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Cosmically Defective || tooru oikawa Cupid AU - Did Someone Call for Cupid?

She’s over it. Dating, love, the whole mess—it’s exhausting, and at this point, kind of humiliating. If love was meant to happen, it would’ve happened by now… right? Enter: a celestial being with a perfect record and the personality of someone who’s never been wrong a day in his life. Tooru Oikawa is a high-performance celestial matchmaker with zero tolerance for human chaos, a long list of rules he claims to follow, and a divine assignment—fix her love life. He’s here to guide her toward “the one.” But the more he interferes, the more things unravel. His wings ache. His form flickers. And the rules he once recited so easily? They start to fall apart—just like him. Rules are what keep the celestial realm from falling apart. Breaking them comes with a price—one the stars won’t forgive.

pairing - tooru oikawa x reader genre - forbidden romance, supernatural romance fantasy, angst rating - 18+ MDNI chapter word count - 7.3k content warning - angst, emotional distress, themes of loss and sacrifice, violence, trauma. see each chapter for specific warnings.

Authors Note: This is a fictional mini-series told in five chapters. It is a work of imagination and does not reflect any real beliefs or accurate depictions of celestial beings, spirits, or mythologies.

The stars decide who you love. But what happens when love defies the stars?

celestial rules <— chapter one —> chapter two

The izakaya is half-empty, lit by warm amber bulbs that swing gently above mismatched tables. The soft clink of glass, the crackle from a nearby grill, the low hum of laughter—it all melts into a kind of cozy static. The kind that settles in your bones. A temporary comfort.

You’re curled into the corner of a booth near the window, nursing your fourth drink. Your hair’s pinned up haphazardly, and the collar of your jacket is shrugged halfway off. Across from you, Kiyoko leans forward with both elbows on the table, swirling her beer absentmindedly, eyes sharp. She’s always been good at reading you—the way you pick at the corner of a napkin when you're holding something in, the way your mouth twists right before telling a story you wish you could forget.

“Okay,” she says, sipping her beer. “What went wrong this time?”

You stare into your glass, hoping it might serve as a lifeline. Then, flatly: “He asked if I’d be a stay-at-home wife to his Twitch career.”

Kiyoko nearly chokes. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I were. He said it with full confidence—presented it like he was offering me the kind of opportunity people write vision boards for.”

“What’s his follower count? Please tell me it’s at least four digits.”

“Six,” you say grimly. “Not thousand, just six.”

You pause, then add, voice flat: “Then he asked if I’d dye my hair to match his brand. Which is hilarious, because—what brand? He rage-quits Mario Kart and screams into a $20 mic.”

Laughter bursts out of Kiyoko, unfiltered and loud enough to earn a side glance from the table behind. She presses her sleeve to her mouth, eyes gleaming. “You attract a special breed of man.”

“You’re telling me,” you mutter, tipping your glass back.

For a moment, the laughter lingers. Then the warmth ebbs. You glance down at the droplet of beer trailing down your glass, your voice softer now.

“You and Tanaka… you make it look easy.”

Kiyoko’s smile turns wistful. She reaches for the last piece of fried tofu, her tone light. “It’s not easy. But it’s right in the ways that matter.”

You nod slowly, watching the swirl of liquid in your glass. “I want that. Just once. To feel sure about somebody.”

She sets her chopsticks down. Her hand slides across the table and closes around your wrist. Her grip is light but grounding.

“You will,” she says. “The right guy’s out there. Probably confused. Or blind. But he is out there.”

You let out a breath that’s part laugh, part ache.

“If the universe has a plan for me,” you murmur, “it must’ve lost the file.”

Kiyoko gently squeezes your wrist. “It’s not lost. You’ll find it when the time’s right.”

Neither of you rushes to leave. The food is long gone, and the drinks are almost warm, but you stay seated. When the bill comes, you split it without thinking—the same way you always have. The only kind of love you’ve ever been good at is friendship: the kind that holds you steady while everything else frays.

Outside, the streetlight above the izakaya blinks in and out, wavering between burning out completely or flickering for a little longer. Kiyoko pulls her coat tighter and hugs you hard beneath the buzzing glow, arms squeezing once, firm and sure.

“Text me when you get home, okay?”

You nod. “I will.”

You watch her head in the opposite direction, footsteps quiet on the sidewalk. Then you turn down the street alone, burying your hands into your pockets. Your boots tap softly against the pavement. The air smells of grilled meat, car exhaust, and early spring.

The night is quiet, but not empty. It feels almost as though a presence is watching. Or waiting. You stop and glance over your shoulder, but there’s no one there. Only the empty street. A flickering sign. And that strange, hollow ache in your chest—the one you never quite learned how to name. The one that whispers…

Maybe—just maybe—you’re not the kind of person people—

No. Shut up. Don’t think like that.

When you get, home you don’t bother turning on the lights. The door clicks shut behind you with a quiet finality. You toss your keys into the bowl by the door, kick off your boots, and peel your jacket off with the kind of practiced exhaustion that doesn’t need words. Your apartment smells faintly of lavender detergent and rotten food you meant to throw out yesterday.

You thumb out a quick text to Kiyoko: Home safe. I love you. Goodnight.

Then you toss your phone onto the couch and exhale. It’s quiet. Still. Then—

“We need to talk.”

You freeze. The voice is warm, smooth, and entirely out of place. It’s not coming from your phone. Or your head. You whirl around, heartbeat spiking.

There, leaning against your bookshelf as though he lives there, is a man, glowing faintly at the edges, his whole body seems made of filtered sunlight. Barefoot, dressed in sleek white, an air of casual arrogance radiating off him in waves of heat. There’s a literal light haloing from his skin as if someone left a celestial spotlight on. And behind him, wings, not fully solid. They’re a shimmer of feathered gold flickering in and out, glitching at the edges of reality.

You do what any sane person would do.

You scream.

And then you launch the nearest pillow at his head. It passes right through him. You throw a candle next. Then the TV remote. Both fizzle straight through his torso.

He sighs. Actually sighs. Like you’re the problem here. “Really? I manifest in full divine shimmer, and this is the welcome I get?”

He brushes imaginary ghost dust off his shoulder, looking vaguely impressed. “I will say—you’ve got great aim.”

You keep backing up, hands raised like that’ll do anything. “What the hell are you?”

He blinks. Slowly. As if the question is somehow offensive to his entire existence. Then he smiles. Slow. Smug. Dangerous in a way you definitely don’t like. “A celestial being, obviously.”

You squint at him. “Celestial being? As in… alien? Angel? Hallucination?”

“Think of me like… Cupid.”

You stare. Then snort. “Cupid has a bow. And a diaper.” A beat. Drier than dust—“And he’s a baby.”

He places a hand over his heart, pretending to be wounded. “Well, I have wings, emotional trauma, and cheekbones that could cut glass. So pick your version.”

You cross your arms, equal parts exhausted and wildly unimpressed. “Do you have a name, or do you just float around being... whatever this is?”

He perks up, visibly pleased, as if you’ve just asked for his autograph. “Tooru Oikawa.” A beat. “Otherwise known as fabulous.”

You give him a deadpan stare. “Why are you here?”

He leans off the bookshelf with the kind of flourish reserved for stage performers and uninvited prophets. “Duh.” He gestures to you as if you should’ve already put the pieces together. “I’m your assigned Cupid.”

Then, with the world’s most irritating wink—“And clearly, your last hope.”

You stare at him, still rooted in place, trying to decide if this is a dream, a breakdown, or some elaborate prank sponsored by beer. He, meanwhile, stretches like he has all the time in the world.

“Okay,” you say finally, voice tight. “You’ve got thirty seconds to explain what the hell is going on before I call literally anyone.”

Oikawa gasps—actual, theatrical offense. “Rude. You’d summon mortal backup when you’ve got divine expertise in the room?”

You point sharply at him. “Explain.”

“Fine,” he says, straightening his collar. “But I’m doing this my way.”

He snaps his fingers. A scroll unrolls midair in front of you with a flutter of glowing ribbon and excessive fanfare. The parchment glows faintly, gold script pulsing with magical arrogance. At the top:

Romantic Case File 419-A: [REDACTED] Status: Delayed. Unresponsive to divine nudging. High potential. Emotionally reckless. Slightly combative.

You blink and shoot your eyebrows up. “Slightly?”

He beams. “I was feeling generous.”

You squint at the glowing header. “Wait—why is my name redacted?” You reach out to touch it, but Oikawa snatches it away, clutching it to his chest like it’s top-tier celestial gossip.

“Not important,” he says quickly. “Focus on the content, not the header.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s extremely suspicious, it’s literally my file.”

“And yet, you’re still listening.” He grins. Then, without addressing it further, he casually scrolls the parchment downward with a flick of his fingers, smoothly shifting the glowing header out of sight and revealing the annotated chaos beneath it.

Before the scroll vanishes, your eyes snag on a particular line scrawled in red ink: “Candidate #4: ‘Would love to take you home… to his mother.’ Subnote: Emotional codependency and an uncomfortable obsession with his mom’s approval.”

Oikawa doesn’t even look up. “That dinner was tragic. You barely escaped. I cried.”

“You watched it?!”

He waves a hand. “Please. I’ve seen the footage. Painful stuff. I wanted to fast-forward, but professionalism won.”

Before you can object again, he conjures something else—a compact mirror that pulses with celestial light, reminding you of an iPad—but divine. He taps the surface. Clips of your past dates begin to flicker across it—color-coded, timestamped, annotated.

You catch glimpses: a man explaining cryptocurrency over steak. A guy who cried on the second date about his ex’s dog. Another who tried to ‘manifest’ a kiss with a crystal.

Each is labeled helpfully: Misfire. Red Flag Parade. Why God, Why?

Oikawa tilts the mirror toward you dramatically. “Behold. Your romantic history. Tragic, yet statistically fascinating.”

You glare. “Is this your idea of help?”

“Actually,” he says, tapping a final clip, “this is.” A photo of you appears. Across your forehead flashes in red: OFF-PATH.

“You’re on what we call a delay list,” he explains, circling behind you with the energy of a smug shark. “High potential, low outcome. Your instincts are shot. Your fate line’s tangled. It’s tragic, really. But lucky for you, I’m here.”

“To do what?” you snap.

“Fix it.” He grins, spinning the mirror back toward himself. “Your love life. Your fate. Your general attitude, if there’s time.”

You cross your arms.

“Okay. Crash course,” he says, already launching into his next performance. “Most people meet their person on their own. Fate kicks in. Gut instincts fire. People stumble into ‘the one’ like idiots. It’s cute.”

He snaps again. A new screen appears: two silhouettes converging under a blinking sign labeled: ALIGNMENT ACHIEVED.

“But sometimes,” he continues, circling again, “they get stuck. Burned. Jaded. Guarded. Their timeline derails.” Another tap. Your face again, with a pulsing red warning. “And when that happens, the council sends in a Cupid.” He grimaces. “Usually some rookie with zero tact and way too much glitter.”

He pauses dramatically. Smirks. “Or—when things are really bad—they send in a specialist.”

You blink. “You?”

He places a hand over his chest, striking a pose that resembles an athlete on a podium. “High-performance divine entity. Specialist in difficult cases and emotional damage control.”

“Oh my god.”

“Technically, yes.”

You stare harder. “You’re here to reroute my romantic trajectory.”

“Which,” he says, gesturing broadly, “is currently on fire.”

You open your mouth. He cuts you off with a raised finger. “You’ll thank me later.” And then, smug as ever: “So get used to me—I’m here to fix your love life. Whether you want me to or not.”

Oikawa exhales like this entire encounter has been emotionally taxing for him. He adjusts the cuffs of his celestial coat with unnecessary flair. “Just so you know, I’ve been working on your case for weeks. Subtle nudges. Carefully timed meet-cutes. Emotional windows. You’ve ignored. Every. Single. One.”

He raises an eyebrow as if you failing to fall in love is somehow a personal offense. “So, per protocol ✦ 4.7.1 RA—which you obviously don’t know—I’m allowed to appear in person when fate intervention fails spectacularly.”

He straightens to full height, all smug divinity. “We start tomorrow. Wear an outfit that says ‘emotionally available.”

Wink. Sparkle. Gone.

You’re left standing in the middle of your apartment, blinking at the space he disappeared from. The faint scent of ozone clings to the air. “…What the hell just happened?”

You spin in a slow circle. No glowing scrolls. No glittery iPad. No smug-winged lunatic in sight.

“Glowing dude? Hello?? Come back!”

“What was his name?" You blink at your ceiling. "Tofu??" You press a hand to your face. “Okay. I need to lie down. I’m clearly drunk.”

You shuffle toward the bedroom, muttering under your breath. “This is definitely beer hallucinations. Sparkles aren’t real. Neither are divine case files.”

Pause.

“…Did he say we start tomorrow?”

——

Morning light spills into your apartment, creeping through the blinds and landing across the bed in warm, uneven stripes. Your head throbs. The aftertaste of cheap beer and regret clings to your tongue. You groan, rolling over and pulling the blanket higher over your face. You vaguely remember glowing wings. Sarcasm. Throwing a candle at a man made of light.

“Dream,” you mutter, voice gravelly. “Definitely a dream. A deeply unhinged beer-fueled dream about a winged himbo.”

“You know,” a voice replies, far too close and far too awake, “you snore when you sleep. Might make pairing you with someone a little trickier.”

You scream. And then, on instinct, you hurl your pillow at him. It sails through the air and passes straight through his chest.

You sit bolt upright in bed, the blanket still clutched to your chest. There he is. Floating three inches above your floor, defying gravity. Softly glowing. Arms crossed. Smirking.

“YOU’RE REAL?!”

Tofu Oikawa—the so-called celestial being who broke into your apartment last night—gives you a mock-offended look. “Uhh, hello? We met yesterday. You threw, like, five objects at me. Very hostile first impression, by the way.”

"Well, I’m sorry, Tofu, I assumed you were a side effect of being completely wasted.”

He looks personally victimized. “Wow. I manifest in full divine shimmer, and you think I’m a beer dream? And it’s Tooru.”

He spins lazily in the air, his glow pulsing like a smug nightlight. You blink at him through the brightness. It’s too early for this. You’re too hungover for this.

You deadpan. “Yeah, whatever, Tofu.”

He groans dramatically, dragging a hand down his face. “Unbelievable. I’m a divine entity, not a protein substitute.”

“Hang on.” Your eyes narrow. “Were you actually watching me sleep?”

“Technically,” he says without an ounce of shame, “I monitored your vital aura fluctuations overnight. Same thing, different branding.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I know,” he says, treating it as a compliment. “And you talk in your sleep. Fascinating stuff. Real emotional depth in there.”

You groan and flop back onto the bed. “This is not happening.”

“Oh, it’s very happening.” He drifts closer, peering down at you with the same expression people use when a computer freezes for no reason. “Alive, grumpy, still utterly gorgeous. Good. We can work with this.”

You peek at him through one eye. “Did you just flirt with me?”

“Professionally.”

“Is that even allowed?”

“Not really,” he shrugs, clearly unbothered. “But I’ve always been more of a… flexible interpretation kind of entity.”

You sit up fully, hair a mess, and soul not far behind. “Great. A celestial himbo with boundary issues.”

“And wings!” he chirps, spinning once to flash them at you. They shimmer faintly in the light, glitching at the edges, questioning their own existence.

You stare. “What exactly are we supposed to be doing today?”

He beams. “Rewiring your tragically misaligned love life. Day one of the intervention starts… now.”

You don’t move. “You were serious about that?”

“Serious is such a heavy word,” he muses, floating toward the kitchen. “Instead, let’s say I’m… cosmically committed.”

He starts opening and closing your cabinets. “But first, breakfast. You’ll want something in your system…”

He glances over his shoulder, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“…It’s going to be a lot to digest.”

You mutter under your breath, pulling your blanket off you. “Yesterday was a lot to digest, but that didn’t stop you.”

He glances back with a grin. “What can I say? I love keeping my mortals on their toes.”

You drag yourself to the kitchen like a soldier to war—hoodie sliding off one shoulder, sleep still clinging to your bones, and defeat practically stitched into the seams. A bowl of cereal is already waiting on the counter, milk poured, spoon perfectly placed. Courtesy of Tofu.

You don’t thank him. You just slump into the chair and let the spoon dangle from your fingers in slow, resigned loops. Sunlight slices through the blinds in harsh, uneven bands—sharp enough to aggravate your hangover, but still less offensive than the glow radiating off Oikawa, who floats nearby with all the subtlety of a celestial nuisance on a mission to ruin your morning.

Then Oikawa snaps his fingers with the kind of flair that should come with a warning label. A clipboard materializes midair. It hovers above your cereal, glowing faintly like it thinks highly of itself. Across the top, in bold celestial script:

Romantic Case File 419-A: [Assignment: Impossible] Status: Delayed. Unresponsive to divine nudging. High potential. Emotionally reckless. Slightly combative.

You blink. Then squint harder. “Assignment: Impossible? That’s why it was redacted yesterday. Seriously?”

Oikawa shrugs, unfazed, one leg casually draped over the other, suspended midair in a posture that suggests he's found an armchair in the clouds. “Don’t look at me like that. Everyone on the Delay List gets a name.”

“You could’ve at least sugarcoated the name, you nimrod.”

He beams, genuinely delighted. “You know, I like you. You’re funny.”

You roll your eyes and keep chewing.

He pulls a celestial quill from literal nowhere and makes a dramatic note on the glowing clipboard. “Doesn’t know how to take a compliment.”

“I do too!”

“Sure, sure. And I’m emotionally well-adjusted.”

You jab your spoon at him in a slow-motion warning. He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he starts humming—of course he does—before leaning casually over your kitchen table and tracing glowing lines into the laminate with one finger.

A sigil unfurls beneath his touch, golden light spiraling outward in a ripple, spreading across the table as if drawn from a well of stars. The table flickers as constellations form and dissolve. Symbols circle the edge, turning with the precision of starlit clockwork.

You stare. “What the hell is that?”

He elbows in front of you like he’s shielding nuclear launch codes. “Yeah, okay, no. Per celestial protocol ✧ 2.8.8 HC, you're not authorized to view active divination nodes.”

“If I can’t see it, can you at least tell me what I’m not seeing?”

He sighs, long and dramatic, the kind that suggests your curiosity is physically painful. “Fine. But if the Tribunal comes knocking, I’m blaming your mortal meddling.”

He gestures to the portal. “This is how I find your match.”

Your spoon pauses mid-air. “You say that like it’s Tinder for angels.”

Oikawa tilts his head. “If only. That would be less paperwork.”

You shovel another bite of cereal into your mouth. “You know, you keep referencing these protocols and rules like what you do is some celestial government job. What do these rules even entail?”

He doesn’t even look up. “Because it is. Sort of.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“And you broke into my apartment,” you deadpan.

“Touché.”

Then, with a sigh so exaggerated it could qualify as performance art—

“Okay, so there are dozens of celestial clauses Cupids have to follow. Most of them are boring. Some of them are terrifying. I’m only going to show you the alignment and attachment clauses—start slow, build trust. You know… the usual foreplay.”

He winks, clearly pleased with himself. Your expression must say it all, because he laughs, low and unbothered.

Then, he snaps again. Another scroll unspools from thin air behind him—twice his height, glowing softly with cosmic authority. The edges curl in the same way old parchment does, yet the center codes glow.

At the top in celestial script:

✦ Celestial Rules: Cupid’s Division For Official Use Only. Compliance is not optional.

You stare. “Is this… real?”

“Realer than your last three boyfriends combined.”

You mutter incoherent insults under your breath and lean in to read—but the scroll flutters, flickers—and then fades, glowing text dissolving before you can get past the header.

“What the hell?”

“You thought you’d get full access?” Oikawa says breezily, snapping the scroll halfway closed. “That’s adorable. No, no—you get the sampler platter.”

He scrolls with two fingers, revealing a narrow section. Five lines pulse into view, the rest blocked out by shimmering censor bars.

✦ Clause 4.7.1 — Invisibility Protocol: Perception by Mortals ✦ Clause 4.7.2 — Interpersonal Conduct: Cupids are facilitators of Fate ✦ Clause 4.7.3 — Fate Interference: Emotional Interference Index

“Clause 4.7.3—Fate Interference…” Your head tilts, tone edging into suspicion. “What the hell is the Emotional Interference Index?”

He waves a hand. “E.I.I. Think of it as a divine mood ring. If it spikes, the Council gets nosy. Mine’s a 0.4. Which means I’m practically a monk.”

“Monks don’t flirt like you.”

“They should.”

Your eyes flick further down the list.

✦ Clause 4.7.4 — Wing Status: Alteration + Degradation ✦ Clause 4.7.5 — Bonds: Approved and Unapproved ✦ Clause 4.7.6 — Observation Boundaries

“Clause 4.7.6—Observation Boundaries?” You shoot him a look. “That one’s definitely fake. You have no boundaries.”

“It’s real,” he says, grinning. “I’m just very bad at it.”

You roll your eyes. “Of course you are.”

He scrolls back to the header, half-hiding the document again.

“Wait,” you ask. “What other celestial beings are there? Or is it just you flapping around, messing with people's love lives?”

He gasps, “Don’t tell me you thought Cupids were the only ones.”

“I didn’t… until you showed up looking like Sephiroth, only with more unresolved trauma.”

He places a hand on his chest. “Rude.”

“You still didn’t answer the question.”

“Classified.”

“And these rules aren’t?”

Oikawa waves his hand dismissively. “Yeah, well, normally they are. But you already saw your case file, and at this point, what’s a little light rule-breaking between fate-entangled strangers?”

He pauses. Then shrugs.

“Besides, I doubt they’ll erase me for bending a few clauses…”

A beat.

“Probably.”

You raise an eyebrow. “How often do you break the rules?”

He clasps his hands over his heart, unconvincingly aghast. “Excuse me? I am a paragon of restraint.”

Then his smirk slips. Briefly. Only for a second. “…Let’s just say your case got my attention. After I read it, I knew the usual protocol wouldn’t cut it.”

You huff. “That’s not ominous at all.”

He twirls the clipboard with a flourish, checks a box off, and mutters loud enough: “Marked for severe interference potential—cute when annoyed.”

Your glare sharpens. “I heard that.”

He winks. “I meant for you too.”

You glare harder. He only beams brighter. Then, with infuriating cheer, he claps his hands together.

“Right!” he announces. “Cosmic Chemistry Field Test Number One. Time to get dressed.”

You blink at him over your spoon. “What?”

“You have a date today,” he says like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Well, technically a controlled social encounter with romantic undertones and mild cosmic intervention. Very low-stakes.”

You stare at him. Spoon frozen mid-air. “That’s not a sentence normal people say.”

“And yet,” he says, floating closer, “it’s a sentence I was born to deliver.

You narrow your eyes. “Do the words ‘coercion’ or ‘emotional entrapment’ mean anything to you?”

He flips upside down with a lazy barrel roll. “Sure. And I’m choosing to ignore both. I need you to trust me—neither of you knows it yet, but this will totally end with a date.”

You squint harder. “I’m starting to hate your never-ending obscurity.”

“We Cupids prefer the term divinely vague. It’s more marketable. Anyways, chop-chop.”

You haul yourself upright, muttering curses under your breath as you shuffle toward the bathroom. Hoodie askew, hair attempting a full mutiny. But halfway there, you hesitate—suspicion prickling up your spine. You glance back over your shoulder at him.

“…Wait. Can you see through things?”

His grin sharpens, all teeth and zero shame. “Only with effort. But don’t worry—I’m very respectful.”

A beat.

“Unless curiosity wins.”

You whip a towel off the counter and chuck it at him, wishing it were a holy weapon. It sails through his chest in a sad flutter of cotton and lands in a heap on the floor.

“Rude,” he says, all faux indignation. “And here I was, planning not to peek that much.”

The bathroom door slams behind you. Thirty minutes later, your hair’s still damp from the shower, and you’re dressed in the outfit Oikawa insisted on, claiming it "makes your eyes pop" with entirely too much enthusiasm. You’re halfway through brushing your teeth when you catch him, reflected in the mirror behind you, floating in midair and flipping through a glowing scroll like it’s your horoscope and he’s got complaints.

You spit. Rinse. Point your toothbrush at him, imagining it’s a dagger. “Do other people see you, or am I the only one stuck with your heavenly commentary?”

He looks up, chipper. “You’re the only one attuned to my frequency. It’s an elite access tier. Mortals can’t perceive divinity unless we let them.”

You mutter, “So I’m hallucinating. But officially.”

“Divinely hallucinating,” he corrects, smug. “Also, waving dental weapons at celestial beings? Extremely bad luck.”

You glare. “You’re in my mirror.”

“I’m in your fate.”

“Can you be in someone else’s fate for five minutes?”

He winks. “If I could clone myself, I’d be everywhere.”

You slam the cabinet shut. Behind it, his voice floats through the steam. “Hurry up. Your cosmic chemistry test window opens in thirty-seven minutes.”

You pause. “That’s… oddly specific.”

“Time is a construct. So is dating. Let’s just hope you don’t trip over both.”

You rinse, spit, and flick the faucet off harder than necessary. You shove your toothbrush back in the holder. By the time you leave the apartment, your jacket’s zipped halfway, your hair’s doing whatever it wants, and your mood is somewhere between mildly homicidal and cosmically done.

The city’s in that groggy half-awake state—street vendors rolling up their shutters, leashed dogs yanking their humans toward invisible missions, someone already yelling into their phone near a blinking crosswalk. The air smells faintly of roasted chestnuts.

Beside you—hovering upside down without a hint of shame—is Oikawa. His coat flutters with a breeze that doesn’t exist. Legs crossed, arms folded behind his head, expression the picture of cosmic smugness. “So,” he says, voice chipper enough to break glass, “your potential match is nearby. Roughly eighty-three meters. Give or take. Might be a jogger. Might be a guy walking his grandma’s poodle. The metrics are... interpretive.”

You grunt. “Wait—so you don’t even know who he is?”

He twirls in place, shrugging with all the useless grace of someone who’s never been wrong in his life. “I’ve got a profile—personality indicators, emotional resonance, preferred flirting tempo. No headshot, if that’s what you’re after. I’m here for the gentle nudge. A lovingly engineered coincidence.”

You eye him. He barrels forward anyway.

“I’m thinking of a soft run-in. Coffee cart collision. Apologetic glances. Flirtation. Banter. Mild soul recognition. Or—hear me out—umbrella-sharing. Rain’s excellent for drama.”

You don’t respond immediately. Because up ahead, a woman pushes a stroller past you. She glances your way, then quickly away, with the careful neutrality reserved for people talking too animatedly to no one.

You glance at Oikawa. Still upside down. Still glowing faintly, his edges lit as if the sun itself had chosen to backlight him. Then back to the woman. She speeds up. Your stomach sinks. You’ve been talking. Out loud. To the air.

You stop walking. “I look insane.”

He beams. “You look whimsical. Mysterious. Deranged, maybe—but in a hot way.”

You deadpan. “So I’m the woman wandering around the park arguing with herself.”

“Technically,” he says, flipping upright and adjusting his imaginary cuffs, “you’re speaking with a certified celestial operative. But yes. From an outsider’s perspective? Definitely reads as light psychosis.”

As though summoned by irony, a man walks by with a golden retriever, blissfully unaware. His dog, however, halts—ears perked, nose twitching. It stares at Oikawa, tilts its head, then barks once, low and confused. A moment later, it sneezes and lets itself be tugged forward, choosing to leave the mystery unsolved.

You gesture after the dog as it trots off. “Seriously?”

Oikawa shrugs. “Animals have better spiritual reception. Divine frequency makes them twitchy. They don’t know what I am, exactly. Just that I’m not… mundane.”

You squint at him. “So dogs detect your celestial nonsense, but people can’t because they’re not attuned? Like I wasn’t… until last night?”

He gives you the grin professors get when their students finally catch on. “Exactly. Mortals are conditioned not to see what they’re not meant to. Neural redirection. Sensory filtering. Denial. The holy trifecta.”

You let out an exasperated sigh. “Why am I cursed with being the one person who sees the boundary-challenged glitter ghost haunting my love life?”

“First of all, it’s a privilege,” he says, smug. “Second—your love life is such a haunted bumper car course that celestial oversight was practically mandatory.”

You open your mouth. He holds up a finger. “And third, look on the bright side. It could be worse. You’re only tuned to my frequency right now. There are plenty of things out here you’re better off not syncing with.

You stop mid-step. The gravel crunches under your boot. “What does that mean?”

He grins—wide and maddening. “It means don’t worry about it.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s the exact thing someone says when I should worry about it.”

“I’m one of the less weird ones,” he singsongs, drifting a few feet ahead of you in slow, elegant spirals. “So believe me when I say some frequencies are better left unpicked. You’ve got enough chaos without adding supernatural static.”

You drag a hand down your face. “Every time you open your mouth, I gain a new anxiety.”

He beams, radiant and deeply unhelpful. “You’re welcome.”

You sigh and start walking again. The wind threads through the trees above, sending a flurry of orange and gold leaves spiraling down. Some drop by your shoes. One cascades down your hair.

Oikawa floats beside you again, graceful as a leaf on the wind. He spins once in a lazy, theatrical turn—arms out like he’s rehearsing for a one-man celestial ballet.

Then—snap.

A shimmering earpiece materializes in front of you, suspended midair. It glows faintly, soft and crystalline, resembling starlight frozen in glass.

You frown at it. “What is it?”

“Celestial comm-link,” he says, delighted with himself. “Only you can hear me. Very discreet. Very high-end. The Council uses these for angelic negotiations and karaoke nights—but today, it’s for your meet-cute.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Why do I feel like this is going to end in emotional carnage?”

“Great,” he says, nudging the device toward your ear. “We can add confidence to the list of things we need to work on.”

You blink at him. “That’s rude.”

He grins wider. “That’s accurate.”

You snatch the earpiece out of the air and slide it in. It’s warm. Not hot—just… present. A frequency tuned only to you. Your pulse evens out without your permission.

“Great,” you mutter. “Now I get to wear a weird-looking Bluetooth device while being emotionally blackmailed by a glowing man in midair.”

“Emotionally nudged,” he corrects, flashing a grin. “Also, it’s invisible. No one sees it but you.”

You sigh again. Louder this time. The wind catches your hair, lifting it in soft waves around your face. Oikawa doesn’t notice. Or if he does, he pretends not to. He hovers beside you, untouchable, unreadable, irritatingly radiant.

“Now,” he hums, tapping something on his invisible clipboard, “let’s ruin your morning. With love.”

Before you can ask what that means, he points to a bench ahead and gestures grandly. “Stand here, Casual. Look approachable.”

You eye him, dubious. “You want me to pose for fate?”

“Exactly. I need you in position.” He floats backward with the exaggerated flair of someone exiting center stage. “Now, get ready. I’m going radio silent.”

And then—he’s gone. You blink at the now-empty sky.

Then: click.

The earpiece crackles softly in your ear. Oikawa’s voice returns, smooth and far too close to your eardrum.

“Okay. Walk due west. Fifty yards.”

You freeze. Glance up and down the path. “What?”

“Walk straight toward the guy in the baseball cap.”

You exhale slowly. Then move. The sun is too bright, pressing down on your skin—warm and overconfident. A spotlight you never asked for. It forces your eyes into a squint, even as tension coils in your chest. Your heart pounds erratically, louder than the birds, louder than the rustling branches, loud enough to drown out the hiss of steam from the nearby coffee cart.

And then—as if fate’s reading from a script Oikawa personally annotated—you collide with him.

A man in a baseball cap stumbles back a step, hands raised slightly. “Oh! I’m so sorry—I wasn’t paying attention.”

He’s maybe early thirties. Warm smile. Crisp button-down tucked into khakis with precision. The kind of guy who probably owns a label maker, plans corporate retreats, and always returns his grocery cart.

“All good,” you say, blinking. “Neither was I.”

There’s a pause. Then he gestures toward the cart. “Can I get you something? As an apology?”

You hesitate, caught off guard by his earnestness. But then, you offer a small, cautious smile. “Sure.”

You step into line beside him. It’s short. You order a hot latte. He fills the space between you with practiced ease—mentions the weather, how the breeze means spring is finally here, how he’s getting back into running, how work’s been “nonstop lately.” You nod where appropriate. Chime in when expected. Your hands wrap around the warm paper cup. The heat bleeds into your skin, acting as a tether.

“Alright,” Oikawa murmurs in your ear, his tone resembling someone judging a reality show contestant. “He’s a safe choice. Steady job. Clean aura. Bit bland, but we’re aiming for compatibility, not fireworks.”

The man glances over. “So… dogs or cats?”

“Cats.”

He brightens like you’ve passed a test. “Same. I’m more of a cat person myself, honestly.”

“Bold lie,” Oikawa murmurs in your ear. “Man owns three corgis and a guilt-ridden Pinterest board labeled ‘dog dad aesthetic.’”

You press your coffee to your lips to hide the twitch of a smile.

“They’re just… lower maintenance,” he continues. “You know where you stand with cats. Dogs are a little much.”

“He throws birthday parties for his dogs,” Oikawa stage-whispers. “One of them has a TikTok.”

Then—“So… are you seeing anyone right now?”

You blink. “Not at the moment.”

He nods. Slow. Intentional. “Interesting. Me neither.”

“Subtle as a corgi in a trench coat,” Oikawa deadpans. “We love to see it.”

The man shifts, angling toward you like this is the beginning of something. “I’ve always thought dating’s about finding your mirror, you know? Someone who reflects who you are but also makes you better.”

You nod once. Tight. “That’s… one way to look at it.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Oh no,” Oikawa groans. “Not the TED Talk line. Abort mission. Save yourself.”

You force a smile—polite, practiced—and take another sip. Still too hot.

“It was… nice chatting with you,” you say, stepping back. “But I’m late for a meeting.”

The man blinks. “Oh yeah. Of course. Totally.”

You offer him a small wave and a look that lands between polite and apologetic.

And then you turn. And walk away. Quickly. Coffee gripped too tightly in your hand. The comm-link in your ear is still faintly humming.

And not once—not once—do you look back.

A few steps behind, Oikawa appears again—effortlessly materializing beside you with all the smug serenity of someone who’s never had to live with the consequences of his own advice. He floats lazily, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“That wasn’t that bad,” Oikawa says.

You don’t answer. You just keep walking. Your steps are sharp. Shoulders locked too tight. The coffee cup in your hand is still hot, but you grip it, daring it to burn something back into place.

“That,” you say finally, voice low, “was supposed to be my match?”

He sighs—long and theatrical as if your disappointment personally offends him. “There’s no such thing as a perfect match,” he mutters, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “It’s more complicated than that.”

He drops to the ground. Feet touching the pavement—an act that seems to have cost him. “Emotional compatibility takes time. Statistical nudging. A little light divine manipulation—oh great, you’re storming off.”

You spin around. “I’m walking. Storming would involve more yelling.”

He tilts his head, almost fondly. “Well, I’m tracking your emotional variance, and your aura just flared, so I stand by my choice of words.”

You don’t respond. Instead, you drop onto the nearest bench, your steam finally having run out. Your usual sarcastic bravado and retorts no longer come to you. Your shoulders curl inward—not small, but worn. Your coffee sits untouched in your lap.

“I’m starting to believe I’ll never find love,” you murmur.

There’s a catch in your voice—subtle, but enough to make him look closer. And when he does, he sees it—the way your hands tremble faintly where they cradle the cup. The shimmer in your lashes. The way your jaw clenches like it’s the only thing keeping everything else from breaking loose.

“I’ve been on so many dates,” you continue, voice fraying, “and had so many failed relationships. At first, I chalked it up to my being difficult. Too picky. Too closed off.”

You suck in a breath. It shakes on the way out.

“But lately, I’ve been thinking maybe I’m…” A pause. A fracture. The words catch—almost don’t make it out.

You’ve swallowed this before. Bitten it back. Refused to admit it.

But this time, you don’t.

Then softly—so soft he almost misses it—“…unlovable.”

A single tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it. You swipe it away, quick and angry, as if it betrayed you. As if it proved something you didn’t want said out loud.

Oikawa doesn’t float this time. He slowly folds his arms and lowers himself to sit beside you, grounded. No sparkles. No arrogance. Almost as if he shed something invisible just to meet you here.

“You’re not unlovable.” His eyes meet yours, and there’s a gentleness in them you haven’t seen before. “You’re just too real for people who only know how to love easy things.”

You don’t look at him. You can’t. Your gaze stays fixed on the steam curling from your coffee cup. You blink hard, trying to will the tears away.

“I don’t even dream about anyone,” you whisper. “I try. I show up. I open myself up, again and again. But it always feels…off. Like there’s something in me that never got wired the right way. Or maybe I’m just not meant for anybody.”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just shifts, turning toward you fully. His hand lifts, then hesitates, uncertain. He doesn’t know if he should touch you. Doesn’t want to startle something already frayed. Then, gently, he brushes beneath your eye, wiping away the next tear before it can fall.

“No,” his voice finally answers, lower now. “It’s not that.”

The silence that follows stretches wide. But it doesn’t feel empty. It feels full of things unsaid. Of breaths you’re both still holding.

The sunlight cuts through the trees above, painting gold into the angles of your face. Your lashes cast soft shadows. Your lips part slightly—not sad. Not angry. Just… still. Your expression is quiet, as if hope has thinned, but hasn’t fully let go.

And for some reason he can’t name, that undoes something in him. He looks at you, not like a case. Not like a file full of fate-points and emotional stats. Just… you.

And there, between one heartbeat and the next—

A flicker. A soft pull. Deep in his wings. A celestial twang, faint and impossible to unfeel. He stiffens. Swallows. Brushes it off.

When his voice returns, it’s slower—open. The words escaped before he could polish them.

“Love isn’t magic,” he says, releasing a breath. “It’s math. Chemistry. Timing. The system calculates compatibility based on what you need… not what you think you want.”

You exhale, the sound edged with defeat. “That’s really depressing.”

“Maybe,” he admits. “But I have a 100% success rate. There is someone out there for you—and we’ll find them.”

A pause.

Then, quieter—slipping out before he can stop it: “Those who never find love… they only have their assigned Cupid to blame.”

You finally glance at him. And this time, really see him.

He’s not glowing. Not grand. Just sitting there beside you, posture slouched with the weight of a past he doesn’t talk about—heavier than he wants to admit.

“You know,” you murmur, “for a divine love expert… you sound like you don’t believe in it at all.”

He flinches. Barely. But you catch it.

He opens his mouth. Closes it again. An old ache flickers behind his eyes.

Then—softly, honestly—he says, “Because I don’t.”

It lands quietly. Bare. Like a blade laid down without warning. You wait. Let the silence stretch until he fills it.

“Cosmic bonds,” he says slowly. “It’s poetic branding. A story we Cupids tell ourselves to make matchmaking feel meaningful. The reality is—you fall for people because the timeline says you’re supposed to. That’s it.”

You don’t interrupt.

“I used to believe. A long time ago,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “But all believing did was break someone I admired. Made him cross a line he couldn’t uncross.”

His gaze drops. “So now I believe in math. Probability. Clean equations.”

You could ask. But you don’t.

Instead, your voice comes softly. Steady. “Huh. I knew there was more to you than glitter and arrogance.”

He glances over, blinking slowly. “What?”

“You’ve spent the last few hours being completely unbearable. Rude. Theatrical. A glowing nightmare. But this…” You gesture vaguely toward him. “This is the first glimpse I’ve had of you. The real you.”

“Tofu.” You hold his gaze. “Not Cupid. Not some cosmic showman.”

He exhales—not in shame, but in release. Somehow, you’ve just peeled a heavy layer off his chest—without even touching him.

“And since I’m apparently ‘Assignment: Impossible’,” you say, lips quirking just slightly, “we’re going to be stuck together for a while—until we find ‘my person.’ So… I’d rather spend that time with the version of you who isn’t trying to impress the sky.”

You look at him. Gentle. Real. “Do you think you can do that for me?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then—finally—he lets out a small, breathless laugh, surprised by the sound of it. “Is this ‘Tofu’ nickname going to stick?”

You arch a brow. “Really? That’s what you’re focusing on?”

He raises both hands. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

Then—lower. Sincere. “The real Tooru will stick around. Promise.”

You don’t say anything. But you smile. And that’s when it happens.

It’s a pull—sharp and sudden, buried in the bones of his wings. A flare that sparks behind his ribs, short-circuiting the equilibrium written into his wings. His wings shimmer faintly into view, only for a second. The light stutters. Edges blur. Then—gone. As if it never happened.

You don’t notice. But he does.

It’s nothing, he tells himself. Simply a static mischarge. He stays quiet. Still. Fighting the way his heartbeat stutters. Trying not to look at you—but failing.

Because the way the light kisses your skin. The way your smile still holds a trace of sorrow. The way your hope feels so reluctant, it makes his chest ache…

He forces himself to look away. Not because he wants to, but because—if he stares any longer, he’s afraid he won’t be able to stop.

Far above, on a scroll, a soft red line ticks upward: E.I.I. Level: 0.4 → 1.4

#haikyuu #hq #haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #haikyuu oikawa #hq oikawa #oikawa tooru #oikawa x reader #oikawa x you #oikawa torū #haikyuu au #haikyuu angst #cupid au #celestial being #supernatural au #forbidden love #celestial beings

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xlettex · 3 months ago

Text

How He Sees Me || satori tendou Painter Au - Oneshot

He said it would be one painting. It never was. Drawn into the chaotic world of a strange artist with haunting eyes and paint-stained hands, she agrees to be his muse—just once. But the more he paints her, the more she wonders what he’s really capturing. Can she keep hiding... or will someone finally see past her facade?

pairing - satori tendou x reader genre - romance, obsession, erotica/smut rating - 18+ MINORS DNI chapter word count - 6.8k content warning - explicit sexual content, hair pulling (once), oral (receiving), fingering, finger sucking, praise/sweet talk, overstimulation, unprotected sex, sex on wet canvas, slight worshipping

Authors Note: Tendou being an obsessed painter just makes sense

It’s late afternoon when golden light spills through the leaves, bleeding warmth into the pavement and softening the city’s edges. The streets are quieter here, the world's noise muffled beneath the hush of wind and distant traffic. A few pigeons peck at crumbs nearby. A cyclist glides past with headphones in.

You’re seated alone on a weathered park bench near a sprawling wall mural, tucked away from the buzz of the main street. A dog-eared paperback rests in your lap, thumb idly hooked between the pages you’ve read and re-read too many times. Music hums in your ears, low and steady, a private soundtrack to the stillness around you. You’re not doing anything in particular—just being.

Then you feel it—that prickling awareness that someone is watching. You glance up and scan the quiet walkway ahead, eyes drifting over a row of street vendors packing up for the day and the flicker of golden hour across shop windows.

And then you see him.

He’s standing across the street like he’s been frozen in place. Tall, angular, with wild red hair that gleams faintly in the sun. His expression holds a haunted intensity—wide-eyed focus, lips parted just slightly like he’s in the middle of remembering something important. A sketchbook is cradled in one arm and a pencil dances in the other. His hand moves fast—reckless strokes, looping lines. He keeps glancing up.

At you.

You stiffen a little, brows furrowing. His gaze doesn’t break when you look directly at him. His hand speeds up like he’s worried the moment will disappear before he captures it. It’s not the kind of stare you get walking down a street. Not flirtatious. Not casual. This is different. Intent. Hungry. The kind of stare artists give when they’ve found something—someone—they weren’t supposed to.

You shift on the bench, unsure. His attention is too steady, too intimate for a stranger. For a second, you wonder if you should get up. Walk away. But curiosity roots you in place.

And then he moves. He crosses the street with long, loose strides, like gravity pulled him out of whatever world he was drawing and back into this one. He stops in front of you without hesitation, sketchbook tucked close to his chest, fingers stained with charcoal and blue-green dried paint. There’s a light in his eyes. Manic. Unapologetic.

You pull your earbud out slowly, unsure of what to expect.

“Sorry,” he says, breathless in a way that makes it feel like he ran here from another century. “This is completely unhinged of me…”

He pauses to brush his hair back with the side of his wrist smearing charcoal on his cheek like he forgot he'd been working before he spotted you.

“…but you have a face that doesn’t belong to this century.”

You blink, unsure whether to laugh or be alarmed. “Excuse me?”

“I mean it,” he says, flipping the sketchbook around and showing you the page like a magician revealing a trick.

And there you are. A rough, messy sketch—but the likeness is there. The curve of your brow. The shadow at your collarbone. The way you must have looked a few minutes ago, entirely unaware. It’s not perfect. Not polished. But it’s… intimate. Like he saw something even you hadn’t noticed about yourself.

“Let me paint you,” he says next, quieter now, the rush fading into a more grounded feeling. “Just once. I need to get this out of my head before it drives me insane.”

You stare at him. "You want to paint me?"

“Desperately.” His answer is instant. Sincere. “You're the most compelling thing I’ve seen in months. Maybe years.”

There's no sleaziness in how he says it—just a sort of breathless awe. Like he's not hitting on you at all, just caught in the throes of a vision he can’t unsee.

You glance down at the sketch again, then back at him. He holds your gaze. And strangely, you hold it right back.

Everything in you tells you this is ridiculous. You don’t know him. He could be unstable, or worse. But there’s a pull in him—raw, chaotic, and weirdly honest—that feels impossible to ignore. A part of you wants to know what he sees when he looks at you like that.

You sigh. “One painting. That’s it.”

His face lights up, all sharp teeth and delighted wonder. He looks like you just saved him from drowning.

“Deal,” he breathes. “I’ll make it worth your time. Promise.”

He rips a page from the back of his sketchbook, scribbles something down with the corner of his lip caught between his teeth—an address, his name and number, a small sketch for flair—and hands it to you with a flourish.

“Come by tomorrow,” he says. “My studio’s chaotic, but it’s got soul.”

You tuck the paper into your book and rise slowly. You’re unsure whether you’re making a terrible mistake or the beginning of something you’ll never forget. As you walk away, you can feel his gaze lingering. Just before rounding the corner, you peek back. He’s already sketching again—like your face is still there, lingering in the air long after you’ve gone.

The next day, you find yourself in front of a converted loft tucked above a secondhand bookshop. The sign is faded, half the letters missing, but the door buzzes open as soon as you press the button beside it.

The stairwell smells like dust and oil paint. Every step creaks beneath your feet, the sound echoing in the quiet. You pass a rusted bike on the landing, the chipped, worn frame leaning awkwardly against the wall. A stained-glass window lets in fractured sunlight, casting patterns across the floor that feel almost deliberate, like they're hiding something. You can feel your heartbeat speeding up as you climb higher.

When you reach the top floor, a door swings open before you can even knock.

Tendou stands there barefoot, grinning. He’s already got paint on his cheek, and charcoal on his hands. The scent of turpentine clings to the air behind him like incense.

“Welcome to my madness,” he says, sweeping one arm behind him like he’s introducing a stage. “Sorry in advance for the mess—art’s allergic to being neat.”

You step inside and pause. His studio is everything you imagined and so much more. Organized chaos. Canvases lean against every surface—half-finished portraits, violent abstracts, eerie eyes that seem to follow you as you walk by. The floor is littered with paint tubes, brushes, palette knives, and crumpled rags. Somehow, it doesn’t feel messy. Just… alive.

There’s music playing softly from a vintage speaker in the corner—a language that you think is French, dreamy, impossible to place. It curls in the air like smoke, wrapping itself around you in a way that makes you want to shrink back, but you stay rooted in place. You wonder for a moment if you’ve made a mistake. The sketch was one thing, but this? This is real. Personal.

“Where do I sit?” you ask, voice quieter than you intended.

“Anywhere the light hits you right,” he replies, already scanning the room. His eyes land on the window, where sunlight spills across the floor like a spotlight. “To be fair, that’s kind of everywhere.”

You swallow, still unsure. He pulls over a wooden chair with splotches of paint on it and sets it near the light. You sit—spine straight, hands folded in your lap, suddenly hyperaware of your body. Your hair brushes against your collarbone, and you feel exposed. Vulnerable. You tell yourself this is just a painting. But it feels like more than that. Like you’ve stepped into a moment you can’t escape.

Tendou doesn’t say anything right away. He sets up in silence—choosing a canvas, wetting brushes, mixing paint with practiced, unhurried care. He hums to himself occasionally, a low, tuneless rhythm that calms you more than you expect. It makes the tension in your body ease, if only for a second.

But when he starts to paint, The shift is immediate. The chaos around him melts away, leaving only the two of you. He’s no longer scattered, and chaotic. He’s still. Focused. His gaze never wavers from you. He looks at you in a way that makes you feel like you’re his whole world. Every brushstroke feels deliberate.

You try not to fidget. Try not to notice how tightly your hands are clasped in your lap. But his focus is unnerving. It makes you feel small, a way you haven’t let anyone see you in a long time.

Then, he speaks. “You don’t have to hold your breath, you know,” he doesn’t look up. “This isn’t a performance. I just want… you.”

It should be unnerving. But it isn’t. His voice is soft and reassuring like the room has suddenly quieted to make space for just the two of you. He teases you gently after that, making light of your expression, saying it's too regal, joking that you look like you're trying to read his mind. You laugh once, a quiet sound that surprises you. It softens the air between you both, and for the first time since you stepped into the room, you relax.

An hour passes.

Then another.

You fall into a rhythm—silences that aren’t awkward, questions that make no sense but feel strangely revealing.

“What color do you think your thoughts are today?” he asks, his eyes meeting yours.

“Grayish blue,” you murmur. “With silver in the middle.”

He hums in approval.

Another time, he pauses mid-stroke and asks, “What do you do when no one’s looking?”

You blink. “What kind of question is that?”

“The kind that tells me what kind of person I’m painting.”

You think for a moment. “I read the endings of books.”

He smiles, a little crooked. “So nothing can surprise you. That makes more sense than you think.”

“And what about you?”

“Me?” He shrugs, eyes flicking toward his palette. “I make messes no one else has to clean up.”

You let out a soft laugh.

He glances up, lips twitching like he wants to smile but doesn’t. Not fully. Then his eyes return to the canvas—and to you.

Sometimes, he stares too long. But it’s never creepy. It’s reverent as if he’s searching for something sacred in your silence—your stillness—your unguarded self.

By the third hour, you’re no longer performing stillness—you are still. One leg curled beneath you, head tilted toward the window, fingers playing absentmindedly with the edge of your sleeve. You forget you’re being painted.

You are simply just existing.

When he finally stops, it’s sudden. He steps back from the easel, brush hanging limply at his side. He’s breathing heavier than before. “That’s it,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

Then, quieter still—so soft you almost miss it— “The first of many.”

You blink, uncertain. “What was that?”

But Tendou just shakes his head quickly, brushing his hair back with a paint-smeared hand. “Oh, nothing.”

You rise slowly, brushing your hands down your sides, the stiffness in your joints causes you to realize just how long you’ve been still. You drift toward the easel with quiet steps, drawn by the magnetic pull of being seen. What did he capture? What version of you exists on that canvas now? But before you can peer over the edge, his hand lifts, palm out, stopping you.

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

He hesitates, eyes flicking to the painting and back to you. “Because it’s… not ready.”

You don’t know what that means, but you don’t push. You nod once, slowly, and begin gathering your things. Just as you reach for the door, his voice stops you—this time without the theatrical flair. It’s smaller. Almost hesitant.

“Same time next week?”

You turn, hand hovering over the doorknob. “Again?” You tilt your head. “This is just for the one painting, right?”

He grins, but there’s an unreadable expression in his eyes. “Right. Of course. Just the one.”

A few days pass. You expect it to be over after the second session—one painting, just like you agreed. You tell yourself it was a strange, a lovely little detour in your usual life. Nothing more. An odd moment. A story to tell one day. But then your phone buzzes.

A message from a number saved only as: Satori 🎨

I need to see you again. Something’s missing in the painting.

You stare at the screen for a long time. There’s no pressure in the words, but they settle into your chest like a stone dropped in water. You read it once. Twice. A third time. There’s a tug you can’t explain. Maybe it’s the memory of his voice, low and reverent. The way he looked at you like you were some impossible person who wasn’t supposed to exist.

You type out a reply.

One more. That’s it.

He sends nothing back, but you know he’s already preparing the chair.

When you walk into his studio again, the light is different—brighter, sharper. So is he. He’s more animated this time, his energy buzzing just beneath the surface. His brushstrokes are faster, messier. He mutters louder.

“There’s a version of you I didn’t capture,” he says, brow furrowed as he dabs paint on the canvas. “It was right there… and then it vanished.”

You don’t know what to say, so you sit. And let him look. You think that’ll be the end of it. But two days later, your phone lights up again.

The way you looked when you were thinking—can you come in again?

You almost say no. Your fingers hover over the keyboard. But you don’t.

You go again.

And again.

Each session is different.

Some are quiet—just the sound of brushes swishing through water, the soft lilt of music, the silent language of observation. You sit still and let him study you like a puzzle he’s both terrified and thrilled to solve. Other days are chaotic—his energy erratic, his eyes wild. He circles the easel like a storm, stopping only to stare at you with a kind of hunger that makes your skin feel too tight. He speaks more. Or maybe you just start listening harder.

You begin to notice things.

How he talks to the canvas when he thinks you’re not listening—soft, adoring words like he’s coaxing a memory into being. How his hand always pauses just before painting your mouth, brush hovering mid-air. He tells you not to speak—not yet—and in that stillness, you see it: the way he holds his breath, like getting it wrong would ruin everything. How the energy in the studio shifts the second you walk in: less scattered and more intentional. Like your presence flips some invisible switch, and inspiration doesn’t exist in the absence of you.

You tell yourself it’s just flattery. A strange creative process. A passionate artist chasing a fleeting spark of inspiration. You’re only helping him finish what he started—that’s all. Tying up loose ends. You owe him nothing. And yet… you keep returning.

Because every time you leave, something lingers. In the soles of your feet. In the curve of your spine. In the hum beneath your skin. It doesn't quiet until you step back into his studio. Yet, he still doesn’t show you the painting.

Unbeknownst to you, while you’re gone, he paints more. So many more. His studio is slowly becoming a shrine. Dozens of canvases lean against the walls faces half-done and fully formed, each one a version of you—different, yet all the same.

One joyful — hair tossed back, laughter captured mid-breath. One quiet — head bowed, fingers curled in your lap. One defiant — eyes blazing, mid-gesture, like you were saying no to something he couldn’t hear. One vulnerable — curled in on yourself, expression soft, almost delicately childlike.

He doesn’t show you any of them. Not yet. He just keeps asking you to come back.

One last session.

You laugh to yourself—because he always says that. But it’s never the last. You don’t agree out of curiosity anymore. You agree because somewhere, deep down—you want to know how he sees you.

As time keeps moving. Life keeps intruding. And one morning, it all spills over.

You don’t know why a measly phone affected you so much. It’s been months; months of silence, of pretending that chapter of your life was closed. And then today, of all days, he remembers he has a daughter.

One call. No apology. His voice on the other end was casual as if your last fight never happened. He didn’t even sound like he’d missed you. He didn’t sound like he’d even noticed the months between you. His words were almost indifferent like he was checking off an item on a list.

The call leaves a strange weight in the pit of your stomach. You can’t quite name it. It’s not anger or disappointment. It’s a heavy, lingering void, and you hate how your father got under your skin and left you behind in the same forgotten corner.

You don’t mean to cry on the way to the studio. But everything feels heavier today—the air, the noise, even the sunlight. You think about canceling. About pretending you never saw his last message.

But instead, you show up.

You knock, and the door opens before you can move your hand from the doorknob. Tendou stands there, eyes soft. “You’re here,” he says, a quiet relief in his voice.

You give him a small smile but the weight of your father’s voice still lingers in your thoughts.

His eyes roam your face yet he doesn’t ask a single question. No jokes. No grin. No questions. He just steps aside and gestures toward your usual seat.

You sit and let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. This place is different. This is a space where you can simply let go.

The room feels quieter today like even the mess around you is holding its breath. A new record plays in the background—a low, crackling waltz—slow, old, and quite sad. Tendou doesn't speak. Doesn’t offer a distraction. He just picks up his pencil and starts to sketch.

You fidget with your sleeve. Your jaw stays tight. You can feel it; the emotion you’ve been trying to outrun clinging to the edges of your posture. But you stay still. Or you try to.

Tendou watches you with that same quiet focus, but today, something’s shifted. His usual manic spark is gone. What remains is quieter. Gentler. Like he wants to protect you but doesn’t know how. He sketches with soft, deliberate strokes, glancing up only when you shift or blink too hard. His expression doesn’t change. But the movement of his hand tells you he’s seeing everything.

When he finishes, he sets the pencil down with a quiet breath. He doesn’t turn the canvas. Doesn’t show you what he’s captured. Instead, he speaks—softly, like the words weren’t meant to be said aloud. “You don’t realize how much emotion lives in your silence.”

You look at him. Really look. And for the first time, you feel seen in a way that almost hurts. He finally turns the canvas around. It’s not just a portrait. It’s not even really you, and yet—it’s you.

Your sadness. Your strength. The weight on your shoulders. The way your hands clutch the fabric to hold yourself together. It’s raw. Unforgiving. Honest. You stare for too long, overwhelmed by how much of you is reflected in the brushstrokes.

Then ask, quietly: “Is that really how you see me?”

His eyes meet yours. “That’s how you are,” he says. “Even when you try to hide it.”

Words gather at the back of your throat, but none feel right—they stay trapped there, lodged between your chest and your tongue. You look down, blinking fast, the rush of emotion too thick to untangle. Your hand curls around the edge of your sleeve again, a tiny movement, hoping it might ground you, anchor you.

That’s when he steps forward—slowly, carefully, like you’re made of glass and he’s afraid of breaking you. He crouches beside the chair, one knee on the floor, and looks at you—eyes intent, knowing. And then, without asking, he reaches for your hand.

His fingers brush yours—lightly at first. Charcoal-stained, warm. They don’t close around your hand, not yet. They hover there, lingering just long enough for you to feel the heat of his touch. You don’t pull away. You don’t move. You simply stay still—because in this fragile moment, you feel like moving would ruin it.

“You were shaking,” he murmurs. “I wasn’t sure if you knew.”

You don’t say anything. His thumb brushes once over your knuckles, featherlight, a gentle caress that brings a sense of comfort you didn’t realize you needed. Then he lets go— like it cost him something to touch you and even more to stop.

You leave that day with your chest too full and your hands too empty. Shaken—by the painting. By him. By the weight of feeling exposed, being touched too gently, and not knowing what to do with either.

The days blur.

You stop checking your reflection in the morning. You ignore his messages. You don’t go to the studio. You tell yourself you need space—to breathe, to think, to figure out what this is. But the truth is simpler. You’re avoiding him—avoiding the weight of being seen again.

More than once, you tap Satori’s name in your messages thumb poised to type. But the words never come. You’re afraid of what might unravel the moment you face him.

And then one afternoon, without thinking, you go back. You don’t text ahead. You don’t knock. You just walk in. The door creaks open with that familiar sound, and the scent of oil paint rushes out. He doesn’t hear you at first. He’s at the easel, paintbrush in hand, back turned, shoulders tense. But he’s not painting you.

It’s an abstract piece—violent colors, and thick lines, an attempt to paint emotion itself. A desperate effort to forget something. Or someone. And failing.

Your gaze drifts around the studio. It’s still the same chaotic mess. The same humming quiet. But the atmosphere has shifted. In the corner, partially hidden behind a sheet, you spot a stack of frames—tall, uneven, slightly leaning. You’ve never noticed them before.

A pull of curiosity urges you forward. You cross the room, slowly, fingers brushing the fabric aside. And there they are. Dozens of canvases.

All of you.

You don’t touch them. Just… look.

One where you’re laughing—bright, wild, sunlit. One where you’re crying—quiet, small, the shadow of your hand pressed to your cheek. One where you’re angry—eyes blazing, hair was undone. One where you look like you’re about to say something important. One where you look like you’ve already said too much.

They aren’t romanticized. They aren’t idealized. They’re honest. It’s witnessing someone fall in love with every version of you, piece by piece, without ever saying the words.

You don’t realize you’ve spoken until your voice breaks the silence: “You said it would be one.”

He turns, startled—but not surprised. Not embarrassed. Just exposed. His hand falls to his side, the paintbrush forgotten.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then, quietly: “I know.”

“But when I finished the first portrait… I didn’t want it to be over.” His voice stays soft, but something in it cracks open. “So I kept asking you to show up. And...you did.”

He meets your eyes, steady now.

“And every time you walked through that door… I saw a different version of you I knew I needed to capture.”

You feel it then. The full weight of it. All of it. Not just his obsession. But yours, too.

The way this—whatever it is—has cracked you open, piece by piece. The way you’ve let yourself be vulnerable and how, somehow, you want to be. You don’t leave. And maybe that’s what scares you the most.

“Do you even know me?” Your voice shakes. “Or do you just love the girl you painted?”

The question hangs in the air, louder than anything else you could’ve said. Tendou doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at you. Really looks. And then walks toward you—slow, careful—afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast.

His eyes stay locked on you like you’re the only thing that matters.

“I know how you look when you hold something back,” he says softly. “The way your eyes flicker left when you lie, the way you hold your breath when you’re fighting back tears.” He steps closer still, his hand reaching out to gently lift yours, paint-stained fingers brushing against your skin with a tenderness that feels like it's been a long time coming.

“You grip your sleeves when you're overwhelmed. Your favorite kind of silence isn't empty—it's chosen. You hide behind your confidence,” he continues, his voice quieter, the words weighted with a quiet sincerity. “But I see past that. I see you when you're just... you. When you let go of all the masks you wear.”

His gaze softens, the intensity fading into something tender as he holds your hand, tracing the lines he’s learned so well. His touch is full of meaning—memorizing every detail of you.

“I didn’t fall for a painting," he says, the words finally leaving his lips like a confession. "I fell for you—the person who kept showing up, who sat in that chair and allowed me to see them, without pretenses. That’s all I’ve ever wanted."

The silence between you thickens, stretching, and for a long moment, you’re both suspended in the gravity of the moment.

You open your mouth, close it, and then, finally, the words slip out—fragile, unsteady. “And what do you see now?”

He doesn't look away. His answer is steady, calm, unflinching. “I see someone who's afraid to be loved... but wants it anyway. Someone who thinks being seen means being broken open.” He takes a deep breath, and his voice softens just slightly. “But you’re not broken. You’re real. And that’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

You don’t answer. The words hang in the air, weighing heavier than anything you've felt in a long time. You blink, unsure of how to process this truth, this recognition that you’ve been holding yourself back, afraid of being known.

Instead, you turn—drifting back toward the stack of canvases. One by one, you start to lay them out. On the floor, against the walls, wherever there’s room. You take your time, letting yourself linger on each painting. Versions of yourself you didn’t know existed—Vulnerable. Defiant. Worshipful.

Each canvas holds a different part of you. Tendou had painted the very essence of who you are, without you ever realizing it. Your heart pounds, and for a moment, you’re frozen in place, standing at the center of it all. It’s overwhelming. It’s terrifying. It’s... beautiful.

And yet, the sight of your own vulnerability reflected back at you is almost too much. The words you'd been holding back swirl inside you like a storm. And then, slowly, you step forward. Out of the shadows. Out of the mess. Toward him. Toward the center of it all.

Tendou watches you—silent, unmoving—afraid that if he breathes wrong, this moment might shatter. He's waiting for you to decide what this becomes.

You don’t know what this is—obsession? Admiration? Love?

All you know is this: You’ve never felt more seen in your life.

Your heartbeat picks up—faster now, erratic. A part of you wants to run, but another part of you—this unguarded part—wants to give in. To let him see you, fully, and not pull away. You’ve always been so careful, so closed off. Afraid of letting anyone inside. But now, here, with him, it feels impossible to hold onto that barrier. There’s a rawness in the way he looks at you like he’s pulling you into a gravity you can’t escape.

You want him to see you. To understand you. You crave it in a way you didn’t expect. Your eyes flicker to his—dark, searching.

The words slip out before you can stop them. “Paint me again… but this time, ruin me.”

The room holds its breath. The tension between you, thick and electric, is almost unbearable. And then, just as quickly, the space between you disappears in seconds.

His hands find your face, cupping it like it’s delicate, precious. But he doesn’t kiss you right away. He studies you—eyes scanning your features with an intensity that makes you feel exposed, yet safe. It’s like you’re another masterpiece, and he needs to preserve every detail before he ruins you.

“Are you sure?” His voice is low, reverent, almost trembling.

You nod, your breath caught in your throat. “I want to be completely known by you… not just seen.”

The kiss starts soft—hesitant, searching. He's savoring every moment as he tastes you for the first time. But then the kiss deepens; it turns hungry. Your hand fists into his paint-stained shirt and his fingers tangle in your hair, pulling you closer.

The tension that’s been building over every session finally snaps. It spills out between your mouth, your fingertips, and your racing pulse. It’s as if the world has narrowed down to just the two of you.

He walks you backward, never breaking the kiss, until your back meets the abstract canvas he was working on earlier. Your breath catches, and he steadies you with a hand at your waist.

“I’ve wanted to touch you since the first time you walked through that door,” he murmurs against your lips.

You tug him closer, voice barely audible: “Then don’t stop.”

He presses you gently against the canvas. Everything is slow. Deliberate. As if he’s still painting you—but this time, with touch instead of oil and brush. His fingers trail along your collarbone, leaving behind streaks of crimson and gold—marking you, shaping you, turning your skin into art.

You laugh softly—breathless.

He smiles against your mouth, but it’s a fleeting smile. His eyes darken as he pulls back just enough to look at you again, and there’s something raw in them.

“You have no idea what you’ve done to me,” he whispers, voice breaking, barely audible.

You part your lips to speak, but you don’t get the chance. Tendou captures your mouth with his—urgent, breathless, like he’s been starving for something only you can offer. His hands find your waist, lifting you just enough for the easel behind you to crash to the floor with a violent thud.

But the sound barely registers, because you’re already falling—with him, into him. Your bodies tangle as you go down, limbs sprawling across the ruined artwork. Breath tangled. Paint bleeding beneath your skin like spilled desire.

Crimson. Gold. Violet.

It smears beneath you, cool and wet, soaking into your back as Tendou’s hands slip under your shirt, pushing it up and over your head in one fluid motion. His gaze drags over you—devouring. He wants to remember this moment—the light on your skin, the shape of your ribs, the curve of your breasts. He touches you with the intent of a man determined to remember you for the rest of his life.

You shiver under his palms arching into them.

His chest rises hard and fast as he hovers above you, eyes gone dark with want. His thumb drags a streak of red across your cheek, then lower—slow, deliberate—painting your parted lips with the color.

“You're a work of art,” he growls, voice rough with lust. “And I’m going to make you come undone.”

His mouth descends—slow, deliberate—trailing heat in the form of open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, down your sternum, and into the soft valley between your breasts. His breath is warm. His pace is unhurried. His lips brush your skin like a promise. Every kiss seems to take an eternity, but you can’t get enough.

When his tongue flicks over the lace of your bra, it draws a quiet gasp from your lips. And then, with aching gentleness, he tugs the fabric down—freeing your sensitive nipples to the cool air, every touch igniting a fire beneath your skin. His mouth closes around one nipple, lips soft, tongue tracing lazy circles before he sucks—just once, just enough to make your back arch off the canvas.

“Satori…” you breathe, fingers tangling in his wild hair, tugging without meaning to. Desperate for more.

He groans low against your skin, one hand moving to cup your other breast, kneading it, rolling the nipple between his fingers until you’re squirming beneath him.

It’s not rushed. It’s not rough. It’s worshipful. Like he’s savoring the taste of something he never thought he’d be allowed to have.

Tendou hums against your skin, the vibration sinking deep into you, pleasure pooling low in your belly. His hand drifts lower, tracing a path across your stomach before slipping between your thighs, cupping you through your shorts. You gasp, hips instinctively bucking toward his touch, the ache intensifying. He responds without hesitation, his fingers deftly unbuttoning your shorts. In one smooth motion, he pulls both your shorts and underwear down your legs, baring you to the cool air and his feverish attention.

Your breath catches as he lowers himself, burying his face between your thighs—desperate for you. His tongue licks a straight stripe upwards on your slit once—then again—slow, deliberate. "So fucking wet," he murmurs against you, his voice low. "You’re exquisite."

You whimper, the sound breaking free of you without shame as his tongue presses on your clit and rubs lazy circles on it. Your fingers tangle deeper into his hair, pulling his face closer to you.

Tendou groans against your cunt, and more whimpers escape your lips. He seals his mouth around your clit, sucking harder now—tongue dancing in frenzied, hungry patterns that have you moaning his name into the studio air. He doesn’t relent. He alternates between long, deliberate strokes and fast, devastating flicks—each one unraveling you further, tension building up in the pit of your stomach.

His teeth nibble on your clit and two fingers ghost your entrance. You completely melt under his touch, the moans being impossible to suppress. He slowly runs his long middle finger down your slit, his other fingers separate your folds. He gathers the slick on his thumb and rubs slow circles over your clit.

Then—his long finger slides into you, slow and sure. You gasp at the intrusion, your hips lifting, welcoming the stretch. He curls it hitting that sweet spot so brutally that it draws a moan from somewhere deep inside you. His thumb never stops, pressing tight, circling your clit with a rhythm that borders on veneration.

"Baby—" he groans, lifting his head just enough to look at you, his voice rough with restraint, eyes nearly black with desire. "I can’t wait to feel you around my cock."

You whimper, lost to it, not even sure what you’re pleading for anymore. Less? More? Everything? The whole damn world?

He chuckles—a low, dark sound—and slides in a second finger, then a third, the stretch sharper, deeper. He builds the pace, brutally curling and thrusting his fingers, the canvas beneath you smeared with color and heat and want.

Your thighs tremble, toes curling as the pressure coils tight—tighter—until it’s too much to hold.

"That’s it," he murmurs, voice rough at the edges. "Cum for me. Let me feel you fall apart."

And you do—with your eyes closed and your head thrown back, a cry rips from your chest as pleasure crashes over you in wave after wave. Your cunt clamps around his fingers, milking them with your cum.

He watches you fall apart, transfixed—it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. And he doesn’t look away—not once. He doesn’t stop, either—just slowly, rides you out of your orgasm. He’s reveling in every last tremble you give him. Your erratic breathing fills the room as you slowly come back to your senses, opening your eyes lazily.

His fingers leave you, his hand stretches upwards and his wet fingertips touch your parted lips as tired pants leave them. You get the message and wrap your lips around his three fingers, you feel his warm tongue licking your sensitive cunt. You moan as you suck on them, your hip bucking onto his face. He licks all your juices, lapping your cunt clean while you taste yourself on his skin. The salty flavor is erotic against your tongue as his own dances on your cunt.

Once Tendou is satisfied, he pulls his fingers out of your mouth and stands up to his feet, his gaze burning into your eyes.

He doesn't give you time to catch your breath. He’s already stripping down—each piece of clothing shed with growing urgency, revealing his long cock. Your gaze drops, and you can’t look away. He’s hard, flushed, aching. Beautiful in a way that steals what little breath you have left.

He grips your thighs, and lifts them with ease, positioning himself at your entrance. His voice is low, trembling.

“Please,” he breathes. “I need to feel you.”

You nod, unable to speak, too full of want and wonder and everything that lives in the space between his body and yours.

And then—he’s there. He pushes in with a slow, deliberate thrust, scratching you up and filling you up. Once he's fully in the sensation is euphoric as he stretches you wide, making you to feel dizzy. You gasp his name as your cunt envelops him, clenching around his thick, pulsing cock.

He gives you a moment to adjust, letting you feel every ridge and vein as he throbs inside you before he starts to move. He slips out completely before thrusting back in. Each thrust pulls gasping moans from your lips, his hips roll slowly against yours as he drives himself deep.

You meet his thrusts eagerly, legs wrapped tightly around his waist, your heels digging into his ass as you pull him closer. The canvas beneath you shifts and creaks with each powerful motion, the wet sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through the studio. The paint smears across your skin in abstract patterns, marking the moment in streaks of vibrant color.

"Satori," you pant, breath hitching as he hits your g-spot dead-on, sending sparks of pleasure racing up your spine. "You feel so—"

"Perfect," he finishes for you, his voice trembling as he thrusts deeper. "You feel so... ahhh... fucking perfect."

His rhythm quickens, his thrusts growing more insistent, driven by pure, primal need. The way he holds you is both possessive and gentle, his hands roaming over your body as if he's trying to map every curve and contour.

Your fingers clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as you anchor yourself to him. Every breath, every sound, every movement is electric, the kind of intimacy that erases everything else until there's only this—only him, only you, only the pull between your bodies as he says your name with an aching devotion as if it’s holy.

A broken moan escapes your lips as he shifts the angle, hitting your g spot even harder—each thrust sending sparks through your spine, and you start seeing stars. The pressure builds, coiling tighter, making you ache for release. "Satori, I—"

“I know,” he breathes, voice strained, fingers digging into your hips, urging you closer to the edge. “You’re so close.”

He moans as he squeezes your hips even tighter, leaving behind red marks, his thrusts become faster and harder.

“Let go,” he urges, breath hot against your cheek.

With a final, deep thrust and a cry that echoes off the walls, you shatter, your release washing over you in waves of intense, mind-bending ecstasy. Tendou follows moments later, groaning your name like a benediction as he plunges deep and spills inside you, his hot seed flooding your senses and sending you spiraling into a second, even more powerful orgasm.

When it’s over, he collapses against you, breath ragged, heart pounding in sync with yours. His lips find your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth—soft kisses, whispered touches, his voice low and reverent as he murmurs your name again and again.

“That was…” he starts, but words fail him.

You smile faintly, still catching your breath. “Amazing.”

“Remarkable,” he echoes, letting out a shaky sigh, eyes still locked on you like he can’t believe you’re real.

The canvas beneath you is ruined—smeared paint, blurred lines, colors bleeding together in chaos. But in Tendou’s eyes, it’s perfect.

It will forever be his greatest creation.

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