy bustling city of Tokyo. The pretty light and flittering fish were captivating, almost hypnotic in their harmonious serenity.

But they were still not enough to distract you when Oikawa’s presence felt so grand and demanded most of your attention.

The both of you strolled along the river for a bit longer before finding a seat near a waiting heron, unbothered as if your presence meant nothing to its hunt.

Neither of you spoke for a good while, so it startled you when he gently placed his hand on top of yours. Warm. His hand was still as well groomed as ever, maybe even more so; you couldn't stop staring as he linked your pinkies together.

For a moment, you had the absurd thought of standing up, flinging your arm away, anything to avoid what you set out to do, but your pinkies remained gingerly hooked as you held your breath in anticipation.

"This reminds me of when I visited Japan almost two years ago,” Oikawa mused aloud, raising his gaze to the starry skies—a rarity in Tokyo, and it felt more significant with the two of you in your little pocket of the world. “Do you remember when we visited Skytree?”

“Of course I do,” you laughed quietly. “How could I forget?”

You could never erase that memory from your mind even if you had wanted to—not that you ever would. 

“We saw Tokyo when the sun had been out, but it was still nice,” he hummed. “It felt like home.”

Then, he swallowed nervously and licked his lips, glancing over at you bashfully. “Being with you… it felt like home.”

Dammit, you internally cursed, heart picking up speed at his sweet words that nearly tore down your defences.

You wanted it. You borderline needed it.

Those three forbidden words played at the tip of your tongue, tingling your nerves and urging you to open your mouth and let them escape out into the world—but the memory of Matsumoto’s tired and defeated face popped into your mind.

You might just end up getting caught in something bigger than you expected. Matsumoto’s words echoed like a bad omen in the recesses of your mind, pulling your heart in two opposite directions.

Eventually, the tug of war gave way to one side. And you stubbornly swallowed those forbidden words back and fortified your resolve. No, I can’t. This is wrong—I was wrong. This is all a stupid mistake.

What good did following your heart even do?

“Listen to me, please.”

A shiver ran down your spine following the wonderful sound of your name saturated in his deep rich voice. Your pulse raced with anticipation, but you tried to maintain a semblance of your cool as you shoved your trembling fingers underneath your thighs.

“Oikawa.”

The use of his surname was purposeful. A roundabout yet a stern reminder of the distance between you—a distance you had maintained throughout all these years, one you couldn’t close.

“Oikawa, look—”

“Tooru.”

“Call me Tooru… just for this moment.”

Your heart jerked at his painfully familiar words. They took you back to the day that you now knew was when he had completely taken your heart.

“...Tooru,” you sighed, pulling one hand from underneath your thigh and dragging it down your face tiredly. “I just—I don’t—How is this even supposed to work? We live in different worlds.”

“I’m pretty sure we both live on Earth,” Oikawa retorted.

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I actually don’t.”

You turned your head to the side and heaved a long and heavy sigh of frustration. Why couldn’t he understand? Why was he so set on not trying to understand?

“Oika—Tooru,” you hastily corrected yourself. “Look, it’s just that… we’re different. I’m…I’m not right for you. You’re so—you’re you. And I’m me.”

“You’re perfect,” Oikawa insisted, eyes flashing with determination—one that you had often seen right before he pulled off an awe-inspiring no-touch service ace.

Rather than feel flattered or at ease, frustration started boiling over.

Why can’t he see what I see?

“No, look—” you pinched the bridge of your nose and shook your head. “I… just don’t know where to begin. There’s so much stacked against us, Tooru. You’re… chasing after your dreams in another country. I’m happy living my life in Japan as another regular office worker. I don’t have grand dreams, the same kind of aspirations, as you.”

Oikawa shook his head in that same stubborn and determined manner of his. “That doesn’t matter to me. I just want y—”

“Don’t!” you cut him off sharply, your voice cracking under the strain. “Don’t say it. It’s only going to hurt worse when it ends.” 

The fight abruptly left your body, leaving you feeling entirely hollowed out. Your words had cut through the air harsher than you intended, and you didn't miss the sharp flash of agony that flickered across his features. Why do I keep ruining things? This is why we can’t work out.

The two of you were silent for a tense minute or so, and you felt horrible. Hell, you didn’t even have to look at him to know that your words had also hurt him—you could sense it radiating off of him in alpha waves. 

This was a mistake.

Those words sunk deep into your chest, branding its truth and the seriousness of the entire situation on your heart, leaving a painful sting that felt akin to a burn. 

“You know what…” you sighed, wanting nothing more than for time to rewind itself. “This was a mistake. I’m sorry, Tooru.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. You looked past his shoulder at the river, but the harmonious serenity you had admired moments ago was completely gone. In the dark, the water looked black and bottomless, and the incandescent lights from the bridge fractured across the ripples like shattered glass. It looked just like your thoughts—broken, cold, and entirely uninviting.

You felt like a total asshole and so fucking ashamed of yourself. You knew that the ruined mood was all because of you and your stupid insecurities. This was a mistake.

“That’s why I’m no good for you…” you muttered, turning away from him and putting some distance between you two. Maybe I should just leave?

“What you said back then!” He blurted out, desperation and urgency colouring his voice. “To not ‘discredit the fruits of hard work’! I… Those words…”

You craned your head back to shoot him an incredulous look over your shoulder. “You… remember that?”

“Word for word,” he confirmed before continuing. “Those words… for some reason, they kept me going throughout all these years. Even though you don’t know much about volleyball… I felt like you were the only one who really… understood me—saw me sometimes.”

You fell silent at that, not having realized just how strong of an impact your words had left on him through all these years.

For a moment, everything felt serene. It was as though his words quieted all the loud thoughts in your head. There was something tender and intimate about his admission—words blurted out in a moment’s passion.

“Talent is something you make bloom,” he spoke in a way that sounded as though he was quoting someone. “Instinct is something you polish.”

You felt your body turn slowly as you watched his eyes glaze over as though he was lost in memory. A beautifully wistful expression painted his face, brows slightly pinched together with lips quirked up in an oddly complementary way.

Badump. Badump. Badump.

Your heart sped up and your throat tightened in response. As though keenly aware of his effect on you, Oikawa’s gaze refocused and landed squarely on your wavering ones.

“And that is all through hard work.”

And in an utterly embarrassing cheesy turn of events, a strong gust of wind swept through the place right at the end of Oikawa’s solemn statement. You squinted up at him, and the sight that beheld you nearly stole all the breath in your lungs.

Oikawa’s brown locks danced gracefully in the wind. Although they weren’t in their usual place, not a single lock of hair looked out of place. He looked picturesque staring at you with those serious eyes.

You, on the other hand, probably looked ridiculous. You could feel the ends of your hair rising before it obscured your sight.

You blew a piece of hair away from your mouth and ran a hand through your tousled hair, hoping to get it away from your face.

Damn, he really is a shoujo manga male lead.

“Why are you so perfect?” you blurted out with an odd tinge of annoyance and admiration.

“Huh?”

The poor guy looked gobsmacked. For good reason, you supposed. You had thrown that in out of absolutely nowhere, probably shattering whatever mood Oikawa was working up to.

The serenity that had settled between you two was completely shattered, replaced by confusion and awkwardness.

Ah, shit.

After a second of contemplation, you decided to simply lean into it, allowing yourself to be honest with him—with all your confused and awkward feelings.

“You’re just…” You exhaled a long and shaky breath. “You’re just so perfect. And…and I’m just me.”

“You’re… just you?” Oikawa echoed with an odd inflection in his voice. You couldn’t quite pin down what it was.

“Oi—Tooru. You’re a star volleyball player. Yes, I’ve been keeping tabs, you know—turns out Spanish to Japanese machine translations aren’t that great, but the articles I’ve read have nothing but good things to say about your progress. You’ve chased after your dreams with such… hunger. And look at the heights you’ve reached! People at home—in Japan—now know who you are. And…and…” you trailed off as the fire stoking your words simmered down.

Oikawa didn’t say anything. He only stood, watching you with pained eyes.

“And I’m me. I can’t hold a candle to you. I don’t have big dreams. I don’t have big ambitions. Hell, I’m not that passionate about my job! I’m just… content with being, well, average. Surely, you can do better, Tooru.”

You let your head drop, your chin nearly touching your chest as your shoulders slumped under the weight of your own confession. You stared down at your shoes, suddenly hyper-aware of the sharp chill of the Tokyo night air cutting through your clothes now that his hand wasn’t touching yours. You felt entirely small, hollowed out, and utterly defeated by the gravity of your own words.

You couldn’t bear to look at him any longer, so you turned your body slightly away from the man you loved. Yes, I admit it. I love Oikawa Tooru.

A part of you felt relieved to finally admit those words even to yourself. It was simply the truth—one that you had buried deep into your heart and locked away for it to never crystallize and take proper hold in your mind.

Another part of you felt defeated. All of the years of fighting while subconsciously knowing and denying the truth had gone to waste. There were a multitude of reasons why you had gone down the route of repressing your feelings: the difference in lifestyles, ambitions, and homes to start. The list was seemingly endless. How could you even dare to bask in Oikawa’s light?

You would weigh him down.

You weren’t stupid. You were content in your steady and stable life. Although it was routine and perhaps boring, you liked the stability, the on and off, and the time you had to yourself. 

Oikawa’s was far more unpredictable than yours. He had his busy seasons, where he barely had time to himself, let alone others. 

The distance between Japan and Argentina had been good for you. Being in the same place—in a significant place—your spot—was dangerous. It had effortlessly tore down the walls you had built up over the years and penetrated the fortress around your heart that had guarded your feelings—the truth.

Oikawa remained quiet, but you felt his eyes rest on your figure. You didn’t dare look up, fearing what you would see in his gaze.

“I don’t know why you seem to think you’re… lesser than me because you really aren’t. I’ve always thought you were untouchable.”

“Me?” you snapped your head up and couldn’t help but clarify incredulously. He thinks I’m untouchable?

But… you were you. And Oikawa was Oikawa.

There was no comparison to be made. You were simply not on equal playing fields.

“You’re always so steady,” Oikawa started in a soft voice. “I feel like a fucking mess compared to you. After years of knowing each other, you’ve always stayed true to who you are.”

“I… have?”

“You feel like home. Every time I meet you again, I… you feel familiar. You make me feel safe. Comfortable. Like I can let down my walls so that you can see all my ugly parts. And… I want you to see them. I want you to see me. I…I want to see more of you.”

You were floored. You had absolutely no idea that he felt that way around you. You knew that he held some feelings for you; you would have been a fool to not notice those tender glances, lingering touches, and tense silences. But it had never crossed your mind that he might have engraved a piece of you into his heart as you had for him.

After all… you were just plain old you.

In your eyes, there was nothing special about you. You led an average life and just so happened to have some pretty awesome friends.

“So… you’re perfect.”

You didn’t know whether you wanted to laugh or cry. After all these years of thinking Oikawa Tooru was this bright and brilliant star too far out of your reach, it turns out that he’d thought the same of you.

You couldn’t understand.

How could someone think so highly of you? How could Oikawa think you were the untouchable one?

He’d saturated your world with bright and beautiful colours. He was the sun that shone brighter than ever after a long and fierce storm—the reprieve that everyone sought but couldn’t touch without getting burned in the process.

Oikawa Tooru effortlessly drew you in and kept you on a wire, leaving you pining for more like a selfish child. But simultaneously, he provided an absolute sense of security. You finally understood what he meant. Being with him brought a profound, unparallelled peace.

The week following your departure was always the hardest. A part of you felt hollow, feeling symptoms of withdrawal after having basked in paradise for a short reprieve.

A part of you was spooked by the depth of his effect on you. No one should be so over-reliant on another person. That was bound to be the beginning of a painful ending.

“I love you,” he said, his voice ringing out with absolute, unshakeable confidence. 

You closed your eyes tightly, a heavy lump forming in your throat. 

“I love you,” he repeated, closer now. “And… I desperately want you to love me back.” 

Fuck. 

Even with your lids sealed, hot tears welled up against your lashes, your lips trembling violently. Your eyes fluttered open as you focused on preventing the tears from running loose.

“Please say something,” Oikawa implored.

“I’m… I…” you licked your lips as you tried to verbalize your incoherent thoughts. “I’m… scared.”

Oikawa’s gaze softened at your words, and his fingers twitched toward your hands as though he wanted to hold them, but he, mercifully, held back. “I’m scared too.”

“You are?” you asked in a small voice.

“Of course,” Oikawa replied gently. “I’ve wanted you for so long. And it’s not like I don’t see where you’re coming from. I understand.”

“You… understand?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “I get that it can be… burdensome being with a pro athlete. I’ve had colleagues and teammates tell me things over the years. I didn’t want to drag you into all of that and hurt you, so I tried to hold myself back for your sake and mine. But…” He glanced up at the stars and sighed. “But I didn’t want to at a certain point. I was tired of fighting this.”

Suddenly, his gaze fell on yours, and you were entranced.

His soft brown locks danced in the wind, and his chocolate orbs sparkled as they reflected the bright stars in the night sky. He glowed with the city lights of Tokyo behind him. He was staggeringly beautiful, and yet… right now, there was something so completely, beautifully human about him. 

Perhaps it was the subtle tremor he couldn’t quite control in his hands. Perhaps it was the slight redness rimming his eyes. Perhaps it was the tight, anxious clenching of his jaw.

Perhaps he simply convinced you with his open and honest words.

Ah, you realized suddenly as you studied him and noticed all these little details. He isn’t untouchable.

Oikawa Tooru, at the end of the day, was just another person.

You had been so stupid, blinded by the rose-coloured lenses you’d unknowingly donned this whole time. You had put him on a pedestal after you’d gotten to know how amazing the man before you was.

You could see him now, for some reason, with more clarity. You saw the brokenness inside him—one that everyone carried simply because they were human. 

“Take a chance on me. I love you. I have loved you since high school.”

You bit down on your lip, fighting back the tears that welled up in your eyes.

How was it so easy for him to tell you his feelings when it was so hard for you?

“Do… you love me too?”

At his timid question, a single tear rolled down your cheek. Then, another followed suit. And another.

“How could I not?” You responded with a question instead. “How could I not love you? Of course, I love you. I think I’ve loved you since high school too.”

Oikawa let loose a wet chuckle and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “You think? I knew… Actually, I’m pretty sure everyone knew. Iwa-chan knew from day one.”

A disbelieving laugh escaped you, memories of graduation day flooding in like a sudden tidal wave, filling you with wistful nostalgia.

Iwaizumi was a wonderful friend. His knowing smile and eyes suddenly made sense to you.

“He did, didn’t he?”

Then, you suddenly remembered the stupid scrunchie. The ridiculous little token of the past that Iwaizumi had whipped out to prove Oikawa’s sincerity. You shoved your hand into your bag and fished out the silly thing.

Oikawa watched curiously before you brandished your scrunchie before him.

He immediately flushed red.

“O-Oh… uh, that thing! I can—wait—I…”

You took pity on the poor guy and cut him off. “I met up with Iwaizumi earlier. He said that you wanted him to be a messenger.”

The brunet gulped and nodded jerkily. “Y-Yeah…”

“I’ll be honest,” you started slowly. “I didn’t think you would carry something of mine for almost two years. I didn’t think you were the type.”

Oikawa flushed an even deeper shade of red. “I couldn’t help it! I saw the opportunity and… well… yeah!”

“But why?”

“Gosh, you know why! I wanted to have a physical piece of you with me over there, okay? Way to make a guy feel like an absolute idiot,” he whined playfully, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Sorry, sorry,” you apologized with a laugh. “I didn’t mean to tease you.”

“You liar.”

“Okay, well, not that much, alright? Besides… I’m not any better,” you confessed.

At that, the brunet perked up and pinned you down with an accusatory glare.

“Do you remember your second button? From graduation day?” you asked, bypassing his look. 

Oikawa clearly hadn't anticipated your question. His playful defense mechanism dropped instantly, his eyes widening. “You mean…?”

“Yeah, your… gift,” you nodded. “I still have it with me, you know. It’s in one of those small ring boxes with a bow on it.”

Instead of teasing you as you had expected him to, Oikawa simply stared at you with awe.

“You…you kept it? Even after all these years?” he whispered.

“Yes… it’s…it’s precious. A little token of our feelings for each other—even back then.”

A comfortable silence fell between you two. You felt warm, knowing that Oikawa felt the same way as you. It set your heart at peace and soothed the ache that you’d grown used to—one that built up from all the longing and pining over the years.

You smiled at Oikawa, just as a lock of your hair fell over your eye.

He reached up and gently tucked the loose hair behind your ear. His fingers grazed the shell of your ear and trailed down to your cheek. He closed his eyes and rolled his lips in between his teeth, seeming to fight something welling up within him.

“We’re… in love… right?”

“We’re in love,” you whispered into the space between you.

A choked laugh escaped his lips and warmed the cool atmosphere with its beautiful and wonderful tenor.

He opened his eyes, and you weren’t shocked to see that they were glassy with tears as well.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he whispered, shaking his head in disbelief. “I just—I can’t believe…I can’t believe that I’m finally yours.”

You loved how he said it. He didn’t say that you were his, but that he was yours.

“And I’m yours.”

You didn’t think you’d ever said anything truer in your entire life.

His arms snaked around your waist, the heavy fabric of his jacket rustling sharply as he pulled you forward, erasing the last few inches of empty air between you. The contrast was instant—his palm was burning hot against your freezing cheek, his thumb smoothing over your skin with a gentle, desperate friction. You caught the faint, nostalgic scent of his cologne mixed with the crisp, clean breeze from the river. Every single nerve ending screamed with the realization of how solid he was, how completely he anchored you to the earth.

You unabashedly stared deep into his eyes, committing every little detail to memory—the glassy sheen, the little specks of silver and gold from the stars and city lights, the tenderness—all of it.

His thumb gently brushed against your right cheek as he reciprocated your gaze.

You had spent a lifetime maintaining a safe, calculated distance, orbiting his gravity but never daring to close the gap. But as his lips finally descended onto yours, Oikawa completely, beautifully closed the distance between you.

© 𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐞. all rights reserved. do not plagiarize, share, repost, or translate my works.

[nghtwngs]

back on my haikyuu bullshit it’s 2020 all over again

[sammy-bryant]

SHAWN HATOSY as ANDREW 'POPE' CODY Animal Kingdom | Grace (2.08)

[iwannab3adored]

telling andrew to send you a picture so you know that he’s okay and he’s where he says he is.

[clown-but-free]

Drawing cass until I’m happy with it

Bonus Kons (yay for being living weapons created to enact someone else’s perfect vision)

[nghtwngs]

SHANE FIC SEQUEL!!!! WE ALL CHEERED!!! I swear, that fic has carved out a little niche in my soul where it now resides.

It’s d e l i c i o u s.

Thank you for sharing it with us!

awwww that seriously means a lot to hear!!! i only hope the sequel lives up to it <333 thanks so much for reading!! xx

[nghtwngs]

SEQUEL FOR THE SHANE FIC!!!!????? HELL YEAH

SEQUEL FOR THE SHANE FIC!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[nghtwngs]

Your Shane Maguire fic….. Oh my god. I feel SICK. I’m fucking clawing up the walls, it’s so good. 11/10, 5 stars, the works.

GAHH SO SO happy that you liked it!! just for making me smile today, you get a snippet of the first scene in my sequel fic!! thanks for making my day :))

re: “i wanna make you so proud”

“Shane Maguire, get real, I’m not touching you—not even with a ten-foot pole,” you say with a hard roll of your eyes.

The first time the idea of being friends… with benefits ever comes up between you is when he brings it up on a frigid winter’s night sitting outside his tent, between drunken laughter and trading old wives’ tales in a massive, dark forest, sipping good whiskey instead of his beloved canned beer for a change.

“Hey, I was only offerin’,” he starts with a mildly defensive shrug, before seeping into a sly, sinful smirk, “but, just for the record, I could make you feel real good, sweetheart.”

You snort, shaking your head with unabashed laughter, like he had just told you another funny story and not just propositioned you for casual sex. “Not a chance in hell.”

“I’ve not had any complaints so far.”

“That’s so not the point.”

He side-glances you, watching as you take another slow sip of amber, fingers curled around the body of the bottle like it could keep your hands just as warm as your insides. But that’s what the fire he started, crackling in an excited dance in front of you, is for.

“Then, what is?”

Your tongue pokes out to lick away the liquor that’s escaped your mouth, and Shane has the sudden, pulling curiosity to know what it would’ve tasted like. Better than straight from the bottle, he imagines. He’s almost regretful he doesn’t know for sure.

“Well, we’re friends obviously. That would just… make things weird, complicated. And unfortunately, I sometimes even tolerate you.”

“Nothing complicated about good sex,” he says, leaning back in his rickety, green camping chair, snatching the whiskey out of your tight grasp. The burn it takes down his throat is both familiar and pleasant.

[junos-chronicles]

Web of Secrets

Best friend. Superhero. Disaster. In that order.

ཐི Pairings: Spider-Man!Gojo x f!Reader ཐི Content warnings + tags: 18+ MDNI: blood/injury, mild language, brief suggestive tension, emotional vulnerability, mentions of past trauma/injury, friends-to-lovers tension, slow burn maybe, shirtless Gojo in distress (you're welcome)

ཐི Synopsis: You always knew something was off. The bruises, the excuses, the way Satoru smiled like nothing was ever wrong. But you never expected to catch your best friend climbing through his dorm window in a torn Spider-Man suit—bleeding, limping, and very, very confused to find you already in his bed. Turns out, the mask was the easy part. Explaining why he kept it from you? That’s going to hurt more.

Look, in Satoru Gojo’s defense, he didn’t mean to get bitten by a radioactive spider.

It wasn’t like he woke up one morning and thought, “You know what would really spice things up? Permanent genetic mutation.” No—he was just eighteen, bored, and dared by his best friends to sneak off during a field trip.

It had been Suguru’s idea, naturally. Haibara backed it up with that reckless grin of his and a, “Come on, Gojo! Don’t be a coward.”. And Gojo—never one to turn down a challenge, especially with you watching from the corner of the lab, arms crossed and suspicious—took the bait. 

Next thing he knew, he was sneaking behind the barrier in one of the restricted research wings, alone, because of course his friends had ditched him to go flirt with the grad students.

But then he took one wrong turn, finding himself in a closed-off lab, staring at a glowing containment case he definitely shouldn’t have opened. And then—snap. Right on the web between his thumb and index finger. Like the thing had been waiting.

Yeah. He got bit. Sue him.

It was small, and honestly, the bite had barely hurt. You’d scolded him for wandering off, of course. Dragged him out by the sleeve of his lab coat and threatened to tell Yaga about the whole thing. But he never got the chance to explain the bite. Not before the symptoms started.

First came the dizziness. Then the freaky super strength. The creeping sense of pressure in the back of his head every time something bad was about to happen. And then the wall-crawling incident. That one was hard to ignore, especially when it ended with him stuck to the ceiling of the boys’ dorm for two hours before Suguru had found him. He was the only one who knew.

And the weird powers? They never went away. 

The getting-stuck-to-the-walls thing just got worse. Along with his super strength that he hadn’t learned to control, resulting in him accidentally flicking an entire cafeteria tray into Nanami’s face (which he still hadn’t been forgiven for).

The rest, well...it escalated.

He got a mask. A suit. A name.

And for the past few years, he’d been juggling college classes, part-time tutoring, and the occasional city-wide disaster. It wasn’t glamorous. He wasn’t rich or famous. He still showed up to class ten minutes late with iced coffee and fresh bruises he refused to explain. But someone had to look out for this city—and it might as well be him. 

Most nights were spent slinging webs across the skyline, fighting weirdos in mech suits or mind-control cults or whatever flavor of chaos happened to be trending. It wasn’t exactly what he had imagined his early twenties would look like, but hey—at least the cardio was good.

Tonight had been one of the rougher ones. 

The villain had some sort of magnetic field tech—don’t ask, he’s still figuring it out—that completely messed with his web cartridges, which was honestly just rude. His ribs were sore, his suit was torn along the left thigh and shoulder, and he was pretty sure there was dried blood on his chin. 

All he wanted to do after was crawl into bed and maybe sleep for the next week.

He didn’t bother swinging all the way across the city. Not tonight. He cut through a few back alleys, scaled a fire escape, and ducked into the familiar creak of the window that led to his dorm bedroom.

He dropped down inside with a grunt, one leg over the sill and already halfway to peeling off the top half of his suit when he heard it:

A soft rustle. The distinct turn of a page.

His head snapped up.

You were there.

Not a hallucination. Not a dream. 

Just you, curled up on his bed like you belonged there—hoodie sleeves pushed up, a paperback balanced on your knees.

You blinked. 

He blinked.

Both frozen.

And for once, Satoru Gojo had absolutely no idea what to say.

It was almost midnight when your phone buzzed again.

Another text from Gojo.

still working late :( don’t wait up

You stared at the message for a second too long, thumb hovering over the screen like you were tempted to cuss him out one more time. But then you rolled your eyes, locked it with a sigh, and tossed the phone onto his nightstand with a quiet thud.

Liar.

“Working late,” your ass. 

He always said that. Or some variation of it—meetings ran long, had to help Yaga with something, emergency tutoring session. All suspicious. All delivered with that same infuriating grin, like he knew you wouldn’t push.

Sometimes you did. Sometimes you tried.

But he always wriggled his way out of it, brushing you off with a joke or a wink, or a “God, you worry too much.” Like caring about him was some kind of thing you should’ve been embarrassed about. 

It was infuriating how vague he could really be—always making it seem like he was out actually doing something normal. But the bruises told you otherwise. The busted knuckles, the limping gait some mornings, the way he winced when he thought you weren’t looking—it all added up to something much bigger than “late-night tutoring sessions”.

So you stopped asking. Mostly.

Suguru was even worse. You’d begged him once, cornered him in the campus café after class when Satoru had come home with his ribs wrapped and his knuckles bloodied. “What is he doing at night?” you’d asked, giving him a look that said I’m serious this time.

Suguru had just looked at you for a long moment before quietly saying, “It’s not my place to tell. Satoru’s just…a complicated guy.”

Like you didn’t already know that.

Then he paid for your coffee and changed the subject.

You’d never felt so helpless in your life.

Satoru Gojo was your best friend. Had been since high school. Loud, ridiculous, impossibly smart—annoying, in that way that got on your nerves like it was his full-time job (though, he made it incredibly hard to actually stay mad at him). He was also the one who carried you home on his back when your feet hurt. Who sent you memes when he knew you were upset. He made you laugh. Made you feel safe, even when the rest of the world didn’t.

Somewhere along the way, the closeness stopped feeling purely platonic. 

You never admitted it. Not even to yourself—not really. But it was there, humming under your skin like static.

And lately…he’d been pulling away. Or maybe hiding something. You weren’t sure which felt worse.

He was so secretive. Always brushing things off, changing the subject, vanishing in the middle of plans. You’d started pretending not to notice. That maybe it was just work, or stress, or something he’d eventually tell you when he was ready. 

But that excuse had been wearing thin.

So tonight, instead of going back to your own dorm, you waited.

You’re not even sure why. Stubbornness, maybe. Or something softer you don’t want to name.

You were already curled up on his bed, one leg tucked beneath you, a paperback open in your lap as you reread the same sentence three times now. The hoodie you were wearing was one of his—oversized, soft, with a faded Digimon print on the front and sleeves that fell over your hands. It still smelled like his detergent—that faint peppermint-and-cotton scent that always made you feel like you were here, with him, even when he wasn’t.

His dorm was quiet, except for the occasional shuffle of someone in the hallway and the low hum of traffic outside the cracked window. The room was small and messy, barely big enough for one person, let alone two (he shared with Suguru). His desk was cluttered with open notebooks and loose pens. A pair of round sunglasses rested crooked on top of a physics textbook. The desk chair was pushed back at an angle like he had left in a rush. 

You turned a page.

And another.

The clock ticked past midnight.

You didn’t know why you were still here. Maybe out of spite. Maybe hope. Maybe because you wanted to be there to make sure he was okay. That if he came back again limping or bleeding or cracked open, you’d be the one to catch him.

But deep down, you were hoping—just a little—that tonight would be different. That he’d walk through the door and sit beside you and finally tell you the truth.

You glanced at the window. It was cracked slightly, as always. He insisted that it was for ventilation, but you always suspected it was just another one of his stupid quirks.

You sighed, stretched your legs a little, and settled deeper into the pillows.

If Satoru wanted to keep secrets, fine. He could have his mysteries and his midnight escapades.

But he could at least have the decency to come home before you fell asleep in his bed.

You were just about to give up and call it a night when the window creaked.

Not loud. Just enough to make your head lift.

You blinked once, slowly, glancing up, expecting him to walk through the door like a normal person.

But no. 

Of course not.

There was movement—a shadow pulling itself over the sill, graceless and muttering.

And then he dropped into the room.

You froze.

So did he.

One leg still hanging out the window, one glove halfway peeled off. His other hand tugged at the edge of a white mask, lifting it high enough to expose his jaw—his bruised, bloody jaw—and a familiar mop of white hair.

And your stomach dropped.

He hadn’t noticed you yet, not fully. He was grumbling under his breath, tugging at the top half of his suit as he peeled it down to his waist with a wince. His hair was a mess, clinging to his forehead with sweat, and there was a cut on his temple that looked like it hadn’t stopped bleeding.

But that wasn’t what made your heart stop.

It was the suit.

Mostly black and white. Torn at the sleeve. Streaked with dirt and ash. And right at the center of his chest, printed in bright, unmistakable blue—

A spider emblem.

Your breath caught.

He looked up. Finally saw you.

And everything in the room just—stopped. He was like a deer caught in headlights.

You felt your heart kind of stutter, because it’s him. It’s Satoru. Except—it’s not.

You stared at him.

Then at the suit.

Then back at him.

Your mouth dropped open. There is no way. No fucking way…

You’ve seen Spider-Man before—but who hasn’t? He was on the news, in blurry tabloid photos, grainy clips online. The masked vigilante who swung in to stop a building collapse downtown. The guy who took on four robbers at once outside the Midtown bank. The same one who—

—saved you once.

But that had been months ago.

And he hadn’t said a word.

Just lifted you out of danger, bridal style, and disappeared before you could even thank him. You’d told yourself it could’ve been anyone.

But now, with him standing in front of you—torn suit, wild hair, and a look of complete panic settling across his features?

There was no denying it.

The book you were barely reading slipped from your lap, hitting the mattress with a dull thump.

“Y–You’re Spiderm—” you start, the words tumbling out before your brain can catch up.

His eyes went wide.

“NOPE—NOPE NOPE NOPE—” he yelped, practically throwing himself across the room.

You shot to your feet, voice rising. “You’re Spider-M—!”

“SHHHHH—” His palm slammed over your mouth mid-sentence.

Your hands flew up in protest, eyes wide, muffled complaints coming fast and still loud. He looked equally horrified and apologetic, the panic written all over his face.

“Stop talking. Stop—please—shhh. You’re gonna give me a heart attack.” He glanced wildly at the window, as if worried someone might’ve heard you from four stories below. “Why are you here?! Why are you—why are you awake?!”

You glared up at him.

He winced, looking like he was two seconds away from passing out. “Right. Yeah. Okay. That’s a dumb question. But this is fine. Totally fine. Normal, even.” he muttered mostly to himself.

You raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

“Okay, not normal,” he amends quickly, eyes darting around like the room might start recording him. “But manageable. Kind of. If you just—stop screaming and don’t say the name again—"

You swatted at his hand until he finally took the hint. He slowly peeled it away from your mouth, like you might bite him. You didn’t—but only barely. You gaped at him for another beat. Your eyes flicked back to his suit, to the emblem, to the blood on his temple. “You’re Spider-Man?!”

“That’s…um.” He scratched the back of his head, grinning weakly. “A surprisingly complicated question, actually.”

Your hands flew up again. “Are you insane?!”

“Okay see, that’s more fair—”

“You’ve been lying to me this entire time—”

“Not lying,” he said, holding up both hands like he could Jedi-mind-trick you into chilling out. “Just, you know. Withholding certain city-saving, occasionally life-threatening details…”

You were still too stunned to speak. Your pulse was thundering in your ears.

Satoru Gojo—your idiot best friend—was the Spider-Man.

“What the fuck, Satoru?!”

“I can explain!”

“Can you?!”

“...Well, no. But I will! Eventually!”

There was another beat of tense silence. Then you both spoke at the same time.

“You’re a superhero—”

“You were not supposed to be here—”

Another pause.

You looked at him again. This tall, ridiculous man in front of you, standing in his half-peeled suit, covered in bruises, and desperately trying to hold it together with pure denial.

And you couldn’t help it.

You bursted out laughing.

“You’re Spider-Man?” you ask again, still breathless. “You trip over your own feet walking across campus.”

He pouted, deeply offended. “I don’t trip—okay, that was one time, and the floor was weird.”

You shook your head, a hundred questions forming at once. None of them left your mouth.

Because suddenly, everything—every late-night excuse, every wince, every disappearing act—made a terrifying kind of sense.

And it hit you, like gravity finally catching up, that he’d been doing this alone.

So, the laughter faded. Slowly. The corners of your mouth still twitched, but your chest felt tight again. It didn’t just disappear completely—but it quieted. Simmering beneath the weight of everything you’d come to realize.

Satoru looked at you, and you looked at him—this idiot, this liar, this half-dressed, scraped-up mess of a best friend— was still standing there, scuffed and bloody and too tired to keep the smile on his face. His shoulders were tense. His eyes—usually so loud, so annoyingly bright—were just…quiet. You felt everything all at once. Relief. Anger. Confusion. That familiar knot of worry that always settled in your stomach whenever he came home bloodied.

But mostly? You were hurt.

You crossed your arms over your chest, with a pout matching his own, “Why didn’t you tell me?” It hadn’t meant to come out so quietly, a little too raw.

He flinched as if you slapped him. “I—I wasn’t trying to keep it from you, I just—”

You stepped back before he could get any closer. “No, seriously. Don’t start with that. You lied. You disappeared. You let me sit here for months, wondering where you were. You let me think you were just being a dumbass, going out and getting into fights for fun, when you were out there risking your life every single night.”

He flinched again. You hated that he looked so small sitting there with his arms half out of his suit. Like he knew he’d messed up and didn’t know how to fix it.

“Suguru knew,” you snapped. “And not me. Do you have any idea how shitty that feels?”

His mouth opened—then closed. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, like he didn’t know where to start.

“Okay, that wasn’t—on purpose,” he said eventually. “He walked in on me stuck to the ceiling of our dorm one night. I was still figuring everything out, and he… just found out. I didn’t tell him. He saw. And I couldn’t really explain that away, could I?”

You didn’t say anything. You just stared. Because you believed that part—but it didn’t fix the ache.

He looked up at you then, eyes wide and a little too honest.

“Look, you’re right. I should’ve told you. I just…I didn’t want you to know,” he admitted. 

That made your eyes narrow. “What?”

He exhaled, long and rough-sounding. “Not because I don’t trust you. It’s the opposite.”

“Satoru—”

“I’m serious,” he said, cutting you off. “I’ve seen what happens. Bad guys figure out who matters. They look for leverage, and people get caught in the middle. People I care about. I didn’t want to put a target on your back. If anything ever happened to you because of me—”

His voice broke off shakily, swallowing hard. “I wouldn’t survive it,” he said, quieter. “I’d never forgive myself…”

You blinked, feeling your throat tighten. “But I’ve always been there,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “Whether I knew or not. I was already close. That didn’t change anything. You just…kept me in the dark.”

He just looked at you like you were breaking his heart. “I know…I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t want to lie to you. I just—wanted to keep you safe.”

There was a long, slow silence. Your shoulders sagged. The tension in your chest didn’t disappear, but it softened.

“…You’re such an idiot,” you muttered, stepping forward and tugging at his wrist. “Sit down before you fall over.”

He obeyed without argument, slowly sinking onto the edge of the bed with a quiet wince. You didn’t wait for permission—you turned on your heel and disappeared into his tiny bathroom, hands trembling as you opened the cabinet under the sink.

You needed a minute to breathe. To focus on something real, like disinfectant and gauze pads. Something you could control.

When you returned with the first aid kit, he hadn’t moved. He looked up at you with those stupidly blue eyes like he expected you to throw it at his head (which he definitely deserved).

Instead, you knelt down in front of him, pulling the kit open with practiced fingers. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” he mumbled, smiling just a little.

“You don’t have to do this alone, you know,” you said, your voice fell quiet again. It wasn’t meant to sound so soft, but it was the truth.

He didn’t say anything, but he held your gaze.

You gestured toward his shoulder. “Suit.”

His eyebrows shot up.

“For the wound, asshole.”

“Oh. Right.” He winced, hesitating for a moment before he peeled the rest of the top down, the fabric sticking to a bloody scrape along his ribs. His chest was broad and flushed in patches of bruised skin and dried blood. Strong. Vulnerable.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you reached for the gauze. You tried not to look too long, but your gaze lingered. On the muscles shifting beneath his skin. On the curve of his neck, the dip of his collarbones, the pale trail of a healing scar across his ribs that you’d never seen before. His chest rose and fell, shallow and slow.

Your pulse fluttered, and it made you angry—because he was reckless and stupid and hadn’t told you anything. And it made you terrified, because you didn’t want to think about what could’ve happened if he hadn’t made it home tonight.

He winced when you dabbed the cut a little too firmly. “Baby,” you teased, gently. “You jumped off a building tonight. I think you can handle a little antiseptic.”

He snorted in response, smiling just a little, but it was smaller than usual. More tired. “That’s rich, coming from the person who cries during animal rescue commercials.”

The silence stretched. Your fingers moved more slowly, feeling the tension between you suddenly shift. It softened, changed shape.

You realized you were still kneeling between his knees, still tending to the bruise blooming down the side of his chest, and his eyes hadn’t left you once. When your hand brushed along the exposed skin, his jaw ticked.

The air felt warmer now. Thicker. His eyes flicked from your eyes to your lips. Yours flicked to his. 

And he leaned in. Just barely.

And you let him.

Your heart stuttered against your ribs once more, this time for a very different reason. Your lips parted slightly—

—and then the door swung open.

“Hey, Satoru, have you seen my—” Suguru’s voice cut off midway.

Both you and Satoru whipped your heads around, flustered, wide-eyed, practically jumping apart.

Suguru stood in the doorway, eyes landing on you. Then Satoru. Then the awkward tangle of limbs and exposed skin between you.

There was a beat of silence as he blinked. But then he smirked. “Oops,” he said, backing up with his hands raised into the air. “My bad.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Then, slowly, you sat back, pressing the gauze firmly to his chest like it was his fault. “Tell him if he walks in like that again, I will kill him.”

Satoru coughed, trying and failing to look innocent. “Technically, he does live here.”

You glared. “Whatever.”

And this time, he laughed.

You cleaned the last of the cuts in silence, fingers steadier now. The sharp edge of anger had dulled into something quieter. Something that felt like grief, maybe. Or relief. A kind of tenderness you weren’t sure what to do with.

And it wasn’t awkward between you anymore. Just heavy. Full of things unsaid.

You taped down the last bit of gauze and let your hand rest—briefly—against the uninjured part of his chest. The warmth of his skin. The steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.

He didn’t move.

You knew he was still watching you. He always watched you like this—like he was memorizing the shape of you. Like he was afraid you’d disappear if he blinked.

And maybe you would’ve. If things were different.

When you finally sat back on your heels, you expected him to deflect. To joke. To shove it all down again, the way he always did when things got too real.

But he didn’t.

Instead, his voice came low. Careful. Afraid he didn’t deserve to ask.

“…Can you stay?”

You looked up at him. Really looked—at the bruises, the bandages, the blood still drying in his hair. But more than that…you saw all of it. The fear. The loneliness. The guilt he’d never once said out loud.

You wanted to yell at him again. Or maybe hold him forever.

But instead, you just nodded. Quietly. Without hesitation.

Because he didn’t need to ask.

Because you were already here.

Because you’d always stay.

And that was enough.

Author's Note: I've had this oneshot in my drafts forever now, but I was feeling inspired by Only One's Who Know by @indiewritesxoxo, because this superhero au of Gojo and Geto is chef's kiss. And I HIGHLY recommend you guy's go give it a read (I'm addicted)!

As always my lovelies, if you enjoyed, a repost is always appreciated! <3

divider: @strangergraphics! | Art by: @aliyartss on instagram

[junos-chronicles]

Model S4-T0RU: Personal Household Companion

Rewriting the standard for domestic intelligence, one android at a time.

Pairing: Android!Gojo x f!Reader Content warnings + tags: MDNI 18+, mentions of infedelity, unhealthy marriage dynamics, emotional neglect, angst, loneliness & isolation, alcohol, androids & artificial intelligence, slow burn fr, implied romance, quiet longing, sci-fi setting, sexy robot gojo wc – 9k words

You’d been living in the quiet leftovers of your marriage for months, pretending the cracks weren’t as obvious as they felt. So when your parents gifted you a high-end android, you assumed it would just highlight everything that wasn’t working in your home. 

Instead, you ended up with something far more complicated than a machine, and a presence you didn’t realize you’d been missing.

Marriage had never been all sunshine and rainbows.

You knew that better than anyone. Not because you were cynical, but because you held it in your hands long enough to feel the splinters of something breaking, piece by piece. 

People liked to pretend it was a fairytale, that love was some permanent, living thing that stayed with you forever – comforting lies wrapped in ribbons.

But real life didn’t care about your vows or your good intentions. It crept in slowly, like water slipping under a doorframe. A small leak at first, barely noticeable until the puddle had soaked through the floorboards, and you couldn’t remember what the room used to look like before everything swelled and warped.

Deadlines. Bills. Exhaustion.

Mornings that bled into nights without ever really feeling like days had passed. Conversations that died down until even the silence felt hollow.

You watched the way relationships aged.

The way people did, too.

How love shifted from something bright and reckless into something painfully heavier, something that you had to carry instead of something that carried you.

And still…you couldn’t say that you didn’t love him

Not entirely.

Because there was some foolish part of you that still clung to the ghost of who your husband used to be. The boy who cupped your face as if you were something precious, who laughed so loudly at your stupid jokes that his shoulders shook, who swore your names together like a vow that could never break.

People warned you back then, about marrying so young. They’d called you impulsive. Said that you were too lovesick to understand what forever truly meant. That first loves burn out – they don’t last.

But you’d brushed all of it off, drunk on the certainty that only a couple of twenty-year-olds in love could afford. How could it be so wrong to marry someone you wanted to spend your life with? He’d been your person – through finals, through your first real job, through the nights you laid tangled together whispering about future plans you truly believed you’d earn.

He’d felt like home, then.

So you married him.

And then real life slapped you across the face.

Stress settled over both of you like thick fog, creeping in through every crack. Responsibilities stacked themselves higher and higher every year. His affection began thinning, so subtly that you kept convincing yourself you were imagining it. 

It started with the casual touches.

His hand would pull away from yours too soon. A smile that never quite reached his eyes. The absentminded kiss he forgot to come back for.

Then it was the bigger things.

Distracted conversations that trickled into silence, arguments that flared up over nothing and cooled into resentment. The weight of never being understood, of talking in functional circles, of being met with a sigh instead of warmth.

He stopped noticing you. Stopped reaching for you. Stopped caring about whether you felt wanted.

And somehow, it was always your fault.

You became the problem before either of you admitted there was a problem.

He didn’t cherish you, but he still expected your body on the nights it was convenient for him. Intimacy stopped being something shared, and instead became something extracted. A duty. A quiet transaction. Something owed rather than earned simply because he wore a ring that matched yours.

And each time you let it happen, some fragile part of you folded in on yourself, apologizing for existing.

You tried. You really did.

Marriage counseling. Scheduled date nights. Soft apologies you forced past your teeth even when you didn’t believe them. Little gestures meant to remind him of who you used to be together. You twisted yourself into unfamiliar shapes, trying to fit the mold of a wife he might love again.

And when nothing worked, desperation nudged you into one last attempt. A night you still couldn’t think about without feeling that sinking pit in your stomach. 

You’d gotten another late-night text from him, something about having to stay late at the office. Again. Buried under another project. Another shipment. Another prototype in the testing wing that apparently needed endless revisions for a presentation. 

So you cooked his favorite dinner. Pack it in carefully sealed containers.

Put on the expensive lingerie he’d bought for you years ago, the set that used to make his eyes darken at the sight of you.

Slipped into a dress that didn’t feel like it belonged to anyone you recognized anymore.

You stupidly hoped that maybe he’d look up at you when you walked in. That he’d remember the woman he once couldn’t keep his hands off.

The fluorescent lights on his floor were unkind – too white, and cold, and sterile. The scent of coolant and disinfectant drifted in the air from the testing wing. Machines thrummed behind glass walls, their movements pulsing like mechanical heartbeats.

You’d pushed the door open without knocking, trying to breathe past your nerves and steady your hands trembling with glass tupperware. 

And you’d found him with his pants hanging around his thighs, buried deep in his secretary, bent over the shiny wooden desk. 

There wasn’t any hesitation.

No shame.

No guilt or fear shining behind his eyes.

Just cold indifference.

You didn’t yell. Didn’t cry. Didn’t do any of the things movies taught you about what heartbreak looked like. Your brain shut down before your heart could catch up. A silent implosion. Everything collapsing inward while nothing moved on the outside.

You just stood there, clutching the stupid meal you made for him, watching the version of your life you hadn’t realized died months ago. Something your heart denied for far too long.

She looked at him like she’d always been his.

He looked at her like you hadn’t been in the doorway at all.

When he came home later that night, the argument was exactly what you’d expected, the same rotation of excuses polished into accusations.

You never paid attention.

You didn’t try hard enough.

You let yourself go.

You made him feel alone.

He treated his betrayal like a symptom of your shortcomings. And despite seeing the truth with your own eyes, a part of you – the exhausted, worn down part – believed him, absorbed the blame like a sponge.

After that, neither of you mentioned it again.

He didn’t stop seeing her, you knew that. He didn’t even bother hiding it well. You could smell perfume that didn’t belong to you lingering on his coat, see the faint lipstick smudge on his sleeve. He’d tilt his phone just out of your line of sight at dinner, come home at 2am reeking of whiskey and someone else’s hands.

If he wasn’t locked away in that glass office downtown, designing machines that resembled humanity more convincingly than he did, he was somewhere else, laughing and drinking and living a life that orbited far from yours.

He didn’t care that you knew. He didn’t have to.

 Because he knew you wouldn’t leave.

You were afraid of what you’d lose, of who you’d be without him, of the life you’d have to rebuild from scratch. The apartment with its floor-to-ceiling windows and sweeping city views, the sleek appliances, and the lights glittering below. 

All of it was his money. 

His job. 

His world.

And the thought of having to crawl back to your parents’ house, of unpacking your things in your childhood bedroom like some version of a failure, made your stomach knot. They would’ve welcomed you home in a heartbeat, that wasn’t the problem.

It was the shame. The humiliation. The feeling of being someone who couldn’t keep the life she’d once been so sure of.

So you stayed.

Not because you forgave him, you doubted you ever would.

But because the loneliness was something you’d grown accustomed to long before the marriage itself ended. 

Those first few nights were the worst.

When the city’s lights poured in through the windows, drenching the room.

When the hum of distant circuity drifted from the manufacturing district.

When your reflection in the mirror looked more like a stranger than the woman you’d always thought you’d be.

Sometimes, staring out over the skyline, you caught yourself wondering when exactly things had shifted. When the warmth of your life drained out. When you stopped living and merely existed. When everything began to feel a little more artificial than the machines he spent his days creating.

Your mother’s face flickered softly across the glass panel embedded into the kitchen wall, her image slightly out of sync with the sound coming from the little speaker balanced on the counter. The delay made everything feel more distant, like you were watching an old video call instead of actually talking to her.

“—and then your father said he doesn’t know why the basil keeps dying,” she was saying, hands animated as she rambled. “I told him it’s because he never listens to the care instructions, but does he believe me? Of course not.”

You murmured something back vaguely agreeable, though you weren’t entirely sure what you were agreeing with. Your attention was half on her, half on the plate in your hand, one of your husband’s, flecked with dried sauce he couldn’t be bothered to rinse off.  

You stacked it on top of the precarious tower already teetering in the sink. The ceramic clinked against more ceramic. You scowled at the sound and immediately hated yourself for it afterward. It wasn’t the plate’s fault that the kitchen felt like a graveyard for tired arguments.

Your fingers were damp and a little pruney from earlier, so you wiped them against the hem of your shirt. The fabric stayed wrinkled no matter how much you smoothed it. You felt like that a lot lately, rumpled in a way that didn’t come out with a simple fix. Creased down to the seams.

“Sweetheart, are you even listening to me?” your mom asked, the scold in her voice softened by static.

“I am,” you muttered automatically.

You nudged one of your husband’s with your foot as you passed through the living area. A polished leather pair, left dead in the center of the entryway like a trap. The muddy soles had already smudged the glossy floors. You’d spent all of yesterday on your hands and knees polishing those same tiles until your back ached and your fingers cramped.

You kicked the shoes toward the wall. They thudded dully. And in the moment, you didn’t care how they landed.

“Just tidying up,” you added, like that explained everything. 

In the panel, she squinted at you, leaning closer as if that would somehow help the resolution. Behind her, you could see the blur of your parents’ living room, the familiar couch, the framed photos, the sun filtering through the curtains.

A shape moved mechanically in the background, near the sliding glass doors. Her garden unit – smooth casing, slender limbs, careful hands tending to the flower boxes on the back patio. You could tell by the angle it was pruning the hibiscus she’d been bragging about for months. 

To her, the little machine was a miracle. To you, it was another reminder that she had help, and you didn’t.

“You look exhausted,” she sighed. “Long day?”

Long month.

Long year.

Long marriage.

Your back throbbed from bending to pick up after someone who acted like the apartment cleaned itself. You hadn’t eaten yet, and it was—what, nearly evening? And a headache had settled somewhere behind your eyes like a slow, pulsing bruise, the kind that made the lights feel too bright and sounds too loud.

But if you stopped moving, if you sat down and let that exhaustion show, your mom would pick up on the tension in your voice and start lecturing you about hydration, or sleep cycles, or your rising cortisol levels.

“Something like that,” you said, lifting an empty glass from the coffee table. His, based on the faint ring of condensation and the trace of some expensive whiskey clinging to the bottom. You moved it back to the kitchen out of habit.

Her gaze sharpened.

There it was, that familiar crease between her brows. The one that said: you’re not telling me everything. She’d always been a little too good at reading you.

“How’s he doing?” she asked, casually enough that someone else might have missed the weight under the question.

You paused, fingers tightening around the glass before you set it in the sink with the others.

He’s fucking his secretary.

He’s drinking more.

He’s barely here, and when he is, he feels even farther away.

All of those things hovered on the back of your tongue. And none of them made it out.

“He’s busy,” you said instead, forcing your voice to sound as bland as you could. “Work’s been kinda…consuming him lately.”

You’d gotten good at telling the half-truths. Just enough honesty to be technically correct, and just enough vagueness to keep the rot hidden away.

“And the city?” she asked. “You’re adjusting? Still getting used to all the noise and everything?”

You bent to pick up one of his work shirts tossed over the back of the couch. The cuff brushed your cheek, and you caught the faint trace of perfume, something sweet and fruity. Not your scent. Not any product you owned. It was that same smell that clung to him when he stumbled home last night, muttering something about “networking drinks” in a tone that dared you to question it.

“Yeah,” you mumbled. “I’m fine. Really. Just busy, mom.”

You were getting good at that, too – that little word fine, stretched so thin that it barely meant anything anymore.

“Mhm.”

That was the sound she made when she didn’t believe you, but hadn’t decided whether or not it was worth pressing.

She watched you move around the living room, straightening cushions, folding the blanket you’d used on the couch last night when you couldn’t fall asleep in your own bed. Her eyes softened, then hardened, then softened again. The constant cycle of maternal concern and restraint.

“I was looking at old photos earlier,” she said suddenly. “From your graduation. You looked so…bright then.”

“Mom,” you warned lightly.

“I’m not saying that to upset you,” she said quickly. “You just—you had this glow. You and him. You looked like you believed the whole world was about to open up.”

You remembered that day. The heat of his palm pressed against your back. The way he kissed you in front of your parents, grinning against your own smile. Back then, he’d ramble about the future like it was something precious you were both holding onto. 

Now, whenever he mentioned the future, it was numbers and sales projections and quarterly reports. Deadlines. Market expansions. Work always.

He didn’t talk about your future anymore. Just the company’s – or just his.

“Well,” your mom tried again, a little more tentatively, “your anniversary is coming up, isn’t it?”

You stiffened.

God. That again.

You forced your shoulders to relax, forced your fingers to uncoil as you draped the blanket over the back of the couch.

“Yeah,” you said. “Next week.”

“Are you two doing anything special?” she asked, hope laced in her voice like she was trying to paint something brighter over a wall already peeling.

You could’ve laughed.

You pictured him hunched over his desk in that sleek glass office, blue light reflecting off his tired face, some new prototype’s specs glowing on the screen. You pictured him ignoring your messages, letting the read receipts sit there like little ghosts.

Special?

You were lucky if he came home before midnight, much less remembered what date it was.

“I don’t know,” you muttered. “We haven’t really talked about it.”

Because you hadn’t really talked about anything that mattered in months.

Her sigh floated through the speaker, full of frayed frustration. “You deserve to be celebrated. A night out, a trip—something. You’re so tired lately, and he—”

“Mom, I said I’m fine,” you cut in, the words sharper than you meant.

Silence fell over the room for a second. You pretended to busy yourself with rearranging the throw pillows, even though they were already lined up perfectly 

“...You always say that,” she murmured. “And I know you hate when I worry, but…you don’t seem like yourself anymore. You sound…dimmer. I just think you need to find a way to relax. To feel a little optimistic again.”

Optimistic.

Did she think it was like a light switch you could just flick back on?

You closed your eyes, breathing in slow. “Mom, I really don’t want to do this right now.”

She finally seemed to catch on, because she pivoted almost abruptly, latching onto a (somewhat) safer topic like a lifeline.

“Speaking of,” she said, brightening, “did you get your gift yet?”

You blinked. “My what?”

“The gift from us!” she repeated as though it were obvious. “For your anniversary. We sent something to the apartment. I assumed it would’ve been delivered by now.”

A prickle of unease crawled up your spine.

“No?” you said slowly. “I haven’t gotten anything. What is—”

The buzzer crackled from the intercom by the front door, loud and sudden enough to startle you, heart skittering from the unexpected intrusion.

“Oh! That must be it!” your mom chirped. “Go on, answer!”

You wiped your sweaty palms over your sweatpants as you shuffled toward the door. The intercom screen flickered to life, displaying a grainy feed of the lobby and a deliveryman standing beside a tall crate on a hover-dolly. His uniform was dark and sleek, the jacket stamped with a logo you knew all too well – a stylized six-pointed crest outlined in chrome blue circuitry.

KAISEN TECHNOLOGIES.

The company your husband poured his life into.

The same place he’d been when you found him—

You stopped that train of thought before it could derail.

You pressed the talk button with a stiff finger. “Hello?”

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” the deliveryman greeted politely. “I have a scheduled installation for a personal household assistant, model S-Series, limited prototype. Should only take about twenty minutes or so. May I come up?”

You stared.

The words sounded like gibberish, but you certainly knew what they meant. You’d heard them on commercials playing from the giant screens downtown, seen them on sleek ad banners your husband had casually dismissed over breakfast.

“They’re overpromising the software,”  he’d muttered once, scrolling through a projection hovering above the kitchen table. “Marketing bullshit. People don’t need something this advanced doing their goddamn dishes.”

You remembered laughing weakly, saying something like, “Maybe if we had one, you’d actually help at home for once”.

He hadn’t laughed. He’d just smirked, leaned over to kiss your jaw in that distracted way he did once in a while, and murmured, “I already have a personal assistant. She makes my coffee and keeps the place presentable. Why would I need an Android on top of that?”

It had stung then. It burned even hotter now.

You stared at the man on the screen, trying to force your scattered thoughts into some kind of order.

“...Assistant?” you echoed, stupidly.

“Yes, ma’am,” he nodded, unfazed.

Somewhere behind you, your mom’s image leaned further into frame, her eyes sparkling excitedly like a child on Christmas morning. “We really splurged this time,” she said, delighted. “The S-Series is their newest. Your father pre-ordered one a few months ago, and we love ours. We thought it could help you around the house.”

You turned slowly toward the screen, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “Mom…” you muttered. “You bought me a fucking android?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” she huffed, waving her hand like you were being dramatic. “Don’t say it like that. Everyone has one now.”

Everyone.

Except you.

Because your husband worked at the company that manufactured them and still refused to bring their tech home.

“They’re normal appliances,” she continued. “Think of it like a dishwasher. Or—or a smart fridge.”

“They’re not dishwashers,” you snapped. “They look like people.”

“Exactly,” she said. “They’re intuitive. They make life easier. That’s the point.”

“Mom, I told you I don’t want an Android,” you said, the words tumbling out almost too fast. “I’ve said that so many times. I don’t want something that walks around my apartment, pretending to be human, okay? They’re—I don’t know—creepy. And they’re taking jobs away from real people, and I don’t need—”

“You do,” she interrupted firmly. “You do need help. You’re up there killing yourself trying to keep everything perfect while he’s—” she broke off, lips pressing into a thin line. “While he’s busy. Just let it help you.”

“I don’t want that thing to help me,” you retorted, the words spilling out like fire before you could cool down.

There was a moment of silence, and guilt rushed in as soon as your anger receded. You scrubbed your hand over your face.

“I just mean…” You exhaled shakily. “I really don’t want one. They’re too human.”

“And what’s so wrong with that?” she challenged. “Better than humans who forget to appreciate what they have.”

That stung.

Not because she was trying to hurt you, she never did. But because she didn’t even realize how on the nose she was.

The intercom buzzed again, more insistent than the last. You glanced at the screen, watching the deliveryman shift his weight, his eyes flicking toward the camera like he could see your hesitation through it.

What would your husband say if he came home and found an android standing in the kitchen?

He’d hate it.

He’d look at you like you’d betrayed him.

He’d think you did it to spite him. To make a point about all the late nights, all the broken promises, all the ways he’d left you alone in this glass-walled apartment.

Or worse, he’d think you did it because you were lonely.

He’d sneer and say, “You really needed a replacement that badly, huh?”

He’d remind you that he already has a personal assistant.

He’d act like you’d misunderstood your role, like you were being ungrateful for wanting help.

He’d ask if you were planning to use it to spy on him. To report what time he came home. Who he brought with him on the nights you weren’t there.

None of that had happened yet, but you knew him. You knew exactly which ways this could go wrong.

“Just let him in,” your mom urged. “Trust me. You’re going to love it. You won’t know how you lived without it.”

You thought about how you were already living without most of the things you’d thought you couldn’t live without – his hand in yours, his laugh in the mornings, his warmth pressed up against your back in bed. You’d learned to survive the absence of those.

Why was the idea of something new in the apartment – something that looked at you with artificial eyes, that listened, that learned – somehow more terrifying?

A household assistant.

A machine that would catalog your habits, your expressions, your routines.

Something that would be there on the nights he didn’t come home.

Something that would see how empty this place really was.

You rubbed your thumb over the edge of the intercom, feeling the smooth glass catch against your skin.

You didn’t want an android.

You didn’t want your mother to look at you with that crestfallen disappointment if you refused.

You didn’t want your husband to come home and see the crate and decide this was the final proof that you were too much. Too needy. Too dramatic. Too everything.

But the deliveryman was still waiting. And your mom was still watching you like she could will you into accepting the help she thought you desperately needed.

You inhaled slowly, trying to brace yourself against the sense that something in your life was about to rearrange itself again, with or without your consent.

You lifted your hand. Your finger hovered over the button for a second too long.

And you pressed it.

The lock downstairs clicked audibly through the speaker.

“Come up.”

Your mom was still talking when the elevator chimed somewhere down the hall, a muffled “ding” sound that made your stomach drop straight through the floor.

“Oh! That’ll be him,” she beamed, completely oblivious to the cold panic that bled across your face. She sounded like she was announcing something simple, like a neighbor dropping off a casserole, not the delivery of something with a price tag probably larger than your student loans.

“Mom, wait—”

“I should let you go so you can talk to the technician,” she rushed on, already reaching to end the call. “Call me later, okay? And send some pictures once it’s all set up!”

“Mom—”

You stepped back from the panel, fingers still hovering near the glass like you could somehow undo it if you moved fast enough. Call the man back. Tell him the wrong address, the wrong person, the wrong life. 

Too late. 

The connection light on the elevator panel by your front door blinked from idle blue to an insistent white. Someone had already keyed in your floor.

When you looked back, your mom’s face was gone from the kitchen wall. You didn’t even get the opportunity to decide whether you wanted to thank her or beg her to cancel everything. You saw only your own reflection on the dark glass – tired eyes, rumpled clothes, hair pulled back that had definitely seen better days. And the apartment around you suddenly felt so staged, like one of those fake showroom spaces devoid of anything real. 

You wiped your palms down your thighs again, though it didn’t help. Your skin still felt so clammy. You tried to breathe in slowly. In, out. The way the meditation app – the one your mom insisted on downloading – always told you to. Instead, your brain offered you a parade of worst-case scenarios.

You pictured your husband, short-tempered and tired, walking in on this exact moment. A stranger in a Kaisen Technologies uniform, some gleaming new android standing where his shoes sometimes landed when he kicked them off. 

He’d scoff. Laugh, maybe. Or worse, he’d go quiet in a way that meant you were about to have a very calm, very controlled conversation about how dramatic you’d really become. 

He’d say something about not being enough for you anymore. He’d say you didn’t trust him. He’d say that the prototypes are unstable and that you were stupid for inviting one into your home.

Your stomach lurched.

And the elevator chimed down the hall. Close.

The apartment seemed to hold its breath with you. The vents hummed with the climate system. The fridge clicked softly. Somewhere outside, a siren wailed in the distance, swallowed quickly by the layered traffic noise. Life outside felt far away and much too close all at once.

There was a sudden knock at the door, then. Three brisk raps against the wood.

You didn’t have to answer. You could pretend you weren’t home, make the man take the crate back down to the loading dock, tell your mom later that there’d been some kind of mistake and the delivery actually “never showed.”

But you could picture the way her face would fall at your rejection of their concern.

Honestly, you were so tired of disappointing people.

So you closed your hand around the door handle before you’d talk yourself out of it.

The man standing in the hallway looked exactly as he had in the grainy intercom feed. Mid-thirties, maybe, a compact build, uniform pressed crisp. The KAISEN crest gleamed against the black fabric of his coat, catching the hallway light whenever he shifted his weight.

Behind him floated the crate.

It was taller than you by at least a head, standing upright on the hover-dolly. Up close, the casing was even more unsettling. Not boxy like the industrial transport crates you’d seen at loading docks – this thing was sleek. Smooth and rounded, a capsule designed for something fragile and expensive. No panels. No hinges. No obvious seams. Just that pulsing, faint blue line running along both sides.

Like a heartbeat.

You couldn’t unsee it.

“Good evening,” the technician greeted, offering a practiced, polite smile like he’d done this a thousand times before. He probably had. “Am I speaking with Mrs—?” he read off your husband’s last name.

Sometimes, hearing that name hit you like a slap in the face, even after all this time. Some part of you expected to turn around and see another woman standing there – more put together, less exhausted, more deserving.

“Yeah,” you said. “That’s me.”

“Great,” He consulted his tablet, eyes flicking over the information. “I have an installation order for one S-Series domestic assistant, owner ID linked to this residency. Does everything look correct here?”

You swallowed. “Yeah,” you said again. “That’s…right.”

“Perfect. May I bring the unit inside?”

You hesitated for a moment, but stepped aside anyway. “Sure.”

He guided the crate through the doorway with minimal effort, and the dolly glided quietly into the threshold. The capsule’s white surface picked up on the warm lighting of the foyer, reflecting it colder, like daylight on fresh snowfall.

“Where would you like him?”

Him.

Not it.

Not the unit.

Not the assistant.

Him.

You glanced automatically toward the living room. The big open space with the couches and the coffee table and the tall windows you used to think were romantic. The place you’d once pictured children sitting on the rug, toys scattered, your husband smiling.

Now it was just another room you kept clean.

An exhibit.

“Um,” you started, clearing your throat. “There is fine. The living room, I mean.”

He nodded, already steering the dolly that direction. The crate floated a few inches above the floor, perfectly balanced, the blue strip of light brightening as it moved. You followed at a careful distance, like the man was escorting a wild animal into your home.

“Is this your first installation?” he asked casually over his shoulder.

“First android, period,” you said. “I’ve only ever seen them in ads. And, you know…out on the street sometimes.”

You didn’t mention that your husband worked on the systems that made them possible, that he’d come home ranting about design meetings and firmware updates and ethics reviews, all while insisting he didn’t want one “invading his personal space.”

The technician chuckled. “You’ll get used to it quick,” he said. “Most people do. They’re more intuitive than the older lines. Less mechanical. You talk, he listens. You ask, he acts. Simple as that.”

You weren’t sure that reassured you.

He stopped in the center of the living room, directly in front of the couch. The crate’s glow cast blue over the glass coffee table, the rug, the wall where your wedding photos hung – the few that you’d never had the heart to take down, even though it felt like a whole lifetime ago.

“This a good spot?” he asked.

You stared at the high-tech coffin-pod a few feet from the framed moment where you’d still believed in forever.

“It’s fine,” you murmured.

“Alright.” 

He bent over the side of the capsule, pressed his thumb against a recessed port you hadn’t even seen, and the tablet in his other hand chimed in recognition. A series of icons flashed across its surface, lines of text scrolling rapidly.

“I’m just going to sync his data to your residence,” he explained, not looking up. “Tie him into the network, link access to the local grid. He’ll be able to route to your home systems once he’s fully online.”

You nodded, pretending you understood anything he’d just said.

“Um,” you found yourself asking, “is it…safe?”

He glanced at you quickly. “Safe?”

“You know. Like…is it going to go rogue or something and stab me with a kitchen knife while I’m sleeping?” you said, only kinda joking.

He laughed. “You’ve been watching those old school horror flicks, huh?” 

He shook his head, turning back to the tablet. “No, ma’am. Strict domestic protocols, layered failsafes, and remote monitoring. If anything glitches enough to be dangerous, he’ll shut down long before he can make it to the silverware drawer.”

The mental image did not help.

“So it can’t hurt me,” you clarified.

“Can’t initiate harm,” he corrected. “He can restrain you if your vitals suggest you’re about to do something risky, like jump off the balcony, but that’s emergency intervention protocols. See, look—” 

He spun the tablet just enough for you to catch a glimpse of a diagram – bright red rings labeled “inhibitors,” cascading down an abstract humanoid outline. “He’s got more restrictions than my first three exes combined.”

You huffed a weak, unwilling breath that was close to a laugh.

And the technician seemed satisfied.

“Alright, here we go.” He tapped another command on the tablet.

The hum from inside the capsule deepened, and the seams of the front panel unsealed with a soft hiss of pressurized air slipping free. You heard the interior locks disengaging, muted clicks that stack stop another, like someone cracking their knuckles one by one.

The front opened and rose with slow precision, lifting up and back until it hovered open like a door on invisible hinges. 

You told yourself that you were ready. That you already knew what to expect. You’d seen the ads, after all, the glossy posters and the videos your husband waved in front of your face with an eye roll.

But nothing had prepared you for seeing one in your living room.

He stood just inside the capsule, anchored to its base by unseen supports. His synthetic skin appeared flawless and almost warm. His broad shoulders were set in a straight, almost military line. The clothing they’d dressed him in was simple – a fitted white shirt and dark pants, perfectly tailored. No wrinkles. No signs of wear. No human traces.

His hair was a soft white color – not gray, not bleached, but a manufactured shade that refracted light rather than simply reflecting it. It was styled in an effortless way, but you were sure it had been agonized over in design meetings.

His face—

Your thoughts finally snagged there.

He was handsome. Beautiful, even. Not just in a generic way, but ethereal like a marbled sculpture. A machine designed with aesthetic intent, like the engineers had sat around asking themselves what humans found most comforting. A straight nose. High cheekbones. A mouth and a pair of lips that looked like they could curve very easily into a smile.

If he’d been on the street, you might’ve assumed he was a model. Or an actor. Someone who made a living existing as an image.

“Holy shit…” You whispered.

The technician let out a low whistle. “They went all out on this one,” he said, more to himself than you. “You must have some very generous parents.”

You couldn’t tear your gaze away long enough to answer.

“What’s its name?”

The man checked the tablet. “Model designation S4-T0RU,” he said.

You snorted under your breath at the corporate-sounding cadence of it.

“Don’t worry,” he added. “You don’t have to call him that. It’s more for the system logs.”

“You call it a him,” you noticed.

He shrugged. “Easier than ‘the unit’ when they look like this.”

Like what?

Like actual people?

He tilted his tablet, tapping through menus. “This is the new cognitive baseline model. A prototype batch. They were designed to look more approachable than the older androids. Helps encourage better bonding.”

Would bonding make your life easier?

“Alright,” the technician adjusted a few more settings. “Shall we power him on?”

There was something grotesquely intimate about watching it.

A small tremor began in the android’s hands. His fingers extended, curled back in, then spread again, as though he were testing the concept of articulation after being dormant for so long. His shoulders rolled back, the line of his spine shifted as the internal stabilizers adjusted. You could hear clicks below the surface of his skin, the mechanisms aligning.

Then his chest expanded. Not a breath, you knew that. But it still looked like one.

“Core’s online,” the man murmured, watching the readout. “Motor functions are good. Optical systems in three…two…”

The android’s eyelids fluttered.

And they opened.

A bright blue light flooded his irises, outlined with barely visible lines of circuitry if the overhead hit them just right. The pupils contracted and expanded, calibrating the room’s brightness. 

His gaze swept outward.

He looked at the technician, then continued past him, scanning the room, gridding the space into reference points. Walls, windows, furniture, ceiling. His head turned with deliberate control, cataloging angles and distances.

Then he saw you.

You knew the exact moment his sensors processed you as an object in the room, because his gaze stopped behaving like a camera and started behaving like attention.

Those vivid eyes fixed on your face and stayed there.

Your breath stumbled.

There was nothing inherently threatening in his expression. His brows weren’t drawn. His mouth didn’t curl. But there was clearly focus there. An alertness most machines weren’t supposed to have, at least not in your mind.

“The visual system will keep refining for the next few minutes,” the technician said, oblivious to the way your whole body felt off-center. “He’ll track motion, scan the environment, that sort of thing.”

The android blinked again, slower this time, as if testing the speed.

“Hey,” the tech called, raising his voice. “Unit S4-T0RU, can you hear me?”

The android’s head turned toward him. “Audio input confirmed,” he stated.

His voice startled you.

It was…warm. Deep, but not overly so. Clear. If you’d heard it through a wall, you would’ve assumed a real person was speaking. 

“Motor check,” the tech said, as if this were all routine. “Step forward.”

The android did, lifting one foot with fluid ease and placing it on your living room floor. No stutter. No jerk. Just one, perfectly controlled step out of his own coffin. He stepped again. Stopped where indicated. His posture shifted, subtle adjustments making him look marginally less like a mannequin.

“Balance is stable,” he reported.

“Good,” the technician said. “Stand by.”

He tapped through another sequence on the tablet. “We’re going to run the environment mapping now,” he explained to you. “He’ll sync with your space, note exits, furniture locations, potential hazards. Think of it like him learning the layout.”

He angled the screen away, then entered a final command.

The android’s gaze went distant. The vivid blue of his irises seemed to glaze over, dimming and changing to an opaque, milky-white color. His pupils disappeared entirely, and his head began to turn in a slow, systematic sweep.

“Is he okay?” you asked.

“Oh yeah, it’s perfectly normal.”

The android looked up, tracking the vents. Looked down, mapping the furniture edges. Sideways, toward the balcony door and the lock, the latch, the railing beyond the glass.

“What happens if I move something?” you asked, hugging your arms around yourself.

“He’ll adapt,” the man said. “Ongoing spatial updates. He’s constantly logging new information.”

Constantly logging.

Learning everything.

You didn’t know whether to be unnerved or relieved. Maybe both.

“He’s also tying into local services,” the tech added. “Weather feeds, emergency dispatch, building alerts. If there’s a fire alarm, he’ll know before you do. Panic levels go down by about thirty percent in homes with androids.”

The android’s eyes snapped back to clarity like someone had thrown a switch. And they landed on you. 

Again.

You swallowed.

“You are currently the only registered user in his proximity. So he’ll prioritize you by default. Once your partner gets home, you can add him as a primary or secondary profile.”

A ridiculous spike of anxiety shot through your spine.

He would hate this, you thought again.

He would hate walking in and finding this.

Your hand must have twitched, because the android’s gaze dipped, tracking the movement like a reflex. His head tilted by a fraction, as if making note of it.

“Does he—” You had to wet your lips before you could continue. “Can he…like, read my mind or something?”

The technician laughed. “No, ma’am. But he can read vitals if you authorize it. Heart rate, breathing, temperature, that kind of thing. It lets him respond appropriately. Fetch water if you’re dehydrated. Call emergency services if your vitals crash.” He shrugged. “Honestly, they sometimes catch things doctors miss.”

You wondered if he would notice your heart was beating way too fast right now. If he would flag it as panic or just data.

“We’ll keep it off by default,” he said, maybe reading your unease more accurately than the machine currently was. “You can toggle that in settings whenever you’re comfortable.”

You nodded slow, trying to absorb all the information he was dumping on you, but it felt like you didn’t belong in a world advanced enough for things like this.

“S4-T0RU is optimized for domestic efficiency, safety protocols, and household upkeep, so he’ll follow any spoken commands. He can cook if you want him to. Clean, run errands, hold a conversation. Everything is customizable—” 

He ran through more features – voice activation, phrase recognition, manual override commands – the words continuing to wash over you in a blur a technical terms. Cognitive cores. Adaptive learning. Emotional response matrices.

“Sorry,” you said quietly at one point, rubbing the back of your neck to loosen the growing knot there. “I’m not super tech savvy like my husband.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “You don’t have to program him or anything. Just talk. He’ll take it from there.”

Just talk?

It was never that simple. Because “just talking” was the exact thing that had been failing your marriage for months.

“One last thing,” he added, thumb hovering over a highlighted option on the tablet. “This model has the updated learning module. It’s still a little experimental, but it’s been proven highly effective. Over time, he’ll adjust not just to your schedule, but to your preferences. Tone, boundaries, social comfort – the more time you spend interacting, the more natural he’ll feel.”

“So he…actually feels emotion?”

“Well, not real emotion, obviously,” he clarified. “He’s still a machine, so he’s not going to fall in love with you or anything. But he’ll simulate appropriate responses to make coexistence smoother. If you hate being overwhelmed with questions, he’ll talk less. If you like conversation, he’ll initiate more. If you sound sad, he might offer a distraction. That kind of thing.”

Your cheeks heated, and your gaze dropped down to the floor.

“So I shouldn’t get attached.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “We can’t regulate your feelings, ma’am. We just build the hardware.”

That might have been the most honest thing anyone connected to KAISEN had ever said to you.

“Anyway,” he tapped his final confirmations. “Everything seems to be looking good here. He’s all yours.” He held the tablet out for you. “Just a signature here to acknowledge the installation.”

Your fingers wobbled slightly as you signed your name with the stylus. Your married name. His last name. The one that now apparently owned a machine.

“Perfect.” He pocketed the tablet, then turned to the android. “S4-T0RU, primary owner is in front of you. Acknowledge.”

The machine straightened subtly. Those bright blue eyes locked onto you again. “Primary owner detected,” he said. “Facial profile initialised.”

A thin line of light scanned down your face from somewhere inside his irises, too quick to be anything but imagined until your skin tingled in its wake.

“Profile saved,” he said.

“Alright,” the technician said. “He’s going to be a bit stiff for the first few hours. Think of him as…waking up from a really long nap. Things will kinda smooth out as the model refines. Any questions before I head out?”

Yeah, about a hundred, actually.

None that you could articulate at this exact moment.

“Wait—what should I say to him?”

“Whatever you want.” He smiled. “Start simple. ‘Hello.’ Ask him to do something easy. It’ll help his routines.”

You stared at the android again. He stared back, silent, as patient as a statue.

“Okay,” you said weakly. “Yeah. I’ll…figure it out.”

“If you have any questions or issues, the support number’s in his menu.” The tech snapped the hover bands back onto the empty capsule and began rolling it away. “Enjoy your new companion.”

The elevator doors slid shut behind him, taking the crate and his easy confidence and the last human presence in the apartment with them.

When the silence settled again, it was different from before.

Suffocating.

It was just you.

And him.

Neither of you moved. You just watched each other. He tilted his head, awaiting something – a command, maybe, an input, a script to follow. You didn’t realize until now that his height had him practically towering over you, the broadness of his shoulders leaving a shadow on the rug.

You cleared your throat. “Uhhh…”

His focus sharpened instantly at the sound. Micro-movements flickered across his features, a tiny adjustment of his brows, his gaze softening.

“Hello,” he said.

The greeting slipped through the space between you, warm and smooth. He delivered it in a voice that sounded like it belonged to someone you’d meet in a bar over drinks.

“Hi,” you answered.

Brilliant, you thought. Truly stunning conversation.

His eyes dipped, flicking briefly to your hands where they twisted in the hem of your shirt, then back up. “Your heart rate is elevated,” he said calmly.

You stiffened. “I thought that feature was off.”

“My ability to approximate baseline human vitals is independent of active monitoring permissions,” he replied. “However, I apologize for alarming you. My intention is not to cause distress.”

Great. Now you were being reassured by a machine.

“I guess I’m just nervous?” you said, forcing yourself to drop your hands.

“Nervous,” he repeated. “Is it because of my presence?”

You hesitated. “A little.”

His head tipped to the side again. “Do you wish for me to move farther away?”

The offer was so unexpectedly considerate it threw you. “No!” you said quickly, wincing at how pathetic that sounded. You weren’t really sure if you did or didn’t. You weren’t really sure what you wanted at all. “Sorry. I just—I’m not used to this.”

“This,” he echoed. “Owning an Android?”

“Having one in my home,” you clarified. “My husband, he—” The word snagged on your tongue, and you swallowed. “He works for Kaisen, actually. He never wanted one to begin with.”

“He is employed at Kaisen Technologies,” the android said, as if confirming it with some internal database. “That aligns with the registry attached to this residence.”

You felt oddly exposed, like your life had been laid out somewhere on a dashboard and color-coded without your consent.

“He considers me unnecessary?” S4-T0RU asked. There was no bitterness in the question. Simply a search for data.

You could’ve laughed. If anything, your husband considered you unnecessary.

“He thinks people get too attached,” you explained. “He thinks it makes them pathetic.”

The android absorbed that silently. “I will endeavor,” he said after a moment, “not to make you pathetic.”

It was such a blunt, literal attempt at reassurance that a small huff of air broke out. He watched the reaction with quiet attentiveness, as if cataloguing it for later.

“You have not used my designation yet,” he observed, almost gently.

“Designation,” you repeated. “Right. That whole…string of letters and numbers.”

“S4-T0RU,” he supplied. “It functions as an identification code.”

“That’s, uh…that’s a lot to say every time,” you murmured. “Do you like it?”

He paused. It wasn’t a mechanical lag, but almost the impression of consideration. 

“I have no preference,” he said. “I was activated with it. It is familiar. But if it displeases you, you are encouraged to select an alternative. Assigning names often increases user comfort.”

Of course, they’d studied that. Of course, some team in a glass boardroom had looked at charts proving that naming your machine made it stick harder in your life.

You breathed out slowly.

“Okay,” you said. “Can we try something simpler? Maybe…Satoru?” you asked. “It’s easier to say than S4—whatever.”

He repeated it.

“Satoru.”

The syllables rolled off his tongue smoothly, carrying a certain warmth that hadn’t originally been there with the code. He blinked once, then twice. You had no idea what was happening in there, but he seemed almost…pleased? Maybe it had meant something to him. Maybe he’d been waiting for permission all along to be called something human.

“Satoru,” he said again. “Name registered.”

“You’re okay with that?”

“I have been informed that my preferences are secondary to yours,” he said. “However…I find that I do not dislike it.”

It was maybe the closest thing to “I like it” that you’d ever heard from something that didn’t technically have feelings.

“Alright then,” you said. “Satoru. It suits you.”

“What should I call you?” he asked suddenly.

You blinked. “Me?”

“Yes. You are registered as primary owner. But I would prefer not to address you as such in casual conversation. It appears to cause social discomfort in most documented cases.”

Should you laugh at that?

You gave him your name. Your first. And it felt strangely intimate, handing it to him like a gift.

He repeated it, the same way he’d repeated his own. Testing the shape of it. Filing it away. When he said it, it didn’t sound like an entry in a log. It sounded like something that belonged to you.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For…what?” you asked, genuinely confused.

“For providing parameters. It will make interacting with you much more precise.”

You snorted softly. “I’m glad I could help make your job easier.”

“Making your life easier is my job,” he corrected gently. “Not the other way around.”

You stared at him. No one had said something like that to you in a very long time without wanting something back.

And when the silence settled again, it felt different this time. Less like a vacuum and more like…space. Something you could fill, if you had the energy.

He glanced once toward the kitchen. Toward the sink full of dishes, the cluttered counter, the half-finished mug of tea ringed with dried residue. “There is a significant backlog of cleaning tasks in this residence,” he observed calmly. “Your posture indicates muscular fatigue. And your caloric intake today appears insufficient.”

“Excuse me?”

He blinked, tilting his head. “You have not eaten since at least midday. Your stomach produced audible sounds during the installation, and your energy levels are likely low. Would you like me to prepare something?”

The fact that he’d noticed all of that – had logged it, interpreted it, presented it back to you like a summary report – should have freaked you out.

And it did.

Yet, you were also…embarrassed. Seen. In a way you hadn’t been in a long time.

“I don’t even know if you can cook.” 

He considered that. “My core contains comprehensive culinary databases and optimized preparation protocols for five hundred and twelve common dishes. I can also adapt based on your preferences. Or learn.”

“I’m not that hungry,” you lied.

His gaze flicked briefly to your midsection, then back up. “That is inaccurate,” he said gently.

When you glared at him for the intrusion, he looked completely unbothered.

“You’re very…direct,” you said.

“I can adjust,” he offered. “If you prefer softer phrasing, I will attempt it. This is why emotional learning modules exist.”

You rubbed your hand over your face. “No, it’s fine. I’m just not used to anyone paying that much attention.”

“That’s rather unfortunate,” he said. “Luckily, my goal is to provide as much attention as you require.”

You stared at him again. At the blue eyes that glowed faintly in the low light. At the face you knew had been engineered to reassure and appeal and sell units. At the artificial man who had been in your apartment for less than an hour and had already noticed more than your husband did on most days.

Maybe you should’ve been terrified. And maybe you were. But beneath all that unease, beneath the skepticism, there was something tiny and traitorous blooming. A hesitant curiosity.

The future your husband had scoffed at wasn’t about companionship purchased in cold, chrome packages. It was about what happened when the people who were supposed to love you stopped acting human, leaving you staring into the eyes of a machine that somehow felt more present than anyone else did.

Satoru watched you quietly, waiting.

You realized he wouldn’t speak again until you did.

“Okay,” you said softly, surprising yourself. “Maybe…I am a little hungry.”

He straightened, a hint of animation touching his features. “Understood.” He turned toward the kitchen with a fluid pivot, steps silent on the floor. “Would you like to accompany me, or would you prefer to rest?”

Rest.

You couldn’t remember the last time anyone had suggested you do that while they handled things.

“I’ll come,” you heard yourself say, legs moving before your doubts could stop them. “You’ll probably break something if I don’t.”

He glanced back at you, and for the first time, you could almost imagine there was the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes – not coded, not scripted, but emerging.

“I will endeavor not to,” he said.

And as you followed him into the kitchen – this strange, too perfect figure navigating a space worn down by your ordinary exhaustion – an unsettling thought slid quietly into your mind:

Maybe you always needed an Android.

Art by: @521jie on X

A/N: I watched a Detroit: Become Human edit the other day on tiktok and I felt inspired by my og robot crush Connor to write this oneshot...tehe. And as always, I hope you enjoy, and a repost is always appreciated, my loves!

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