Miyabr0 - Mar !

kaomojis ♡

໒꒰ྀི´ ˘ ` ꒱ྀིა

( ꩜ ᯅ ꩜;) 

(_ _ ) . . z Z

૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡

꒰ঌᐢ.ˬ.ᐢ໒꒱

૮₍ ´ ꒳ `₎ა

(∩˃o˂∩)♡

☆૮꒰•༝ •。꒱ა

(..◜ᴗ◝..)

꒰ᐢ. ̫ .ᐢ꒱

(｡•́︿•̀｡)

☆૮꒰ˊᗜˋ* ꒱ა

૮₍｡´ᴖ ˔ ᴖ`｡₎ა

(੭˃ᴗ˂)੭

( ｡ •̀ ᴖ •́ ｡)

૮₍˶ •. • ⑅₎ა ♡

꒰✿´ ꒳ ` ꒱♡

☆૮꒰•༝ •。꒱ა

"૮₍ •⤙•˶

˙ᵕ˙

໒꒰ྀིっ˕ -｡꒱ྀི১

(╥﹏╥)

symbols ★

𓆩⚝𓆪

⋆｡° ✮

୨୧

꒰ঌ ໒꒱

♡.･✩°｡⋆

ʚ ɞ

🕊 ˚✧ ₊˚ʚ

𓁹‿𓁹

☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

‹𝟹

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

ʚ ✮ ɞ

ᘛ⁐ᕐᐷ

𓆩♡𓆪

all credits go to kaomoji. any trouble on copying? feel free to dm.

i’m SICK of the playboy!au and toxic relationship!au, like wym my faves are as ran through as a train track and have probably created a new type of std 🤔 i need my love interests to stop being mischaracterized bc i fully believe they would be either losers who get no play (shigaraki) or would have no time (or desire) for that kinda thing (gojo, geto, sukuna, aizawa, chuuya, ATSUMU)‼️ looking good and having admirers ≠ whore, i need them in love with ME 💜. ty for coming to my ted talk

GIVE ME A CHANCE

# SYMBOLS !!

⋆ ࣪ ᖭི༏ᖫྀ ⋆ ࣪ 𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼 ꒰ ა ♡ ໒ ꒱

✹˖ ࣪ ਏਓ ʚ ї ɞ ‧₊˚✩ 🐞! ꒰୨ 𖤐 ୧꒱

.˳⁺⁎˚ ꒰ఎ ★ ໒꒱ ˚⁎⁺˳ .   ༺ ˖࣪  ∗ ਏਓ ∗  ˖࣪ ༻

✹. ｡ o ༺ ˖࣪ ∗ 𓆩♡𓆪 ∗ ˖࣪ ༻ ˖࣪ ∗ ਏਓ ∗ ˖

❕ like/reblog if u saved or use

lowkeyartist!sukuna who makes videos in his room to post on his instagram. Most of it is just him making new tunes that would most definitely be sampled by an artist sooner or later, while some are covers.

But I think what people mostly know him for is the different lady - or ladies - they see in the background sleeping in his bed. His name on twitter grows hectic whenever they see the girls in the back in some of his videos, slamming and dragging his name. Regardless, he stays radio silent on it.

It’s not until a song that had used one of his vids for a sample went popular and he begrudgingly goes live on instagram for his first Q&A due to popular demand. The questions flood in when his fans realise it’s not bullshit and he actually is there to talk with them.

And, like true Sukuna signature, there’s a mystery lady in his sheets behind him. The live notices immediately when he shifts a little to the edge giving them a glimpse of you, almost like he wants them to see.

“Does it wobble? Don’t make me end this live,” he says sternly, trying to subtly read questions that aren’t about you behind him in the chat. He finds it funny how the whole internet has been in an uproar this past year due to your constant impulse on making your hair look different every other month - different girls, like he’d ever, the thought makes him scoff.

“Why do you bring over so many girls? what do you mean? It’s just one,” he teases, his head turning over his shoulder to peek at you - yep, still sleeping.

His taunts to the questions have everyone on edge, and you’re just peacefully in dreamland. His scowl deepens when he sees many people question his honesty on the last answer, so he finally breaks and he reveals the long awaited truth.

“It’s just one girl because it’s my fiancé, we’ve been together since I started this shit,” he leans back in his chair, relief flowing through his veins now that everyone knows, “why does she look different all the time? My girl’s just impulsive.”

HOW DO THEY GRIEVE? — featuring sukuna, choso, gojo, geto, nanami, toji content warnings: no reader gender/anatomy implied. implied reader death, heavy angst no comfort. established relationship. reader is a mortal in sukuna's part. mentions of murder in toji's part. they/them pronouns used for reader in gojo's part.

the quiet haunted him most.

it wasn’t a noise, nor a cry, but the absence of it — a void left behind where your voice once existed, tugging at his mind like an insidious echo. sukuna sat still, his broad frame rigid against the edge of his throne, clawed fingers wrapped tightly around the curve of his jaw. he wasn’t one to cling, yet here he was, torn by shadows of something he couldn’t clutch tightly enough.

“pathetic,” he muttered to himself, the words bitter against his tongue. his voice cut through the silence, but it wasn’t yours. it would never be yours again.

there were moments, fleeting and infuriating, when he could almost remember you. a flash of a laugh — was it sharp? or soft? — your expression — smiling? or frowning? — your warmth, tangible yet distant, slipping through his memory like grains of sand. sukuna slammed his fist into the wooden armrest of his throne, splinters flying.

"damn you," he growled lowly, though he wasn’t sure if it was directed at himself or at you.

he knew this would happen. of course, it would. you were mortal. fleeting. time was never kind to mortals, and neither was he. what place did someone like you have in his world? he had convinced himself you’d be nothing more than a passing indulgence. but then you had dared to linger in ways no one else had, and sukuna, fool that he was, had allowed it.

he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands. "what was it you used to call me?" his voice cracked — just slightly, a whisper against the still air. not king. not lord. no, you’d stripped him of those titles in private.

ryo.

the way you used to say his name — it hadn’t been reverent. not like others. you said it like it was yours, like he was yours.

but the sound was fading now, no matter how tightly he clung to it. sukuna’s fingers twitched against his temples, nails digging into his scalp. his crimson eyes burned, not with fury, but with a hollow ache.

“you dare slip away from me now?” his voice cracked in the empty room.

he stood abruptly, the motion nearly knocking the throne back. pacing, prowling, his footsteps thudded against the cold stone. his hands clenched and unclenched as though grasping for an answer.

“what was it —” he hissed, his tone a dangerous edge of desperation, “ — that made me let you in?” he paused mid-step, shoulders sagging under the weight of what he knew.

everything. everything about you.

he clenched his jaw, exhaling a breath that rattled with suppressed rage and sorrow. sukuna’s hand reached to his chest, curling around the fabric of his robe where his heart still stubbornly beat.

“if i ever hear your voice again…” he muttered, the words half-prayer, half-promise, “you won’t escape me a second time.”

choso sat in the quiet of his apartment, the hum of the fridge filling the silence. his fingers ghosted over the countertop, tracing invisible patterns that led nowhere. on the table sat a piece of toast, untouched and cold, its edges curling from neglect.

he stared at it, a lump forming in his throat. the memory hit him like a wave, vivid and all-consuming.

"it's just toast, cho!" you had laughed, your voice bright and teasing. he could still see the crinkle of your eyes, the way you covered your mouth to stifle your giggles when he flinched at the toaster's pop.

his chest tightened. "just toast," he echoed to the empty room, his voice hollow.

but it wasn’t just toast. nothing was ever just anything with you. every moment, every mundane thing, had been infused with the light of your presence, leaving pieces of you scattered throughout his life like breadcrumbs.

the laundry machine buzzed faintly in the background, and he shut his eyes. another memory clawed its way forward, unbidden.

“choso! what are you doing?!” you’d yelled, pulling his arm away just as he reached into the spinning drum. “you’ll lose a hand doing that!”

“but it wasn’t —” he had started, confused, only to be cut off by your exasperated sigh.

“don’t. just… don’t.”

and yet, after scolding him, you’d taught him how to sort clothes, how to fold shirts, how to care for the things that mattered.

“you’ve got to take care of things, cho. take care of people, too,” you’d said, softer that time, as you’d brushed lint off his shoulder. “it’s what makes us human.”

human.

his hands balled into fists on the countertop. you had taught him what it meant to be human — how to live, how to feel, how to care. you taught him to look beyond himself, to see others as more than just moving parts in the chaos of life.

“be kind,” you’d told him once, standing at a crosswalk as you watched him glare at a group of kids. “help the ones who need it. give up your seat. hold the door. even when it’s hard, choose kindness.”

he had rolled his eyes back then, muttering something about how the world didn’t deserve it. but you had smiled, patient and unyielding.

“do it anyway.”

the toast sat there, forgotten, as choso stared into the distance. how could he forget you? when you were everywhere? in the hiss of the washing machine, the smell of burnt toast, the sharp pang of guilt when he didn’t offer his seat to someone in need.

you were a part of him now, woven into his bones, etched into his heart.

“how could i forget you?” he whispered, voice trembling as he sat down, head in his hands.

he couldn’t. even if he wanted to. you had made him human. and now, with you gone, he didn’t know how to be anything else.

gojo satoru was a man of stories. he carried your memory in his words, carefully polished and tenderly spun, until they became legends that danced on the tongues of everyone he met.

"oh, y/n?" he'd grin, eyes glimmering like sunlight on fresh snow. "you should’ve seen the way they handled me. not many can keep up with this." he'd tap his temple, his grin softening.

he told them about how you made the best coffee in the mornings, even though you always claimed to hate the way he drowned it in sugar. how you made him laugh so hard that his infinity couldn’t protect him from doubling over. how your voice could cut through the chaos in his mind, grounding him in ways nothing else could.

you became a part of his stories, not just as someone he loved, but as someone who made him better. greater.

people listened with rapt attention, smiling at the way he spoke of you, as if you were still right there beside him. but when the crowds thinned, when the world grew quiet, and satoru was left with nothing but the weight of his own company, the facade cracked.

the apartment felt unbearably still, as if your absence was a tangible thing that pressed against him. he sat on the couch, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed. the usual sparkle in his eyes dulled to a glassy sheen.

his shoulders trembled first, a barely-there quiver that grew into a shudder as the first sob escaped his throat.

“damn it,” he choked out, his voice cracking as he pressed the heel of his palms into his eyes. “damn it, why’d you leave me with this?”

you were the strongest in ways he could never be. while he could manipulate the very fabric of space, you had wielded something far greater: love, compassion, humanity. things that made the unbearable weight of existence lighter, if only for a while.

"who’s gonna remember you when i’m gone?" he whispered into the empty room, voice breaking.

the thought gutted him. satoru lived for you now — not for his students, not for his title, not for his power. it was your memory that anchored him, the fear of losing even the smallest piece of you driving him to hold on tighter than ever.

“i can’t let that happen,” he muttered, fists clenching as fresh tears spilled down his cheeks. his breath came in sharp, uneven gasps. “i can’t let you disappear. not ever.”

so he stayed. fought. lived. not because he feared death — death had always been a fleeting thought to someone like him — but because without him, there would be no one left to carry your memory.

and if there was one thing gojo satoru would never let the universe take from him, it was you.

suguru cursed the gods, cursed fate, and cursed you.

it was easier that way. easier to let the anger scorch him from the inside out than to face the gnawing emptiness that came with your absence. he sat in the ruins of what had once been a temple, the scent of charred wood and blood still lingering in the air. his knuckles ached from where he’d slammed his fists into the wall, and his throat burned from the string of expletives he’d spat at no one in particular.

“why couldn’t you just listen?” his voice was a harsh rasp, cracking as he spoke to the void. “why did you have to be so damn… stubborn?”

you were supposed to understand. supposed to see the world the way he did, to join him in tearing it apart so it could be rebuilt into something better. but you hadn’t.

you stood your ground, unwavering in your righteousness, and it had infuriated him. because for all his power, all his conviction, he couldn’t convince you.

“it’s your fault,” he muttered bitterly, running a hand through his tangled hair. “you and your… your goddamn ideals.”

but the words rang hollow, even to him.

because you were the only one who’d ever made him question himself. you were the only one who’d ever dared to stand in his way, not with malice, but with love.

“you think you’re better than this,” you had told him once, your voice calm but firm. “but you’re not. and i can’t follow you down this path, suguru.”

he hated you for that — for being right. for loving him enough to try and stop him. and for leaving him when he wouldn’t stop.

his fingers tightened into fists, nails biting into his palms. “damn you,” he whispered, though the words lacked the venom they once had.

he wondered, sometimes, if you thought about him as much as he thought about you. if you still believed in the version of him you’d once loved, or if that image had crumbled under the weight of his choices.

maybe, in another life, things were different. a life where there were no sides to choose, no lines to cross, no ideals to clash over. just the two of you.

he closed his eyes, leaning back against the cold stone wall. the anger was gone now, leaving behind only exhaustion and a hollow ache in his chest.

“what am i waiting for?” he asked aloud, his voice barely above a whisper.

there was no answer, just the crackling of dying embers and the distant howl of the wind. but still, he waited.

for you to come back. for the pain to stop. for something — anything — that would make it all make sense again.

and until then, he would curse. and grieve. and wait.

toji didn’t know how to grieve.

his life had never made room for something as soft as sorrow. emotions, in his world, were a luxury — a liability he couldn’t afford. but now, in the absence of you, there was something gnawing at him, raw and unrelenting, that he couldn’t name.

he sat in the dim light of a dingy bar, nursing a half-empty glass of whiskey. the burn was familiar, but it didn’t distract him like it used to. his mind kept circling back to you, dragging him down into memories he couldn’t shake.

the way you used to fuss over his injuries, muttering curses at him for being reckless while your hands worked with tender precision. the way your laughter echoed, rich and warm, cutting through the cold veneer of his life. the way you’d touch his cheek, grounding him, reminding him he was more than the blade he carried.

and now? now there was nothing but silence.

“this one’s for you,” he muttered under his breath, finishing the glass in one harsh gulp before tossing a wad of bills on the counter.

it was always for you. every job, every gamble, every risk — your ghost lingered in every choice he made. toji didn’t bother questioning it; he couldn’t. the thought of you was the only thing keeping him moving, even if it came with a weight that threatened to crush him.

the alley was dark as he cornered his target, the blade in his hand gleaming faintly under the flickering streetlamp. the man whimpered, begging for mercy, but toji didn’t flinch. his movements were fluid, precise, and ruthless.

“don’t beg,” he growled, his voice low and cold. “this ain’t about you.”

and it wasn’t. not really. the man’s life had no meaning to him — just another pawn in the endless cycle of blood and violence. but the rage that fueled him? that was yours.

the blade struck, and with it came a flash of you — your smile, your voice, the warmth he could no longer reach. the man crumpled to the ground, lifeless, and toji stood over him, his chest heaving.

“still not enough,” he muttered, wiping the blade clean with a practiced motion.

it was never enough. no amount of blood could fill the void you left behind. but he kept going, each kill a hollow attempt to feel something other than this aching, unfamiliar emptiness.

toji leaned against the cold brick wall, the night air biting against his skin. he stared at his hands — steady, calloused, and stained.

“why’d you leave me with this, huh?” he muttered to the open air, his voice gruff but cracking at the edges. “you were the only thing that ever made sense.”

his hands clenched into fists, the blade trembling slightly in his grip. this is for you, he reminded himself, even if he didn’t know why. even if it didn’t bring you back.

he ached, and it hurt, but he didn’t know what to do with that pain. so he killed. and he killed. and every time, it was for you.

nanami was a man of routines.

quiet, deliberate, purposeful routines.

he didn’t waver in them, not even after you were gone. if anything, they became his lifeline, a fragile thread tethering him to the semblance of normalcy he desperately clung to.

he set out two plates every night, one for him, one for you. it wasn’t a conscious decision at first; his hands simply moved on autopilot, muscle memory guiding him. but when he sat down to eat, staring at the empty plate across from him, the quiet would settle in — a heavy, suffocating kind of quiet that only existed in the absence of you.

your pillow remained fluffed on the bed, as if you’d be home any moment to claim your spot. sometimes he’d catch himself reaching out to brush a stray hair off it, only to remember it wasn’t yours — it never could be again.

and then there were the chips. that oily, utterly ridiculous brand you adored.

nanami didn’t even like snacks, much less those chips, but he found himself restocking them on every grocery run. he would walk past the aisle, hesitate, and then grab a bag, telling himself it was just habit.

but one day, curiosity — or maybe desperation — got the better of him. he opened the bag, the crinkle of plastic unnervingly loud in the stillness of the house. the scent hit him first, greasy and artificial, and he almost put the bag down.

“what on earth did you see in these?” he muttered under his breath before popping one in his mouth.

it was awful. salty, greasy, overwhelmingly artificial.

and he cried.

the chip barely registered as he sat down heavily, shoulders trembling as tears rolled down his face. it wasn’t the taste — it was everything else. the bag in his hands, the faint smell of your favorite flowers still lingering from the vase on the kitchen counter, the stupid chipped mug you refused to throw away because it was yours.

everything screamed you. your presence was embedded in every corner of the house, in every routine, every object, every space you had once occupied.

and nanami realized, in that moment, how deeply ingrained you were in his life. how even in your absence, you filled it in ways he couldn’t escape.

his fingers tightened around the bag as he let the tears come, quiet and unrelenting.

maybe it was okay to grieve.

maybe it was okay to hold onto the pieces of you that lingered, to let them anchor him in a world that felt so much colder now.

and as he wiped his face with the back of his hand, setting the bag aside, he thought — maybe, just maybe, it was okay to keep buying those ridiculous chips, even if they tasted like crap. because they were yours. and so, in some small, bittersweet way, they were his, too.

produced by creamflix on tumblr. all rights reserved. do not copy, steal, modify, repost. banners by cafekitsune — support your writers by liking and reblogging. ♡

I can't pay this month's rent prank on my boyfriend!sukuna

You leaned against the kitchen counter, casually scrolling through your phone while Sukuna towered by the stove, shirtless as usual, making breakfast. His broad shoulders and tattooed arms flexed with every movement, the sheer size of him making the spacious kitchen feel small.

You smirked, the mischievous idea popping into your head. It was time to mess with him.

“Hey, babe?” you started, trying to sound unsure.

“Hm?” he grunted, not looking up from the pan as he flipped the eggs with precision.

“So... I can’t pay my share of the rent this month. I’m really sorry,” you said, putting on your best apologetic voice.

The spatula stopped mid-air. Slowly, he turned to face you, his crimson eyes narrowing. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I just... don’t have enough this month,” you said with a dramatic sigh. “Things are tight, you know?”

Sukuna’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief, and then he straightened to his full, intimidating height. The sight of him—looking thoroughly offended—would’ve had anyone else running for cover.

“Tight?” he repeated, his deep voice dripping with incredulity. “What the hell do you mean ‘tight’? Since when have you ever paid rent?!”

You bite the inside of your cheek, struggling to keep a straight face. “Well, I thought maybe I should start contributing, but—”

“Contributing?!” he barked. He threw the spatula down with a clatter, crossing the room in two long strides to stand right in front of you.

You looked up at him, blinking innocently, while he glared down at you, his massive frame practically eclipsing the light. “Let me get this straight,” he said, his tone sharp. “You think you need to contribute? To my building? The one I OWN?”

You shrugged, barely containing your laughter. “Well, yeah...”

“Y/N,” he growled, his jaw clenching. “You’ve never paid for a single thing in your life. Not rent, not groceries, not even the goddamn Netflix subscription. What’s next? You’re gonna tell me you’re struggling to pay the water bill?”

You blinked again. “How much is water?”

“Oh my god,” he groaned, running a hand through his pink hair like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You wouldn’t last two seconds paying bills. Why the hell would you even say something like this?”

“I just feel bad sometimes, you know?” you said, tilting her head to look up at him.

His expression softened for half a second before he snapped, “You feel bad?! Woman, do I look like I need your rent money?!” He pointed to himself. “Do I?!”

You shook her head, her lips twitching.

“That’s what I thought,” he muttered. He placed his hands on either side of the counter, trapping you between his arms. “Are you in trouble? Huh? Do you need money? Tell me right now, or so help me—”

“I’m not in trouble!” you laughed, unable to hold it in anymore. “It’s a prank!”

Sukuna froze. “What?”

You were laughing so hard you could barely get the words out. “It’s a prank, babe. I was messing with you!”

The room went silent except for the sound of your giggles. Sukuna just stared at you, blinking slowly, his face unreadable. Then he took a step back and ran his hands over his face with a groan. “Unbelievable. I just had a damn heart attack, and for what? For a prank?!”

“I’m sorry!” you said, still laughing.

“You’re lucky I don’t throw you out the window,” he grumbled, though the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting back a smile. “You’re driving me insane, woman.”

Before you could respond, he leaned down and grabbed your face, pulling you into a searing kiss that left you breathless. His lips were rough, his grip firm, and the sheer intensity of it made your toes curl. When he finally pulled back, you were left staring up at him, dazed.

“For the record,” he muttered, his forehead resting against yours, “you’re never paying for a damn thing. Got it?”

“Got it,” you whispered, your cheeks flushed.

<><><><><> <><><><><><><>

Later that day, you posted a short clip of their interaction online, the internet exploded to say the least.

“NOT HIM BEING OFFENDED THAT SHE EVEN MENTIONED RENT.”

“That kiss at the end??? Ma’am, are you alive?”

“He looks like he eats nails for breakfast but acts like her stress is the enemy. I need this.”

“WHO LET THIS MAN BE SO BIG AND SO SWEET AT THE SAME TIME???”

“He looks like he could throw her and the fridge out of the house, but instead he kisses her like he’ll die without her???”

“No, but the way he said, ‘Do I look like I need your rent money?’ with his whole chest? That’s a MAN.”

“He’s got big ‘pays the bills without letting you lift a finger’ energy. And I mean ALL the bills.”

“This man is built like a WWE champion, but the only thing he’s body-slamming is the stress in her life.”

“He’s definitely rich-rich. Like, ‘owns the whole building and forgot about it’ rich.”

“Imagine pranking the kind of man who doesn’t even look at the price when he buys stuff. Brave.”

“He looks like he’ll fight anyone who even breathes wrong around you. Please prank him again; we need more content.”

It didn’t stop there. People started creating memes:

A still of Sukuna glaring down at Y/N with the caption: “When she says she can’t pay rent, but you literally own the entire block.”

Another image of him pointing to himself, yelling, “DO I LOOK LIKE I NEED YOUR RENT MONEY?” paired with, “Me when my broke friends try to Venmo me for $2.”

All drawings about Bakugou from 2019 to 2024

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

special mention to Stikugou:

and the Kiribaku references in Kirishima’s belongings and hoodie Dynamight:

song 13! 360 + sakusa kiyoomi

360, when you’re in the mirror, do you like what you see? when you’re in the mirror, you’re just looking at me —charli xcx

pairing: sakusa kiyoomi x reader, wc: 746, established relationship, fluff, very deep (song is misleading), sakusa kiyoomi contemplates the meaning of love and how it’s changed him as he stands in the mirror, boy was finding a plot for this song a challenge

part of my spotify wrapped 2024 event @serafilms

Sakusa Kiyoomi has always been a very individualistic man. He hates crowds with a passion, avoids physical contact to a fault, and exclusively keeps everything he owns to himself. He never borrows from his friends, or even his family, unless he’s out of hand sanitiser (but he’s never out of hand sanitiser), and he doesn’t like letting them borrow his things either. He doesn’t trust them to clean things as well as he does, and he overall just doesn’t really appreciate their pushing their way into his business.

Yet as he stands in the mirror, he can’t help but see evidence that suggests otherwise.

Firstly, there’s the sweatshirt he’d pulled on this morning. The same one you’d ‘borrowed’ from him last week. It has the MSBY Jackals’ logo stitched on the chest, and when he’d come over to your place a few days ago, he’d found you huddled up on the couch in it.

“Sorry, Omi,” you’d said bashfully. “I took it because it smells like you.”

Kiyoomi had found it hard to be annoyed. Even when the scent of his laundry detergent had faded when you’d given it back, and the smell of your body wash replaced it.

He can smell it as he stands, surveying himself. It’s nice.

Secondly, there’s his gym bag. He slings it over his shoulder as his eyes fall to the zipper, on which is attached a Sanrio keychain.

“Bad Batdz-Maru,” you’d called it.

Kiyoomi personally doesn’t see any resemblance, but you’d insisted that it looks just like him.

He remembers the way his cold, dead heart fluttered when you’d presented it to him, and showed him your own Sanrio keychain, attached to your favourite bag. He thinks of the way you’d beamed as he moved to attach it to his own gym bag. It hadn’t been taken off ever since.

Thirdly, there’s his hair. Sakusa Kiyoomi hates, hates when people touch his hair. It’s too intimate, and it’s frankly incredibly unhygienic. He washes it every day and lives in fear of leaning against walls, or having someone touch his head and getting outside germs all over his luscious curls. Frankly, if he didn’t care as much about his appearance, he would have shaved it all off long ago. Easier for scalp care too.

Yet, when you hold him at night, he finds his eyes fluttering closed in satisfaction as your fingers tangle into it, running them through gently as you whisper about your day, and tell him you love him. He lets you wash it for him in the shower, and doesn’t do a second wash after you’ve left, because he trusts that it’s clean enough. He trusts that you’ve been careful.

When you suggested he cut his hair a slightly different way than his usual style, he didn’t snap at you. He listened, and he felt himself bristle with pride as you gushed over it.

And then, there’s your arms, sneaking around his waist, as your chin comes to rest on his shoulder, clutching at the fabric of his sweatshirt, leaning on the opposite side of his gym bag, cheek brushing against his hair.

“You’re going to be late,” you murmur. Kiyoomi shivers at the feeling of your breath against his neck.

“You’re the one holding me hostage here,” he deadpans.

Your arms tighten around his waist. “Maybe I don’t want you to go to practice.”

He huffs in response. He glances to the side to look at the sliver of your face he can see in his peripheral vision. It’s not enough, and so he turns his gaze back to the mirror, and lets his eyes rake over the image reflected at him.

Drinking in the sight of your face, the way your arms join at his stomach, the way you nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder, he feels warm.

“What were you staring at yourself so hard for just now?” Your question breaks his trance.

“Just thinking.” His answer is short, blunt and entirely vague all at once, and it’s so incredibly Sakusa. You hum.

“You should go to practice now. Atsumu will never let you live it down if you’re late even once.”

Kiyoomi nods. He watches in the mirror as your grip on him loosens, and you lean back.

“I love you,” he says. It’s probably the closest he can get to the phenomenon of blurting something out.

You smile at him. “I know. I love you too.”

Sakusa Kiyoomi feels something in his chest swell, and thinks he finally understands what love is.

— Atsumu & Sakusa Layouts