Miyabr0 - Mar !

haikyuu headers ˃̵ᴗ˂̵  

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.

( :̲̅:̲̅:̲̅[̲̅:♡:]̲̅:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅) messy layouts !? 🗯️ like or reblog if u save.

cw: fluff, reader is sick, and hates being taken care of, but toji will not allow it, domesticity, established relationship, divorced dad!toji is the perfect caretaker :3. masterlist. wc: 1.4k.

divorced dad!toji is indisputably good at taking care of you when you’re sick.

it only makes sense—you learn a thing or two about caring for others once kids come into the picture, and he’s been doing it alone for most of their lives, so by the time the second flu season came around (when he knew he’d have whiney, mopey children to look after), he was an official expert concerning caring for others when they’re ill. and sure, you’re not his kid, but why are you so different?

“it’s just a cold,” you croak, tossing off the blankets bundled around your body as you wobble to your feet, “not the plague.”

he seizes you in his grip when you stumble forward, your glazed eyes slow to blink. the room is spinning. it’s tilting, too—back and forth, over and over until your head is dizzy and the only thing you can think about is collapsing back on the couch. where you belong, toji had scolded, wrapping you in a soft throw and easing you back onto the cushion.

the last thing you had expected of him was to be a fussy mother hen, quirking his brows at you each time you insisted you were fine. that look shut you up, your lips sealing and knees weak with the urge to appease the difficult man that your partner had morphed into at the first sign of a sore throat.

it had started as something bearable and easy enough to repay: he ran all your baths and lulled you to sleep every night with blunt nails on your scalp and cooked you hot meals and kept you cozy.

each morning, he’ll discretely crack open the window and its blinds, ensuring some sun on your skin and air in your lungs. it was still more than you’d asked for, but you couldn’t refuse him. besides, a little pampering didn’t hurt.

but that was before you’d stared too long in the depth of his eyes and seen what was buried under the mossy gravel in them.

love—enough of it for the both of you. enough whispered adoration to survive the drought from your end, where you seem more inclined to wither away in your illness than smile at the consideration he’s been offering you.

he’s been given little more than grumbles these past few days when he stops to coo at you. does that matter to him? it doesn’t seem like it—if his cooing and grinning are any indication when you huff at him—and that frightens you.

what does it mean to be held without limits—to be unraveled and split open, then cherished unconditionally? devoured by it to the bone?

it means being caught by gentle palms and a pot of soup bubbling on the stove.

unstable in the warm embrace of his biceps, you almost bite your tongue and throw him a pout and lay back down—almost sink into his arms and let him cradle you like the baby he insists you are, his cold hands soothing on your feverish face. as oppressive as he is, he’s hard to resist (smile, lips, eyes and the wrinkles by them) and you almost don’t.

almost.

he isn’t your father (as much as he’ll act like it for the time being) and you aren’t his baby (as much as he’ll debate that), and the last thing you want to be is helpless.

he has a life—kids, work, hobbies—and the free time he does have shouldn’t be wasted on pacing around at your every beck and call, his green eyes alight with concern at your mere sniffles.

the profound tenderness in toji’s gaze is a heavy burden on your throat and ribs, prickly like a cough and gaping like a wound. it’s been days of this—of his kisses on your sweaty forehead and his hands cupping hot mugs of tea and his love engraved in every movement, touch, breath.

being taken care of feels funny; foreign, like another language. it feels strange.

it feels perfect.

“fever,” he mumbles with a hand on your cheek, the other rubbing circles on the small of your back. “real bad one, too. dammit.”

he rummages through your blank stare for a moment and finds what he’s looking for there, his lips cold and sure on your own, thumb stroking your cheek.

he keeps doing this—kissing you and keeping you near, always a tug away despite how groggy and gross you are. it isn’t that he doesn’t know you can get him sick—it’s that he doesn’t have it in him to care. isn’t that perfect?

the sun is in half-bloom; honeyed, delicate, and encircling the crown of his head and showing him for what he really is. it dances at his fingertips as they brush your jaw, on a mission to crumble your resolve and the thickness of your skull as if to peer inside, like a shivering animal seeking refuge in a frozen carcass.

“i can”—you push out of his grasp, wobbly like a fawn—”take care of myself.”

his smile is fond. he knows you.

“i know.” his hands find their way back to you (they always do), wandering, loving and covered in the intimacy of sunlight through blinds and everything he doesn’t say—and everything he does. “but i want to take care of you. you still hungry?”

the soup is at a rapid boil on the stovetop, wafting steam and smelling of bay leaves and parsley. it makes your stomach curdle. are you going to feed it to me, too? you nearly bite, but it wouldn’t be worth it.

if there’s one thing you’ve learned since you came down with a cold, it’s that he seemingly can’t be hurt by your words, especially in your sorry state. like a hissing kitten showing its fangs.

when your stomach grumbles, he decides for you, ruffling your hair and moving to mix the soup, and you scoff, following close behind with a sway to your step.

he hums absentmindedly while he stirs, clicking off the stove and pulling a bowl from the cupboard. the soup is runny with broth and thick with vegetables and noodles, hearty and homemade and your favorite.

there’s something content about him as he wades through domesticity, an ever present softness to his features while he’s in your company. he beams at you like you’re something to care for—a garden worth tending to, full of weeds and potential.

is there a moment in a relationship when menial, tedious tasks become something you do with love? you slump into the counter, eyeing him while he whistles and pours out your soup, taking a taste for himself and sighing.

a lurch rattles your heart in your ribcage. what wouldn’t you do for him? he grabs the bowl and pulls you back to the couch, letting you sit before handing you the soup. he drags the blankets you’d tossed away from the floor and fluffs them around you, placing his cool hand on your neck. drowning—that’s what this is.

“i can take care of myself,” you repeat, this time, a sharp snap, a white-knuckled grip on the bowl, and you brace for the impact of toji’s response, for the dip to ease on the couch as he walks away from your hunched, cagey form. you wait for him to run and—

“i know,” he reminds, tilting your face toward his own. the sun is doing that thing again—where it hugs him and strips him down until the soft, delicate underbelly of his intentions is revealed. it’s hard to agree—it’s impossible to refuse. “i told you i want to—”

“but i’ll get you sick—”

“and if i get sick, you can take care of me like i took care of you.” he steals your palm and kisses the heart of it, watching you as he does it. “but for now, let me do this.”

let me do this—it’s the only thing he’ll ask of you. your nails smooth over the stubble on his cheek when he nuzzles into it. you’re sick, and he’ll take care of you or die trying. somehow, you’d managed to weasle your way into that group of people whom he regards with nothing but infatuation—that group he’ll make soup for and listen to them groan and whine while he does it.

the evening is golden and beating with a heart of its own as it regresses into the night. amber sunshine reflects off of worn, endlessly padded on wooden floors and the messy coffee table and black television screen.

it glints off a cup of day-old tea and the spoon in your soup.

is it ever worth it to let your flesh gape under the fingers of a strange hand? to let them make you bleed should they want you to?

he wraps you in that blanket again, and you sink into the couch.

yes, you think, yes.

THE ALL STAR PROJECT — ༉‧₊˚.

ft. kuroo tetsuro !

꒰ SYNOPSIS ꒱ : a slice of life series that follows you and kuroo’s relationship as he navigates through the stress and planning of the all stars project.

꒰ CONTENTS ꒱ : angst, fluff, smut. all pieces will circulate around the stress & growth that kuroo undergoes during this time and your role throughout it all. can be read as standalone or a series.

꒰ MASTERLIST ꒱

⟢ here’s to you — ꒰ nsfw ꒱ kuroo lands the all star project and the two of you go out celebrating. but the excitement buzzing in the air is almost too much for kuroo, especially when you look that good. — WC : 3k

⟢ MSBY business — ꒰ sfw ꒱ kuroo goes out with the guys to give them his proposal. — WC : 2.6k

⟢ late nights — ꒰ sfw ꒱ the first of many. kuroo comes home a little later from work and you can’t help but overthink.

⟢ rising tensions — ꒰ sfw ꒱ things have been getting more intense lately, kuroo constantly stuck at work while your own becomes more demanding.

⟢ needy — ꒰ nsfw ꒱ the late nights have taken over and kuroos feel a bit pent up. won’t you help him out?

⟢ all my loving — ꒰ sfw ꒱ kuroo leaves to go on his business trip to get a few key players for the match.

⟢ home — ꒰ nsfw ꒱ finally home after his trip, the two of you don’t waste a moment before making up for lost time.

⟢ rushed kisses — ꒰ sfw ꒱ the mornings seem to be the only times you get to see kuroo and even that feels fleeting.

⟢ love me tender — ꒰ sfw , angst ꒱ it all comes to a point.

⟢ unfinished business — ꒰ nsfw ꒱ kuroos agreed to do some of his overtime at his home office, but you have needs that only he can take care of. surely he can take a break …

⟢ introspection — ꒰ sfw ꒱ kuroo can’t sleep and instead stays up, reflecting on your relationship.

⟢ rest and recovery — ꒰ sfw ꒱ as the end of the project nears, kuroo can start to feel how much of toll this has taken on him.

⟢ the visit — ꒰ sfw ꒱ sometimes all you need is to surround yourself with your loved ones to feel whole again.

⟢ welcome to brazil — ꒰ nsfw ꒱ last thing on the list is to get hinata shoyo from brazil, and kuroo insists you join him.

⟢ the match — ꒰ sfw ꒱ the day is here and everyone is very excited. but kuroo has a few tricks up his sleeve that he plans on showing you. are you ready?

reminder that 30 isn’t old, it’s very normal to not accomplish everything in your 20s, and that it is never too late to learn that thing you’ve always wanted to learn. you’re always growing. that’s a good thing. 

satoru can't sleep without having his hands on you. he needs to be touching you in some way, he needs to. one of his favourite things to do is to just slip his hands under your shirt as he's snuggled up against your back, and to pull you flush to his chest so there isn't a single inch between you.

he buries his face in the crook of your neck, your hair, and breathes you in as he melts into you, the exhaustion finally taking over. his eyes grow heavy at the feel of your steady heartbeat, your own breathing, and he realizes that nothing has ever felt more right.

his thighs press against yours as he curls himself around you, a small, happy smile playing on his lips when in your slumber, you try to wiggle yourself deeper into him in return. he can imagine the little pout on your face, your scrunched brows – his baby.

his big arms tighten around your middle and he gives you a squeeze, his silent way of telling you that he's there and that he'll never leave.

warmth spreads all over his body when your hands find his under your shirt and you give him a little squeeze back. he knows you're alseep. but you're still looking for him, still searching for him in the darkness. still holding him.

still loving him, even when you're out like a light.

he sows his devotion into your skin with the lightest kiss right below your ear before letting his eyes fall shut. you're safe and sound, loved and cherished – and that's all he needs to know. so, he welcomes sleep with a tired smile, his hand in yours as you protect him from the dreams that desire to torment him. he, too, is safe and sound, loved and cherished – in the arms of his one and only. his everything.

⌗ ₍ ˆ｡ꞈ｡̂₎ฅ 💬 :: 𝗵𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗈, 𝗍𝗁𝗲𝗿𝖾!! ✧ look some toge inumaki icons and gifs for you! © fanarts by @avocath0 on twt and insta.

. : 🗯️ ⌗ favorite or reblog if you like it/use it, enjoy!! (⁠ʃ⁠ƪ⁠＾⁠3⁠＾⁠）