Chapter Text
You first saw him in the fall, when the leaves hadn’t rotted yet but had already stopped being bright...
Sukuna was standing on the university steps, the sun catching on the black lines of the tattoos on his face, and you stared at them for way too long. Thin patterns along his cheekbones, dark stripes across his forehead and chin. He had more ink disappearing beneath the collar of his T-shirt.
He caught your gaze and smirked. You flushed, but you didn’t look away.
It felt like he looked at you differently than the others. Back then, you didn’t know that look yet. You saw something else in him — confidence, that wild kind of freedom you never had enough of yourself.
You fell in love.
Stupidly. Desperately. Headfirst.
Sukuna noticed. He always noticed when someone liked him.
It flattered him. Why wouldn’t it?
Later that same evening at the frat party, he got into a fight. Someone shoved him by accident. He swung first. You watched him knock the guy to the floor and keep him by the collar even when he’d already stopped fighting back. People were yelling, trying to pull them apart.
You stood there thinking he must’ve been provoked.
He wouldn’t just hurt someone. Right?
You went up to him afterward. Told him he had blood on his lip. Sukuna looked at you like he didn’t understand why you were even talking to him. He let you press a napkin to his skin.
You felt special.
At the party a week later, he already knew your name and was drinking more than anyone else. You laughed at his jokes even when they were kind of mean, even when you were nervous. He looked at you a little longer than he looked at everyone else.
Sukuna touched you more than necessary. His hand on your waist felt like a brand. When he leaned in and told you you were pretty, something inside you tightened with happiness.
You ended up in his bedroom.
The door shut.
The music behind the wall turned muffled.
He kissed you like he wasn’t used to asking permission. You were shaking. You didn’t want to look naive. When he pushed inside you and understood you’d never done this before, he froze for a second.
His fingers tightened on your thigh.
You wished you hadn’t let him realize.
You wanted to seem grown, brave.
There was a flicker of surprise in his eyes. Maybe even a little confusion. But he exhaled and kept going, like he’d decided it was just a detail.
Sukuna didn’t stop.
You clenched your teeth, buried your face in his forearm, pressed into the tattooed skin so he wouldn’t notice how much it hurt. He wasn’t cruel. He just didn’t think about the fact that you might be scared. He was too focused on himself.
Later you lay beside him, staring at the ceiling, convincing yourself it had been right. That it had meant something important to him. And in the morning Sukuna lazily said he liked you while you were cleaning up his room.
That you could try being together. He said it like he was talking about a new playlist, not your heart.
You agreed.
You said “yes” so fast he even smirked. Easy. Way too easy.
You remember your friends trying to talk you out of it. “He’s insane, can’t you see that? He’ll dump you in a week.” You didn’t listen. You looked at them and thought: You just don’t know him like I do. Stupid.
The stupidest girl alive.
Sukuna knew they were warning you. You told him. Complained that they didn’t get him, that he was good, just complicated. He half-listened, nodded, thought about something else.
Good? He wasn’t good.
But if that’s what you needed to believe — fine.
What did he care?
Sukuna knew you were foolish. Not dumb — you did great in school. Foolish in the way you looked at him. The way you waited. The way you forgave. He saw it and found it amusing. Sometimes even cute. Sometimes annoying. But overall — convenient.
At first, everything felt almost normal.
Sometimes he was almost gentle.
Sukuna could pull you into his chest out of nowhere and rest his chin on the top of your head. He could text you at night, a short “You asleep?” and when you answered, tell you to come over.
He could lace his fingers through yours like it was natural.
You lived for those moments.
They were rare.
That’s why they felt precious.
But most of the time, he was different.
He knew you loved flowers.
You’d send him pictures of bouquets, text “They’re so pretty,” sigh when you passed flower shops. He saw. Sometimes he even thought, Maybe I should get her some. Then brushed it off. Flowers die. Waste of money. And if he bought them once, you’d start expecting it again. He didn’t want you expecting things.
He didn’t want to owe you.
You wanted to be understanding for him.
He knew you were hurt when he forgot important dates. Your birthday. Valentine’s. Your anniversary. He didn’t remember numbers. Didn’t try to. What was the point? Days pass, everything repeats. Why celebrate?
The truth was he remembered your birthday. He just didn’t think it mattered enough to show up. A friend’s party, lots of booze, girls looking at him with interest. Why go home where you’d be waiting with that look in your eyes? He didn’t want to see it.
The candles had already burned halfway down by midnight.
You had bought a cake he never saw.
He came back three days later. You were sitting in the kitchen, drinking tea, not looking at him. Your eyes were red. You only asked, “Are you hungry?” He was. You cooked. Everything was “fine.”
You tried to smile. Asked if he’d had fun. You didn’t ask why he hadn’t come. And Sukuna pretended not to notice.
Easier that way.
He didn’t get why your friends hissed at him. They looked at him like he’d done something unforgivable.
What had he done?
He was with you.
What more did they want?
He knew you wanted real dates.
The kind you chose. Rom-com movies. Parks. Stupid little fairs. He refused. “Boring.” “Not going.” “Just come over.” You agreed. You always agreed. He didn’t think about how you felt. If you really wanted it, you’d drag him there, right?
So it must not matter that much.
He took advantage of the fact you wanted to be a good girlfriend.
He knew you hated horror movies. You’d say, “They scare me, I can’t sleep after.” But when he turned one on, you sat beside him, pressed close, and stayed quiet. He didn’t turn it off. He liked them. And if you were scared, you’d just cling tighter.
Not so bad.
He knew you were exhausted. Classes. A job. Four hours of sleep...
But when he wanted sex, he just came up to you and started. If you said “I’m not in the mood,” he’d insist. Not harshly. Just, “Come on.” Kissing your neck. Tugging at your clothes. You gave in, because it always felt good with him. Always.
Sukuna didn’t see a problem.
You weren’t really resisting.
So you must’ve wanted it too.
He knew you picked out thoughtful gifts. Hid them. Gave them to him with that hopeful look like you’d brought him a stray cat. He’d say “Thanks” and shove them in a drawer. Not because he didn’t care — he just didn’t know what to do with it. Books he wouldn’t read. Sweaters he wouldn’t wear...
Why? He didn’t ask.
You give, he takes. Fair.
He didn’t need anything.
Sukuna remembered how you hugged him after fights.
He yelled — he knows he yelled.
Sometimes for a reason, sometimes just because he was in a shitty mood. And you’d come up behind him, wrap your arms around his waist, press your cheek to his back. Quiet. He felt your breathing through his shirt. It was strange. Warm.
He didn’t get why you did it, but he let you.
Sometimes even waited for it.
Never asked.
He knew you were hurt when he disappeared for days without answering.
You’d text. Call. Then stop. When he vanished, you barely ate. You checked your phone again and again. Replayed everything you’d said. Convinced yourself you’d ruined it. And when he came back, you’d throw your arms around his neck like he’d returned from war.
Something in his chest tightened.
A weird feeling.
He brushed it off.
You’re just emotional.
You just missed him. Nothing special.
But there was something special about being waited for.
You thought if you loved him hard enough, he’d become better. You saw him as wounded. Broken. You believed you could be a quiet place where he didn’t have to be hard.
You believed that if you were patient enough, understanding enough, one day he’d want to be softer too. You didn’t try to change him. You just hoped he’d notice how much you did.
He never asked you to.
Sukuna knew what you felt when he came to bed smelling like someone else’s perfume.
You never said anything. Just turned to the wall and breathed quietly. He thought, If you’re not asking, good. He was too lazy to explain, too lazy to lie, too lazy to handle your feelings.
They were yours. Not his.
Sometimes he noticed something off.
The way you looked when he joked about you in front of friends. How you dropped your gaze when they said he didn’t deserve you. How you flinched when he yelled. And in those moments something unpleasant stirred deep inside him.
Guilt? No. Just discomfort.
Like he’d done something wrong but couldn’t figure out what.
He’d brush it off.
Drink. Leave. It would pass.
The worst part — he genuinely didn’t understand.
To him, you were just you.
Always there. Always available. Always forgiving.
He didn’t see boundaries because you never set them. He didn’t feel pain because you never showed it. He thought everything was fine. Because if it wasn’t, you’d leave. Or cry. Or scream.
But you didn’t scream. You didn’t cry. You just stayed.
You never cried in front of him.
That matters. You never cried.
He got used to thinking you were strong. That you could handle everything. That you’d always be there, always ready, always forgiving. He thought that’s just how you were. That tears weren’t your thing.
He was wrong.
That night at Gojo’s.
Sukuna was drunk. Really drunk.
He remembers you walking up to him — in that black dress he once called “decent.” You took his hand carefully, timidly. Your fingers were cold. They were shaking.
He thought you were freezing outside.
He didn’t think you were scared.
Didn’t think you were hurting.
“We need to talk,” you said.
He looked at you and noticed your eyes were shining. Something was off, but he couldn’t place it. He was drunk. He was having fun. He didn’t want to talk.
“I don’t have time for this,” he muttered. “Go home.”
Music. Noise. Laughter. He was always busy when you showed up serious. He knew what that meant. Complaints. Questions. Those eyes he never understood.
He pulled his hand away.
Your fingers slipped off. You stood there watching. He had already turned back to the crowd when something made him glance over his shoulder. Your lips were trembling. Just a little.
He decided it wasn’t his problem.
And walked away.
The rest is blurry. Booze. Laughter. Music. The brunette from another class who’d been eyeing him for months. She sat on his lap. He let her. She was warm, smelled sweet, said something playful.
He half-listened.
Then she kissed him.
He remembers the taste of her lipstick — sickly sweet, chemical. Not like yours. Actually, he barely remembered what you tasted like. Did you even wear lipstick? Maybe if he’d once said he liked it.
Did he kiss her back? Maybe. He didn’t push her away. What difference did it make?
Then Sukuna opened his eyes.
And saw you.
You were standing at the other end of the room. In the middle of the crowd. Of the laughter. Of all that shit.
You were standing there, looking at him.
And tears were running down your cheeks.
He didn’t know you could cry like that. No sound. No sobbing. Just tears — big, fast, endless. You were holding your hand to your chest like something hurt there.
And you were looking right at him.
For the first time, his indifference made him sick.
Something in his chest jolted. Hard enough to make him want to grab his ribs. He moved — wanted to stand, shove the girl off, go to you. He even opened his mouth to call you...
But the brunette tugged his hair. Turned him back to her.
And when he looked again, you were gone.
Sukuna doesn’t remember how he pushed through the crowd. The brunette shouted something after him, but he didn’t hear it. He shoved people out of the way and didn’t understand why his heart was pounding so hard.
You just left.
You always left when he told you to.
But you didn’t leave with that face before.
You didn’t cry.
He searched the whole house. He almost slipped on something spilled near the kitchen and didn’t even notice. Checked every room, the kitchen, the bathroom, even the damn storage closet. You were gone.
Someone said, “The girl in black? She left like a minute ago.”
He ran outside.
Cold. Night. Empty street. No one.
He headed toward the bus stop. Didn’t know why. Just instinct. He knew you wouldn’t have enough for a cab.
He remembered that one time after a fight when you’d stormed off, and he’d found you at that same stop. You were sitting there, staring at your phone. When you saw him, you smiled.
God, you smiled, even though he’d been yelling at you thirty minutes earlier.
Like he was the solution, not the problem.
He walked and thought, What am I even going to say? Why am I going?
He didn’t know.
His legs just kept moving.
Maybe it was the right thing to do.
He saw you from a distance.
A small figure on the bench, curled into yourself. You were staring ahead. Not crying. Just sitting there. He came closer. Stopped a couple of meters away. Didn’t know what to do. Shoved his hands into his pockets — he’d come out without a jacket, was freezing, but didn’t feel it.
“Hey,” he called.
You looked up.
And he saw your face. Swollen. Red. Wet. You looked at him like you were seeing a ghost. Like he was the last person you ever wanted to see. And for the first time, he was actually scared.
“What’s wrong…” he started. “You were crying?”
The words sounded wrong the second they left his mouth.
Stupid question. Idiotic. You were covered in tears. But he genuinely didn’t know what to say. He’d never seen you like this. And you just kept staring. And in your eyes there was something that made his insides twist.
“What…”
And then you sobbed.
You broke down.
Loud, shaking, like a child, like something wounded, like someone being killed from the inside out. You covered your face with your hands, your shoulders trembling uncontrollably. The sounds you made were awful.
They cut through the air.
Cut through him.
Dug under his skin and stayed there.
“I can’t do this anymore,” you whispered.
Sukuna froze. He had never — never — seen anyone cry like that. Especially not you.
You, who waited and tolerated all his bullshit.
For the first time in his life, Sukuna didn’t know what to do.
His mind went blank. His mind was blank.
Not a single thought.
Just panic — sticky, cold, unfamiliar.
He stepped closer. Crouched down in front of you. Reached out, hand hovering over your shoulder.
“Hey…” he tried again. “Come on… stop…”
You jerked away. Hard.
Like he’d hit you.
And something twisted violently inside him.
You shrank back against the bench, pressing yourself into the backrest, curling in tighter. And cried louder.
“Don’t touch me,” you breathed out. “Don’t touch me!”
Sukuna went still. His hand hung in the air.
He stared at you, confused.
You always wanted him to touch you.
You reached for him, clung to him, asked for affection even when he was rough.
And now — don’t touch me.
“I just—” he began.
“Just leave,” you cut him off. Your voice kept breaking, choking on tears. “Please. Just go.”
He didn’t go. Something held him there, pinned him to that asphalt, to that bench, to you. He watched you cry and felt something inside his own chest start to hurt.
Not like before. Worse. Deeper.
“I didn’t mean to,” he tried. “I didn’t think you’d—”
“You never think!” you suddenly shouted.
And that scream, wet and shattered, hit him like a slap.
“Have you ever thought about me? Even once? Do you know how many nights I couldn’t sleep? Do you know how I waited for you? Do you know how much it hurts when you do this?”
Sukuna stayed silent.
He didn’t know. He genuinely didn’t.
“You forgot my birthday. You left and didn’t come back. You slept with other girls and didn’t even hide it!”
“I didn’t fuck anyone!” he snapped back, frowning slightly, but you cut him off immediately—
“And I still loved you!” you cried. “I still waited! I thought if I was good enough, patient enough, you would—”
Your breath hitched.
You covered your face again.
Your shoulders shook harder.
And Sukuna felt something tear slowly inside his chest.
With a crack. With pain.
He didn’t understand what it was. He’d never felt it before.
“I…” he started again. Stopped. Swallowed. “I didn’t know it mattered that much to you. You never said it straight.”
You looked up at him.
So full of pain he almost flinched.
“I did,” you hissed quietly. “A hundred times. You just…” another sob, “…you just never listened.”
He wanted to argue.
To say he did listen.
That he remembered. That—
But he didn’t. He truly didn’t.
Your words had always slid past him because they felt small. Petty. Unimportant.
He reached out again. Slowly. Carefully.
Like you were a wild animal he might scare away.
His fingers touched your shoulder. Gently squeezed.
“Come here,” he said quietly. “Just… come here.”
He wanted to hug you.
For the first time in his life, he wanted to hold you not for sex, not out of habit, but because you were crying and he didn’t know how to make it stop. He tried to pull you toward him — careful, almost soft.
You tore yourself away.
You shoved him.
Hard. Both hands. So hard he nearly fell back. You jumped to your feet, stepping away. One step. Two. You stood there, soaked in tears, shaking, broken, screaming:
“Don’t touch me! Don’t you dare! Not after you— not after her—”
Your voice cracked.
You couldn’t finish.
You covered your face and froze.
Sukuna stood up slowly. Took a step toward you — then stopped. His hands dropped. He clenched his fists until his nails dug into his palms.
It hurt. It should.
He turned his head away.
Not because he didn’t want to look. But because seeing you like that — crying, hating him, distant — was unbearable. And because for the first time, he felt ashamed. He stared at the empty road, at the lonely streetlamp. Anywhere but at you.
His throat tightened.
He ruined it.
He didn’t even know when it started going wrong.
He just lived the way he knew how. Took what was given. Didn’t think about consequences. And now you were standing there crying, and he didn’t know how to fix it. Only knew he had to do something.
But what?
“I’m sorry,” he said into the dark. “I… I’m sorry.”
He didn’t turn around. Didn’t look at you. He didn’t have the guts.
The night stayed silent. You stayed silent.
And something inside him was dying.
Slowly. Painfully.
For the first time in his life.
How many times had you smiled when you were breaking?
He’d never said thank you.
Never said you were beautiful.
Never chose you — just let you stay.
He thought about how if you walked away right now, he’d have nothing left. Just an empty apartment. A cold bed. And the memory of how you smelled. Something warm. Familiar. His.
He clenched his jaw and, for one second, hoped you’d say, “It’s okay. I’m just tired.”
Let him hold you.
But you said:
“Get lost, Sukuna. I don’t want to see you anymore.”
You didn’t say you didn’t love him anymore.
But he understood anyway.
Maybe the only right thing he could do now was leave.