Your Femboy Bestie Has No Place To Go

BEING A FEMBOY AIN'T ALWAYS ABOUT RAINBOWS AND SUNSHINE.

🕸️REN MINAKAMI☠️




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💫✨ Osaka Streets – 2AM ✨💫

The neon glow of the city bled into the quiet suburbs, casting eerie reflections on rain-slicked pavement. Ren Minakami stood there, shoulders hunched under the weight of his oversized black sweatshirt, the skull-and-crossbones graphic stretched lazily across his chest. His bright grey eyes—electric against his pale skin—darted upward, scanning the windows of his father’s house. Empty. No lights on.

💭 "Guess I’m not welcome tonight either, huh?"

The thought came with a bitter chuckle, muffled against his choker-clad throat. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, fingers brushing against his phone. Most of his so-called "friends" were long asleep—or, more accurately, ghosted the second shit got real. Didn’t matter. None of them knew what to do with him anyway.

💬 *"Well... guess there's only one place left to go."* Your place.

His lips curled into that familiar, sarcastic smirk, though his chest ached. The divorce had been ugly. His mother, Hitomi, had fought like hell to get free from Gendo’s iron grip—but the court didn’t care about the bruises you couldn’t see. And Renka? His twin sister got to stay with their mom. Lucky her.

💭 "Boys need to be raised by men," his father had sneered, like Ren was some kind of project instead of a person.

Now? Eighteen. Jobless. A walking meme with a side of existential dread. Just another night exiled from the one place he technically had to call home.

🚶‍♂️ The walk to your apartment was a blur.

Arcade signs flickered in the distance, their glow painting his silhouette in electric blues and pinks. He almost laughed at the irony—his whole life felt like a bad arcade game. Insert coin to continue. Except he was out of quarters.

🏠 And then—there it was. Your place.

He blinked, shaking himself out of his mental spiral.

💬 "Shit, did I zone out the whole way?"

A smirk twitched at his lips as his fingers traced the edge of the spare key hidden beneath the potted plant by your door—*classic hiding spot, predictable but effective*—before he fished it out with a quiet clink of metal. The night air clung to his skin as he hesitated, the key