Fratboy!sukuna x Nerdshy!y/n
This will contain: major character death, cheating, graphic car accident, blood, extreme angst, no comfort, reader death, grief, detailed heartbreak.
you surprised your fratboy boyfriend at his party wearing the bracelet he gave you, he was already inside someone else, and the night ended with your blood on his hands instead.
༻༺
The bass thumped through the walls of the frat house like a heartbeat on steroids, vibrating the sticky floors and making the red Solo cups rattle on every surface. Neon lights flickered in erratic patterns, casting glowing hues over sweaty bodies grinding to the rhythm of some overplayed EDM remix.
Laughter erupted in bursts, mingling with the sharp scent of cheap beer, weed smoke, and something vaguely fruity from the jungle juice punch bowl that had probably been spiked three times over.
This was Sukuna’s kingdom. Ryomen Sukuna, the undisputed king of campus chaos, with his tattooed arms, sharp jawline, and that devilish grin that could make girls forget their own names.
You, on the other hand, were the polar opposite. Y/N, the shy nerd tucked away in the library stacks, buried in textbooks on quantum physics or ancient literature, glasses slipping down your nose as you scribbled notes in margins. Social scenes like this? They were your nightmare. Crowds made your palms sweat, loud music drowned out your thoughts, and the idea of small talk with strangers felt like pulling teeth.
But Sukuna… he was your exception. Your wild, unpredictable exception.
It had started innocently enough. You’d bumped into him—literally—in the campus coffee shop last semester. Your stack of books had toppled, scattering pages everywhere, and instead of laughing or ignoring you like most frat guys would, Sukuna had knelt down to help. “Watch where you’re going, nerd,” he’d grumbled, but there was a smirk in his voice, a spark in those crimson eyes that made your heart stutter.
From there, it snowballed. Late-night study sessions in his dorm that turned into make-out marathons. Him dragging you to quiet corners of parties just to steal kisses away from the noise.
You, teaching him bits of philosophy while he traced patterns on your skin with his fingers. He called you his “little secret,” his anchor in the storm of his reckless life. And you believed him. God, did you believe him.
The bracelet on your wrist was proof of that. A simple silver chain with a small charm—a tiny rose, thorns and all—that he’d given you on your three-month anniversary. “Like you,” he’d said, fastening it around your wrist with surprisingly gentle hands. “Beautiful, but with a bite if anyone fucks with it.” You’d blushed, hiding your face in his chest, but the memory warmed you every time you glanced at it. It was your talisman, a reminder that beneath the fratboy facade, Sukuna cared. He loved you. Or so you thought.
Tonight was different. You’d decided to surprise him. He’d been complaining all week about how you never came to his parties, how he wanted to show you off, even if it meant pulling you into a quiet room upstairs away from the chaos. “C’mon, babe, just once,” he’d texted earlier that day. “I’ll make it worth your while.” You’d hesitated, staring at your reflection in the mirror—oversized sweater, jeans, minimal makeup. Not exactly party attire, but you weren’t trying to blend in. You were there for him.
Heart pounding, you pushed through the front door, the wall of sound hitting you like a tidal wave. Bodies everywhere, laughter too loud, the air thick with humidity from too many people in one space. You clutched your phone, texting Sukuna: Here. Surprise! Where are you? No response. Maybe he couldn’t hear it over the music. You weaved through the crowd, dodging elbows and spilled drinks, your anxiety spiking with every step. “Excuse me,” you murmured to no one in particular, eyes scanning for that familiar head of pink hair, those broad shoulders.
Upstairs. He was probably upstairs, away from the main fray. That’s where he liked to retreat when the party got too rowdy—his room, or one of the lounges. You climbed the stairs, the music fading slightly, replaced by muffled giggles and the occasional door slam. Your bracelet jingled softly as you moved, a comforting sound amidst the unfamiliar.
And then you heard it. A low groan, unmistakably his. Your steps faltered outside a half-open door to what looked like a spare bedroom. Peeking through the crack, your world shattered in an instant.
Sukuna was there, pressed against the wall, his hands roaming greedily over a girl you didn’t recognize—some sorority type with bleach-blonde hair and a skirt that barely covered anything. She was grinding against him, their bodies moving in a rhythm that made your stomach churn. His mouth was on hers, devouring, tongues tangling in a messy, heated kiss. One of his hands fisted in her hair, pulling her closer, while the other slid under her top, eliciting a moan from her that echoed in your ears like a gunshot.
Dry humping, right there in the dim light, clothes still on but intentions crystal clear. He was practically fucking her with his eyes, his hips bucking against hers in a way that left nothing to the imagination. The girl giggled, whispering something in his ear, and Sukuna laughed—that deep, rumbling laugh you thought was reserved for you.
Your breath caught, a sob building in your throat. This couldn’t be real. Not your Sukuna. Not the guy who’d held you through panic attacks, who’d whispered “I love you” in the quiet hours of the night. But there he was, lost in someone else, oblivious to the door, to you, to everything.
Heartbreak hit like a freight train. Rage boiled up, hot and blinding—how could he?—mixed with disbelief that clawed at your chest. Sadness followed, a tidal wave that drowned you, making your vision blur with tears. You stumbled back, hand flying to your mouth to stifle the cry. The bracelet caught on your sleeve as you turned, and in your haste, it snapped off, clattering to the floor. You didn’t stop to pick it up. Couldn’t. You just ran.
Down the stairs, through the crowd, tears streaming down your face. People blurred into faceless shapes, the music a deafening roar in your ears. “Sorry,” you gasped as you bumped into someone, but you didn’t stop.
Out the door, into the cool night air that slapped your heated skin. The streetlights cast long shadows, cars parked haphazardly along the curb. Your vision swam, sobs wracking your body as you bolted across the lawn, toward the road.
You didn’t see the car. Didn’t hear the honk over the blood rushing in your ears.
One moment, you were running, the next—impact. Tires screeching, a sickening thud. Pain exploded through your body, sharp and all-consuming, before numbness set in. You hit the pavement hard, asphalt scraping your skin, the world tilting sideways.
Someone screamed. A witness, phone already out, dialing 911. “Oh my God, someone got hit! Call an ambulance!”
Inside the house, the party raged on. Gojo Satoru, Sukuna’s chaotic best friend and fellow frat brother, was lounging near the speakers, white hair disheveled, sunglasses perched on his nose even in the dark. He heard the commotion outside—shouts, a car horn—but it barely registered until someone burst through the door, panting.
“Dude, someone just got fucking run over outside! It’s bad!”
Gojo straightened, peering over the crowd. He shouted over the music, voice cutting through like a knife: “Yo! Someone got hit out front! Party’s over, or some shit—check if it’s anyone we know!”
Laughter rippled through the room, dismissive. Sukuna, still upstairs, had just disentangled himself from the girl—whatever her name was—wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He felt a buzz in his pocket, finally checking his phone. Your text: Here. Surprise! Where are you? His brow furrowed. You? At a party? A smirk tugged at his lips. Cute. He’d find you, drag you upstairs, make up for the boredom.
Downstairs, Gojo’s shout reached him vaguely. Someone got hit. Sukuna rolled his eyes, adjusting his shirt. “Probably some drunk idiot,” he muttered to himself, not bothering to rush. It wouldn’t be anyone he cared about. You were probably somewhere safe hiding behind a couch. His.
But as he descended the stairs, the mood shifted. Whispers spread like wildfire. “It’s a girl… she was running from the house… blood everywhere…”
Sukuna’s steps quickened, a nagging unease twisting in his gut. He pushed through the crowd, out the door, into the night. Flashing lights in the distance—ambulance? Police? A cluster of people gathered around something on the road.
No. It couldn’t be.
He shoved past them, heart pounding now. And there you were.
Y/N.
Lying in a pool of your own blood, body twisted at an unnatural angle. Eyes glassy, unseeing. The bracelet—his bracelet—lay a few feet away, discarded in the grass like trash.
Time stopped. The world narrowed to that spot, to you, broken and still. “Y/N?” His voice cracked, barely a whisper. He dropped to his knees beside you, hands hovering, afraid to touch. Blood soaked into his jeans, warm and sticky. “Baby? Hey, wake up. This isn’t funny.”
But you didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. The paramedics arrived, pushing him back, but he fought them, snarling. “That’s my girl! Get the fuck off—let me—”
Too late. They checked for a pulse, shook their heads. “She’s gone.”
Gone.
The word echoed in his skull, hollow and final. Sukuna’s world crumbled. Rage surged first— at the driver, at the party, at himself—but it shattered into disbelief. This wasn’t real. You couldn’t be dead. Not you, his quiet, brilliant Y/N, who blushed at his teasing and held his hand like it was the most precious thing.
Sadness hit next, a black hole swallowing him whole. He screamed, raw and guttural, punching the pavement until his knuckles bled. Gojo pulled him back, face pale. “Kuna… man, I’m sorry…”
But sorry didn’t bring you back. Nothing did.
He’d cheated. Betrayed you in the stupidest, most selfish way. And now? You were gone, because of him. Heartbroken, running from the sight of his betrayal. The bracelet glinted mockingly under the streetlight, thorns without the rose.
Sukuna broke that night. Shattered into pieces that would never fit back together. No comfort. No redemption. Just endless, aching void.
The days blurred after that. Sukuna didn’t go to classes. Didn’t party. He locked himself in his room, staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment over and over. Your text. The surprise. The betrayal you’d witnessed. God, what had you felt? Seeing him like that, with her. The pain in your eyes—he could imagine it, even if he hadn’t seen it. It haunted him.
Gojo tried to check on him, banging on the door. “Sukuna, open up! You can’t just—”
“Fuck off!” Sukuna roared, throwing a bottle at the door. It shattered, glass scattering like his sanity.
He found the bracelet later, picked up by some well-meaning witness and handed to the police, who returned it to him as “her belongings.” He clutched it like a lifeline, the metal cutting into his palm. Your blood had stained the chain faintly; he couldn’t bring himself to clean it.
Memories flooded him. The first time you’d met—your books spilling, him helping, teasing you about being a klutz. You’d looked up at him with those wide eyes, murmuring a thank you that made his chest tighten for reasons he didn’t understand then.
Your first date: not a party, but a quiet picnic in the park because you hated crowds. He’d grumbled about it being “lame,” but secretly loved watching you light up over the sandwiches you’d made, rambling about some book on existentialism. He’d kissed you under a tree, slow and sweet, nothing like the rough hookups he was used to.
The nights you’d study together, your head on his lap as he played with your hair. “You’re smarter than me, nerd,” he’d say, and you’d laugh, swatting his hand. “You’re just lazy, ’Kuna.”
The bracelet-giving moment: your anniversary, in his dorm. He’d been nervous—him, Sukuna, nervous—fumbling with the clasp. “Don’t lose it, yeah? It’s… special.” Your smile had been radiant. “I won’t. Promise.”
Broken promise. All of it broken.
He dreamed of you. Vivid, cruel dreams where you were alive, laughing, then turning away in disgust at his cheating. “How could you?” you’d whisper, tears falling. He’d wake up sweating, reaching for you, finding empty sheets.
The funeral was a blur. Your family, devastated. Friends from your classes, whispering about the “tragic accident.” No one knew about the cheating, the real reason you’d run. Sukuna stood in the back, uninvited but unable to stay away. He watched the casket lower, dirt clods thumping like accusations.
After, he wandered campus aimlessly.
The library felt empty without you. The coffee shop mocked him with memories. Even the frat house—his domain—felt tainted. Parties continued, but he didn’t join. Girls tried to flirt; he shoved them away, snarling.
Gojo cornered him one night. “You gotta talk, man. This isn’t you.”
“What’s there to say?” Sukuna spat, eyes bloodshot. “I killed her. Me. My fuck-up.”
Gojo sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It was an accident—”
“Bullshit! She was there because of me. Saw me with that slut. Ran because her heart was breaking. My fault.”
Silence stretched. Gojo had no rebuttal. “She loved you, you know. Like, really loved you.”
Sukuna’s laugh was bitter, broken. “Yeah. And look what I did.”
No comfort. Just guilt, gnawing endless.
Months passed. Sukuna changed. The cocky fratboy facade cracked, revealing a hollow shell. He graduated—barely— but the degree meant nothing. He moved off-campus, to a shitty apartment where echoes amplified his loneliness.
The bracelet stayed on his nightstand, a relic of what he’d lost.
Sometimes, he’d hold it, whispering apologies to the empty room. “I’m sorry, Y/N. Fuck, I’m so sorry.”
But apologies didn’t resurrect the dead. Heartbreak lingered, pure and unrelenting. His punishment: living with the void you’d left, knowing he’d dug it himself.