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ruin the friendship w/ bsf!sukuna

play while reading: ruin the friendship

The first time he called you stupid, you were seven years old, sitting on the curb with a scraped knee and tears streaming down your face.

“You’re stupid, you know that?” Sukuna had said, standing over you with his arms crossed. But even then, his hands weren’t as harsh as his words. He had knelt down, slapping a neon Band-Aid over the cut with clumsy fingers. “Stop crying. It’s just blood.”

“Shut up,” you had sniffled, wiping your nose on your sleeve. “You dared me to jump off the swing.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

That was the baseline. The constant. Sukuna was the boy who pushed you into the dirt and then pulled you back up, dusting you off while complaining about it the entire time.

By the time you hit fourteen, things started shifting. It wasn’t some grand, cinematic epiphany. It was a Tuesday. You were sitting on his bedroom floor, doing algebra homework while he played some first-person shooter on his console. You looked up to ask him a question, and the words just died in your throat.

He had grown over the summer. His shoulders were broader, his jawline sharper, and his voice had dropped an octave that made something in your stomach flip. He caught you staring, pausing the game and turning his head.

“What?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” you muttered, quickly looking back down at your textbook. Your face felt hot.

“You’re staring at me like I’ve got two heads. Do I have shit on my face?”

“No, you’re just ugly,” you shot back, a defense mechanism you’d perfected over the years.

Sukuna scoffed, throwing a crumpled-up piece of paper ate your head. “Fuck off. You’re just mad you’re still built like a twig.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was hammering against your ribs. That was the year the crush settled in, quiet and persistent. By fifteen, it was a dull ache. By sixteen, it was a living, breathing thing that sat between you on the couch, rode in the passenger seat of his beat-up Honda, and lingered in the spaces between your fingers when your hands brushed.

What you didn’t know was that somewhere between sixteen and eighteen, Sukuna was having a crisis of his own.

He looked at you one night while you were laughing at a stupid joke he made, the streetlights catching the curve of your smile, and it hit him so hard he couldn’t breathe. He was neck-deep in love with you. But Sukuna’s world was chaotic, angry, and unpredictable. You were the only thing that made sense. You were the only constant. If he crossed that line and they crashed and burned—which, knowing him, they would—he would lose you. And he couldn’t survive that.

So, he built a wall. A transparent one, but a wall nonetheless.

When you were nineteen, you tried to break it down.

It was raining, and you were both sitting in his car outside your apartment building. The engine was off, the windows fogging up from your breath. The tension in the small space was suffocating.

“Are you going to go out with him?” Sukuna asked, his voice tight. He was staring straight ahead at the dashboard, his jaw clenched so hard you thought his teeth might crack. He was talking about a guy from your psych class who had asked yo out.

“I don’t know,” you said softly, turning your head to look at his profile. “Do you want me to?”

“I don't know, why the hell are you asking me.”

You shifted in your seat, turning your body toward him. You were so tired of the games. So tired of the almosts. “Give me a reason to say no, Sukuna. Just one.”

He finally looked at you, and the sheer desperation in his eyes made your breath hitch. He looked like he wanted to devour you, to pull you across the console and never let you go. His hand twitched on the steering wheel.

“We could be more, you know,” you whispered, reaching out to touch his wrist.

He flinched, pulling his arm back just an inch, but it felt like a mile. “Don’t.”

“Sukuna—”

“I said don’t,” he snapped, his voice rough. He ran a hand through his hair, looking away. “Don’t ruin this. You’re my best friend. You’re the only good thing I’ve got. Don’t fuck it up by making it complicated.”

The rejection felt like a physical blow. You swallowed hard, nodding slowly as you pulled your hand back to your lap. “Right. Okay. I won’t ruin it.”

You got out of the car that night with a fractured heart, and the wall between you turned to concrete.

College was a masterclass in tiptoeing.

You both fell into a larger circle of friends, which made it easier to hide the tension.

It was a Friday night at Gojo’s off-campus apartment. The music was vibrating through the floorboards, the air thick with the smell of cheap beer and weed. You were sitting on the kitchen counter, swinging your legs, watching the chaos unfold in the living room.

“You look like you’d rather be anywhere else,” a soft voice said.

You looked over to see Choso leaning against the fridge, holding out a red Solo cup filled with water.

“Is it that obvious?” you asked, taking the cup with a grateful smile.

“Only to people paying attention,” he replied, taking a sip of his own drink. His eyes held yours for a second longer than necessary, warm and steady.

Across the room, you felt the weight of a stare. You didn’t even have to look to know it was Sukuna. He was sitting on the arm of the sofa, a beer dangling losely from his fingers, his eyes narrowed as he watched you and Choso.

“Are you two ever gonna just fuck and get it over with?” Gojo yelled over the music, slinging an arm around Sukuna’s shoulders and pointing at you.

The entire room seemed to quiet down for a split second. Utahime smacked the back of Gojo’s head. “Satoru, shut the fuck up.”

“What? I’m just saying what we’re all thinking!” Gojo whined, rubbing his head.

“Fuck off,” Sukuna snarled, shoving Gojo’s arm off him. He didn’t look at you. He just stood up and walked out onto the balcony, slamming the sliding glass door behind him.

You forced a laugh, looking down at your water. “He’s just drunk. Ignore him.”

Choso didn’t laugh. He just watched you carefully. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you lied, your chest aching. “I’m good.”

That was how it went for years. Always okay with how things were, but never enough. Sukuna was always there—he helped you move apartments, he threatened guys who looked at you wrong, he remembered your coffee order down to the exact amount of sugar. But he never crossed the line. He kept you safely in the ‘best friend’ box, terrified that if he took you out, he’d break you.

And you let him. Because having a piece of him was better than having nothing at all.

_______

It was a few weeks before graduation. The reality of the real world was looming over all of you, making everyone a little more reckless, a little more desperate to hold onto the present. You were all gathered in Shoko’s living room, sitting in a messy circle on the floor, surrounded by empty bottles of tequila.

“Alright, Never Have I Ever,” Geto announced, leaning back against the couch. “Never have I ever… failed a class and lied to my parents about it.”

Gojo, Shoko, and Utahime drank.

The game went on, the questions getting progressively more invasive as the alcohol hit. You were sitting cross-legged, your knee almost brushing Sukuna’s. He was quiet tonight, his eyes heavy and dark as he watched the group. Choso was sitting on your other side, his presence a comforting weight.

“My turn,” Shoko said, swirling the amber liquid in her glass. She looked around the circle, “Never have I ever… been in love with someone in this room.”

The room went silent.

Gojo smirked and took a sip. Geto rolled his eyes but drank. Utahime glared at Gojo and took a shot.

You stared at your cup. Your heart was pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears. You could've lied, but you didn't. You were twenty-two years old. You were graduating. You were so goddamn tired of hiding, so you made one selfish thing. One desperate move that you onow would open a pandora box within this corcle.

You raised your cup to your lips and took a long drink.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Sukuna freeze. His hand, which had been resting on his knee, gripped the fabric of his jeans so hard his knuckles turned white. He didn’t drink.

“Oh, shit,” Gojo whispered, leaning forward. “Spill.”

“No,” Nanami said, adjusting his glasses. “That’s not the game. Leave it.”

“Don't be a party pooper,” Satoru suddenly said, a hint of mischievousness strengthen by the alcohol evident in his voice. He turned his head to look at you, his eyes burning into yours. “Who?”

The room felt like it had been sucked into a vacuum. Sukuna shifted beside you, his knees tensing, but he didn’t say a word.

“Satoru, drop it,” Geto warned softly.

“What! I'm just asking?” Satoru repeated, ignoring everyone else. You met his gaze, the tequila making you brave, or maybe just stupid. “You want to know?”

“Yeah. I do.”

You didn't need to mention his name, you looked beside you; towards Sukuna, and he was looking intensely at you, your voice remarkably steady despite the way your hands were shaking. “You. Since we were fourteen.”

Someone—probably Utahime—sucked in a sharp breath.

Sukuna stared at you, the words hitting him like a physical blow. His expression shattered, the indifference slipping to reveal absolute panic. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“But it doesn’t matter,” you continued, forcing a bitter smile. You set your cup down on the floor and stood up. “Because you’d rather be safe than be with me. I’m gonna go get some air.”

You walked out of the apartment, the heavy silence following you down the hallway. You made it to the alleyway behind the building before the tears started falling. You leaned against the brick wall, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself against the chill of the night.

The heavy metal door creaked open a minute later. You didn’t have to look to know who it was.

“Did you mean it?” Sukuna asked. His voice was stripped of all its usual arrogance.

You wiped your cheeks roughly. “Why would I lie about that? I tried once when we were in freshman, remember?”

He stepped closer, stopping just a few feet away. He looked wrecked. “Since we were fourteen?”

“Yes, Sukuna. Are you really that blind?”

“I’m not blind,” he snapped, running both hands over his face. “I’m just… fuck. You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me!” you yelled, pushing off the wall. “Explain why you look at me like you want me, why you act like I’m yours, but the second I try to make it real, you push me away!”

“Because I ruin everything!” he yelled back, his chest heaving. “Look at me! I’m a fucking mess. I’m angry, I’m selfish, and I destroy everything I touch. You are the only beautiful thing in my life. If we try this, and we crash and burn… I lose you. I can’t lose you. I would rather have you as my friend forever than have you as mine for a year and lose you for the rest of my life.”

The confession hung in the air, heavy and devastating.

You looked at him, really looked at him. At the fear in his eyes, the desperate way he was holding himself together. He loved you. He loved you so much it terrified him.

But it wasn’t enough.

“Sukuna,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “By not trying… you’re losing me anyway. I can’t keep waiting for you to be brave enough to love me out loud.”

He flinched, taking a step back as if you had struck him. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I’m done waiting. I'm asking you now, please... just please let's try and make it work.” He stared at you long, voice dying in his throat. He wasn't used to feeling anything other than anger, of all the times he felt happiness.. it was all during the times he shared with you.

He wasn't sure if he can risk losing you, the first time he felt like the world favored him was today, when he heard that you wantes to be with him.. but what can a broken man do when he was raised to believe that all the things he own will be destroyed one day?

When Sukuna didn't speak, you walked past him, your shoulder brushing his. He didn’t reach out to stop you. He just stood there in the dark, letting you go to save the friendship.

_____

Four years later.

The music swells, a soft acoustic melody that fills the garden. The sun is shining, catching the delicate lace of your white dress as you stand at the beginning of the aisle.

You take a deep breath, clutching the bouquet of white roses in your hands. Your father pats your arm, smiling proudly.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Ready,” you whisper.

You start walking. The faces of your friends and family blur together, a sea of smiles and happy tears. Gojo is dabbing his eyes dramatically with a handkerchief, Geto is laughing at him, Shoko is smiling softly, and Utahime looks like she’s trying not to cry.

And then, at the end of the aisle, is Choso.

He looks incredibly handsome in his tailored suit, his dark hair pulled back neatly. But it’s his eyes that ground you. They are so full of love, so steady, so absolutely certain. Choso never hesitated.

From the moment you took his hand that night after the party when you went inside, after Sukuna stayed quiet, after Sukuna stayed a coward; Choso on the otherhand made it clear that he wanted you. All of you. He wasn’t afraid of ruining anything, because he was determined to build something unbreakable.

You smile, your heart swelling with a quiet, peaceful kind of love.

You walked, eyes catching the movement in the front row, on the bride’s side.

Sukuna.

He’s wearing a suit, which is a miracle in itself. His hair is pushed back, and he looks older, sharper. He is your Man of Honor, a title he accepted with a tight smile and a nod when you asked him six months ago.

You meet his eyes as you pass by his row.

He is smiling at you, a soft, genuine smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. His eyes are screaming. They are filled with a grief so profound, an agony so deep, it almost makes you stumble.

In that split second, an entire lifetime passes between you. The scraped knees, the late-night drives, the shared looks across crowded rooms, the unspoken words that suffocated you both.

He didn’t ruin the friendship.

He kept his promise. He stayed your best friend, your constant, the guy who helped you pick out the catering menu for your wedding and threatened the florist when they got the order wrong.

He didn’t ruin the friendship.

As you break eye contact and look back at Choso, stepping up to the altar and taking your soon-to-be husband’s hands, Sukuna realizes the devastating truth.

He didn’t ruin the friendship.

But he never won either.

He watches you smile at Choso, the way your eyes crinkle at the corners, the way you look so incredibly safe and loved. He swallows hard, the lump in his throat feeling like shattered glass. He wishes he could say he never lost you. He wishes he could say that keeping you as a friend was enough.

Choso’s thumb gently strokes the back of your hand as the officiant speaks; Sukuna lowers his head, staring at the grass beneath his polished shoes.

He kept you in his life. But he lost you all the same. Atleast he didn't ruin the friendship... right?

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SAKURA

BLOSSOM

ROSES

PUMPKIN SPICE

Widow Meets Lawyer

Contains: Slow burn, series, angst, Higuruma Hiromi, Nanami Kento, reader is depressed, sad, emotional rollercoaster, Higuruma x reader, widow!reader, reader has a child, mentions of character death, modern world au

After five years since your husband passed you finally managed to move out of that place you once called home. Your daughter nearing the age of four had the striking resemblance to her father, inheriting both his hazel-colored eyes and blond hair. Not a day goes by where you don’t think about Kento. After the accident in Shibuya, it was too difficult, too painful to move on. You severed ties with everyone you once knew. Seeing the familiar faces you and Kento had once grown close to felt unbearable. A pair of small arms wrapped around your waist, tiny face pressing into your side.

“When can we visit daddy?”

After Kento's death, you’d made it a point to keep him alive in your daughter’s world. Despite her not had the chance to truly know her father or build memories with him herself, you made sure she knew who he was. You told her wonderful stories about the kind of man he had been— his quiet strength, his gentle smile, the way he cared deeply in moments when he didn’t show it in obvious ways.

You wanted her to understand that, although his life was cut short, his love for her had always existed. And somehow, even without fully knowing him, she still loved him. Not just as a story, but as her dad. She cared for him in the only way she could, holding onto pieces of him you shared, carrying his memory in her heart.

Hello, my name is Nadin. I’m from Gaza. I’m a graphic design graduate, a wife—and now, a mother.

I finished my design studies just before the war began. I had dreams of starting a small studio, of creating art that told stories. I used to think about colors and fonts and the future.

Then, the war came. And the future became something we tried to hold onto, moment by moment.

On October 22, 2023, I learned I was pregnant when a missile destroyed my husband’s family home, killing 25 members—his mother, siblings, nieces and nephews—entire branches of our family in seconds.

We were displaced twice. Everything was gone—home, safety, routine, rest.

A few weeks later, I gave birth to our daughter. There was no crib, no celebration—not even stillness. But she arrived, quietly and beautifully. In her eyes I saw something I hadn’t felt in weeks: life that still wanted to grow.

Now, our days are shaped by decisions that could dismantle the future we are trying to build together.

Today, Israel’s government is discussing plans for a full military occupation of the Gaza Strip, including Gaza City and southern regions. The stated aim: to eliminate Hamas and later hand governing control to allied Arab forces—not Israel—but with no clear path to peace or normalcy.

The humanitarian fallout is devastating. More than 61,000 Palestinians have died in this war; hunger and malnutrition are rising sharply. Hospitals in north Gaza have shut down, and 193 people have now died of starvation, nearly half of them children.

Aid remains blocked, water is scarce, and many risk dying of hunger or disease long before future promises arrive.

We Don’t Know What Comes Next There’s no clear path forward—only uncertainty for our daughter’s life and our ability to survive another day.

How You Can Help I’m asking for support—not for comfort, but for survival:

Help us meet basic needs so we can breathe, heal, and preserve a world for our daughter.

Support us as I try to stand again on my own feet—even a glimmer of stability matters.

they are racist, rapist and predators. they do not care about taking immigrants out of the country, they are trying to kill all of us whether you believe it or not.

they are hiring the worst people you know to go around terrorizing people and trying to get away with killing us.

it’s going to get worse.