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katgrye · 1 year

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“What is it, darling? What’s the matter?”

The overly saccharine inflection of your Mommy's voice pierces right through your core. It causes an excited flutter to spark in your lower stomach, your inner muscles tightening. You pull against your restraints, struggling to move even an inch.

Your Mommy leans closer, her breath wafting lightly against your temple. The pressure of a kiss against your heated skin makes you tremble.

“You look so cute like this, you know that?” Your Mommy whispers, her eyes traveling over your bent form, savoring the tension in your body.

You attempt to close your thighs, but it is useless. The spreader bar you are fastened to is relentless and unyielding. The cuffs rattle but otherwise do not move when you flex your bound wrists which are attached to the metal rod near your ankles. Your shins and knees scrape over the ground. You groan.

“My sweet, desperate girl.” Your Mommy's hand caresses your upturned butt, pink cotton panties the only garment protecting your modesty. A dark, wet spot stains the crotch. “All spread out before Mommy and squirming against her bonds because she’s not allowed to use the bathroom.”

Trying once again to get into a more comfortable position, you accept that it is a futile endeavor. You are locked in place. You give up and relax your shoulders, pressing your hot cheek against the cool floorboards. “Please, Mommy,” you whisper.

“What, darling?”

“I’m so full.”

“And it’s making you so hot and bothered, isn’t it?” Your Mommy comments, dismissing your fussing. “Mommy forcing you to wet yourself is turning your panties all dirty with your filthy juices. Yes, I can see how soaked they are. My nasty, little pee slut. You’re soiling your underwear because Mommy wants you to make a mess all over yourself and her beautiful, shiny hardwood floor.”

Your ears flush red.

Your Mommy cradles your chin, tilting your face to get a better look at you. “What a pretty blush. Say, is my little whore embarrassed to admit that she loves to pee herself in such an obscene manner? Dressed only in her panties and presenting her bottom like she’s in heat.”

Your Mommy brushes unruly strands of hair out of your eyes.

“Mommy.” Your clit throbs, and you can feel a new gush of arousal dripping from your hole. The strain on your stretched bladder is already so immense, and you can't do a thing to change your position to relieve the stress somewhat. In fact, you can't move at all, and you know that even if you could, your Mommy wouldn’t let you. Your Mommy wants you in this humiliating position, and that is where you stay.

“Admit it.”

“But Mommy...”

“Say it, darling.”

“I- I-...,” you stutter, chest feeling hot. “I like to be embarrassed and forced to pee myself while others watch. It makes my pussy tingle and my button all hard!”

“Yes, darling,” your Mommy soothes, trailing two fingers down your clothed pussy, its outline deliciously visible through the ruined material. You shudder lightly at the sudden contact. “Your drooling princess parts tell me all I need to know.”

“Everything’s so fuzzy.”

“And that makes it so exquisite, my precious thing. Mommy’s cunt feels so very happy seeing you in such a disheveled state.” Brushing the pads of her fingers over your covered clit, your Mommy circles over the straining pearl.

You moan. Your nipples harden into peaks, your tits smashed between you and the ground.

“Tell Mommy what you are.”

“I’m a little pee slut.”

“Yes. What else?”

“A Princess.”

“That too.” Your Mommy skims her lips over the small of your back. “But never forget,” she begins, kissing you through your underwear, “that you’re also my good girl.”

“I’m a good girl.”

“My good girl,” your Mommy growls, sinking her teeth into the firm flesh of your ass.

The sting emits a hiss from you. “I’m your good girl, Mommy!” You exclaim, shaking with desire.

“And good girls get special surprises when they’re doing what they’re told. Do you want Mommy’s special surprise?”

You nod enthusiastically.

“Use your words, babygirl.”

“I want Mommy’s special surprise!”

“And what do you have to do in order to get it?”

You pant, your core aching with arousal. Flustered, you stumble over your words. “I have to-... I have to let all my pee out for Mommy if I want Mommy’s special surprise!”

“That’s correct. Well done,” your Mommy praises, proceeding to tease your erect clit, masturbating the rigid pearl. The touch is so light and faint, however, that you desperately try to grind against your Mommy's hand to increase the friction.

“I love it when my little slut degrades herself for Mommy. You’re such a filthy little thing. Enjoying all those embarrassing things Mommy makes you do.”

Putting more pressure on your straining button, your Mommy rubs faster, coaxing gasps and whimpers from you. The thumb of her other hand slides beneath the crotch of your panties, stroking over smooth skin and tracing along bulgy folds. Slipping between them into your heat, your Mommy sweeps through your dripping slit a few times to gather your wetness.

“Feels so nice, Mommy,” you sigh.

Your Mommy smiles. Finger coated with your sticky wetness, she reaches forward, feeding you your own arousal.

“Open your mouth, Princess.”

You welcome your Mommy with a happy hum, suckling on the offered finger.

“That’s it,” your Mommy comments, pushing deeper. “Taste yourself, my sweet thing.”

Contently, you clean her finger with your tongue, swallowing your rich juices.

Suddenly and abruptly, a jolt goes through your body. Muffled by your Mommy’s hand, the panicked squeal tearing from your throat comes out merely as a whimper. Jerking at the cuffs again in reflex, you squirm in place, fighting to remain in control of your body.

You suck more frantically on your Mommy's thumb, trying to anchor yourself to hold on for just a little longer. Granting you a short reprieve to soothe yourself, your Mommy waits a few more moments before removing her digit, smearing spit all over your lips. She refocuses her attention on your pussy, swollen and accessible before her. Slipping her thumb back into your underwear to toy with your clit again, she mutters silkily, “Remember, slut. No special surprise if you don’t give Mommy what she wants.”

The burden on your bladder, the strain inside your belly, becomes unbearable. The ministration on your clit makes it so difficult to concentrate. The searing tendril inside your core coils into a single ball of pressure and heat that threatens to undo itself with just a few more strokes of your Mommy's finger.

It is just too much.

“Mommy!” You cry out. You can feel your muscles giving in and involuntarily opening. The first big droplet squeezes out. You are going to pee yourself. It is filthy. Degrading. Exhilarating. It feels so so good. “I-I'm leaking!”

“Yes, darling,” your Mommy groans excitedly, pressing more firmly into you. She gives your pulsing button a few more rubs. “Just let it come. Let go, honey.”

You shake, capitulating. “Gonna pee,” you sob. “Gonna pee.”

The warmth of urine hits your Mommy's fingers. “Such a good little slut. Tinkle for Mommy.”

Bending to your Mommy’s will and your bodily limits, you let go completely. A tremble and then a big spurt douses your Mommy's palm. The pink of your underwear darkens further, the wet spot expanding as pee soakes into the fabric. Your Mommy pulls the crotch aside, exposing you fully.

Spread open, your eager clit peaks out beneath its hood, standing proud and tall. Your yearning hole drools with arousal.

“I know there’s more, baby,” your Mommy encourages, scissoring two fingers around your stiff nub, tweaking it roughly.

Another gust bursts out. It hits your Mommy's hand again, then splashes onto the floor. It transforms into a steady flow, progressively growing in strength as the hot liquid rushes out of you.

“That’s it. You’re wetting all over Mommy’s hand. You’re making me so proud. Such a good girl.”

You let out a deep, reverberating moan. Eyes glassy, your mind is an empty, vacant space. The feeling of your shrinking bladder is overwhelming. “There is so much, Mommy,” you blubber. “There is so much coming out.”

The puddle pooling beneath you grows in size as the pee continues jetting out of your, tiny spatters getting everywhere. It is such an erotic, undignified display. Your Mommy's cunt pounds at the sight. Her precious Princess, so disgraced before her. If only other people could see you now.

Slowly but surely, your stream trickles off; a few drops running down your legs. You exhale shakily, the last weak beads dribbling out.

“I’m done, Mommy,” you announce, voice wobbly.

“Good girl.”

♡

you can read the actual story here ˚✧.

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katgrye · 1 year

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this is one of the most beautiful threads i’ve ever read, i am violently SOBBING UGH

to mend broken glass | Part 1

It’s said no one gets their soul mark until they’ve been in the same vicinity as their soulmate.

Kiyoomi begs to differ.

Here he stands in the locker room showers watching ink bloom on his body. An amalgamation of sunflowers and long stalks of rice flowers threading across his upper thigh to crawl up his hip like it’s trying to invade him.

The vibrant yellow is stark again his pale skin, dotted by faint moles, and comes to a stop just below his belly button.

Kiyoomi stares at it.

Slowly, suspended in sense of disbelief, Kiyoomi shuts the tab and grabs his towel.

The locker room is empty.

Or so he’d thought.

One of the shower curtains is slightly askew, just enough for Kiyoomi to glimpse the two boys inside. Miya Atsumu, still clad in his uniform shorts, has his mouth attached to another boy’s neck.

On his left shoulder, right before Kiyoomi’s eyes, sunflowers and rice flowers bloom to life, twining around his deltoid to invade his trapezius.

The yellow compliments his sun-kissed complexion better, Kiyoomi thinks numbly, as he takes a step back, and another, and another.

There must be a mistake, he shakes his head in denial, clinging to his towel where it sits high enough to hide the ink that mockingly states he belongs to someone.

To Miya Atsumu.

He’s foolishly thought it would be someone who understands him. But there Miya is with his hands carelessly holding onto someone else, kissing someone else. Tainting the hands meant to love Kiyoomi.

Kiyoomi makes it to the hallway in a blind daze still clad in his towel, wet slippers slapping loudly against linoleum floors. The need to escape is visceral and inexplicable, as though distance might lessen the blow.

Kiyoomi feels winded with how badly his heart is racing, chest squeezed unforgivingly around it.

He somehow makes it to his room unseen, everyone none the wiser to the grief blooming behind his ribs, and by then his hands are close to shaking.

He’s thankful Motoya is not there to witness him cuss out inanimate objects as he struggles to put on his clothes while still dripping wet.

He stands in the middle of the room still under the threat of trembling, looking around aimlessly. It might be the wetness of his hair or the full blast of the AC (most likely, it’s the image now burned in his head of watching his soul mark on the body of someone who doesn’t care) but Kiyoomi suddenly feels so cold.

Like any other teenage boy, he’s naïvely fantasised about the day he’ll meet his soulmate. Many had grand visions ranging from bold gestures to sharing intimate moments.

Kiyoomi, forever caught at the edge of isolation, one step away from being completely misunderstood by the world, has only ever wanted to see if he’ll finally find a sense of belonging. His grand vision was about mutual understanding and acceptance.

A reassurance that he is worth loving.

It’s so laughably the bare minimum, even Kiyoomi hadn’t expected for it to be a bar too high to reach.

It takes him a while to understand why he’s grappling so hard with this, his chest so tight it’s hard to breathe.

Kiyoomi is experiencing his first heartbreak.

He doesn’t bring it up to anyone.

He doesn’t talk about or acknowledge having a soul mark, choosing to hide it behind layers of clothes and noncommittal shrugs.

Kiyoomi turns his focus solely to volleyball, his true soulmate, and plays his best. He pushes himself to his breaking point, makes volleyball his own, until his name is associated with winning and he’s one of the top high school aces in the country.

He doesn’t care much for Miya Atsumu anyway. It’s not like they even know each other, and it’s not like he owes Miya anything. For all he knows, Miya might be out there hopelessly searching for him, having missed his chance.

Miya absolutely only has himself to blame.

Kiyoomi knows he’s taking it too personally, after all a lot of people go out on dates or make out in showers—Kiyoomi grits his teeth at the memory—before they’re ever assigned a soulmate. It’s apparently part of the teenage experience.

Kiyoomi just can’t forget the betrayal and dread he felt standing there to witness it in what was supposed to be one of the best moments in his life.

So Kiyoomi forgets, he tries his best to.

Life goes on.

He graduates high school, he goes to college. He even kisses a few boys to see what the fuss is about and decides it’s overhyped and a little too messy for his taste.

The anger wanes and so does the hurt, until eventually, Kiyoomi feels close to normal about it.

That, and he won’t allow Miya Atsumu to decide his future.

The Jackals are a great team, one of the best in the league, right on bar with the Adlers. He needs to make a mature, educated decision unguided by prejudices or personal feelings.

… Kiyoomi sighs, and flips a coin.

Heads, the Adlers; Tails, the Jackals.

The coin flips three times and lands in under two seconds. The whole ordeal is a little anticlimactic.

He crouches to peer at it cautiously—and sucks in a sharp breath.

Tails.

The universe points towards Miya Atsumu again.

Well, goddamn it. Kiyoomi is nothing if not stubborn.

He signs the contract with the Jackals the next day.

His new teammates are a rowdy bunch. Bokuto might as well be a five-year-old stuck in an adult’s body. Hinata is impossible to dislike or deny, radiant like a happy sunflower and in love with everyone on his team including Kiyoomi.

His captain is both mature and composed, with a wild streak off the court. Adriah and Oliver, despite giving him his space, are quick to roast their teammates in good fun.

Inunaki is a bit of a wildcard, but he seems to keep his more mischievous nature in check around Kiyoomi.

Then there’s Miya.

Kiyoomi isn’t sure what he expected, but it certainly wasn’t this. The Miya he remembers from the All Japan youth camp was loud and exuberant, ruffling feathers left and right.

He called Kageyama Tobio a goody two shoes to his face.

This Miya looks more mature in a rugged way. He’s more withdrawn, but warm to his teammates when they address him. He joins the occasional night out, but is always the first to leave.

Kiyoomi, maybe not so unexpectedly, doesn’t mind his presence.

Miya is even more polite to him than he is to everyone else. When they’re paired to stretch together, he always offers Kiyoomi a small smile and a “let me know if ya need help, Omi-kun.”

The nickname had been a little unexpected, but he’s since learned that everyone on the team has one, like a right of passage.

Bokuto is Bo-kun and Hinata is Sho-kun, and even Meian is affectionately addressed as ‘cap’ or cheekily as ‘oh captain, my captain!’

No, what’s most unexpected is that Kiyoomi doesn’t hate him at all. He searches for that elusive anger and comes up short. Instead he finds the stirrings of regrets, deeply rooted but ever-present.

It’s hard to hate someone whose eyes can look so sad when no one is looking. It’s even harder to hate someone who still finds the capacity to smile even from the depths of their own wretched misery and Kiyoomi… well. He has complicated feelings about it.

It takes him three months with the Jackals to decide it’s a little unbearable.

Miya’s sadness makes itself known in strange ways; in his occasionally self-depreciating words, in the way he gets lost staring into space and in the way he speaks so softly about his daily phone calls with his brother.

Despite everything, despite having caused the secret, one-sided rift between them, Kiyoomi’s eyes follow him curiously. As far as he’s concerned it’s because Miya is an unsolved puzzle.

If he occasionally feels the pull to do something about it… well. It’s not like Kiyoomi is heartless.

He might have been angry once upon a time that Miya turned out to be his soulmate, but they’re teammates now.

“Hey, let me drive you home,” he offers on a whim one day because Atsumu’s sullen, unfocused expression is nothing short of worrying. “You’re on my way.”

“Oh.” Atsumu says. “Are ya sure, Omi-kun? I don’t want to impose.”

Kiyoomi almost laughs because who the hell is this man and what happened to the Miya Atsumu who never apologised for anything?

He wants so viciously to know what happened, he feels ready to dissect Atsumu to his core, to peel away his layers like an onion through determined, stinging eyes.

Atsumu is silent in the car, offering soft non-verbal noises to all of Kiyoomi’s prodding questions.

And once he’s home, he has the gall to give Kiyoomi a warm smile. “Thanks, Omi-kun. Yer a good friend. I’m glad ya joined MSBY.”

No, Kiyoomi thinks, anguished.

This isn’t right.

Why does it hurt?

He doesn’t care about Miya Atsumu. He swears he doesn’t, not in the way he’s meant to, anyway.

Kiyoomi tries to keep his distance a little more afterwards, afraid of the way his heart warbles guiltily at the sight of Miya.

He sticks with his decision for a week.

Then his resolve comes crashing down irreparably.

It happens in the locker room (and hasn’t this become a horrible trend?).

Miya is usually the last one to take his shower for unknown reasons, waiting even for Kiyoomi to be done and gone.

But today Kiyoomi is running late after having had the physician insepect where a dull ache persisted in his knee.

Kiyoomi enters the showers limping just as Miya exits his, and that’s when he sees it.

That’s when the world nearly screeches to a deafening halt.

The soul mark on Atsumu’s shoulder is no longer yellow and white; it’s now a dull, un-lively grey.

Shocked, and caught off guard, Kiyoomi freezes and stares.

Miya says nothing and beyond the stiffening in his shoulders, he gives no indication that anything is amiss, shrugging on his shirt and leaving Kiyoomi with a silent nod.

Kiyoomi nearly rips his own clothes off in his haste to make sure his soul mark doesn’t mirror Miya’s flat grey. But he finds it the same lively and vibrant yellow it’s always been.

He doesn’t dare ask Miya what it means.

So he does the next best thing, curiosity driving him to corner Hinata the next day.

He’s running on barely any sleep and an inordinate amount of coffee, so he’s not exactly tactful about it.

“Hey,” he says anxiously, ignoring the caffeine-induced jitters in his fingers.

“Omi-kun! What’s up?” Hinata bounces in his spot, smiling sweetly up at Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi often feels like he doesn’t deserve his constant, unfailing kindness.

He decides to bite. “Uh. I was wondering and… Miya’s soul mark…”

Hinata’s face goes impressively blank.

Kiyoomi holds his breath.

After a moment of deliberation, and a slow look around the empty locker room, Hinata sighs and looks at Kiyoomi with pity. “You saw it?”

Kiyoomi nods, his heart now racing. “It was… grey?”

“Yeah,” Hinata nods.

“What does it mean?” Kiyoomi whispers, matching his somber tone.

“It means Atsumu-san’s soulmate didn’t want him,” Hinata divulges sadly and looks down at his feet like it personally pains him.

Kiyoomi is glad Hinata’s attention shifts away from him because he’s not sure what his expression betrays right then. His lips struggle to form words, and his heart ricochets against his ribcage. “W-what?”

“Yeah, I read about it,” Hinata goes on, blind to Kiyoomi’s unrest. “If you hurt your soulmate in a way that your soulmate considers unforgivable, your soul mark goes grey. For some people it stays that way forever. For others, if they can be forgiven by their soulmate, they get their colours back.”

“Oh,” Kiyoomi says faintly.

“It’s really sad,” Hinata carries on. “Because Atsumu-san thinks the unforgivable thing he’s done to his soulmate is just being himself. He said his soulmate probably already knows him—that they took one look at him and couldn’t accept ending up together. Since then Atsumu-san has done everything he could to change the way he is.”

No.

This isn’t right.

Kiyoomi feels it like a blow to the face, feels it like a kick to the gut. He hadn’t even considered that being a possibility…

When he sees Atsumu again that day, he can hardly look at him when the knowledge he gleaned is buzzing in his head like a tornado intent on destroying everything.

Can he even fix this?

Where does Kiyoomi begin, when he isn’t certain what exactly he did in the first place to steal the colours from Miya’s soul.

He might’ve been bitter and hurt, but it’s been 6 years and at no point had he wanted to hurt Miya back.

He thinks: I forgive you. He thinks it really hard, unsure if this is the way it works.

His eyes follow Miya’s shadow around the court and he allows himself to think: I was too harsh, I’m sorry.

He lets his eyes linger on the contours of Miya’s face, studying his withdrawn expression in the dying evening sun and thinks: You deserved a chance and I didn’t give you one, it’s my fault, I’m sorry.

He can see now, with months of quasi-friendship under his belt, that Miya didn’t deserve Kiyoomi’s reaction, not the way he’d justified it. Miya had been sixteen, hadn��t had a soul mark yet. After all, Kiyoomi had been there to witness Miya get it with his own eyes.

Miya couldn’t have known.

Battling with guilt, Kiyoomi gives up distance again.

“Why’re ya being so nice to me, Omi?” Miya asks him when for the third day in a row, Kiyoomi brings him coffee.

“It’s just coffee,” Kiyoomi mutters in embarrassment. It’s such a tragically trivial gesture in the face of the damage he unwittingly caused.

He never noticed it before but Atsumu has the warmest pair of honey eyes he’s ever seen. It aches in an obscure place in his chest thinking no one’s ever told him so before.

“I like your eyes,” he blurts, watching Miya try to take a sip of his coffee and then nearly choke.

Miya flushes, covering his mouth as he coughs. “What?”

Flustered at his own honesty, Kiyoomi looks away. “Um. I just think you have pretty eyes.”

“Oh,” Miya says, stunned. “T-thanks, Omi-kun. Don’t think anyone’s ever told me that before.”

It’s not Kiyoomi’s place to feel sad about it. Not when he caused this. Not when the universe gave him the task of appreciating and loving this man and he squandered it.

It should have been him telling Miya these things all along.

Instead he cast him aside.

His stomach churns, and his mouth opens again of its own volition. “You’re really pretty,” he says weakly, watching Miya’s—no, Atsumu’s—cheeks colour. “I like your hair, too.”

“Omi-omi, what are ya doing?” Atsumu says quietly, finally meeting his eyes. He looks reserved as always, cautious even. “Don’t ya um. Don’t ya have a soulmate?”

At Kiyoomi’s silence, Atsumu presses. “Ya shouldn’t, Omi. It’ll hurt them if ya give yer attention to someone else. Y’know… sometimes I think that’s how I lost mine.”

The air punches from his lungs. His eyes widen.

Atsumu nods. “Yeah. I think they found out I was messing around and they didn’t like it. And I can’t even tell ‘em how sorry I am because I never had the chance ta find out who they are.”

No, Kiyoomi thinks again, chest in pieces. This is wrong. “I’m so sorry.”

“I am too,” Atsumu agrees, smiling faintly, all sadness and no humour. “That’s why ya gotta be patient, Omi! Y’know… I think yer really beautiful. A lot nicer than ya let on. They’ll be so lucky to have ya.”

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi interrupts because this is unbearable and Kiyoomi can’t keep this to himself anymore. “I fucked up.”

Atsumu blinks, surprised. “Huh? What d’ya mean? Did ya… did yer soulmate also…?”

Kiyoomi sucks in a shaky breath that feels like fire. “No I… I fucked up. I passed judgement too soon. I thought… well, actually, I felt betrayed when I had no right to. And my soulmate doesn’t know, and I didn’t mean to but it snowballed and years passed and—and—hey Atsumu, would you hate me?”

Confusion wrinkles Atsumu’s brows, but his expression morphs into gentle sympathy. “What? If I were yer soulmate, ya mean? I think so, Omi-kun. I think I’d just be glad to have ya, at the end of the day.”

Oh, you poor bastard Kiyoomi thinks. He aches as he takes a step closer, grabs Atsumu’s face, and kisses him.

“Mmph—!” Atsumu emits a shocked noise and Kiyoomi releases him to study his bewildered expression. “O-omi? What are ya—?”

“I’m sorry,” Kiyoomi says again sincerely. “I want you back, please. I want to give us a proper try. I want to get to know you, the real you. I want so many things I thought I was okay with not having.”

Atsumu’s eyes are too wide, his lips wobbling. “What are ya—what…”

“I don’t know how else to fix this,” Kiyoomi says, close to tears. “But I have to tell you.”

So Kiyoomi tells him everything from the start. All about what Kiyoomi witnessed and his misplaced anger, and everything he now knows he regrets.

Meanwhile Atsumu’s face grows paler and paler; shifts from shocked, to horrified, to anguished and finally, to tearful.

“Oh,” he croaks, touching his own shoulder where his mark is. “Ya mean…”

Kiyoomi nods, tearing up too, now. “You’re supposed to be mine.”

Atsumu fists his hand in his shirt. “How could…” he stops, breaths shaking. “I was so sad, and so scared and so…”

“I’m so sorry,” Kiyoomi says again, cradling Atsumu’s blanched fist between his hands as tears dripped down his cheeks. “I didn’t know. Let me make it up to you.”

“Omi—what? No. I’m not—this isn’t your fault,” Atsumu sniffs. “I fucked up first. How can ya still want me?”

“No, no, no,” Kiyoomi denies vehemently. “You didn’t know. I let my emotions control me.”

He pulls Atsumu closer, and places his hand on Kiyoomi’s hip where his soul mark is. Where it always has been; constant and vibrant. “You were hurting so much and you still wanted me,” he whispers shakily. “It never went grey.”

“’Course I did, Omi,” Atsumu’s feeble whisper, paired with his tearful eyes, is the most beautifully haunting sight Kiyoomi has ever seen.

He kisses him again. “I’m sorry.”

“No. No, I’m sorry,” Atsumu says back, shaking his head rapidly.

Later, when they head for the showers, when Atsumu chucks off his shirt, his soul mark has regained its colours, and Kiyoomi gets to watch him sit down on a bench and bawl so hard his entire body shakes with it.

Kiyoomi can only take him in his arms and hold him as tightly as he can as he wills away all the hurt he unknowingly caused.

“I’ll fix it,” Kiyoomi promises again and again. “I swear I will, I’ll love you twice as hard.”

Which makes Atsumu cry more, but also cling onto him harder.

Kiyoomi knows it won’t be easy to undo the years of pain Atsumu lived through, but he’s determined to try. The universe handed him this human, flawed yes, but also so beautiful, and so deserving of love, and Kiyoomi is going to start doing right by him even if it’s the last thing he does.

[Part 2] [Part 3]

[Buy me a coffee]

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