are we ready for some tomfoolery?

these were his second olympics, to say you were proud would be an understatement. your tickets and front row seats were secured even before he gave you the news. that’s kiyoomi for you.

however, he had told you that this time, due to some mistakes made last time, the japanese volleyball association had ask each of the players on both, the men and women’s teams to make a brief description of his profile for marketing and promotion.

your fiancé sighs “yeah, i just… don’t really know what they want. they have my stats, my career history, what else would i write?”

“omi, your fans want little insights!” you snort, shifting in your sit, turning your body to properly face him “obviously not a bible, but small things”

“what am i? an idol?”

you kiss his forehead moles “with that face you could” he scoffs, though there’s a dust of pink in his cheeks.

“well, why don’t you google yourself?” you suggest “sometimes wikipedia or twitter have random facts you can use”

he opens a new tab on his browser, fingers sliding in his screen and reluctantly says “can’t believe i am listening to you”

“you better get used to it, it’s a lifetime agreement from now on” you chuckle, wiggling your fingers, reminding him of the diamond marquis ring you’re wearing.

he lets out a huff, a quiet laugh. the main page loads quickly and soon, he clicks the first link that pops.

“let’s see…” he begins reading. then, silence. a slow deliberate blink, and next, a frown and pouty lips.

you crease your eyebrows noticing his reaction “kiyoomi? everything alright?” you inquire, and you can’t help but looking down to his screen.

and so, you see it.

Sakusa Kiyoomi is a japanese professional volleyball player and best known as [name last name]’s fiancé. He currently plays as an Outside Hitter for the MSBY Black Jackals team and…

a flicker of surprise crosses your face before pressing your lips together. you want to let out a surprise laugh.

but kiyoomi?

“why would they even do that?” his tone is not what you expected. it’s… confused. not angry, not surprised, just pure confusion.

your shoulders shake with silent laughter “oh god”

kiyoomi doesn’t react to your evident mockery, instead he’s looking like the wikipedia page personally offended him and his entire lineage.

“baby” you manage to voice in between laughter “come on it’s not that serious, wikipedia pages can be altered by everyone, it’s a risk”

it’s like your talking to a wall. you knew your boyfriend could be very dramatic in his reactions, but also, your face softened when you remember how volleyball was actually his passion. it’s must have been quite confusing people changing his wiki biography to sort of, link him directly to romance.

“nah, this will not stay that way!” he scoffs out, not mad, but incredulous. he is already clicking the edit button and as you take a sip of your forgotten coffee, you roll your eyes.

you scoot closer as he lets out a ‘hmph!’ an approving sound paired with a satisfied nod.

Sakusa Kiyoomi, best known as [name last name]’s fiancé, is a japanese professional volleyball player. He currently plays…

you choke on your coffee “kiyoomi, no!”

“kiyoomi, yes” he disagrees, as if it was the most normal thing in the world puttin ‘fiancé’ before his actual profession.

he shots you a look, a smirk appearing if you squint “i will not be discouraged from my true self”

“omi, your true self wouldn’t pay our bills if that was the career you chose”

“the order of things in sentences matter” he comments flatly, completely ignoring your previous statement “now it’s accurate”

“you just downgraded your own career”

“i reordered it, there’s a difference” he corrected, moving his index finger from left to right.

you catch it, eyes sparkling “a reorder that now will have the entire internet talking”

“haven’t we already master that issue?”

“you’re impossible”

you watch the page reupload, now the edit segment bright and clear, next to his professional headshot. “and yours” he claims.

you laugh pressing a soft kiss on his lips “always mine”

he smiles against your lips and pulls back just slightly “i guess i know what to put on my olympic bio”

“kiyoomi, no”

he catches your lips again, mumbling “kiyoomi yes.”

“why would you care so much about that?” you chuckle, cupping his face, completely ignoring the café audience’s soft gazes directed your way.

“because i chose to be your husband”

you go quiet for a moment.

“my career… i like to think it just happened, you didn’t. you found me and i chose you” he brushes a strand of hair off your face “and decisions should be in wiki pages”

you lean in and kiss him a third time, slowly this time pouring all your love and attention to your soon to be husband as his hand finds the nape of your neck. when you rest your forehead against his, you softly speak.

“if you put that in your Olympics bio you will, in fact, sleep on the couch until you come back from the games. so…”

he sighs defeated, repeating your words like a scolded kid “kiyoomi no”

you kiss his forehead “kiyoomi no, indeed”.

Your throat tightens as you glance, puzzled, around the room. It’s empty, aside from Mitsuki's chair, your bed, and the iv attached to the tender inside of your elbow. No friends, no parents, not a begrunting boyfriend… just Mitsuki and a hospital room you don’t recognise.

In a swift movement, she clasps your hand inside her palms. “I’m sorry sweetheart. Your parents couldn’t make it to Japan yet.” she says and you blink at her. 

The lump in your throat starts bubbling in pain. Your lip quivers next, eyes watering at the fraction of a second. The moment you try to move, the dull ache in your ribs reminds you why you’re here in the first place.

“I’m so sorry,”

You try to speak, but find your lips feel like they’re glued together. It hurts when you pry them and it hurts even worse when you try to speak.

“Ka–”

Panic ensues at the sound of your voice. How long have you been here? You don’t even recognise your own voice. Where you could hear softness, you now hear raspiness, broken sounds that can’t form a word.

But still, you want to ask—The last thing you remember is watching Katsuki fall to the ground with his chest torn, you lurching towards Shigaraki with all you had and white hot pain everywhere in your body.

“Kats–Kaah–”

Mitsuki’s eyes flick to your abdomen, the monitors attached to you, then back to you again. Softer, barely “Katsuki? He usually doesn’t leave until he passes out sitting up. Brat’s got stubbornness.”

“Miss—Mitsuk—Mitsuki, my m—mom,”

The sound rips out of you like gravel dragged across concrete, and Mitsuki is already moving— one hand on your shoulder, the other hovering like she wants to fix something she can’t reach.

“Hey, hey— don’t force it,” she says, voice dropping into that hushed, frantic register only mothers have when something hurts their kid. Or a kid who might as well be theirs.

She reaches for the small cup of ice chips on the tray next to your bed, scooping a few with the spoon and pressing it gently to your lips. “Just this, sweetheart. Slow.”

The cold hits your tongue, sharp and clean, and for a moment it’s the only thing keeping you together. Everything else feels like it’s drifting —your memories, your breath, the distant echo of Nejire screaming your name before everything went dark.

Mitsuki watches you swallow, her jaw tight, eyes shining with things she will never say out loud.

“You’ve been out for a few months,” she adds quietly. “Masaru is trying to get ahold of your folks, along with the doctors but… you know how time zones are. And… circumstances.” Her mouth twists like she hates how uptight she’s being. Like practiced softness physically pains her. “We didn’t want you waking up alone.”

Your chest pulls tight. It shouldn’t mean as much as it does. But it does.

Your fingers clutch weakly at the blanket. “K–” The name falls apart in your throat again.

Mitsuki seems to understand anyway.

“He’s alive,” she says firmly. “He’s at school and he’s healing, but he’s alive. Stubborn little shit tried to pretend he wasn’t feeling okay just so they wouldn’t kick him out of your room last night. He’s been visiting everyday.”

Your breath shudders. Relief hits so hard you feel dizzy.

“And— just so you don’t freak out later—” Mitsuki adds, rubbing your hand with her thumb in a rare, almost guilty motion, “he might start crying a lot.”

That makes you freeze.

Mitsuki sighs, leaning back in the chair like the confession took something out of her. She stops herself from telling you the doctors had announced to everyone that you would probably not make it, not too long ago.

“Don’t tell him I said that. He’ll yell at both of us.”

She glances toward the door, then back at you. “He’s gonna be pissed you woke up without him here. Believe me. But, we’ll tell him after classes are over. You okay with that sweetheart?”

You nod, or at least you think you do. Your head barely moves, just a slow dip that makes the world tilt a little. You’re not sure if you’re agreeing or just reacting to the tenderness in her voice — something you’ve never quite heard directed at you like this, so softly, before.

“Good,” Mitsuki murmurs, like she was bracing for you to argue. Her hand squeezes yours gently, thumb brushing over the back in a slow, steady rhythm that feels like it’s meant to keep you anchored.

You swallow again, rough and painful. The word “classes” sticks in your mind like a burr. Katsuki is… at school. The school is alright if that’s the case, and maybe, your friends are too, your teachers, All Might. There’s so much you want to ask, but such little strength inside you.

Mitsuki watches your face carefully. “He wanted to skip,” she says, rolling her eyes as if the memory frustrates her. “Said he didn’t care about his damn education if you were—” She cuts herself off. Too sharp. Too honest.

Another small, guilty sigh. “Anyway. We made him go. The teachers insisted. Kid was a wreck. No sleep, no food… I swear he almost blew up a vending machine because someone told him to ‘keep his chin up.’”

Despite the pain, a weak ghost of a laugh bubbles in your chest — a tiny sound, but it pulls at your ribs like something tearing.

Mitsuki immediately notices. “Easy. Easy, sweetheart,” she whispers, leaning in, steadying you with a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t have to talk yet. You don’t have to do anything yet.”

But you want to. You want to ask what happened, how bad it was, whether Katsuki’s really okay or just putting on a front because that’s what he does when the world is falling apart around him.

You try again, voice scraping out of you like rough smoke: “H–how…?”

She shakes her head fast, stopping you before the sentence can hurt you more. “Later. When Katsuki’s here.” Her voice softens, unbearably so. “He deserves to hear you first.”

Your breath stutters, the weight of that landing somewhere deep and tender.

Mitsuki reaches up and brushes a loose strand of hair from your forehead. The gesture is so gentle it barely feels real.

“We’ll tell him after school,” she repeats softly. “He’ll come running the second he hears. And he’s gonna be loud, and dramatic, and probably hug you too hard. But he needs this. He needs you.”

Her voice cracks just a little on that last word. Barely noticeable, unless you’re looking for it. And you are.

“Rest now,” she adds, settling back into her chair but not letting go of your hand.

______

Later that evening, the hallway outside your room is louder than it should be for a hospital — muffled bickering, restless footsteps, a sharp whisper that’s definitely Kaminari complaining he’s been standing too long. With your eyes barely opening from your earlier slumber, you can hear Kirishima gently shushing him. Someone — Mina, probably — keeps insisting they should “just peek in real quick because what if she’s awake?” 

You also catch the hissed argument that’s delivered as a response “Dude, stop— she might be asleep again!” and “I’m not stopping, you stop!”

Their silhouettes shuffle under the doorframe’s faint light, shadows overlapping like they can’t decide whether to crowd closer or bolt down the hall.

You blink slow, the world tilting for a moment, and the ceiling swims into focus. Your throat is dry. Your body feels like it’s made of bandages and cement. But your brain? Your brain catches up just enough to realize:

They’re here. All of them. A soft exhale escapes you— barely a sound, but apparently loud enough for the enhanced senses of teens with superpowers.

Mitsuki nods her head towards the door and chuckles. “They can’t wait to see you,” The commotion outside stops all at once, like someone hit pause. Then—

“Did you hear that?!”

“Kaminari, shut up—”

“Wait, wait— I think she’s awake—”

“Katsuki’s gonna kill us if we go in—”

“Oh my god. Just. Check!”

Kirishima’s voice breaks through the chaos; firm, gentle, leader-of-the-chaos-crew mode “Guys. Calm down. We’ll knock first.”

There’s a beat of silence and then three different knuckles rap on the door at the exact same time. Your chest shakes with a tiny, pained laugh that’s followed by a thunderous cough. The whispering begins again immediately.

“Bro— I said one person should knock!”

“That wasn’t me!”

“You literally have the loudest knuckles, Sero!”

“How do you even know that—”

Someone sighs. Hard. You recognise the sound as Izuku, doing that tight little anxious inhale before he tries to be responsible.

“Should I… um… should I ask Recovery Girl if we’re allowed—?”

“No, if Kacchan shows up and we’re gone, he’ll blast us into space—”

“Oh he’s definitely gonna show up—”

You try shifting, just enough to look toward the door. A small movement, but enough to tug at something deep in your gut. You wince, which apparently sends the hallway into frenzy.

And before they manage to organize themselves, one brave soul reaches for the door handle.

Mina’s whisper—undoubtedly its hers—cuts through the noise “Okay, on three—”

You have exactly one second to process that, and tighten your hold around Mitsuki’s hand as hard as you can, before a hand curls around the knob and another, much sharper voice snaps from down the hall.

“Touch that door and I swear to god you’re dead.”

Every single voice outside vanishes. You don’t even need to see him to know who said it. Katsuki.

Last time you laid eyes on him he was in a puddle of his own blood, chest torn, right arm destroyed. The thought alone is making your jaw tremble.

Your stomach flips; your eyes do that stupid thing where they well up so much that they sting and your heart kicks into a frantic rhythm, strong enough that the monitor beside you responds with a panicked series of beeps.

For a fragment, you come to believe this is a dream. An afterlife experience. Some sick and twisted purgatory. Some strange, cruel limbo replaying the moments before everything went black.

Mitsuki reacts before you do. She leans in, her free hand hovering near your shoulder as if she can physically hold you together while the monitor continues its frantic beeping. “Easy,” she murmurs, voice low. “Breathe, sweetheart. You’re fine.”

Her thumb presses gently into the back of your hand, grounding you.

The footsteps outside slow, the scrape of rubber soles against the linoleum deliberate now, controlled in that way Katsuki walks when he’s trying to stop himself from running. There’s a muffled scuffle—someone tripping over someone else during their attempt to scramble out of his path.

The doorknob turns. Not violently, but slowly. Carefully. Like he’s afraid the world behind it might shatter if he enters too fast.

The door opens halfway, and Katsuki steps inside.

He’s out of breath, but it's the kind where he’s trying very hard not to show. His hair, shorter than you remember, is a mess from whatever fight he had with the wind on the way here. His uniform shirt is wrinkled, sleeves pushed up his forearms in uneven rolls, and his tie is gone entirely.

But none of that is what gets you. It’s the way he stops actually. Abruptly.

And not because Mitsuki is in his way or because your friends are whisper-squabbling just outside the door. He stops because he sees you.

Awake.

His eyes widen first, a stunned flicker of disbelief that washes over his face before he can hide it. Then everything in him seems to go slack for a moment — shoulders dropping, jaw unclenching, the tension dissolving so suddenly it looks like his legs might give out.

“No fucking way,” he breathes, so quietly it barely reaches the room. His gaze flits across your face, ignoring his mother’s plea for decent language.

Whatever strength he had walked in with drains from his posture all at once. His breath catches on a sound too close to a sob, and he stumbles two steps forward before genuinely stopping himself, like he’s afraid he might do the wrong thing and make you hurt again.

The monitor chooses that exact moment to spike again, a sharp, accusing beep-beep-beep echoing through the walls.

Katsuki flinches, just barely. His eyes flash to the machine, then to your hand clutching Mitsuki’s, then back up to you. Something like guilt — real, aching guilt — tightens his expression. His head jerks toward yours and in the same instant he looks completely gutted—like the beeping is some damning confirmation that you’re in pain because of him, that all those months of him replaying the footage of you almost getting torn apart in half, ignoring every warning from people who told him not to, all led to this moment right here: you trembling, terrified, trying to hold yourself together.

He tries to say your name, but it dissolves into a choked gasp. Tears are already spilling, hot and unguarded, not even wiped away. Katsuki Bakugo—who never cries—can’t stop crying.

Instinct drags you forward. You try to sit up, to reach for him, anything to close the distance, but the muscles in your abdomen seize. A bolt of pain rips through you so sharply your vision whites out, and you collapse back into the bed with a strangled breath.

“Stay still!” Mitsuki catches your shoulder before you can tear something, her voice shaking now too. “Sweetheart, you can’t move—”

Your hand slips from hers anyway, desperate to get to him.

“Hey—” His voice cuts off, a sob and cracks, embarrassing him. He swallows hard, trying again. “Hey. Take it easy, you dummy.”

He says it softly. Too softly for it to be an insult.

Katsuki kneels swiftly beside the bed, and his scarred hand hovers over yours. 

When he finally touches your hand, it’s feather-light, trembling with the same fear and relief burning in his eyes. He doesn’t grip, doesn’t hold too tight, doesn’t let go either. He rests his palm over yours, as if he’s anchoring himself to you while afraid that even the slightest pressure might hurt you.

You notice he’s holding a flower inside his other hand. Your eyes widen at the sight and he looks down at his hand too, muttering “It’s for you. A ‘get well soon’”

“Katsu–tsuk–ki” you breathe out, shakingly.

Your fingers twitch, wanting to wrap around his hand, to pull him closer, to fix the broken edges of him the way he’s holding onto you. You try to shift, to ease closer, but your abdomen flares with pain and you freeze, groaning softly.

He freezes too, instantly still, and looks at you with wide, frantic eyes. “Hey… hey, hey, I—I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice cracking, almost pleading.

Then, slowly, he adjusts himself so he can lean against you without putting weight on your ribs. His hand over yours flexes, releases, flexes again, as if he can’t decide whether to grip or just stay connected to you.

His tears fall freely now, soaking your fingers, and the sound of him crying forces tears to come out of your eyes too.

All you can do is squeeze his hand back, as much as your pain will allow, and whisper his name again. 

He takes it, eve though his own hand aches like it’s being pierced, because the touch is not just an ember that you’re alive. It’s the undeniable fact that you’re awake.

And Katsuki is just so, so happy that this one good thing happens to him, he doesn’t even mind that the rest of the class storms inside minutes later and everyone sees him crying.

Katsuki Bakugo Masterlist

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work //

Likes and reblogs are so appreciated but if you you liked this you can let me know in the comments <3

the gym smells like varnish, sweat, and destiny wearing a cheap wig.

inarizaki after practice is a zoo that learned how to jump serve. shoes squeal. someone yells about lost tape. the echo turns everything into a rumor. to you, the whole place is grayscale soup, shadows stacking on shadows, sound doing most of the heavy lifting. people forget colorblindness doesn’t mean blurry. it just means the world decided to be dramatic and took away the highlighters.

you’re clutching your phone like it owes you money.

today is the day. the big day. the day you tell yourself in the mirror, out loud, that you’re not going to die from a confession. your heart, meanwhile, is beating like it’s trying to qualify for nationals without you.

osamu miya is the problem. the solution. the entire syllabus.

you’ve rehearsed. you’ve practiced in the shower. you’ve practiced while walking. you’ve practiced while eating rice and nearly choked because your brain went, what if he laughs. what if he says thanks like a customer. what if he thinks you’re joking. what if—

no. no spiraling. that’s why you’re here. atsumu will help. atsumu always has opinions, even when nobody asked. especially then.

you spot him across the court. same height, same build, same posture that says twin. hair? irrelevant. your eyes offer you two identical silhouettes and say good luck.

you jog over, heart in your throat, brain switching to emergency mode.

“atsumu,” you say, too loud, too urgent, grabbing his sleeve because if you don’t anchor yourself you might float into the ceiling. “i need help. like. now-help.”

the twin looks down at your hand, then your face. there’s a pause. a suspicious pause.

you barrel on before the universe can stop you.

“i need help confessing to osamu.”

silence drops like someone unplugged the gym.

somewhere, a volleyball thumps once and rolls away, abandoned.

the twin in front of you blinks.

once.

twice.

you don’t notice. you’re already pacing in a tight circle, words spilling like you shook a vending machine too hard. “i mean i know it’s dumb, and i know i shouldn’t ask you because you’re his brother and that’s probably illegal in some countries, but i can’t do this alone. my chest feels like there’s a marching band in it. and he’s so— he’s just— he looks at me like i’m something he already decided on, and that’s terrifying, and i keep thinking i should say something casual but then my mouth wants to say something unhinged like please marry me or please never leave, and those are not first-confession words, right?”

you finally stop and look up.

the twin’s mouth is doing something strange. not smiling. not frowning. something feral-adjacent. like a fox just realized the henhouse door is open.

“ya want advice,” he says slowly, voice softer than you expected, “on how to confess. to osamu.”

“yes,” you say, nodding hard. “please. you’re my last hope. don’t tell him i’m asking you this. i will simply pass away.”

another pause.

he lifts your hand off his sleeve very gently. like it matters. like it’s fragile. he doesn’t let go immediately. just adjusts your grip so your fingers are curled around his wrist instead, thumb brushing bone.

“ya sure about this,” he asks.

“yes.”

“real sure.”

“yes!”

“ya can’t tell twins apart today?”

you squint. “i never can. not unless you stand next to each other. you know this.”

he exhales. a laugh tries to escape and gets swallowed whole.

“alright,” he says. “i’ll help.”

relief floods you so hard your knees wobble. you squeeze his wrist without thinking. “thank you. thank you. okay. okay. what do i say. do i compliment him first? is that weird? i like his hands. is it creepy to say i like his hands. they’re just— they look like they know what they’re doing.”

his grip tightens.

“hands’re good,” he says, voice gone rough around the edges. “means ya noticed.”

“i notice everything,” you say miserably. “that’s the problem.”

he tilts his head, studying you like you’re a puzzle he’s already solved but wants to admire anyway.

“tell him the truth,” he says. “simple. honest. don’t dress it up too much. he ain’t the type that needs fireworks.”

“but i feel like fireworks,” you whisper.

something dark and pleased flickers across his expression.

“then say that,” he murmurs. “say bein’ around him makes things loud in your chest. say ya chose him. people like bein’ chosen.”

you nod, absorbing it like gospel. “okay. okay. and then what if he says he doesn’t feel the same.”

the gym feels colder.

he steps closer. your toes nearly touch. he smells like soap and sweat and something warm and grounding. food, maybe. comfort.

“he won’t,” he says, too sure.

you laugh weakly. “you don’t know that.”

he leans down so his forehead almost touches yours.

“i do,” he says. “trust me.”

your heart stutters. you swallow.

“okay,” you breathe. “okay. i’m gonna do it. i’ll go find him.”

he doesn’t move.

you look up. “uh. are you gonna—”

“no need,” he says. “he’s right here.”

the words take a second to land. they slide around your brain like marbles.

then click.

your stomach drops through the floor.

slowly, painfully, you look at his face again. really look. the curve of his mouth. the steadiness in his eyes. the way he’s holding you like he already knows where you fit.

“wait,” you say. “wait. you’re—”

“osamu,” he finishes for you, smiling now. “hey.”

the gym comes back in a rush. sound crashes in. blood roars in your ears.

you make a strangled noise that might be a scream trying to become a word.

“i— i thought you were— i’m so sorry— i didn’t—”

he chuckles, low and fond, and cups your cheek before you can combust. his thumb brushes under your eye, grounding, steady.

“it’s alright,” he says. “kinda perfect, actually.”

“i just asked you how to confess to yourself,” you whisper, mortified.

“ya did.”

“that’s the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“nah,” he says. “most romantic.”

you stare at him.

he waits. patient. like he’s been waiting a long time.

your heart decides to be brave without consulting you.

“okay,” you say, voice shaking but clear. “fine. i’ll continue.”

you take a breath so deep it feels like it scrapes your ribs.

“i like you,” you say. “i like you a lot. being around you feels like my life gets turned up. like everything’s louder and better and scarier. i think about you when i shouldn’t. i choose you even when i don’t mean to. and i’m scared, but i don’t want to be quiet about it anymore.”

the gym is silent again.

osamu’s face goes very still.

then his hands slide to your waist, firm, certain, like there was never another option.

“good,” he says softly. “i was hopin’ ya’d say that.”

you blink. “you were?”

“been hopin’,” he admits. “for a while.”

he leans in, forehead resting against yours, breath warm. “i was already yours. ya just caught up.”

your laugh comes out wet and shaky. “that’s not fair.”

“never said i played fair,” he murmurs.

he kisses you then. slow. careful. like he’s savoring something he cooked himself. the world narrows to the press of his mouth, the way his thumb traces your jaw, the way his other hand anchors you like you might drift away if he lets go.

when he pulls back, your legs feel like suggestions.

“so,” he says, eyes bright. “we’re confessin’, yeah?”

you nod, dazed. “yeah.”

“good.” he brushes his nose against yours. “i’m keepin’ ya.”

there’s something in his tone. something possessive and warm, like a blanket that also locks the door.

you should be nervous.

you just feel safe.

later, when the gym empties and the lights dim, osamu walks you out, fingers laced with yours like it’s obvious. like it’s always been this way. at the door, atsumu squints at you, then at his brother, then groans.

“seriously,” atsumu says. “i leave for five minutes.”

osamu grins and pulls you closer.

“she got the better twin,” he says.

you laugh, leaning into him, grayscale world suddenly feeling very full.

and somewhere deep in his chest, something settles, satisfied, already planning a future where you never have to tell twins apart again because you’ll always know where you belong.

n: now, do not mind that things sound a lil dark, idk what came over me to add some possessive tones in there.

samu’s taglist 1/2

@lsirria @cvntyandfasionable @the-bloopsters @nelinkythoughts @kukikoooo @sleepykeijiii @briestrom94 @averys-place @sxnnee @anzuuhoshi @evilari111 @asyaacia @rabbitcola @s1lly-bon @miilsa @yeonette @forgottensniper @katzline @michexoxo @pelicanpizza @han0vyc @george-russell-defender @meikstv @depressinglyobsessed @keiob @ghostwifeyy @bigdaddyyaoii @perpetuallydone @mptality @qardasngan @crystal-lilac @eri0-0 @fiannee @methiart @wensurr @alyriaschoenheit @suha-reads @sillylule @horanghaepaws @imjustanobody2024 @hibernatinghamster @olliesoxenfree @mitzukita @griffincorn @poeticsorcery @snowstormsandavalanches @starzlytoetsie @ceramic-raven @nekoffie @littlemissfix-itfic

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners !