Yea Uzui Nation Lets Go

📬 🍜 キスさせて . . (>_★) [REQ]

crawling back to you

pairing: sukuna x reader

genre: angst

inspired by the song do i wanna know? live at bbc by hozier

it’s been three months.

three months since the door slammed shut behind you, leaving nothing but silence in your wake. three months since you walked away, and sukuna didn’t chase after you—not that night, not the morning after, not the weeks that followed. he told himself it was for the best. that this was what you wanted.

but now, as he sits alone in his dimly lit apartment, the weight of your absence pressing down on him like a vice, he wonders if he made the biggest mistake of his life.

the buzzing of his tattoo machine is the only thing that keeps him sane most days. his clients come and go, faces he barely registers as he inks intricate designs onto their skin. it’s the only time his mind goes quiet—when his hands are busy, the hum of the machine drowning out the thoughts he doesn’t want to face.

but the second the machine powers down, reality creeps back in. and reality is cruel.

because no matter how hard he tries, you’re everywhere.

he sees you in the smallest things—things that shouldn’t remind him of you, but somehow always do. In the flicker of a neon sign outside the shop that hums the same soft glow as the fairy lights you used to hang in your room. in the faint scent of vanilla and jasmine that lingers when someone walks past him on the street, never quite matching the way it clung to your skin. in the half-empty coffee cup sitting on the counter, lipstick smudged at the rim, and he’s reminded of lazy mornings when you’d steal sips from his mug, laughing when he grumbled but never really minded.

you’re in the song that plays softly from the radio while he works—one he never paid attention to before but now knows every word to because it was always on your playlists. in the chipped black nail polish on his coworker’s hands, a fleeting reminder of the countless nights you sat cross-legged on his couch, painting your nails and teasing him for being too still as he let you paint his, too.

but worst of all, he sees you in his reflection—tired eyes that have lost their edge, the weight of regret carving its place in the lines of his face. in the faint traces of your touch that still linger like phantom sensations along the tattoos you used to trace absentmindedly with your fingers, as if memorizing every inch of him.

and when his coworkers scroll through their phones, laughter echoing through the shop, there you are again—captured in a fleeting Instagram story from some party last weekend. grainy, imperfect, but unmistakably you. smiling, carefree, eyes crinkling in that way that always made something in his chest tighten. and god, how he hates the way it guts him, wishing—aching—that he was still the reason for that smile.

you unfollowed him. he noticed immediately.

one day, your name was gone from his notifications, your profile nowhere to be found. he tried not to care. tried to convince himself that it was just social media. but it gnawed at him. you were cutting him out piece by piece, and all he could do was watch it happen.

he lurks in the shadows, hoping one of your friends posts something—anything—that gives him a glimpse of you. It’s pathetic, he knows, but it’s the only thing he has left.

there’s a bitter irony in it all. he was the one who pushed you away first. always keeping you at arm’s length, never letting you in too close. you wanted more—deserved more—but he couldn’t give it to you. not when vulnerability felt like a weakness he couldn’t afford.

and now? now, he craves your presence like a man starved.

the shop is quieter than usual tonight. it’s late, and everyone else has left. sukuna leans back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, the faint hum of traffic outside barely audible through the thick walls. the glow from his phone screen flickers beside him, but he doesn’t touch it.

not yet.

he’s been doing this every night. sitting here, contemplating. the urge to reach out is unbearable, but something always stops him. pride, maybe. or fear.

fear that you’ve moved on. that you don’t want to hear from him. that he’s too late.

his chest tightens at the thought.

he tried to fill the void, but nothing ever worked.

not the long hours at the tattoo shop, where he threw himself into his work until his fingers ached and his mind blurred. not the mindless scrolling through social media, hoping—not that he’d ever admit it—that he might catch a glimpse of you. not the empty nights spent lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for exhaustion to drag him under.

nothing could distract him from the ache of missing you.

his friends tell him it’s time to move on. they say three months is long enough to let someone go. that there are plenty of people out there. but what do they know? they didn’t spend endless nights memorizing the shape of your smile, or the way your eyes softened when you looked at him, like he was the only person in the world. they didn’t hear the quiet affection in your voice when you whispered his name in the dead of night, your fingers tracing lazy patterns over the tattoos on his chest like you were trying to commit every line to memory.

his friends didn’t feel the weight of your absence like he did—the way it settled deep in his bones, heavy and inescapable. they didn’t know how every morning, he still reached for you instinctively, only to be met with the cold, empty space beside him. how even now, he still slept on his side of the bed, as if leaving room for you just in case.

how could he fall for someone new when he was still so busy being yours?

they didn’t see how badly he broke you when he shut you out.

the memory of your last fight is still fresh, even after all this time. you stood in the doorway, tears brimming in your eyes, asking him—begging him—to just let you in. to tell you what he wanted. and all he gave you was silence.

he thought you’d stay. you always had before. but that night, you walked away. and now, the silence is all he has left.

his fingers twitch toward his phone, but he stops himself. what’s the point? you deserve better than a half-assed apology three months too late.

but then he thinks about the what-ifs. what if you’re waiting for him to reach out? what if you’re lying in bed right now, staring at your phone, wondering why he never called?

he can’t take it anymore.

the weight of missing you presses down on his chest, suffocating and relentless, until it pushes him off his chair and out the door before he can even think twice. it’s reckless, stupid—but so is love, isn’t it?

the streets are quiet at this hour, the hum of the city softened under the cloak of night. his hands are shoved deep into his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold, but none of it matters. all he can focus on is you. the thought of you, maybe asleep, maybe curled up in bed with your phone just out of reach. maybe dreaming of something—someone—that isn’t him.

the thought twists like a knife in his gut.

he walks with purpose, even though every step is a silent war between hope and dread. what if you don’t open the door? what if you tell him to leave? what if someone else is there?

he shakes the thought away.

it’s been three months, but it feels like no time has passed at all. and yet, it feels like forever.

before he knows it, he’s standing outside your apartment building, staring up at your window. the soft glow of light seeps through the curtains, and he wonders if you’re still awake or if you’ve just fallen asleep with the lamp on, the way you used to when reading late into the night.

his heart pounds so loudly he’s sure it’ll wake the whole block, but still, he climbs the stairs. each step echoes in the silence, a quiet reminder that there’s still time to turn back. but he doesn’t. he can’t.

and suddenly, he’s there. in front of your door. it’s familiar and foreign all at once.

he doesn’t have a plan. he doesn’t even know what he’s going to say. all he knows is that the thought of another night without you is unbearable.

he raises his hand to knock but hesitates. his breath is shallow, his pulse erratic.

but then, before he can stop himself, his knuckles rap gently against the door.

seconds pass. each one heavier than the last.

then, the faint sound of footsteps. the quiet click of the lock.

the door opens, and there you are.

soft, bleary-eyed, wrapped in a blanket, and so heartbreakingly familiar that it steals the breath from his lungs.

“sukuna?” your voice is quiet, confused, and laced with something that might be disbelief.

he swallows hard, the weight of the past three months pressing down on him all at once. “i know it’s late,” he says, voice rough and barely above a whisper. “i know i shouldn’t be here. but… i couldn’t stay away.”

you blink at him, and for a moment, there’s only silence. then, softly, “why now?”

his throat tightens, and he runs a hand down his face, exhaling shakily. “because i’m tired,” he says, voice cracking under the weight of everything he’s held back. “tired of trying to forget you. tired of pretending i’m okay. i’ve tried. god, i’ve tried. but i can’t. i miss you.”

his voice cracks at the end, and he hates how raw he sounds. how vulnerable. but it’s the truth. And right now, that’s all he has left to offer.

he sees the flicker of emotion in your eyes—the conflict, the hurt, the love you’ve tried to bury—and it guts him.

“i’m sorry,” he whispers, voice thick with regret. “i’m sorry for not being enough. for not being what you deserved. i know I fucked up. i know i wasn’t always what you needed me to be.”

his hands tremble as he clenches them into fists at his sides. “but i swear… i’ll do better. i will. i promise you.”

his voice is raw now, barely more than a whisper. “just… tell me it’s not too late.”

you stare at him, eyes glossy, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and something softer. and then, finally, you step back just enough to let him in.

and for the first time in three months, sukuna breathes.

If Shoko and Gojo had noticed Geto spiralling.

Sort of a rough continuation of the previous set of drawings on what would have happened had Geto called them.

Young Toji

隣の.....？？？　（トトロパロ）　

The Heart Cracks Before it Shatters (Pt5.5) ⋆｡°✩ Bakugou Katsuki

Masterlist ୨ৎ pt1 pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5

a look into Katsuki's isolation

.⊹ °ʚ☆ɞ°.⭒₊.⊹ °ʚ☆ɞ°.⭒₊.⊹ °ʚ☆ɞ°.⭒₊.⊹ °ʚ☆ɞ°.⭒

Glitter 𐔌 𐦯 : Okay so i know i said only one chapter left but... i wanted to give a little perspective into Katsuki's thoughts.

Warnings : Angsty, Female!Reader, Reader is a wife, Reader has children, bakugou is very sad, agruments, swearing, sadness, aged up characters, childern, babies.

W/C : 1.2k

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Katsuki is angry at you, and he fucking hates that.

It doesn’t happen often. Rarely, even. And when it does, it’s always fleeting—like when you hurt yourself doing something stupid, or when you tear yourself apart over things that aren’t your fault. Dumb shit. Shit he usually shuts down with a kiss to the temple and a gruff “knock it off.”

But right now? He’s raging.

The night you kicked him out happened fast. One minute, he was standing in the doorway, shoes still on, and the next, he was packing a bag in silence. He’d figured out pretty quick that it was because he hadn’t been… enough. Not affectionate enough. Not there enough. That’s fair. He gets it.

But also?

This whole thing is a unique kind of fucked.

He thought he was giving you space. Time. That’s what it was supposed to be. Because every time he tried to touch you, to close that gap, you froze up. And Katsuki doesn’t do ignoring signals. He thought you needed air. So he gave it to you. He focused on fixing all the other bullshit first, hoping you’d trust him again. Hoping it would feel safe again.

Clearly, that was the wrong fucking move. Now he’s crashing in Kirishima’s spare room like some washed-up loser who doesn’t know how to keep his family together.

And he’s pissed. At himself. At the situation. At you, even if he doesn’t want to be.

Because it feels unfair. Of course he wants to touch you. Hell, he’s been dying to. But he thought being respectful meant holding back, and you didn’t say a damn thing about it until you were telling him to get out. So how was he supposed to know?

He’s not angry at you the way he gets at other people. He’s frustrated. It twists in his gut, hot and sick and tight. He hates seeing you cry. Hates hearing you put yourself down (Why Katsuki Is Angry, Point One). And he really hates when things aren’t communicated (yeah, he gets the irony). You caught him off guard. Blindsided him. And now you’re both hurting. You’re upset. He’s upset. And him being out of the house? It feels too damn close to a real separation.

And that’s the part that makes his blood boil.

Two weeks of this. Two weeks of anger simmering low in his chest, mixing with a hollow sadness he can’t shake. And you still haven’t asked him to come back.

That scares him more than he’ll ever admit.

So his mood’s worse than usual—which is saying something. He’s snapping at civilians on patrol, his friends, and even the kids. That’s the part he hates the most.

It wasn’t even anything big. His head’s just so fucked up that he can’t hold onto his temper. And he misses you so much it’s making him stupid.

Koharu had been crying for nearly an hour, inconsolable in his arms. He tried everything. Nothing worked. And then Riko, standing small in the corner, mumbled, “Mama usually tries…”

And he lost it.

“Is your mother here? No? Then why bother telling me that?”

The words came out sharper than he meant. Meaner.

And the regret hit immediately. Riko’s face crumpled, her eyes wide and hurt, and Koharu only cried harder in his arms.

“Shit. Bug, I’m sorry,” he muttered, bouncing Koharu a little harder, desperate now. “I just—fuck.”

“It’s fine,” Riko said quietly, but she wouldn’t look at him. She slipped away to the guest room Kirishima set up for them, shutting the door behind her.

And he wanted to follow her. To say something. But the second he even thought about it, Koharu let out another wail in his arms, her little fists clenching in his shirt. So he spent the rest of the evening pacing the floor, whispering whatever nonsense he could think of to soothe her. By the time she finally wore herself out, heavy and damp against his chest, it was late. Too late.

And then it was time for them to go home.

He hated seeing Riko climb into the car without saying much of anything, her face drawn tight and distant. He hated it even more knowing it was his fault. Another mistake that dug deep. Another fuck-up he wouldn’t be able to take back.

Before he let them go, before he buckled her in, he crouched down next to her. Pulled her close and kissed the side of her head, his voice rough and quiet against her hair. “Sorry about earlier,” he muttered. “I love you.”

She only nodded. Didn’t say anything. And it felt like a weight settling on his chest that he couldn’t shake.

One of those parenting mistakes, he thought bitterly, that you don’t get a do-over for.

The girls went home after that. And he went back to Kirishima’s apartment.

Empty. Quiet. Not his.

He still refused to look for a new place, and he wasn’t planning to anytime soon. Not unless you forced his hand. Not unless you tore the ring off his finger and told him there was nothing left to fight for.

Getting a new place would make it final. Permanent. And that was something he wasn’t ready to swallow.

So instead, he walked through the door, dropped his keys on the counter like he lived there, and went straight to the shower. Sat there under the water until his skin felt raw, staring at the wall like it might tell him what the hell he was supposed to do next.  

Kirishima wasn’t home yet, which was fine. Better. Katsuki wasn’t in the mood to talk anyway. But it stung.

It stung because he knew exactly where Kirishima was. Out with you.

He’d mentioned it casually earlier, real offhand, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Grabbing dinner with Y/N,” he’d said, before slipping his shoes on and bolting out the door before Katsuki could ask what the hell that was supposed to mean.

And that sucked.

Because maybe you were just dropping off his shit. Maybe you were handing him back the last pieces of his life and telling him not to contact you again. And if that was the case, well—at least Kirishima would soften the blow. Right? Right.

He let his head fall back against the tile with a quiet, humorless laugh. Yeah. That sucked too.

And for now, that was all he could do. Sit with it. Wait. Hope you’d still give him the chance to fix what he broke.

Because if there was still a way back to you, he’d take it.

No matter how much it hurt.

.⊹ °ʚ☆ɞ°.⭒₊.⊹ °ʚ☆ɞ°.⭒₊.⊹ °ʚ☆ɞ°.⭒₊.⊹ °ʚ☆ɞ°.⭒₊

oh he's hurting (one chapter left fr this time!!!)

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Hopefully i got everyone! thank you for reading!

— umibe no etranger matching icons

• reblog/like if you save it please

THE SPACE BETWEEN COMFORT AND CHAOS.

✧ SUMMARY : your life is quiet and uneventful until you hear noises in the alleyway by your apartment, and you can't help but poke your nose where it doesn't belong. but haven't you ever heard that curiosity killed the cat? except nobody mentions that the cat gets killed by the big bad wolf.

✧ INCLUDES : wolfhybrid!toji, hybrid au, violence, injuries, detailed descriptions of blood/injuries, societal inequalities, animalistic tendencies, past trauma in toji's case, eventual smut maybe, grumpy x sunshine trope, bickering, angst, fluff, slow burn, pining, jealousy, possessive behavior, overall toji being his brooding self !!

i. ONE :: WHAT DID THEY SAY ABOUT CURIOSITY AND THAT DAMN CAT?

when you stumble upon an angry wolf hybrid in your alleyway who has no intentions of getting close to you do you, a.) offer it food?, b.) try to talk to it?, or c.) all of the above?

ii. TWO :: SUFFOCATING WARMTH.

stranger danger has conveniently flown out the window now that you've decided to invite him inside. he seems angrier about it than you are.

iii. THREE :: THE SUBTLE ART OF PERSUASION.

toji has a lot to learn about you. he keeps making the mistake of underestimating your relentlessness.

iv. FOUR :: MELTING ICE.

it's scary, just how much difference a soft bed can make after a stone floor.

v. FIVE :: PUZZLE PIECES.

(coming soon...!)

extra thoughts and rambles :: wolf toji tag