❦ WHAT’S MY NAME IN YOUR PHONE?

Haikyuu-bu Chapter 88: Bigfoot Hyakuzawa Sighted

You fling yourself around the corner, catching the door frame with your hand to stay upright. Shinso doesn't jump; he heard you stomping from all the way down the hall.

"I'm late."

He doesn't look up from his duffle bag. He's arranging the clothes carefully, placing each rolled sock in a row. "How late?"

"No, like-" You roll your hands in the air expectantly. "Period late."

Shinso glances at your feet and watches how you bounce on your toes with excitement. With a sigh. he looks up at you, expression set.

"How late are you?"

You stop bouncing. "It was supposed to come last night."

Shinso groans as he stands, pushing off of his knee for support.

"But, it's different this time!" you insist before he can say anything. "I feel different."

He sucks on one side of his cheek, pulling a dimple into his skin. He's still boyish in his features, even after all these years. Carefully, he measures his words, saying your name ever so gently.

"I just don't want you to get your hopes up again just for it to be negative." He taps his house slipper against his bag. "Because you'll end up testing again the next day, then the next day, just make sure it's really negative-"

"Hitoshi-"

"I just don't want you to break your heart again."

This song and dance must be getting old for him. Every month, you get excited, only to see that little line once again. Hitoshi's right: it always breaks your heart.

You think, maybe, he mourns it too. Silently. Privately. It's hard to tell. He's not like you. He's not expressive or outspoken, but je's always there to hold your hand and try again.

"Let's just wait a couple days." Hitoshi, as if he knows what you're thinking, reaching up and takes your hand. "If you're still late, I'll buy you as many tests as you want."

You swallow down your disappointment.

"How many days?"

"When I come back from this mission." He counts on his fingers. "Three days?"

"Three days? I'm supposed to not know if I'm pregnant for three days?"

Hitoshi shrugs and kneels back down, tending to his things. "Some people don't know they're pregnant the whole pregnancy."

"That's different and you know it."

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.

𝝑𝑒 katsuki finds out what you've been drawing in your sketchbook all the time...and to say he's surprised is an understatement.

"y/n."

"hmm?"

your boyfriend lets out a sharp growl, his hands practically itching to reach out and snatch the sketchbook out of your hands

"let me see."

you don't respond, brows pinched together in concentration as you alternate between looking at the charcoal in your hands to katsuki's adorable pout

"you need to wait a little longer...not my fault you're so pretty."

he lets out an embarrassed groan, dragging his calloused palm down his face as he flops face first onto your bed. you let out a whine in protest, slapping his arm

"ow!" you huff, silently scolding yourself for hitting the hard, packed muscle beneath his shirt. he smirks a little bit at your reaction, rolling onto his back and making a show of flexing his muscles as he stretches his arms with a loud yawn

"ya took forever. now, show me what you made." he demands, sitting up expectedly with narrowed eyes

katsuki had been dragged from the common room all the way up to your dorm in a matter of minutes. he'd gladly be dragged by you to the ends of the earth, but he was beyond confused when you ordered him to sit down on your bed and stay still. all until you pulled out your sketchbook.

the light bulb in his mind switched on, and with a quiet "ah", he complied, listening to you quietly chat about anything and everything that came to your mind as you scribbled away in your sketchbook

katsuki has seen you carrying it around a lot. you always kept it tucked under your arm even as you travelled from class to class—never apart. it had, simply put, become an extension to your body at this point

of course he's wanted to take a peak in there. and about a dozen times katsuki tried to—but each time ended with him getting beat with your pillows and plushies as you shoved him out of your dorm, slamming the door on him as he laid in the hall, rubbing his head and silently cursing himself for getting caught once again.

he had kept still and quiet for you while you drew because this was....out of the ordinary. you never really did open your sketchbook in front of him—but here you were now, fingers smudging the paper as you smile sheepishly

"promise you won't laugh?"

he rolls his eyes, trying to keep his usual facade up so you don't detect even a hint of the nervousness he felt

"course i won't. now, either you show me—or i'm taking that damned book from your hands and—"

he's cut off when you suddenly raise it from your lap. pages rustle together as you flip it towards him, hands gripping the edges of your most prized possession as you squeeze your eyes shut and await his reaction

katsuki, was for once, stunned into silence. his eyes trailed over the strokes and marks on the paper, your finger imprints pressed all over the paper from the charcoal—

but what you've drawn is undeniably him.

it's not what he'd expected at all. it's him but...it's not from katsuki's view. it's not the mean face he saw in the mirror everyday. the usual scowl that seemed to be a permanent resident on his face was replaced with a soft smile in your drawing

his eyes were lighter, softer. his cheeks were round and full of boyish youth as he smiled. it was beautiful. he was. he feels his heart stutter in his chest as he slowly takes the sketchbook from your hands, eyes glued to page

"hold on suki—"

he begins flipping. flipping and flipping and flipping and it's all him. katsuki sleeping, katsuki yelling and a frightened little izuku scribbled into the corner of the page—katsuki cooking, katsuki in his hero suit, katsuki—

you suddenly tackle him, and with a yelp—both of you tumble off of your bed and onto the floor. unfortunately, his grip on the book loosens for a mere instant, and you're able to snatch it out of his grip and throw it onto your bed from where the two of you laid on the floor

his lips are parted, but not a sound comes out. his eyes are like the drawing you had just made—soft and gentle and round as he stares up at you.

you're so embarrassed you can barely stand to look him in the eye, resorting to tucking your face into the space between his neck and shoulder with an embarrassed groan

"asshole...you weren't supposed to flip..." you murmur, and katsuki thinks you look pretty with your cheeks flushed and tinted like this. his chest falls and rises slowly, and he made no move to get up off the floor as you caged him there—refusing to let him get up.

"i....gah say something you jerk! you can't humiliate me like that and then get all quiet!" you whine, your voice embarrassed and pitched and katsuki can't even stop himself from grabbing hold of the back of your neck and crashing his lips into yours

he pulls your entire body against him, wrapping a single arm around your waist before he rolls the two of you over and flipping your positions—he hovers over you, pulling away from the kiss just to press another one onto your forehead

"you fucking dumbass...why'd you go and waste so many pages on me..." he mumbles, grabbing your charcoal covered hands as he presses a soft kiss onto your finger tips. you smile bashfully at the smeared streaks of color on his face

"you're my muse." you state simply

his eyes are lined with tears, and his grin is wide and toothy—you want to capture this moment in your pages, the shine in his eyes and the way his lips curled, all of it.

you decide you'll have to draw this particular katsuki later, because he's suddenly launching an attack on you—a flurry of kisses being pressed all over your face and neck and just about any bit of skin he could find as he laughs at the sound of your sweet squeals—music to his ears.

I love them

mwuah!

Imagine, Toji only arrived from his mission and you are only gone for your job. He falls asleep nuzzling in your pillow, where your scent is still lingering~ Another back practice actually

Thanks for giving Megumi the finest gene

Here's your birthday cake 🎂

— Atsumu & Sakusa Layouts

📬 🍜 キスさせて . . (>_★) [REQ]