You’re sitting cross-legged on Sukuna’s couch, wearing his oversized hoodie and a stubborn look on your face.
“Come on, ‘Kuna,” you whine, poking at his arm. “I just want to try it once. One puff! Everyone’s done it before—”
He doesn’t even look up from his phone. “Everyone’s an idiot,” he says flatly.
You huff, leaning against his shoulder. “You used to smoke all the time.”
“Yeah, and look where that got me,” he grumbles, gesturing vaguely at his scarred chest like it’s a cautionary tale.
You grin. “Hot?”
That earns you a side-eye, but you see the corner of his mouth twitch. Progress.
For the next fifteen minutes, you persist — pouting, promising, batting your lashes. You even try logic “it’s legal now!”, no emotion “you never let me experience anything!”, and finally desperation “I’ll give you the last bite of my mochi ice cream”.
That last one does it. Sukuna exhales like a man defeated, tossing his phone onto the table.
“Fine. One puff. But you’re not getting real stuff. I don’t need you greening out on me.”
You beam like you’ve just won the lottery. “Really?!”
He stands, rummages through a drawer, and comes back with what looks suspiciously like a blunt. You have no idea it’s just a regular cigarette he rolled to look like one.
He lights it, takes a drag, and hands it over. “Small puff. Don’t cough your lungs out.”
You nod seriously, like you’re about to perform a sacred ritual. You inhale dramatically, let out the tiniest wisp of smoke—then lean back with a dreamy sigh.
“Oh my god,” you whisper. “I think I feel it already.”
Sukuna raises an eyebrow. “You do, huh?”
“Yeah…” You blink slowly, tilting your head like you’re hearing colors. “Everything’s… sparkly.”
He bites his lip, trying not to laugh. “Sparkly, huh?”
You nod earnestly, giggling out of nowhere. “You’re so big, Sukuna. Like… extra big. Whoa.”
That does it—he snorts, the laugh rumbling out before he can stop it. “You took one puff of a cigarette, dumbass.”
Your head snaps toward him, lips parted. “Wait—what?”
“Yeah.” He takes it from your hand, taps the ash into the tray. “I’m not letting you fry what’s left of your brain.”
You blink at him, mouth opening and closing like a confused goldfish. “So I wasn’t high?”
He smirks, leaning closer. “Nah. That’s just you being naturally dumb.”
You gasp, lightly smacking his arm. “You tricked me!”
He leans back, watching you pout with a lazy grin. “And you fell for it.”
You cross your arms, turning away dramatically. “You’re a horrible boyfriend.”
“Mm-hmm.” He nudges your leg with his foot.
You try to glare, but the corners of your lips betray you.
Sukuna’s grin softens, his voice dropping low. “Better me tricking you than you coughing your lungs out, yeah?”
You sigh, giving in, resting your head on his shoulder. “You’re still a jerk.”
“Maybe.” He flicks the cigarette out the window, arm wrapping loosely around you.
You hum, eyes fluttering shut. “Next time, I’m bringing my own.”
The parking lot is empty except for Sukuna’s black car and a few lonely shopping carts that never made it home. The sun’s setting, painting the world in gold and blush tones — fitting, somehow, for a day when he’s trying to teach you how to drive.
He’s in the passenger seat, elbow on the door, tattooed hand drumming against his thigh as you sit behind the wheel, eyes wide with determination.
You look adorable, hair tied up, nails glossy pink against the steering wheel, a serious frown between your brows like you’re about to perform surgery instead of parallel parking.
“Okay,” Sukuna says, voice deep, calm — the kind that makes you straighten up a little. “First thing. Before you start the car, check your mirrors.”
You perk up instantly, nodding like an eager student. “Okay!”
He watches as you pull a small pink tube from your bag, flip open the visor, and — very seriously — reapply your lip gloss. You purse your lips, examine your reflection, then turn to him with a proud little smile.
“All done!” you chirp, leaning over to plant a quick, sticky kiss on his cheek. “Thanks for the reminder, baby.”
Sukuna blinks.
The parking lot goes quiet, except for the faint hum of cicadas and his heartbeat in his ears. He stares at you — the ridiculous, gorgeous, oblivious woman in his passenger seat — and feels his mouth twitch despite himself.
“That’s… not what I meant,” he mutters, but the words come out softer than intended.
You tilt your head, confused. “What do you mean? I checked my mirror.”
He lets out a breath that’s half sigh, half laugh. “You were supposed to adjust them. The car mirrors. So you can see behind you.”
“Oh.” You pause, cheeks puffing slightly in embarrassment before you grin. “Well, that too! I can see myself, and I look hot, so that’s motivating.”
Sukuna groans, dragging a hand down his face. He should be mad — he really should.
But when you beam at him like that, proud and utterly oblivious, he feels the frustration melt right out of him.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmurs.
You giggle, tapping the steering wheel. “Nooo, I’m gonna be your cute little chauffeur someday. Just watch!”
“Yeah, right,” he says, leaning back in the seat. “If we make it past the parking lot alive.”
You stick your tongue out at him and start the car, his hand instinctively coming up to steady the wheel. He doesn’t say anything — just watches you with that strange mix of exasperation and affection twisting in his chest.
Maybe you’ll never be the best driver. Maybe he’ll never get through one of these lessons without a headache.
But as you glance at him with that bright, sugar-sweet smile, lip gloss catching the last of the sunlight, Sukuna figures he doesn’t really mind.
If she’s the one behind the wheel — maybe crashing’s not such a bad way to go.
Not the usual kind — not the soft hum of city traffic through the glass, or the faint echo of a TV left running. No, this silence is hollow. It hums against his skull, presses into his ribs.
The bed beside him is cold.
Sukuna sits up slowly, the sheets falling away. The scent of your perfume is fading — faint, ghostlike. There’s a single earring on the pillow where you used to sleep, the one he bought you in Paris two years ago. You used to joke that if you ever left, you’d at least leave him a piece of proof that you were real.
He didn’t think you meant it.
The penthouse looks different now. Colder. Larger. Too neat. You always used to complain that he treated the place like a museum — all structure, no life. But you filled it anyway. You left books open on the counter, hair ties on every surface, half-finished coffee mugs wherever you went.
Now there’s nothing but order.
His phone buzzes against the nightstand — messages, calls, business. He doesn’t answer. He stares at the black screen until it goes still again.
There’s a cigarette burning in the ashtray before he even remembers lighting it. He takes a drag, exhales, and watches the smoke coil toward the ceiling.
You hated when he smoked indoors.
He does it anyway.
By noon, he’s pacing the apartment. The balcony door’s still cracked open, and the ashtray is full of your lipstick-marked stubs. He touches one without meaning to. The filter is cold, damp from rain or tears — he can’t tell.
You really left.
He checks your closet — half-empty. Your scent lingers on the coats you didn’t take, the dresses he bought but you never wore. He opens the bathroom cabinet — your toothbrush is gone.
Every small absence feels like a punch.
His reflection in the mirror looks wrong.
Too tired. Too human.
He splashes cold water over his face, gripping the sink until the marble creaks under his hands.
“She’ll be back,” he mutters to himself. “She always comes back.”
But even he doesn’t believe it.
The first week, he tries to work. Meetings, deals, late nights. It should be easy — distraction has always been his strongest armor. But she’s everywhere.
Your mug is still in the office, the one with the chipped handle. His driver still asks, Should I pick her up, sir? He doesn’t answer.
He catches himself reaching for his phone, typing your name, deleting it again.
He drives to your hospital once.
Sits in the parking lot, engine off, just staring at the building. He can’t make himself go in. What would he even say?
I ruined everything but come home anyway?
He knows you’d look at him the same way you did that night — tired, hollow, past saving.
By the third week, the city feels smaller.
He goes to Satori’s restaurant again. The hostess freezes when she sees him — maybe she remembers the night he sat there with someone else, laughing like he hadn’t already started breaking you.
He orders nothing. Just sits there, staring at the empty chair across from him. The one you should be in.
“Sir, are you waiting for someone?” she asks politely.
He smirks faintly, shaking his head.
The nights are worse.
He comes home drunk more often than he’d like to admit. The alcohol doesn’t quiet his mind — it just makes the silence louder.
Sometimes, he swears he hears you humming in the kitchen. Sometimes he imagines the sound of your bare feet on the floor, the click of a lighter, the soft laugh that used to follow his worst jokes.
But when he turns around, there’s nothing. Just smoke and empty space.
He dreams of you often — dreams of that night, the way your voice trembled when you said you were done choosing a man who never chose you back.
He always wakes before he can answer.
A month passes. Then two.
He finds out through a mutual friend that you’ve taken a position at a clinic outside the city. Smaller, quieter, far from him.
He almost drives there. Almost. But he doesn’t. He can’t.
Because deep down, he knows — if he sees you now, he’ll beg. And Sukuna Ryomen doesn’t beg.
So he stays.
He keeps his empire, his power, his money. All the things that once made him untouchable.
And none of it fills the space you left behind.
One night, he finds himself on that same balcony where you used to sit. The ashtray’s empty now — he cleaned it weeks ago, thinking it’d help. It didn’t.
The city hums below him, restless and alive. The same skyline you once said looked like hope.
He lights a cigarette and lets the smoke curl upward, tasting the same bitterness you used to hide behind.
“I told you not to stay out here so long,” he murmurs into the night, half to himself. “You’ll get sick.”
The words hang there, fading into the cold air.
He exhales. For the first time in his life, Ryomen Sukuna has everything — and feels like he’s lost the only thing that mattered.
He presses the cigarette out on the railing and stares at the ember as it dies.
The clock on the bedside table glared red in the dark, an accusation. You didn’t move, though your heart jumped like it was trying to claw its way out. You just lay there, eyes open, breathing slow, pretending to be asleep.
The floorboards creaked under his weight. He always walked heavy, careless, like he owned the space — like he owned you.
“Still up?” his voice came, low, almost amused.
You kept your eyes shut. “No.”
He chuckled. “Liar.”
There was the sound of fabric — his jacket hitting the couch, his keys on the counter. Then silence. A heavy, suffocating silence. You could smell smoke on him. And perfume. Sweet. Expensive. Not yours.
You swallowed hard. “You smell different.”
He froze. Just for a second. “Do I?”
“Yeah.” You sat up, the sheet falling off your shoulder. “You do.”
He didn’t answer. Just looked at you, eyes dark, unreadable, that same indifferent stare you used to think meant mystery. Now it just looked like distance.
You tried to laugh, but it came out brittle. “You could at least try to come up with something. Traffic. A late meeting. Anything.”
He said nothing. Just reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Lit one. Took a drag. Didn’t even bother stepping outside anymore.
“You’re not even going to deny it?” you asked, voice cracking despite yourself.
Sukuna exhaled a stream of smoke, slow, deliberate. “What do you want me to say?”
“No.” You met his gaze. “I want you to say no.”
A pause. Then: “You wouldn’t believe me.”
That was the moment. The one that split your chest open and left nothing but ache inside.
You stood up, bare feet cold against the floor. “Who is she?”
He shrugged. “Does it matter?”
You laughed. It sounded ugly. “To me? Yeah. It matters.”
“Don’t do that,” he muttered.
“Do what?”
“Act like you didn’t know what this was.” His tone sharpened. “You think I made promises? I told you from the start—”
“That you don’t do love,” you snapped. “Yeah, I remember.”
“Then why are you looking at me like I just killed something?”
“Because you did.”
The silence after that was unbearable. You could hear the hum of the refrigerator, the tick of the clock, the thud of your pulse in your ears. He stared at the floor like it had answers. You stared at him like maybe he’d turn into someone you could still love.
But he didn’t.
He looked up, eyes flicking to the photo frame on the table — the one of you both at that stupid summer festival. You were laughing, his arm around you, his smile real. You could see the moment he remembered it too.
He turned away first. “You should sleep.”
“That’s it?” you whispered. “That’s all you have to say?”
He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, the sound sharp in the stillness. “You’ll be fine.”
You laughed again — a broken, hollow sound. “Fine? Sukuna, you— you made me think—”
He finally met your eyes. “You made yourself think.”
That hurt worse than anything else.
You didn’t stop him when he walked to the door. Didn’t stop him when he grabbed his jacket, when his hand lingered on the handle for half a second longer than it should have. You almost hoped he’d turn back. Almost.
He didn’t.
The click of the door shutting felt like the world ending quietly.
You stood there for a long time. The room still smelled like him — smoke, soap, and someone else’s perfume. You sat on the edge of the bed, eyes on the empty space where his shoes used to be, and realized he’d cleaned up before leaving.
The mug he always used — washed. His toothbrush — gone. The jacket — gone. You almost laughed at how neat it all was. How tidy heartbreak could look.
You found the earring later, glinting in the dark near the dresser. A stranger’s little secret, left behind like an insult.
You wanted to throw it away. But you didn’t. You just held it in your palm until it left a red mark on your skin, until you couldn’t tell if the sting was from that or from the tears you refused to shed.
You had practiced your goodbye, once. In the mirror. Smiling. Saying it was fun while it lasted. Being mature. Being fine.
But when the time came, you didn’t get to say a word.
Because Sukuna never gave you the chance.
He left the way he loved you — without warning, without mercy, and without looking back.
For a while, he really was fine.
That’s what he told himself, anyway.
He woke up in strange beds, with strange hands, in rooms that didn’t smell like coffee and clean sheets. There was always someone new. Someone who didn’t look at him too long, who didn’t ask where he’d been or why he couldn’t stay.
It was easier that way.
No questions. No weight. Just skin, and silence, and the thrill of pretending he didn’t care.
He almost believed it.
Until one morning, weeks later, he reached for a cigarette and realized his lighter was gone. The old silver one — the one you’d bought him. It used to be on his nightstand, right next to the framed photo he’d thrown out. He could still see it in his head: your laugh, the way you’d leaned into him, eyes half-closed against the sunlight.
He told himself it didn’t matter. Things get lost. People do too.
But that night, he dreamed of you.
He dreamed of the way you’d call his name like it meant something. Of how you’d press your palm to his chest and say, “You’re here,” as if you needed to convince yourself. He woke up with his heart hammering and an ache in his throat that felt too close to grief.
He didn’t go back, though.
Sukuna doesn’t go back. He doesn’t apologize, doesn’t chase, doesn’t regret. That’s what he’s always told himself — that it’s easier to burn a bridge than rebuild it.
So he went on.
New faces. New cities. The same emptiness.
But they never looked at him the way you did. They didn’t know how to touch him without trying to fix him, didn’t whisper his name like it was both a prayer and a curse. Every time one of them laughed, he caught himself waiting for your voice — that soft, tired sound you made when you were trying not to cry.
And every time it wasn’t you, he felt something inside him crack a little more.
He started seeing you everywhere.
In reflections, in passing strangers, in songs he used to mock you for loving. Once, he even thought he heard your laugh in a crowd, and it nearly stopped him cold.
He didn’t follow it.
He just stood there, letting the sound fade, because what would he even say if it was you?
“Hey.”
“Sorry.”
“Come home.”
The words sat on his tongue, bitter and useless. He knew he’d ruin it again. He always does.
One night, drunk and half-honest, he admitted it to himself — whispered it into the dark like a confession.
“I shouldn’t have left.”
The silence didn’t forgive him.
He’s still fine, technically. Still breathing. Still walking. Still waking up beside people he doesn’t care about. But sometimes, when the city’s quiet and the smoke burns his lungs, he remembers how you used to steal his lighter just to make him talk to you.
And he hates that it still hurts.
Because he meant what he said — he doesn’t do love.
But you made him almost wish he did.
Now he carries that almost everywhere.
In his pockets.
In the space between cigarettes.
In the parts of him he’ll never show anyone else.
And every time he lights a new one, he thinks about you.
About the night he walked out.
About the sound the door made when it closed —
soft, final,
like the end of a prayer he never deserved.
It’s been three years.
He sees you by accident.
He’s sitting at some nameless café on a street he doesn’t even live near anymore. Just passing through. Just killing time. The kind of place that doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t remember faces.
And then — there you are.
You look the same.
No, not the same. Softer, maybe. Different, but in the way a wound turns into a scar — healed, but not forgotten. You’re standing by the counter, talking to the barista, laughing at something he says.
That laugh.
It still does something to him.
You don’t see him at first. He almost hopes you won’t. His cigarette burns down to ash between his fingers, and he doesn’t even move to flick it away. He just watches. Watches the way your hair falls over your shoulder, the way you reach for your drink with the same left hand that used to tug on his shirt in the mornings.
He remembers that hand.
He remembers everything.
The first time you touched him.
The last time you let go.
The way you said his name like it hurt to speak it.
He thought he’d forgotten, but memory is cruel like that — it comes back when you least want it to, uninvited and unforgiving.
You finally turn.
Your eyes meet.
It’s a heartbeat.
A second.
An eternity.
You freeze. So does he.
There’s no anger there anymore. No tears. Just a soft, distant kind of calm — the kind that says *I survived you.*
And he can’t even hate it.
He just stares, half of him wanting to get up, cross the room, say *something.* Anything.
But what is there left to say?
“Sorry”?
“Come back”?
“Do you still think of me?”
He doesn’t deserve to ask.
So instead, he gives you a small nod — almost imperceptible, like an acknowledgment between two ghosts passing in daylight.
You smile. It’s polite. Careful.
Then you turn away.
You walk out the door, the bell above it chiming once, twice, fading with your steps.
He sits there long after you’re gone, the untouched coffee cooling in front of him, the smoke curling toward the ceiling.
And for the first time in years, Sukuna feels something close to grief. Not sharp — dull, deep, familiar. The kind that lingers.
He knows he could still get up. Run after you. Try.
But he doesn’t.
Because the truth hits harder than any fight ever did — You’re not his anymore.
You stopped being his the moment he walked away.
And now, all he has left are the ghosts of what he ruined, and the silence that always follows him home.
synopsis: Freshman Sukuna thinks he can charm a third-year. You say no. He’s stunned, frustrated… and somehow more obsessed than ever.
@claudrina
“You’re a freshman.”
You say it like an accusation.
Sukuna just smirks.
He’s leaning against the wall outside your lecture hall, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie, earbuds still dangling like he pulled them out at the exact second you appeared. He’s big for a first-year tall, broad, sharp-eyed with a streak of troublemaker energy that practically radiates from him.
But still.
“A freshman,” you repeat.
“Yeah,” he drawls, “and what? You gonna arrest me for it?”
You raise a brow. “Shouldn’t you be in, I don’t know, Intro to College Skills?”
He grins, teeth flashing. “I’d rather be here.”
“Harassing an upperclassman?”
“Flirting with an upperclassman,” he corrects smugly. “There’s a difference.”
He steps closer, not enough to touch you, but enough that he’s definitely in your space.
“You look good today,” he says bluntly. Freshmen have no shame. None.
You blink. “You don’t even know what I normally look like.”
“I’ve been watching,” he says, and when you give him a look, he adds quickly, “Not like that. Just… you’re hard to miss.”
You snort. “Smooth.”
He shrugs. “Did it work?”
“No.”
“It definitely worked.”
You sigh, turning to walk toward your next building. You’ve got a project meeting, a quiz to review for, and zero time for a freshman with too much confidence.
But Sukuna falls into step beside you anyway, a half step behind like he’s trying not to push his luck.
“You know,” he says, “you never answered my question.”
“What question?”
He smirks. “Your number.”
“I don’t remember you asking.”
“Oh?” He scoffs, dramatic. “So I gotta be formal? Fine. Can I have your number?”
“No.”
Sukuna stops walking like you just stabbed him. “What? Why not?”
You glance at him over your shoulder. “Because you’re a freshman.”
“I’m nineteen!” he protests, catching up quickly. “Nineteen is practically—”
“A child.”
“I am not—” He groans, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re, what, twenty? Twenty-one? I’m not that young.”
“I’m twenty-one,” you say.
Sukuna’s eyes darken like you just made things worse. “Even hotter.”
You roll your eyes. “Please stop.”
“Can’t.” He grins. “I like you.”
You open your mouth, ready to shut that down — but then he says something that throws you off completely.
“Let me prove I’m worth your time.”
You actually pause.
He shrugs, trying too hard to look casual. “I’m not asking you to date me or anything… yet. Just give me the chance to show I’m not some dumb freshman.”
You study him.
“You really don’t take no for an answer, do you?”
You ask it lightly, slinging your bag higher on your shoulder.
Freshman Sukuna stands in front of you, cocky grin in place, arms crossed like he’s convinced genuinely convinced that you’re about to say yes to him.
“You haven’t given me a good reason to stop trying,” he shoots back.
“Oh, I have plenty,” you say. “You’re just not listening.”
He steps closer. “Then say one I can’t ignore.”
You sigh, amused despite yourself. He really is trying. In a reckless, bold, freshman way.
“Fine. Ready?”
He leans in like you’re about to confess some devastating secret.
You smile.
“You’re cute,” you say simply.
Sukuna blinks. “That’s not— wait, that’s good.”
“And cute freshmen,” you continue, “aren’t my type.”
His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
You reach up, rising a little on your toes, and before he has time to react, your hand lands on top of his head.
Sukuna freezes.
Actually freezes.
You give his hair a gentle, almost patronizing little pat.
“Try again in a few years, okay?” you say sweetly. “When you grow up.”
His face goes red so fast it’s almost impressive.
“I— w-wait—” he stammers, completely thrown off his axis. “I’m not— I’m not a kid—”
But you’re already stepping around him.
“Take care, freshman,” you say, walking off like your world hasn’t just imploded his.
reader was kinda inspired by maomao lol. comments are appreciated!!
synopsis: seeing sukuna talk to another girl at the party makes you feel jealous, confused....and a little crazy.
@claudrina
The music downstairs thumps through the floor, but all you can hear is laughter—hers.
It slips under Sukuna’s door like a blade.
You sit on his bed, phone glowing in your hand, knuckles white around it. He said he’d be back in five minutes. It’s been twelve.
Long enough for you to imagine her leaning too close, touching his arm like she’s allowed to. Long enough for your chest to feel tight, ugly thoughts piling up faster than you can swat them away.
You open his Instagram again. Still nothing new. You scroll anyway, jaw tightening at every tagged photo, every comment from girls who think they know him. Who think they have a right.
They don’t.
Sukuna steps in, smelling like beer and smoke and someone else’s perfume. He looks surprised to see you sitting there, eyes sharp but amused. “You look pissed,” he says. “Miss me that bad?”
You stand so fast the chair scrapes loudly. “Who was she?”
He blinks. “Who?”
Don’t play dumb. You hate when he plays dumb.
“The girl downstairs,” you snap. “The one hanging all over you.”
Sukuna laughs, low and careless, like this is entertainment. “Relax. She’s a nobody.”
That word—nobody—should calm you. It doesn’t. It makes it worse. Because nobodies don’t laugh like that. Nobodies don’t touch his arm.
You step closer, invading his space. “You let her touch you.”
He raises a brow. “You watching me now?”
“Yes,” you say immediately. Too fast. Too honest.
Something dark flickers in his eyes, but you don’t stop. You never stop when you’re like this. “I don’t like it,” you continue, voice shaking.
“I don’t like when you talk to other girls. I don’t like when they look at you. I don’t like when you let them think they have a chance.”
Sukuna tilts his head. “You don’t own me.”
The words hit wrong. They always do. Your hands curl into fists. “I know that,” you say, even though your chest burns. “But if you cared about me, you wouldn’t do it.”
He steps closer now, towering, presence heavy. “You’re jealous,” he says simply.
“So what?” You laugh, sharp and unhinged. “You like it when I’m jealous. Don’t act like you don’t.”
His mouth curves into a slow grin. “Maybe I do.”
That’s all the encouragement you need.
You grab his shirt, fingers digging in hard enough to wrinkle the fabric. “Then don’t make me feel like this,” you hiss. “Don’t make me wonder if you’re going to leave. Don’t make me compete.”
“I didn’t ask you to,” he says, voice calm, almost lazy.
“But you like that I do.” Your eyes burn. “You like knowing I’ll lose my mind over you.”
For a moment, he just stares at you. Then his hands wrap around your wrists—not hurting, not gentle either. Just firm. Grounding.
“You’re crazy,” he murmurs.
You smile, wide and a little broken. “Only about you.”
The silence stretches. The music downstairs keeps going, oblivious.
Finally, Sukuna exhales, thumb brushing your pulse like he can feel how fast it’s racing. “You’re gonna scare people off acting like that.”
“Good,” you say. “I don’t want anyone else near you.”
Something about that makes his grin sharpen. He leans in, close enough that your noses almost touch. “You ever think,” he says quietly, “that one day I might get tired of this?”
Your grip tightens instead of loosening. “No,” you say. “Because you won’t.”
synopsis: Freshman Sukuna thinks he can charm a third-year. You say no. He’s stunned, frustrated… and somehow more obsessed than ever.
@claudrina
“You’re a freshman.”
You say it like an accusation.
Sukuna just smirks.
He’s leaning against the wall outside your lecture hall, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie, earbuds still dangling like he pulled them out at the exact second you appeared. He’s big for a first-year tall, broad, sharp-eyed with a streak of troublemaker energy that practically radiates from him.
But still.
“A freshman,” you repeat.
“Yeah,” he drawls, “and what? You gonna arrest me for it?”
You raise a brow. “Shouldn’t you be in, I don’t know, Intro to College Skills?”
He grins, teeth flashing. “I’d rather be here.”
“Harassing an upperclassman?”
“Flirting with an upperclassman,” he corrects smugly. “There’s a difference.”
He steps closer, not enough to touch you, but enough that he’s definitely in your space.
“You look good today,” he says bluntly. Freshmen have no shame. None.
You blink. “You don’t even know what I normally look like.”
“I’ve been watching,” he says, and when you give him a look, he adds quickly, “Not like that. Just… you’re hard to miss.”
You snort. “Smooth.”
He shrugs. “Did it work?”
“No.”
“It definitely worked.”
You sigh, turning to walk toward your next building. You’ve got a project meeting, a quiz to review for, and zero time for a freshman with too much confidence.
But Sukuna falls into step beside you anyway, a half step behind like he’s trying not to push his luck.
“You know,” he says, “you never answered my question.”
“What question?”
He smirks. “Your number.”
“I don’t remember you asking.”
“Oh?” He scoffs, dramatic. “So I gotta be formal? Fine. Can I have your number?”
“No.”
Sukuna stops walking like you just stabbed him. “What? Why not?”
You glance at him over your shoulder. “Because you’re a freshman.”
“I’m nineteen!” he protests, catching up quickly. “Nineteen is practically—”
“A child.”
“I am not—” He groans, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re, what, twenty? Twenty-one? I’m not that young.”
“I’m twenty-one,” you say.
Sukuna’s eyes darken like you just made things worse. “Even hotter.”
You roll your eyes. “Please stop.”
“Can’t.” He grins. “I like you.”
You open your mouth, ready to shut that down — but then he says something that throws you off completely.
“Let me prove I’m worth your time.”
You actually pause.
He shrugs, trying too hard to look casual. “I’m not asking you to date me or anything… yet. Just give me the chance to show I’m not some dumb freshman.”
You study him.
“You really don’t take no for an answer, do you?”
You ask it lightly, slinging your bag higher on your shoulder.
Freshman Sukuna stands in front of you, cocky grin in place, arms crossed like he’s convinced genuinely convinced that you’re about to say yes to him.
“You haven’t given me a good reason to stop trying,” he shoots back.
“Oh, I have plenty,” you say. “You’re just not listening.”
He steps closer. “Then say one I can’t ignore.”
You sigh, amused despite yourself. He really is trying. In a reckless, bold, freshman way.
“Fine. Ready?”
He leans in like you’re about to confess some devastating secret.
You smile.
“You’re cute,” you say simply.
Sukuna blinks. “That’s not— wait, that’s good.”
“And cute freshmen,” you continue, “aren’t my type.”
His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
You reach up, rising a little on your toes, and before he has time to react, your hand lands on top of his head.
Sukuna freezes.
Actually freezes.
You give his hair a gentle, almost patronizing little pat.
“Try again in a few years, okay?” you say sweetly. “When you grow up.”
His face goes red so fast it’s almost impressive.
“I— w-wait—” he stammers, completely thrown off his axis. “I’m not— I’m not a kid—”
But you’re already stepping around him.
“Take care, freshman,” you say, walking off like your world hasn’t just imploded his.
reader was kinda inspired by maomao lol. comments are appreciated!!
hellooo hello! quick question: i absolutely love reading your angsty fics but thing is, im a minor. does you account have any restrictions as to who and can't interact??🥹🥹 ty!
(sorry for bad eng btw)
- ✔️
hi love‼️thank you so much for the kind words, it means a lot!
i do want to say though — minors really shouldn’t be interacting with my angst fics.
heavy angst can mess with your head, especially when you’re young, and i genuinely don’t want to put that kind of weight on anyone’s mind!!
this account is semi-safe for minors since i don’t write smut, but i would really appreciate it if you didn’t read the darker angst pieces. totally your choice of course.
if you still want something to read, i do write lighter stuff too! lots of fluff, like my sukuna x bimbo reader fics, those are definitely a safer lane for younger readers.
and just to be super clear:
don’t be influenced by my works — it’s all fiction.
LEAVE THAT TOXIC MAN. I DO NOT SUPPORT CHEATING, MANIPULATION, OR UNHEALTHY RELATIONSHIPS IN REAL LIFE. i just enjoy writing dramatic nonsense for fun.
Synopsis: After finally breaking up with him, you thought you could move on. You were wrong. Sukuna doesn’t let go, and neither does the darkness that follows him. When jealousy, obsession, and twisted love collide, the line between freedom and suffocation blurs. You want him gone—but he wants you, no matter the cost.
𝐏𝐓𝟏
You were done.
At least, that’s what you told yourself as you sat on the edge of your bed, staring at the packed suitcase beside you. The decision was final. You’d had enough of Sukuna. Enough of his possessiveness, his cruelty, the way he twisted everything you did into something for his amusement. Enough of being hidden away like a secret he could control.
You had packed your things, deleted his number, deleted everything that reminded you of him. You were free. You had to be.
But as you stood up to leave your apartment, your phone buzzed with a message.
Sukuna: We’re not done.
You shut your eyes and cursed under your breath. You knew it wouldn’t be that easy. You knew he wouldn’t just let you go. Sukuna had always been stubborn, and his ego was as dangerous as his power.
But you were done. You had made your choice.
The next few days passed in a haze. You tried to focus on your classes, tried to distract yourself with work and friends. It wasn’t easy, but it was better than being consumed by thoughts of him.
That’s when you met him. Choso.
He was a guy from your biology class — not the kind you’d normally go for, but he was nice enough, funny, and he had a way of making you laugh in a way that felt real. The first time he spoke to you, you’d barely noticed, but by the third conversation, you realized he was genuinely interested in getting to know you.
It was the first time in weeks you felt… normal. Like you could talk to someone without constantly wondering if Sukuna was watching, waiting for a chance to come back into your life.
One afternoon, you and Choso found yourselves sitting at a table in the student lounge. You weren’t doing anything wrong — just talking, enjoying a coffee, having a normal conversation. But it felt good. You were laughing, and for the first time in forever, you felt like you could breathe.
That’s when the door slammed open.
You didn’t even have to look up to know who it was. You could feel his presence in the room, like a shadow falling over everything you had managed to build in the last few days.
Sukuna.
His gaze locked onto you, and in that instant, everything shifted. The room seemed to get smaller, colder. You felt your heart skip in your chest. You had hoped — prayed — that you could be free of him, but there he was, in the doorway, his eyes burning with possessive fury.
Choso, sensing the shift in atmosphere, glanced at you, confused. But Sukuna didn’t care about Choso. He was focused entirely on you.
You opened your mouth to say something, but before you could, Sukuna was already stalking toward you, his eyes narrowing at Choso as he approached. He didn’t even acknowledge your presence as he stood directly in front of Choso.
“You think you can just talk to her?” Sukuna’s voice was low, venomous, but there was a clear undertone of something darker beneath it — something that made the air crackle with tension. He didn’t ask. He commanded.
Choso blinked, clearly surprised but trying to act tough. “She’s just a friend, man. Calm down.”
Sukuna’s lips curled into a predatory smile. “A friend, huh?”
Without another word, he reached out and grabbed Choso by the collar, yanking him out of his seat with a speed that left you breathless. The movement was so fast, so violent, that Choso didn’t even have time to react before he was slammed against the table.
You stood up, panic flooding your chest. “Sukuna, stop!” You reached out, trying to grab his arm, but he shrugged you off like you were nothing.
He didn’t listen. He never did.
With a sickening crack, Sukuna’s fist connected with Choso’s jaw, sending him crashing to the floor. Choso let out a grunt of pain, his hand reaching up to his swollen face as he tried to push himself off the ground.
“Don’t ever touch what’s mine,” Sukuna snarled, his voice low, barely controlled. He looked down at Choso with a sneer before turning his gaze back to you, like you were nothing more than a toy he owned.
You took a step back, a knot forming in your stomach as Sukuna’s eyes found yours. There was nothing but cold anger in them, and you knew this wasn’t over.
“Get up,” Sukuna ordered Choso, his tone like ice. Choso, despite his pain, stumbled to his feet, his face pale with shock. But it didn’t matter. Sukuna wasn’t done with him.
“You think you can just walk up to herl? ” Sukuna’s voice was deadly, each word dripping with venom.
Choso opened his mouth to say something, but Sukuna was already grabbing his collar again, slamming him against the wall with a sickening thud. Choso gasped for air, his eyes wide with fear.
“fucking idiot,” Sukuna spat, his grip tightening, “I’ll ruin your life if you come near her again. Understand?”
Choso nodded quickly, his face pale with fear. Without saying another word, Sukuna shoved him toward the door, his hands still on Choso’s back as he pushed him out of the room like a ragdoll.
The room fell silent, everyone watching, but no one dared to move.
And then, it was just you and him.
Sukuna turned back to you, his gaze colder than ever, like he had just won a victory. He didn’t even give you a chance to react before grabbing your arm roughly, dragging you toward the door.
“Come on,” he muttered, his voice thick with irritation. “We’re leaving.”
You jerked your arm away, trying to pull back, but he was too strong. “What the hell, Sukuna?!” you spat. “You can’t just do that!”
“Oh, I can,” he said, his voice low, dangerous. “And I will. You’re not allowed to talk to anyone else.”
“We’re done.” you said, your voice trembling, but you didn’t back down.
He stopped walking and turned to face you, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you thought he might say something—anything—but he didn’t. Instead, he just stared at you, like he was deciding whether or not to break you.
The silence stretched on, heavy with tension.
“You think you can walk away from me?” he finally said, his voice soft, but there was a deadly edge to it. “You think I’ll just let you go? You think this—” he motioned to the space between you both “—is over?”
You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. You could feel the weight of his words in your bones. It wasn’t over. It wasn’t ever going to be over with him.
He grabbed your wrist again, this time more forcefully, and yanked you toward him. “You’re mine,” he repeated, his voice low and insistent. “And I’ll remind you of that every fucking day until you remember.”
You tried to pull away again, but it was useless. His grip was unrelenting, like he was determined to keep you in his grasp no matter what.
The part of you that still wanted to fight back felt small, insignificant in the face of his dominance.
And so, you let him drag you out the door.
You didn’t say a single word the entire walk back to his apartment. Sukuna didn’t either — not until he shoved the door shut behind you and the silence became unbearable.
He stood there, breathing hard, eyes burning into you like you were some kind of betrayal made flesh.
“You find this is funny?” he finally snapped. “Talking to some guy on campus like we’re nothing?”
“We are nothing,” you shot back. “I broke up with you, Sukuna. I’m done.”
He froze.
Not with shock — with rage.
“No,” he said quietly, with a deadly calm that made your skin prickle. “You’re not done. You’re confused. You’re—”
“—finally thinking clearly,” you cut in.
He stared at you for a long moment. Something behind his eyes cracked.
Then suddenly—
he dropped to his knees.
Right in front of you.
Like the floor had given out.
You stumbled back a step, startled. “What the hell are you doing?”
He grabbed your wrist — not rough this time, but desperately, fingers trembling in a way you had never seen from him.
“Don’t walk away from me,” he said, voice low and gravelly. “Don’t you dare.”
You swallowed. Hard.
“Sukuna, get up—”
“No.” His grip tightened. “Not until you listen.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but he was already pulling you closer, his forehead pressing against your stomach like he needed the contact to breathe.
“You’re the one,” he muttered against your shirt, a raw whisper that didn’t sound like him at all. “You’re it. No one else matters. No one. Just you.”
Your chest tightened.
You hated how easily his words dug under your skin.
“Sukuna… you’re manipulating me right now.”
He looked up at you slowly. His eyes were bloodshot, dark, fierce — but underneath, there was something horribly, painfully sincere.
“Maybe I am,” he said. “Maybe I don’t care.”
He rose slightly on his knees so he could wrap his arms around your waist, dragging you closer.
“You’re all I fucking think about,” he confessed, voice cracking at the edges. “Every second. Every night. You leaving? It feels like someone ripped out my chest.”
You bit your lip, trying to keep your voice steady. “Why? Because you can’t stand not being in control?”
“No,” he growled. “Because you’re mine.”
You pulled back, but he held on tighter.
“Sukuna—”
“I’ll do anything,” he said suddenly, the words spilling out like he’d been holding them back for years. He buried his face against your stomach again. “Just let me in again. Let me fix it. Let me—”
“You don’t want to fix anything,” you said sharply. “You want me back in your cage.”
His hands tightened around you, grip trembling.
“I want you with me,” he corrected, voice rough. “I want you where you belong.”
You felt your breath catch.
He was unraveling fast — and he knew it.
“And if I say no?” you whispered.
He looked up at you again, eyes cold and desperate at the same time.
“Then I’ll chase you,” he said, voice steady now. “I’ll chase you until you break. Until you realize I’m the only one who knows you. The only one who loves you the way you need to be loved.”
Your pulse hammered painfully. “That isn’t love.”
His fingers slid up your sides, slowly, deliberately, as if he were memorizing you with every inch. His voice dropped to a low, husky rumble.
“Then let me show you what it is.”
“Sukuna—stop.”
But he wasn’t listening anymore.
He pulled himself up from the floor — but instead of letting go, he pressed you back against the wall, caging you in with his body, his breath hot and ragged against your cheek.
“I want you back,” he murmured, his lips brushing your jaw. “I need you back. And you need me too — you just don’t want to admit it.”
He grabbed your chin gently but firmly, forcing you to meet his gaze.
“Tell me you don’t feel anything,” he whispered. “Look me in the eyes and lie to me.”
You swallowed hard.
You couldn’t.
You hated that you couldn’t.
His smile was slow, dangerous, triumphant.
“see?” he murmured. “You still want me. And I’m not letting you go.”
His forehead pressed to yours, breath mingling with yours, voice barely above a whisper.
“Come back to me.”
The room felt too small.
He felt too close.
And the worst part was—
You didn’t move away.
Sukuna’s hands were still on your waist when you finally found your voice again.
“Sukuna… move.”
Your tone wasn’t soft. It wasn’t trembling. It was firm.
He froze.
“…What?”
You pushed gently at his chest — not a shove, just distance.
But even that was enough to make his jaw tick.
“I need to go home,” you said, stepping away from the wall. “I’m not doing this with you right now.”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re not leaving.”
“I am.” You grabbed your bag. “I need—space. I need to think.”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Sukuna didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink.
“You’re not fucking serious,” he finally said, voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. “You’re doing this shit again?”
“It’s not ‘shit,’ Sukuna. It’s healthy. It’s normal.”
He laughed.
A horrifying, humorless sound that scraped across your chest.
“Normal?” he echoed. “What’s normal is you being here. With me. What’s normal is you not walking out that door again.”
“Sukuna—”
“No.”
He stalked toward you, the tension radiating off him like heat. “Every time you say you’re done, you run. Run to your dorm. Run to your friends. Run to some guy who looks at you like you’re free.”
He stepped closer.
“So tell me. Who are you running to this time?”
You snapped.
“I’m running from you.”
Those four words hit him like a blade.
For a split second, his face broke—hurt, disbelief, something devastating flashing through his eyes.
Then everything detonated.
“Why the fuck are you saying that?!” he roared, pacing like a caged animal. “After everything I just told you—after I dropped to my fucking knees—”
“That’s the problem!” you yelled back. “You don’t listen! You only panic when you think I’m slipping away and then you go right back to being the same controlling asshole who ruined us in the first place!”
Sukuna’s breath hitched.
Not with anger.
With fear.
“Don’t do this,” he said quietly. “Don’t say this shit. You don’t mean it.”
“I do,” you whispered. “You’re too much. I can’t breathe when I’m with you. I can’t speak without you twisting it. I can’t even talk to someone on campus without you breaking their jaw.”
He flinched.
“Sukuna… you scare me.”
That was it.
That was the match.
His whole body stiffened, rage rising so fast it shook his shoulders.
“You’re not fucking scared of me,” he snapped, voice wavering. “You’re scared of losing control. You’re scared of how much you need me. You’re scared of the part of you that belongs to me, and you hate yourself for it.”
You stepped back. He saw it. And he broke.
“Don’t,” he growled. “Don’t walk away from me again. I swear to god, I’ll lose my fucking mind.”
Tears stung behind your eyes, but you refused to let them fall.
“I’m not breaking up with you,” you said softly.
Sukuna’s eyes widened—almost hopeful.
“But…” Your voice cracked. “I think we need a break.”
“You’re too much right now. You don’t listen. You’re spiraling. And if I say ‘we’re done’ again, you’ll lose it. I know you will. So I’m asking for a break instead.”
His chest rose sharply.
He looked like someone had ripped the ground out from under him.
“A break is worse,” he said through clenched teeth. “A break means you’re planning to leave anyway. A break means you’re giving yourself permission to forget me.”
“I’m giving myself permission to breathe,” you said.
“No.” His voice cracked.
“No. No, no.”
He grabbed the back of his neck, pacing, pulling at his hair like he was physically in pain.
“You’re not thinking right,” he murmured. “You’re emotional. You’re overwhelmed. You always say shit you don’t mean when you’re overwhelmed. We can fix this. We can talk.”
“You don’t listen when we talk,” you said, your voice a whisper now. “You only listen when you’re scared.”
He stopped dead.
Those words hit him deeper than any insult.
“…And you think I don’t know that?” he said, shaking, voice barely audible. “You think I don’t realize how fucked I am? How fucking insane I get when it comes to you?”
Your throat tightened. “I need time,” you said again, gently this time. “Just time.”
Sukuna’s eyes glistened with something you didn’t dare name.
He took one step toward you—slow, hesitant, nothing like the man who dragged you across campus earlier.
“Please,” he whispered.
The word didn’t sound right coming from him. It sounded like something broken.
“Don’t do this to me.”
Your heart cracked .Because he meant it. Because he wasn’t lying.
Because he would burn the world down before he let someone else have you.
But you stood your ground.
“I’m taking a break,” you said, steady.
Your voice didn’t shake. Not this time.
Sukuna exhaled shakily.
He looked like he was dying.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
Not in agreement —
in surrender.
“…Fine,” he said hoarsely.
“But don’t think for a second this is over.”
He lifted your chin with trembling fingers, forcing your eyes on his.
“You can take your break,” he whispered.
“But I’ll get you back. Even if I have to tear apart every excuse you hide behind. Even if you hate me. Even if you run.”
Synopsis: After finally breaking up with him, you thought you could move on. You were wrong. Sukuna doesn’t let go, and neither does the darkness that follows him. When jealousy, obsession, and twisted love collide, the line between freedom and suffocation blurs. You want him gone—but he wants you, no matter the cost.
Word count: 2.7k
Notes: this story has EXTREMELY toxic themes, read at your own risk.
𝐏𝐓𝟐
You were sitting in the corner of the campus library, your fingers absently flipping through the pages of a textbook, but you weren’t reading. How could you? You could barely focus. You could still hear his words from earlier that morning echoing in your mind.
“I’m not doing this. I’m not making this public. We’re not a thing to anyone but us. You got it?”
You had told yourself it would be fine at first. That you could handle it. That being with him in private, in your own little world, was enough. After all, it always was—at least, that’s what you convinced yourself. But the more time went on, the more you realized the toll it was taking on you.
The more you realized you were nothing to anyone else.
Sukuna. The terrifying, insufferably arrogant man who held you in his grasp. The one who controlled every part of your emotions and yet refused to even let you exist publicly as his. The one who twisted everything you thought you knew about yourself into a sick little game for his own amusement.
It had always been this way. Always private. Always hidden.
You didn’t notice him at first, too lost in your thoughts, until you felt his presence. That same feeling of something heavy in the air, something that made your skin prickle, your breath catch.
You didn’t need to look up to know it was him.
But you did anyway.
His crimson eyes found yours immediately, gleaming with something cold, something calculating. He was standing by the entrance to the library, arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the doorframe like he owned the entire room.
"Busy?" His voice was low, laced with a dark amusement, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
You swallowed, suddenly feeling small. “No, just… studying,” you said, the words coming out more bitter than you intended. Your heart was already pounding, the anger you’d been bottling up for days finally boiling to the surface.
You didn’t wait for him to come closer. You stood up, grabbing your bag and throwing it over your shoulder. The tension between you both was too thick to ignore now.
“Where are you going?” Sukuna’s voice hardened, his usual nonchalance slipping into something far more dangerous. He pushed himself off the doorframe and took a step toward you, closing the space between you with a single stride.
“I’m done,” you snapped, the words coming out before you could stop them. “Done with this. Done with you.”
His eyes flashed, and for a moment, you thought he might laugh. But instead, his face darkened, his jaw clenching.
“You’re done?” he asked, his voice dropping dangerously low, like a threat. “Is that what you think? You think you can just walk away from me like it’s nothing?”
You shook your head, a bitter laugh escaping you. “You think you can treat me like shit, keep me locked away in this little secret, and I’m just supposed to take it? That’s not how this works, Sukuna.”
His face twisted, that cruel smirk of his making your stomach churn. “How does it work, then? You think you can come in here and demand something from me? You think you have the right to make demands of me?”
“I’m not your fucking pet,” you spat, taking a step back as you felt your anger surge. “I’m a person, Sukuna. But you treat me like I’m nothing. Like I don’t matter.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.
Sukuna’s gaze narrowed, darkening with something you couldn’t quite place. “You don’t matter to anyone but me. You really think anyone else would care about you like I do? Look at you. Look at what you are. Pathetic, desperate for my attention. You think anyone else would give you what I do?”
The sting of his words hit you like a slap. He was right. He knew it, and deep down, so did you. You weren’t anything without him. No one else would love you, care for you the way he did... even if his love was twisted, suffocating, and cold.
But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.
“I’m not pathetic,” you said, your voice shaking, though you tried to hold it together. “You treat me like I’m some dirty secret, and I’m done with it.”
Sukuna’s lips curled into a smirk, but it wasn’t the playful kind you used to know. It was dark. Calculating.
“You’re not done with anything. You can’t even leave. You want to, don’t you? You want me to make this official, but you won’t admit it. You’d beg me to make you mine in front of the whole damn campus if you thought I’d say yes.”
You felt the words sink in like knives. He wasn’t wrong. You wanted to be the one he showed off, the one everyone knew was his. But he’d always refused. Always kept you as his dirty little secret, hidden from everyone but him.
“Shut up,” you whispered, your voice breaking as you looked down, unable to meet his gaze.
Sukuna wasn’t having it. He grabbed your chin, forcing you to look up at him, his fingers digging into your skin. The touch was possessive, bruising.
“No,” he said coldly. “I’m not done with you yet. You think you can walk away, that you can leave me like some fucking child? You think you’re strong enough to do that?”
“I don’t need you,” you said, even though the words felt like they were choking you as they left your mouth.
Sukuna’s laugh was low, mocking. “You do need me. You’re nothing without me. You always have been. You’re not good enough for anyone else. No one else is going to take you in, to care about you, like I do. I give you everything. And you’re ungrateful.”
You flinched at his words, every fiber of your being recoiling from the harsh truth of them. You hated how much it hurt, how much they stung. He was right—again. You didn’t know how to exist without him. You didn’t know how to stop craving his twisted attention, his cruel affection.
Sukuna’s face was inches from yours now, his breath hot against your skin. “But you know what? You’ll always come back to me. You’ll always beg me to make it right. I own you. And deep down, you know you’re mine. Forever.”
The words sent a shiver down your spine, not because you wanted them, but because you didn’t want them. You hated how true they felt. How you couldn’t escape him.
He let go of your chin, but not before his thumb brushed over your lower lip in a slow, deliberate movement. His gaze didn’t leave yours, and you could feel the weight of his control bearing down on you.
“You’re nothing without me,” he repeated softly, almost as a whisper, before his eyes flicked to your lips. “And you know it.”
The space between you both seemed to close, suffocating you as he leaned in even closer, his lips brushing against your ear. "You’re mine. No one else will ever take care of you. Not the way I do."
And for all your anger, all your hurt, you still didn’t pull away. You couldn’t.
The aftermath of your breakup was suffocating. It wasn’t just the empty space in your room or the dull ache in your chest that weighed you down. It was the uncertainty—the waiting. The constant, nagging feeling that Sukuna might show up any minute, his twisted, cruel love pushing and pulling at you like the tide.
You thought you were done with him. Thought you’d made the decision to finally walk away from his suffocating hold. But you knew Sukuna. You knew how he operated. And you knew he wouldn’t let you go without a fight.
It had been two weeks since you told him you were done. Two weeks since you left him standing there, that cruel smirk on his face as he said, “You’ll be back.” You didn’t respond. You couldn’t.
Now, you were sitting at your usual table in the café across campus, trying to distract yourself with your work. You had tried to move on, you had tried to live—but it was hard when he was everywhere.
The sound of footsteps near you broke through your thoughts. You didn't even have to look up to know who it was.
“Two weeks, huh?” His voice was like a blade. Soft, dangerous, slicing through the air. “You really think you can last this long without me?”
You didn’t look up at him immediately, though the tension in your body was thick. “I told you it’s over, Sukuna,” you said, your voice steady, but not without a hint of frustration. “I’m done.”
He slid into the chair opposite you with that same self-assured smirk on his face, like he owned the entire space around him. The arrogance that had once drawn you to him now disgusted you. His eyes glinted with something sharp as he leaned forward, those predatory crimson irises burning through you.
“Done?” He leaned closer, close enough that you could smell the familiar scent of his cologne—too overpowering, like a reminder of everything you were trying to escape. “Do you really think you can just walk away like you’re nothing to me?.”
“I’m not yours, Sukuna,” you said, the words cold and final. “I left you. Remember?”
Sukuna’s smirk faltered for just a moment, but it was enough to make you feel something deep in your gut—something you didn’t want to acknowledge. You could see the anger brewing behind his eyes. It was only a matter of time before it boiled over.
“You think I’m going to let someone else have you? After everything we’ve been through? After everything I’ve done for you? No. You’re mine.”
You met his gaze, your heart pounding, but you didn’t flinch. “I’m not yours anymore. I’m done with your games. Done with being your secret, your plaything. You don’t own me.”
For a brief moment, there was silence between you two, the tension crackling in the air. Sukuna’s eyes flickered with something dangerous, something dark, and his lips curled into a twisted grin.
You didn’t have time to react before he stood up, taking a step back, his eyes flashing with something predatory. Then he turned and walked toward the entrance, but not before giving you a look that was filled with pure, malicious intent.
“Enjoy your little freedom while it lasts. I’m not done with you yet.”
You couldn’t get the image of him walking away out of your head. You didn’t want to be tangled in his web any longer, but there was still a part of you that felt… trapped.
Later that evening, at the party. You hadn’t even wanted to go. Your friends had dragged you along, telling you to forget about Sukuna, that you needed to move on, to have fun. You had tried to let go, to focus on something other than him, but you still felt the weight of his absence.
Then you saw him.
Sukuna was standing across the room, leaning against the wall, his gaze scanning the crowd like a predator looking for his next prey. But he wasn’t looking at you. He was looking at her.
The blonde. The one who’d been clinging to him like he was her salvation. She was close to him again, talking to him, laughing at something he said. But it wasn’t just the proximity that had your blood boiling. No, it was the way Sukuna was looking at her. The way he was smiling at her. Like she was the only one in the room.
You felt the anger rise in you, the jealousy coursing through your veins like fire. You were done with him, you told yourself. He couldn’t do this to you. But when you saw him smile at her, it didn’t matter. It hit you harder than you expected. The familiar ache, the tightness in your chest, the rush of adrenaline that made you want to fight. To claim what was yours.
You didn’t think, not really.
You walked across the room, cutting through the crowd, heading straight for the two of them. Sukuna didn’t see you at first, but when you stepped in front of him, his eyes darkened, and the smile that had been on his lips faltered.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he asked, his voice low, dangerous. He didn’t even acknowledge the girl beside him.
“Cut the shit, Sukuna,” you spat, your anger flaring. “If you want to fuck around with her, go ahead. But don’t come back to me with that shit. Don’t come back to me like nothing’s changed.”
Sukuna stood up straighter, his body language shifting to something darker. The girl beside him nervously excused herself, sensing the tension, but Sukuna didn’t even spare her a glance. His eyes were fixed on you now, no longer amused, but burning with rage.
“You really think you can talk to me like that?” he snarled. “You think you can walk away, then show up here trying to make a scene?”
Without another word, he grabbed your arm, pulling you roughly out of the crowd.
“You’re making a scene right now. And you know what happens when you fuck with me, don’t you?” His grip tightened, his voice dropping low enough that only you could hear. “I’ll show you who you really belong to.”
You yanked your arm away, but it was pointless. His eyes were filled with that same twisted possessiveness, the same dangerous love that had once suffocated you. You wanted to scream, to tell him you didn’t want any part of this anymore.
“Let go of me!” you hissed, but it didn’t make him stop. He dragged you out of the party, through the dark streets, until you were back at your apartment.
Once inside, Sukuna slammed the door behind you, locking it with a sharp click that made your stomach drop.
“You think I’m going to just let you go?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “You belong to me. No one else is going to have you. No one.”
His hand reached out, grabbing your chin with an iron grip. His face was inches from yours now, and you could feel the heat of his anger radiating off him, the twisted affection in his eyes.
“i won't let you forget me” he whispered, his voice low, almost tender, like he was trying to convince you of something.
He reached down, tracing his fingers along the curve of your neck, a smirk on his lips. “You think you can live without me?”
You swallowed hard, glaring at him. “I don’t need you anymore.”
Sukuna’s smile only grew, dark and cruel, as he leaned in close enough that you could feel his breath on your lips.
“You’re lying,” he murmured, brushing his lips against yours in the most dangerous, twisted kiss you’d ever experienced. “You’ll always need me, Y/N. And I’ll always come back for you.”
The baby stops crying before you realize you’ve fallen asleep sitting up.
Your neck aches, your shirt is damp with milk, and the living room is washed in the cold blue glow of a TV you don’t remember turning on. It’s 2:37 a.m. Toji should’ve been home hours ago.
Your phone is facedown beside you. You hesitate before touching it, because you already know what you’ll see.
He didn’t call. He didn’t text. Again.
The house is silent in the way that makes your stomach twist—too still, too empty, too wrong. You gather your son against your shoulder, rocking gently, because even asleep he flinches at the slightest shift. He’s been restless lately, and you’re the only one here to soothe him.
You have been the only one for weeks.
A car door slams outside.
There’s a shuffling at the front door, a key scraping the lock, then the sluggish push of the doorframe. You don’t move. You just hold your baby tighter.
Toji steps in, the scent hitting first—cheap perfume, smoke, the bar he always swears he wasn’t at.
You stare at his silhouette as he kicks off his shoes, stumbling slightly. He doesn’t look drunk. That would almost be easier.
“Hey,” he mutters, rubbing his neck as if he’s the one tired. “You’re awake.”
You swallow. “It’s almost three.”
“Yeah.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. He won’t look at you.
You really thought motherhood would be the hard part.
Turns out it’s being invisible.
“Where were you?” you ask, quietly so your voice won’t shake. The baby stirs, and you automatically sway, a motion you’ve done so many times it’s become instinct.
Toji exhales sharply, annoyed. “Don’t start.”
Your grip tightens. “You promised you’d be home to help with the night feeding.”
“I got held up.”
“At a job?” you ask, and you already know the answer.
Silence.
He finally looks at you. His eyes are tired. Guilty. But not enough.
Never enough.
You feel something inside you drop, like a stone sinking into water.
“You smell like her again,” you whisper.
His jaw flexes. “It’s not— You’re blowing shit out of proportion.”
“Then say it isn’t true.”
He doesn’t.
He doesn’t even try.
And for the first time since giving birth, the tears gathering behind your eyes aren’t from hormones or exhaustion—they’re from something sharp, something breaking.
“Toji…” You set your son gently in the bassinet beside the couch, your hands trembling as you tuck the blanket around him. “I needed you.” The words come out raw. “I needed you more than I ever have.”
He looks at the floor.
You step closer despite every instinct screaming not to. “I’m barely sleeping. I’m barely functioning. And you— Where are you? Every night, where do you go?”
Still nothing.
The quiet stretches between you like a wound.
“You’re supposed to be my husband,” you breathe. “His father.”
“I am,” he snaps, defensive, but there’s a flicker of shame in his eyes.
“No.” You shake your head slowly. “You’re a ghost. You disappear and come back smelling like someone else and expect me not to notice.”
His mouth opens—maybe to lie, maybe to apologize, maybe to deny—but then he closes it again. He looks at the wall over your shoulder. Anywhere but at you.
And God, it hurts.
Your throat tightens until you can’t speak. You press a shaking hand to your forehead. “Do you even love me anymore?”
Finally, that gets a reaction. His gaze snaps to yours, something dark and conflicted flickering there. But he still doesn't answer.
Your breath stutters out like a sob.
It’s pathetic, how small you feel. How breakable. Like the version of you who existed before childbirth—the strong one, the confident one—was washed away the moment your son entered the world.
And Toji wasn’t there to hold the pieces.
He wasn’t there for any of it.
“You should sleep,” he says quietly.
You laugh—a hollow, humorless sound. “I can’t.”
You can’t with him standing there, smelling like sin and secrets.
You can’t with your chest cracked open.
You can’t with the truth finally unmasked between you.
“Toji,” you whisper, voice cracking. “Just tell me why.”
He closes his eyes.
And the answer is the cruelest silence you’ve ever heard.
Morning comes slowly.
The kind of morning that feels like punishment—gray, too quiet, too aware.
You’re still on the couch. Your baby sleeps fitfully in the bassinet beside you, unaware that something in the house shifted overnight. Toji never came to bed.
You don’t know where he is.
You barely care.
Your chest feels hollow. Your limbs feel foreign. You move on autopilot, feeding your son, burping him, changing him, doing everything you always do—alone.
It’s only when you’re washing bottles at the sink, hands shaking beneath the warm water, that you feel him behind you.
You don’t turn.
He clears his throat. “We need to talk.”
There it is.
The sentence that changes everything.
You finally face him.
He looks like hell. Disheveled hair, dark circles, shirt wrinkled from either sleeping on the floor or not sleeping at all. His guilt is written in every line of his face.
You rub your chapped lips together. “Yeah,” you say. “We do.”
He opens his mouth, but you speak first—because for once, you can’t afford to let him set the tone.
“I want a divorce.”
The words hit the air like a gunshot.
Toji freezes. The blood drains from his face.
He looks at you like you’ve stabbed him—like he didn’t hand you the knife weeks ago.
“…What?” he croaks.
“I can’t do this anymore,” you say quietly. “I can’t keep waiting for you to come home. I can’t keep pretending I’m not alone in this marriage. I can’t keep raising a baby by myself while you—”
Your voice breaks, but you steady it.
“—while you’re with someone else.”
He flinches at that. His jaw tightens, guilt and shame twisting his features.
“It wasn’t—” He stops. Tries again. Fails. “It wasn’t supposed to go that far.”
“But it did.”
He closes his eyes. A muscle jumps in his jaw.
You place a bottle on the drying rack, your movements slow and deliberate.
“I’m not… enough for you anymore,” you whisper.
“That’s not—” His voice cracks. “That’s not true.”
“It feels true.”
He steps closer. “I never stopped— I still love you.”
You finally look at him. Really look.
“Then why wasn’t love enough to keep you home?”
Your voice is soft. That makes it worse.
He sinks onto a chair as if his legs can’t hold him. His hands tremble as he drags them through his hair.
“I fucked up,” he whispers. “I fucked up worse than I ever have.” His breathing hitches, low and shaky. “And I don’t know how to fix it.”
“There is no fixing it.”
His head snaps up. Panic flares in his eyes.
“Don’t say that.”
“I already filed the paperwork.”
A lie—but he doesn’t know that.
He stands abruptly, the chair scraping. “Baby—”
“Don’t call me that.”
He stops like you slapped him.
You wipe a tear before it can fall. “You lost that right.”
He swallows hard. His chest rises and falls unevenly. He looks like he’s trying not to fall apart.
“I’ll change,” he says desperately. “I’ll stop going out. I’ll cut her off. I’ll do whatever you want. Just… don’t do this. Don’t leave.”
“I’m not leaving,” you say softly. “You did.”
The silence that follows is worse than any shouting.
Your baby whimpers, sensing the tension. You go to him immediately, lifting him gently, your touch practiced even through your shaking hands.
Toji watches you, something breaking in his eyes.
Maybe for the first time, he’s seeing what he walked away from.
You cradle your son close. “He deserves a father who shows up.”
“I can be that.”
His voice breaks, raw and pleading. “I will be that.”
You won’t cry. You won’t.
“You said that before,” you whisper. “You said it when I was pregnant. You said it when I came home from the hospital. You said it the first time I wondered why you weren’t in our bed.”
“I was scared,” he says, voice cracking. “I didn’t know how to be the man you needed. I thought I’d ruin it. So I— I ran.” His voice shakes harder. “And I kept running.”
“And you ran straight to someone else.”
He looks physically pained. “I know. I know, and I’ll never forgive myself for it. But please—tell me what I can do now.”
You rock your son gently, more for yourself than him.
“Sign the divorce papers.”
He staggers back like the floor has tilted under him. His eyes shine—not tears yet, but close.
“You’re serious.”
“I’ve never been more.”
“Please.” His voice drops to something broken. “Please don’t take my family away.”
A bitter, soft laugh escapes you. “You gave it away.”
His breath catches—sharp, panicked.
You walk past him, brushing his shoulder lightly, and he flinches at even that small touch, like he doesn’t deserve it. Because he doesn’t.
You pause in the doorway.
“Toji,” you say without turning back. “I loved you. I loved you with everything I had left.”
Silence. You feel him holding his breath.
“But I can’t love someone who doesn’t choose me.”
A strangled sound leaves him—something between a gasp and a sob—but you keep walking.
For the first time in your marriage, Toji is the one standing behind.
The one left in the empty room.
The one watching you walk away.
And he finally understands what regret feels like.
The clock on the bedside table glared red in the dark, an accusation. You didn’t move, though your heart jumped like it was trying to claw its way out. You just lay there, eyes open, breathing slow, pretending to be asleep.
The floorboards creaked under his weight. He always walked heavy, careless, like he owned the space — like he owned you.
“Still up?” his voice came, low, almost amused.
You kept your eyes shut. “No.”
He chuckled. “Liar.”
There was the sound of fabric — his jacket hitting the couch, his keys on the counter. Then silence. A heavy, suffocating silence. You could smell smoke on him. And perfume. Sweet. Expensive. Not yours.
You swallowed hard. “You smell different.”
He froze. Just for a second. “Do I?”
“Yeah.” You sat up, the sheet falling off your shoulder. “You do.”
He didn’t answer. Just looked at you, eyes dark, unreadable, that same indifferent stare you used to think meant mystery. Now it just looked like distance.
You tried to laugh, but it came out brittle. “You could at least try to come up with something. Traffic. A late meeting. Anything.”
He said nothing. Just reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Lit one. Took a drag. Didn’t even bother stepping outside anymore.
“You’re not even going to deny it?” you asked, voice cracking despite yourself.
Sukuna exhaled a stream of smoke, slow, deliberate. “What do you want me to say?”
“No.” You met his gaze. “I want you to say no.”
A pause. Then: “You wouldn’t believe me.”
That was the moment. The one that split your chest open and left nothing but ache inside.
You stood up, bare feet cold against the floor. “Who is she?”
He shrugged. “Does it matter?”
You laughed. It sounded ugly. “To me? Yeah. It matters.”
“Don’t do that,” he muttered.
“Do what?”
“Act like you didn’t know what this was.” His tone sharpened. “You think I made promises? I told you from the start—”
“That you don’t do love,” you snapped. “Yeah, I remember.”
“Then why are you looking at me like I just killed something?”
“Because you did.”
The silence after that was unbearable. You could hear the hum of the refrigerator, the tick of the clock, the thud of your pulse in your ears. He stared at the floor like it had answers. You stared at him like maybe he’d turn into someone you could still love.
But he didn’t.
He looked up, eyes flicking to the photo frame on the table — the one of you both at that stupid summer festival. You were laughing, his arm around you, his smile real. You could see the moment he remembered it too.
He turned away first. “You should sleep.”
“That’s it?” you whispered. “That’s all you have to say?”
He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, the sound sharp in the stillness. “You’ll be fine.”
You laughed again — a broken, hollow sound. “Fine? Sukuna, you— you made me think—”
He finally met your eyes. “You made yourself think.”
That hurt worse than anything else.
You didn’t stop him when he walked to the door. Didn’t stop him when he grabbed his jacket, when his hand lingered on the handle for half a second longer than it should have. You almost hoped he’d turn back. Almost.
He didn’t.
The click of the door shutting felt like the world ending quietly.
You stood there for a long time. The room still smelled like him — smoke, soap, and someone else’s perfume. You sat on the edge of the bed, eyes on the empty space where his shoes used to be, and realized he’d cleaned up before leaving.
The mug he always used — washed. His toothbrush — gone. The jacket — gone. You almost laughed at how neat it all was. How tidy heartbreak could look.
You found the earring later, glinting in the dark near the dresser. A stranger’s little secret, left behind like an insult.
You wanted to throw it away. But you didn’t. You just held it in your palm until it left a red mark on your skin, until you couldn’t tell if the sting was from that or from the tears you refused to shed.
You had practiced your goodbye, once. In the mirror. Smiling. Saying it was fun while it lasted. Being mature. Being fine.
But when the time came, you didn’t get to say a word.
Because Sukuna never gave you the chance.
He left the way he loved you — without warning, without mercy, and without looking back.
For a while, he really was fine.
That’s what he told himself, anyway.
He woke up in strange beds, with strange hands, in rooms that didn’t smell like coffee and clean sheets. There was always someone new. Someone who didn’t look at him too long, who didn’t ask where he’d been or why he couldn’t stay.
It was easier that way.
No questions. No weight. Just skin, and silence, and the thrill of pretending he didn’t care.
He almost believed it.
Until one morning, weeks later, he reached for a cigarette and realized his lighter was gone. The old silver one — the one you’d bought him. It used to be on his nightstand, right next to the framed photo he’d thrown out. He could still see it in his head: your laugh, the way you’d leaned into him, eyes half-closed against the sunlight.
He told himself it didn’t matter. Things get lost. People do too.
But that night, he dreamed of you.
He dreamed of the way you’d call his name like it meant something. Of how you’d press your palm to his chest and say, “You’re here,” as if you needed to convince yourself. He woke up with his heart hammering and an ache in his throat that felt too close to grief.
He didn’t go back, though.
Sukuna doesn’t go back. He doesn’t apologize, doesn’t chase, doesn’t regret. That’s what he’s always told himself — that it’s easier to burn a bridge than rebuild it.
So he went on.
New faces. New cities. The same emptiness.
But they never looked at him the way you did. They didn’t know how to touch him without trying to fix him, didn’t whisper his name like it was both a prayer and a curse. Every time one of them laughed, he caught himself waiting for your voice — that soft, tired sound you made when you were trying not to cry.
And every time it wasn’t you, he felt something inside him crack a little more.
He started seeing you everywhere.
In reflections, in passing strangers, in songs he used to mock you for loving. Once, he even thought he heard your laugh in a crowd, and it nearly stopped him cold.
He didn’t follow it.
He just stood there, letting the sound fade, because what would he even say if it was you?
“Hey.”
“Sorry.”
“Come home.”
The words sat on his tongue, bitter and useless. He knew he’d ruin it again. He always does.
One night, drunk and half-honest, he admitted it to himself — whispered it into the dark like a confession.
“I shouldn’t have left.”
The silence didn’t forgive him.
He’s still fine, technically. Still breathing. Still walking. Still waking up beside people he doesn’t care about. But sometimes, when the city’s quiet and the smoke burns his lungs, he remembers how you used to steal his lighter just to make him talk to you.
And he hates that it still hurts.
Because he meant what he said — he doesn’t do love.
But you made him almost wish he did.
Now he carries that almost everywhere.
In his pockets.
In the space between cigarettes.
In the parts of him he’ll never show anyone else.
And every time he lights a new one, he thinks about you.
About the night he walked out.
About the sound the door made when it closed —
soft, final,
like the end of a prayer he never deserved.
It’s been three years.
He sees you by accident.
He’s sitting at some nameless café on a street he doesn’t even live near anymore. Just passing through. Just killing time. The kind of place that doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t remember faces.
And then — there you are.
You look the same.
No, not the same. Softer, maybe. Different, but in the way a wound turns into a scar — healed, but not forgotten. You’re standing by the counter, talking to the barista, laughing at something he says.
That laugh.
It still does something to him.
You don’t see him at first. He almost hopes you won’t. His cigarette burns down to ash between his fingers, and he doesn’t even move to flick it away. He just watches. Watches the way your hair falls over your shoulder, the way you reach for your drink with the same left hand that used to tug on his shirt in the mornings.
He remembers that hand.
He remembers everything.
The first time you touched him.
The last time you let go.
The way you said his name like it hurt to speak it.
He thought he’d forgotten, but memory is cruel like that — it comes back when you least want it to, uninvited and unforgiving.
You finally turn.
Your eyes meet.
It’s a heartbeat.
A second.
An eternity.
You freeze. So does he.
There’s no anger there anymore. No tears. Just a soft, distant kind of calm — the kind that says *I survived you.*
And he can’t even hate it.
He just stares, half of him wanting to get up, cross the room, say *something.* Anything.
But what is there left to say?
“Sorry”?
“Come back”?
“Do you still think of me?”
He doesn’t deserve to ask.
So instead, he gives you a small nod — almost imperceptible, like an acknowledgment between two ghosts passing in daylight.
You smile. It’s polite. Careful.
Then you turn away.
You walk out the door, the bell above it chiming once, twice, fading with your steps.
He sits there long after you’re gone, the untouched coffee cooling in front of him, the smoke curling toward the ceiling.
And for the first time in years, Sukuna feels something close to grief. Not sharp — dull, deep, familiar. The kind that lingers.
He knows he could still get up. Run after you. Try.
But he doesn’t.
Because the truth hits harder than any fight ever did — You’re not his anymore.
You stopped being his the moment he walked away.
And now, all he has left are the ghosts of what he ruined, and the silence that always follows him home.
Not the usual kind — not the soft hum of city traffic through the glass, or the faint echo of a TV left running. No, this silence is hollow. It hums against his skull, presses into his ribs.
The bed beside him is cold.
Sukuna sits up slowly, the sheets falling away. The scent of your perfume is fading — faint, ghostlike. There’s a single earring on the pillow where you used to sleep, the one he bought you in Paris two years ago. You used to joke that if you ever left, you’d at least leave him a piece of proof that you were real.
He didn’t think you meant it.
The penthouse looks different now. Colder. Larger. Too neat. You always used to complain that he treated the place like a museum — all structure, no life. But you filled it anyway. You left books open on the counter, hair ties on every surface, half-finished coffee mugs wherever you went.
Now there’s nothing but order.
His phone buzzes against the nightstand — messages, calls, business. He doesn’t answer. He stares at the black screen until it goes still again.
There’s a cigarette burning in the ashtray before he even remembers lighting it. He takes a drag, exhales, and watches the smoke coil toward the ceiling.
You hated when he smoked indoors.
He does it anyway.
By noon, he’s pacing the apartment. The balcony door’s still cracked open, and the ashtray is full of your lipstick-marked stubs. He touches one without meaning to. The filter is cold, damp from rain or tears — he can’t tell.
You really left.
He checks your closet — half-empty. Your scent lingers on the coats you didn’t take, the dresses he bought but you never wore. He opens the bathroom cabinet — your toothbrush is gone.
Every small absence feels like a punch.
His reflection in the mirror looks wrong.
Too tired. Too human.
He splashes cold water over his face, gripping the sink until the marble creaks under his hands.
“She’ll be back,” he mutters to himself. “She always comes back.”
But even he doesn’t believe it.
The first week, he tries to work. Meetings, deals, late nights. It should be easy — distraction has always been his strongest armor. But she’s everywhere.
Your mug is still in the office, the one with the chipped handle. His driver still asks, Should I pick her up, sir? He doesn’t answer.
He catches himself reaching for his phone, typing your name, deleting it again.
He drives to your hospital once.
Sits in the parking lot, engine off, just staring at the building. He can’t make himself go in. What would he even say?
I ruined everything but come home anyway?
He knows you’d look at him the same way you did that night — tired, hollow, past saving.
By the third week, the city feels smaller.
He goes to Satori’s restaurant again. The hostess freezes when she sees him — maybe she remembers the night he sat there with someone else, laughing like he hadn’t already started breaking you.
He orders nothing. Just sits there, staring at the empty chair across from him. The one you should be in.
“Sir, are you waiting for someone?” she asks politely.
He smirks faintly, shaking his head.
The nights are worse.
He comes home drunk more often than he’d like to admit. The alcohol doesn’t quiet his mind — it just makes the silence louder.
Sometimes, he swears he hears you humming in the kitchen. Sometimes he imagines the sound of your bare feet on the floor, the click of a lighter, the soft laugh that used to follow his worst jokes.
But when he turns around, there’s nothing. Just smoke and empty space.
He dreams of you often — dreams of that night, the way your voice trembled when you said you were done choosing a man who never chose you back.
He always wakes before he can answer.
A month passes. Then two.
He finds out through a mutual friend that you’ve taken a position at a clinic outside the city. Smaller, quieter, far from him.
He almost drives there. Almost. But he doesn’t. He can’t.
Because deep down, he knows — if he sees you now, he’ll beg. And Sukuna Ryomen doesn’t beg.
So he stays.
He keeps his empire, his power, his money. All the things that once made him untouchable.
And none of it fills the space you left behind.
One night, he finds himself on that same balcony where you used to sit. The ashtray’s empty now — he cleaned it weeks ago, thinking it’d help. It didn’t.
The city hums below him, restless and alive. The same skyline you once said looked like hope.
He lights a cigarette and lets the smoke curl upward, tasting the same bitterness you used to hide behind.
“I told you not to stay out here so long,” he murmurs into the night, half to himself. “You’ll get sick.”
The words hang there, fading into the cold air.
He exhales. For the first time in his life, Ryomen Sukuna has everything — and feels like he’s lost the only thing that mattered.
He presses the cigarette out on the railing and stares at the ember as it dies.
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