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pairing: sakusa kiyoomi x f! reader  genre: hurt to comfort wc: 3.5k  warnings: none

a/n: written for the @heatwave2021​ gift exchange, dedicated to the lovely yvonne @eightonenine​ 

Kiyoomi’s concept of home doesn’t include you. 

Growing up, home always meant nothing more than four walls and a roof over his head, meals to be eaten alone, out of reheated tupperware boxes. He’d never thought too much of it because that was just the way things were - his parents working late into their nights to further their careers, his much older siblings busy with their respective pursuits, too preoccupied to make much time for their quiet younger brother. He doesn’t have friends to invite over either. He’s too reticent, dark eyes a little too watchful and wary, driving away any potential playmates who he might’ve built friendships with. Motoya pops over once in a while, but he’s always been outgoing and popular so he can’t spend all his time with his moody cousin. 

So it’s only natural that he’s unaccustomed to having someone constantly in his space when you move in with him, unused to the rustle of movement that comes with having someone else share his abode. Little things start to gnaw at him, eating away at his patience - the way you leave the dining chairs crooked, the way you leave your bag on the couch instead of the cupboard where it belongs. He starts to resent having to force himself to respond with affection which you always seem to freely give when he just wants to shower and hide in bed after a bad day at practice. 

But emotional awareness isn’t exactly his strength, so he allows all this frustration to fester into poisonous words that explode out of his mouth when he returns to the apartment you share and you ask for a hug because you had a bad day at work. He doesn’t hear that a client yelled at you and your boss told you to buck up and your team was short staffed because there’s a vile buzzing in his ear that’s growing louder and louder and it’s driving him wild - 

“Why do you always have to be so clingy”, he snarls, slapping your hands away, uncaring that you’ve taken a step backwards, clearly stung. 

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