it is what it is

one: birthday blowjob and bad backshots | chapter index

you left him before. can you leave him again with a baby on the way?

synopsis: divorcing a stubborn dickhead like Ryomen Sukuna was probably the most difficult thing you ever had to do. but what were you supposed to do when your husband had practically become a stranger considering most days he spent more time at work than he did at home? and when he was home, half the time he'd rather sleep on the couch than in your bed? you didn't hate him. but you didn't love him anymore either. maybe you would have moved on. but when one last night together ends up with more than just a memory after you get two little lines on a pregnancy test, you discover you might not be able to get rid of him after all.

pairing: ex-husband!sukuna x pregnant!reader (also featuring best friend!geto)

content: mdni, smut and angst, some domestic fluff, divorced-to-remarried, complicated relationships, messy feelings, accidental pregnancy, unprotected piv sex, creampie, pining, so much regret, misunderstandings, breaking up and making up, gruff and grumpy sukuna who misses his wife, soft geto trying to steal her from him, reader feeling neglected

a/n: lovely art by @winterrbluess !! part of my community event <3

"Wrong hole."

That was really what you got for fucking your ex-husband two months after the divorce.

His dick prodding at your asshole, his mouth warm on your neck as he groaned a slurred sorry into your skin. How many times, exactly, had you heard that before?

It was all the same with Sukuna.

He wasn't exactly the sort of man who could change.

And yet, you were still on all fours for him, on the plush mattress in his new apartment, letting him re-angle himself against your unfortunately still-slick pussy before shoving it in all the way.

It burned.

Blurred the lines of the past and the present, threatened to break you when he split you open with his messy thrust, fat tip smushed and grinding against your womb as he dragged his tongue across a sensitive spot he'd been sucking on earlier.

This was really a new low.

You couldn't recall the last time the two of you had even fucked. Was it his birthday?

Back when he came stumbling home from another late shift, grumbling and bitching about an idiotic investor that he refused to suck up to? You vaguely recalled sucking him off on the couch instead, his thick thighs spread apart as his girth kept bumping into the roof of your mouth, nodding along as he complained. He crashed right after he came down your throat, falling asleep with his head tilted back, tie not even completely taken off and his zipper still down.

You had just tossed a blanket on him before brushing your teeth and going to sleep back in the bed. The fancy dinner you cooked him already put up in containers in the fridge. His birthday cake untouched, candles left unlit.

Yeah, you guessed that had probably been it.

If it counted.

You filed for separation not that long later. Moved all your stuff out into your own apartment without a word, neatly split up all the accounts and left the papers on the counter for him to find with a card for your lawyer that he could contact with any questions.

No kids to argue over. No pets. Nothing but a house that had stopped feeling like home forever ago.

His number was blocked. His photos were erased.

All the albums were left behind, from the first year where you were both still stupid teenagers who thought the future was so far away to the ones of the wedding you now wished had never happened. All the sentimental stuff you'd been saving stuck in his custody, stacked in boxes to collect stale air.

You wanted a fresh start.

Not to get fucked by him in the fancy penthouse you guessed was his brand new bachelor pad.

things happen for a reason. that’s what people say, right? a lazy, recycled comfort line—the kind people toss around to make chaos sound poetic. but the truth is uglier. things happen for a reason, sure. it’s just that the reason doesn’t give a damn about your plans.

and everything started on one deliriously boring evening. the kind that hums in your ears. you were lying there, half-scrolling, half-rotting, doing that zombie thumb motion where your brain wasn’t even plugged in anymore. your room was dark except for the dim blue glow of your phone, your fan spinning like a tired sigh.

and then an ad. some shiny banner flashing flags and suspiciously happy people pretending to learn french.

“what the fuck is even this shit,” you muttered, aggressively closing it like it personally wronged you. as if you wanted to learn a new language at this point in your life. you couldn’t even remember what day it was, let alone conjugate verbs in italian.

but the ad came back. and again. persistent. smug. like the universe was saying, nope, you’re not escaping this one, sweetheart.

so when your thumb slipped and tapped it, dragging you straight to the app store, you just… stared at your screen. breathing hard, like you just made a life-altering decision instead of clicking an ad.

“you know what? fine,” you hissed. “i’m done. i’m downloading this just so you shut up.”

yeah. you told your phone to shut up. that’s where your mental state was at.

the app installed with a cheerful ding! 

you rolled your eyes, opened it anyway, and went through the setup like a sleepwalker. profile photo? real because catfishing was too much effort and who would catfish on a language app??? language you wanted to learn? random. bio? you typed without thinking:

“rate mint choco chip on a scale of 1 to 10.”

chaotic neutral. perfectly unserious. an icebreaker disguised as a personality test.

five minutes later, your phone exploded. notifications everywhere. waving hands, random greetings, emojis you didn’t even recognize. someone even called your profile. called. you didn’t even know that was possible. your screen lit up with a stranger’s face, and your soul left your body for a solid three seconds before you hit decline like your life depended on it.

you instantly went into panic mode. because who the fuck calls a random stranger out of nowhere?!

you dove into the settings like a random idiot trying to disable a bomb, muttering curses at every menu option. after five minutes and three near-heart attacks, the calls finally stopped. silence again.

but boredom has its own way of writing stories. and curiosity is often tangled with it.

you didn’t mean to reply. honestly, you were just curious. you scrolled through the messages, half-interested, half-judging profile pictures like it was a sport. then you found this little corner of the app—a feed where people posted random updates. they called them “moments.” you called them “brain farts with filters.”

it was oddly addicting. blurry selfies, food pics, dogs, people trying to say good morning in languages they definitely didn’t speak. you found yourself scrolling through them like it was an alternate version of social media, replying to strangers, dropping waves just to see who’d wave back.

and that’s when it hit you. you weren’t bored—you were lonely. not the tragic movie kind. just the quiet kind. the one that creeps in at night when everything’s still, and your brain won’t shut up.

you sighed. this was supposed to be a joke. a distraction. not… whatever this was starting to feel like.

and the universe is really something because just as you were about to tuck in for the night, you saw him.

his profile wasn’t remarkable. no flashy smile, no thirst-trap lighting. just… real. neutral display picture, soft grin, slightly messy hair. but when you tapped through his posts, there it was—a halloween costume that made you snort out loud. it wasn’t sexy or spooky. just stupidly funny. something somebody would wear as if he lost a dare.

you stared at it, grinning. “you look cute in your halloween costume haha,” you typed. and hit send before you could talk yourself out of it.

one minute later, your screen lit up.

“you do know it’s almost 3 a.m. my time, right? since you clicked on my profile.”

you blinked. wait. what the fuck is this bitchy attitude? you laughed quietly, half-embarrassed, half-amused.

“and yet you replied.” “touché,” he sent back. “didn’t expect a mint choco chip reviewer to be this bold.”

you bit back a smile. “so you read bios now? that’s impressive, 3 a.m. detective work.”

“what can i say? i’m dedicated to cultural exchange.”

and just like that. it started.

you don’t even remember when it stopped being just “a few messages before bed.” one second you were teasing him about his halloween costume, the next, it was 4 a.m. and you were talking about everything and nothing.

easy. fast. funny. the kind of banter that felt like you were talking to someone you’d known forever. he was sharp, dry-humored, just arrogant enough to be interesting without tipping into annoying. you traded jokes about food crimes (“pineapple on pizza deserves prison”), teased each other about sleep schedules, and argued about whether mint choco chip tasted like toothpaste.

he was funny in that quiet, deliberate way—his words always landing right where they should. not loud, not trying too hard. just easy. dry humor laced with warmth. cruelty-free sarcasm. confidence without arrogance though you suspected he had plenty of that too.

“you know,” he said once, “if i were a flavor, i’d be coffee. bitter. addictive. impossible to forget.” you laughed. “you mean burnt and overpriced?” “see?” he replied, voice dripping with mock injury. “this is emotional abuse.” “you’d survive,” you teased back. “probably,” he admitted. “but not without caffeine.”

and that’s how it was with him. playful, rhythmic, something between laughter and comfort.

every message from him hit too easily, like it slipped through your screen straight into your bloodstream. and then somewhere between the jokes and the language corrections, you looked up at the time to see it was 5 a.m.

“you should sleep,” you said. “i can hardly leave you alone now 😭”

you laughed out loud, the kind of laugh that feels like something cracking open in your chest.

and that’s how it began. not with fireworks, or fate, or a grand romantic gesture. just two insomniacs, half a world apart, laughing into their screens like idiots at 5 a.m.

and that line? it stuck. it wasn’t a pickup line. it wasn’t even said like one. it was the kind of thing you say when you mean it and then pretend you didn’t.

you smiled at your phone like an idiot, the glow of the screen painting your face in that familiar, soft blue light. you checked the clock. almost sunrise—his sunrise.

“go to sleep, it’s almost 7 a.m. your time,” you typed. “yeah, yeah. after this message. maybe,” he replied.

spoiler alert: he didn’t.

you fell asleep first, phone still warm in your hand. the last thing on your screen was a half-typed sentence from him that said, “you’re—” and then nothing. maybe he deleted it. maybe he changed his mind. maybe he just fell asleep too.

the next day, you woke up to a notification—a follow request. his profile. you hesitated, grinned, and accepted.

minutes later, your screen lit up again.

“so this is what you look like when you’re not hiding behind that profile pic.”

you rolled your eyes, typing, “lol shut up.”

“nah,” he replied. “this one pic of you? peak. 10/10.”

you stared at the screen too long. stupid. ridiculous. grinning like a maniac.

that was the start of the spiral… your soft descent. voice messages came next. because, according to him, “typing’s too much work.”

his voice was steady. deep. unhurried. there was something about it that made you listen even when he wasn’t saying anything important. he’d talk about his day, or how his friend crashed their car again (“not badly, don’t worry, he’s just an idiot”), or about his cows.

yeah, cows. turns out, sukuna lived on a stretch of land that could only be described as aggressively rural. he tended to them every morning, half complaining, half proud.

“they’re dumb as hell,” he’d say, voice softening. “but they trust me. that’s the weird part.” “so, basically, your cows love you more than i do,” you teased. “they’re better listeners,” he shot back.

you laughed, and he did too—that kind of low, reluctant chuckle that lived somewhere between affection and exasperation.

but it wasn’t just cows.

he told you about the flowers too. how he arranged them for his mother sometimes, or just to fill the kitchen with color. and the tea that’s all ceremonial, precise, and something sacred he never admitted was soft.

“you? doing tea ceremonies?” you’d teased once. “that’s… so zen of you.” “you say that like it’s an insult.” “no, i say that like i don’t believe it.” “come visit,” he’d said. “i’ll prove it.” “bold assumption that i’d fly across the world for tea.” “bold assumption that you wouldn’t.”

you’d laughed, but part of you knew he wasn’t entirely joking.

the days blurred into a pattern. talk. tease. send a meme. share a song. repeat. he’d send you photos — the fog rolling over his field in the morning, a half-finished cup of tea, sometimes a blurry picture of his cat (“she hates me. it’s mutual.”).

and then came the voice messages again. longer ones this time. lazy, low, and warm — the kind of voice that wrapped itself around your thoughts. sometimes he’d hum. sometimes he’d say your name just to hear it.

you’d reply with short clips of your day, laughter you didn’t know you’d recorded, a soft “good night.” it was small, domestic intimacy — the kind that sneaks up on you.

it wasn’t flirting anymore. it was routine. it was comfort.

and yet, somehow, it was flirting. the kind that lives in tone, not words.

then came the nicknames. “sweetheart.” “hon.” “darling.” “my love.”

each one dropped so casually, like he’d been saying it for years. you laughed them off, pretended your heart didn’t skip, sent an eye-roll emoji to keep your cool.

“don’t you call everyone that?” you’d joked once.

“nah,” he’d said. “just you.”

and you believed him. god help you, you believed him.

the next thing started with something stupid. a photo of ice creams lined up on a counter—chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, mint. you’d been out with friends, but your mind was somewhere else, or maybe with someone else. so you snapped the photo, sent it to him, captioned:“pick one.”

his reply came faster than expected.

“i’d pick you as dessert.”

you froze mid-bite of your cone. blinked at the screen. laughed — half from shock, half because what the fuck kind of response was that?

“you’re disgusting,” you typed.

“you asked.” “i meant the ice cream, freak.” “oh,” he sent, a beat later. “then chocolate. but still, i’d pick you.”

you stared at the message longer than you should’ve. the room suddenly felt smaller, quieter.

and that’s how it always was with him. sukuna had this infuriating way of turning nothing into something. words into tension. a joke into a pulse that lingered at the edge of your thoughts.

you’d been talking for weeks by then — the kind of talking that felt endless. your notifications were his fingerprints. his texts arrived like muscle memory. and then one night, out of nowhere, you received a notification:

“would really like to hear you through a call.”

you read it three times, your heartbeat jumping every time your screen lit up.

“now?” “if you’re free, yeah.”

and god, you were free. too free. too willing.

the call started awkward: static, giggles, nervous fumbling. he laughed first, the sound low and surprisingly shy.

“you sound exactly like i thought you would.” “is that a good thing or a bad thing?” “a dangerous thing.”

your laugh cracked. he teased you for it immediately, of course.

and then, suddenly, the tension dissolved. the conversation unfolded like breath—natural, unforced. you talked about the weirdest things: favorite movie snacks, the tragedy of pineapple pizza, the fact that both of you had downloaded that cursed language app “as a joke.”

“you know,” he said after a pause, “guess i learned the right language.”

you couldn’t think of a comeback for that one. just silence. and your smile.

somewhere between midnight and dawn, the sound of his voice became a comfort. rough edges softened by sleep. he said your name once, quiet, like it was a secret. you fell asleep to the sound of him exhaling. steady, close, like you’d been listening to him breathe for years.

a week later, it was his birthday.

you texted him first thing:

“happy birthday, old man.” “rude,” he replied. “i’m barely older than you.” “barely,” you teased. “what do you want for your birthday?” “nothing but your attention.”

you rolled your eyes so hard you nearly saw your brain. but your fingers were already typing:

“how about a call then?” “absolutely!” like he was excited for that call. and this time, he didn’t even let it ring once.

his voice that night was different. soft around the edges. happy in the way that doesn’t need to be said.

“so what’s the plan?” you asked.

“this. just you talking to me.”

you could hear him smile through the receiver.

you talked about your days—the long ones, the quiet ones, the stupid ones that didn’t matter but somehow did when he listened. he told you about his cows again and how one kept escaping the fence.

“maybe she’s chasing freedom.” “maybe she’s just stupid,” he said, but you could hear the fondness tucked in there.

then he started rambling about tea — how the ritual of it calmed him. how it reminded him to slow down.

“you do tea ceremonies now?” “yeah. don’t tell anyone. ruins my reputation.” “oh yeah, terrifying man drinks jasmine tea—scandalous.” “careful,” he warned softly. “you’re next.”

the way he said it made your throat tighten.

hours passed like that. laughter melting into silence, silence into something heavier.

“sweetheart.” “darling.” “hon.” and finally, the one that stuck. “good night, my love.”

he said it like he didn’t mean to. like it slipped past his usual armor. and you didn’t say anything back, because if you did, the world might’ve shifted a little too much.

you smiled instead. a small sound escaped you and he heard it.

“there it is,” he whispered.

and somehow, that was enough.

a week later, things began to change… not suddenly, but slowly. like watching colors fade in real time.

his replies came later. his messages shorter. the emojis stopped. the nicknames turned into your name again.

you kept it light. sent memes, a photo of your coffee, a lazy “how’s your day?” ––but the rhythm was off. he’d still reply, still laugh, still say sweetheart sometimes, but it felt like muscle memory. like kindness performing itself.

and what hurt most wasn’t that he left. it’s that he didn’t.

he lingered. long enough to keep you hoping. long enough to make you believe maybe you were imagining the distance.

but deep down, you knew. you could feel it in the silences. you could feel it in the way his good nights no longer came first.

and maybe that’s how love ends in this century—not with a fight, or a farewell, but with read receipts that never turn blue.

so you sat on thinking about setting things straight. writing a fucking confession for days. rewrote it in your notes app. reread it on the way home. trimmed every word that felt too raw. you told yourself it wasn’t a confession, just… clarity. honesty. closure wrapped in lowercase letters.

you didn’t plan to send it that night. but your mind had been spinning for days, looping the same what-ifs, the same unsent draft you’d been editing and deleting like it was a crime to feel too much.

so you told yourself this wasn’t about getting an answer; it was about finally saying it.

“hey, ‘kuna. i know this is kind of random, but i’ve been meaning to say this for a while…”

you started light, like you always do—humor tucked between sincerity, hoping it’d soften the edges. you mentioned how you were just waiting for your ride, overthinking as usual.

you wrote about how it all started from that stupid app. how you just wanted to learn a new language, not him. and how weirdly, that random night had become something you’d started looking forward to. you told him you liked him, plain and simple. no metaphors. no overthinking this time.

you even admitted… in that awkward, half-joking tone that hid how much it meant that you’d be open to something long-distance if life ever lined up right. you said it scared you to even write that. but you wanted him to know.

you thanked him for the laughs, the late-night talks, the random voice messages that always came when your day was falling apart. you even mentioned that one night—his heavy lore as he call it and his relationship with his family—how that moment made you realize this wasn’t just a passing thing for you.

and you ended it with a laugh. always with a laugh.

“anyway, sorry if this is random. i just didn’t want to leave things unsaid.”

and then you hit send. and waited.

the wait was unbearable.

you tried not to check your phone. you tried to scroll through something else, anything else, but your mind kept slipping back. those three dots appeared once. disappeared. came back again.

and then at 7:39 a.m. his time.

“that’s really kind of you… i like you too, but i’m not sure if we’re talking about the same thing.”

you blinked at the screen. reread it twice. maybe three times. more like ten times at this point.

he said long-distance wasn’t realistic for him right now. that he wasn’t rejecting you, just being honest. that he still wanted to talk, still liked you as a person, but didn’t want to turn something good into something painful.

“sometimes i don’t have the energy to text, but it doesn’t mean i like you less.”“i hope this doesn’t hurt you.”“god, i hope i haven’t said anything wrong.”

it was gentle. careful. and it broke you in the quietest way possible.

you stared at his words until they blurred. they weren’t cruel. they weren’t dismissive. they were the kind that sound safe… the kind you can’t even hate someone for. or maybe, you’re just convincing yourself that?

and somehow, that made it worse.

your chest didn’t ache all at once because it sank. slow, heavy, steady. like heartbreak disguised as understanding.

then what the fuck was all that for?

the late-night calls. the way his voice softened when he said your name. the “my love” that slipped out between laughs. the way he’d stay up till sunrise just to keep you company. what was all of that if not a breadcrumb trail leading you straight into this ache?

but you didn’t rage. you didn’t call him out. you just… folded into yourself. reread every message. every emoji. every “good night, sweetheart.” searching for signs—red flags, warnings, maybe a line where he hinted this was never what you thought it was.

you scrolled up, again and again, trying to locate where it changed. where it stopped being you and him and became just you.

and you realized there was never a clean break. just a gradual fade wrapped in tenderness. a ghost that still texted good morning.

you didn’t cry right away.

you sat in silence, the blue light of your phone painting your face, replaying everything. and somewhere between denial and acceptance, the realization started to crumble inside your mind:

“is there something wrong with me?” it came out like a whisper. you weren’t sure if you meant it for yourself or for the version of you who still believed he’d say it back.

yet that question looped like a bad song.

you’ve always been a lover girl. someone who feels in full color. who finds meaning in the small things—the tone, the pause, the way someone types your name. and yet, every time, you’re the one left asking if maybe your heart’s just too fluent in the wrong language.

but maybe your heart’s too fluent in the wrong dialect. maybe you keep offering translations to people who never planned to learn.

okay, you don’t want grand gestures or fairytales. you just want someone to meet you halfway. to laugh at your dumb memes. to remember what you said two days ago about wanting matcha at 3 a.m. you thought love was supposed to be a dialogue—but somehow, it’s always been a monologue you perform for someone who claps quietly and leaves before the ending.

and somehow, that’s too much.

you tell yourself that you’re okay alone. you know self-love is important. but god, you also know how heavy it feels to love yourself loudly and have no one to echo it back.

you tried to convince yourself this was growth. self-awareness, duh. healing. whatever word people use when they’re trying to make heartbreak sound like progress.

but it still hurt. because you didn’t want a life lesson. you wanted him.

it’s like he taught you a language you never knew you’d want to learn but it ended up with you trying to teach him yours—the language of care, of attention, of trying too hard.

he learned the words, but not the meaning.

because it’s one thing to understand affection. it’s another to speak it back.

and sometimes, the questions you ask aren’t to change anything…you just need to hear them aloud, to confirm what you already knew.

he didn’t owe you forever. maybe just honesty. and he gave you that. even if it shattered the version of you that still believed in “almosts.”

you lay there until morning, your phone screen still glowing. not crying. just feeling. the kind of heartbreak that doesn’t demand tears, only silence.

you scrolled up one last time, back to the start. back to that first message.

“you look cute in your halloween costume haha.”

you laughed. soft. broken. because of course it started as a joke. and of course it ended as one.

you closed the app, the screen going black and for a brief second, you saw your reflection. you looked like someone who had loved sincerely and lost quietly.

and that, you realized, was its own kind of language too.

the one that doesn’t have a word for almost. only for enough.

----

a/n: long story short... I basically MISREAD the signs (how cruel is that lol) he was giving me throughout the months we were talking, flirting, or wtv u call it = confession: all dialogues here are excerpts (of me and the guy's convo) but kind of like rewritten BC WHY WOULD I SUBJECT MYSELF TO TORTURE??

and I had this idea in my mind that I need to set things straight and know exactly where we stand so I confessed and ended up receiving a message that he doesn’t really mean everything romantically and that wtv we had will NEVER turn into something romantic so yeah that’s why I was gone for the months

this is why I’d rather show love to fictional men atleast the only thing that could hurt me was that they’re canonically dead in their stories (yes, sukuna) so yep enjoy this heartbreaking reflection I went through

ALSO... yeah i did read the vogue article of how embarrassing it is to have a bf now lol

things happen for a reason. that’s what people say, right? a lazy, recycled comfort line—the kind people toss around to make chaos sound poetic. but the truth is uglier. things happen for a reason, sure. it’s just that the reason doesn’t give a damn about your plans.

and everything started on one deliriously boring evening. the kind that hums in your ears. you were lying there, half-scrolling, half-rotting, doing that zombie thumb motion where your brain wasn’t even plugged in anymore. your room was dark except for the dim blue glow of your phone, your fan spinning like a tired sigh.

and then an ad. some shiny banner flashing flags and suspiciously happy people pretending to learn french.

“what the fuck is even this shit,” you muttered, aggressively closing it like it personally wronged you. as if you wanted to learn a new language at this point in your life. you couldn’t even remember what day it was, let alone conjugate verbs in italian.

but the ad came back. and again. persistent. smug. like the universe was saying, nope, you’re not escaping this one, sweetheart.

so when your thumb slipped and tapped it, dragging you straight to the app store, you just… stared at your screen. breathing hard, like you just made a life-altering decision instead of clicking an ad.

“you know what? fine,” you hissed. “i’m done. i’m downloading this just so you shut up.”

yeah. you told your phone to shut up. that’s where your mental state was at.

the app installed with a cheerful ding! 

you rolled your eyes, opened it anyway, and went through the setup like a sleepwalker. profile photo? real because catfishing was too much effort and who would catfish on a language app??? language you wanted to learn? random. bio? you typed without thinking:

“rate mint choco chip on a scale of 1 to 10.”

chaotic neutral. perfectly unserious. an icebreaker disguised as a personality test.

five minutes later, your phone exploded. notifications everywhere. waving hands, random greetings, emojis you didn’t even recognize. someone even called your profile. called. you didn’t even know that was possible. your screen lit up with a stranger’s face, and your soul left your body for a solid three seconds before you hit decline like your life depended on it.

you instantly went into panic mode. because who the fuck calls a random stranger out of nowhere?!

you dove into the settings like a random idiot trying to disable a bomb, muttering curses at every menu option. after five minutes and three near-heart attacks, the calls finally stopped. silence again.

but boredom has its own way of writing stories. and curiosity is often tangled with it.

you didn’t mean to reply. honestly, you were just curious. you scrolled through the messages, half-interested, half-judging profile pictures like it was a sport. then you found this little corner of the app—a feed where people posted random updates. they called them “moments.” you called them “brain farts with filters.”

it was oddly addicting. blurry selfies, food pics, dogs, people trying to say good morning in languages they definitely didn’t speak. you found yourself scrolling through them like it was an alternate version of social media, replying to strangers, dropping waves just to see who’d wave back.

and that’s when it hit you. you weren’t bored—you were lonely. not the tragic movie kind. just the quiet kind. the one that creeps in at night when everything’s still, and your brain won’t shut up.

you sighed. this was supposed to be a joke. a distraction. not… whatever this was starting to feel like.

and the universe is really something because just as you were about to tuck in for the night, you saw him.

his profile wasn’t remarkable. no flashy smile, no thirst-trap lighting. just… real. neutral display picture, soft grin, slightly messy hair. but when you tapped through his posts, there it was—a halloween costume that made you snort out loud. it wasn’t sexy or spooky. just stupidly funny. something somebody would wear as if he lost a dare.

you stared at it, grinning. “you look cute in your halloween costume haha,” you typed. and hit send before you could talk yourself out of it.

one minute later, your screen lit up.

“you do know it’s almost 3 a.m. my time, right? since you clicked on my profile.”

you blinked. wait. what the fuck is this bitchy attitude? you laughed quietly, half-embarrassed, half-amused.

“and yet you replied.” “touché,” he sent back. “didn’t expect a mint choco chip reviewer to be this bold.”

you bit back a smile. “so you read bios now? that’s impressive, 3 a.m. detective work.”

“what can i say? i’m dedicated to cultural exchange.”

and just like that. it started.

you don’t even remember when it stopped being just “a few messages before bed.” one second you were teasing him about his halloween costume, the next, it was 4 a.m. and you were talking about everything and nothing.

easy. fast. funny. the kind of banter that felt like you were talking to someone you’d known forever. he was sharp, dry-humored, just arrogant enough to be interesting without tipping into annoying. you traded jokes about food crimes (“pineapple on pizza deserves prison”), teased each other about sleep schedules, and argued about whether mint choco chip tasted like toothpaste.

he was funny in that quiet, deliberate way—his words always landing right where they should. not loud, not trying too hard. just easy. dry humor laced with warmth. cruelty-free sarcasm. confidence without arrogance though you suspected he had plenty of that too.

“you know,” he said once, “if i were a flavor, i’d be coffee. bitter. addictive. impossible to forget.” you laughed. “you mean burnt and overpriced?” “see?” he replied, voice dripping with mock injury. “this is emotional abuse.” “you’d survive,” you teased back. “probably,” he admitted. “but not without caffeine.”

and that’s how it was with him. playful, rhythmic, something between laughter and comfort.

every message from him hit too easily, like it slipped through your screen straight into your bloodstream. and then somewhere between the jokes and the language corrections, you looked up at the time to see it was 5 a.m.

“you should sleep,” you said. “i can hardly leave you alone now 😭”

you laughed out loud, the kind of laugh that feels like something cracking open in your chest.

and that’s how it began. not with fireworks, or fate, or a grand romantic gesture. just two insomniacs, half a world apart, laughing into their screens like idiots at 5 a.m.

and that line? it stuck. it wasn’t a pickup line. it wasn’t even said like one. it was the kind of thing you say when you mean it and then pretend you didn’t.

you smiled at your phone like an idiot, the glow of the screen painting your face in that familiar, soft blue light. you checked the clock. almost sunrise—his sunrise.

“go to sleep, it’s almost 7 a.m. your time,” you typed. “yeah, yeah. after this message. maybe,” he replied.

spoiler alert: he didn’t.

you fell asleep first, phone still warm in your hand. the last thing on your screen was a half-typed sentence from him that said, “you’re—” and then nothing. maybe he deleted it. maybe he changed his mind. maybe he just fell asleep too.

the next day, you woke up to a notification—a follow request. his profile. you hesitated, grinned, and accepted.

minutes later, your screen lit up again.

“so this is what you look like when you’re not hiding behind that profile pic.”

you rolled your eyes, typing, “lol shut up.”

“nah,” he replied. “this one pic of you? peak. 10/10.”

you stared at the screen too long. stupid. ridiculous. grinning like a maniac.

that was the start of the spiral… your soft descent. voice messages came next. because, according to him, “typing’s too much work.”

his voice was steady. deep. unhurried. there was something about it that made you listen even when he wasn’t saying anything important. he’d talk about his day, or how his friend crashed their car again (“not badly, don’t worry, he’s just an idiot”), or about his cows.

yeah, cows. turns out, sukuna lived on a stretch of land that could only be described as aggressively rural. he tended to them every morning, half complaining, half proud.

“they’re dumb as hell,” he’d say, voice softening. “but they trust me. that’s the weird part.” “so, basically, your cows love you more than i do,” you teased. “they’re better listeners,” he shot back.

you laughed, and he did too—that kind of low, reluctant chuckle that lived somewhere between affection and exasperation.

but it wasn’t just cows.

he told you about the flowers too. how he arranged them for his mother sometimes, or just to fill the kitchen with color. and the tea that’s all ceremonial, precise, and something sacred he never admitted was soft.

“you? doing tea ceremonies?” you’d teased once. “that’s… so zen of you.” “you say that like it’s an insult.” “no, i say that like i don’t believe it.” “come visit,” he’d said. “i’ll prove it.” “bold assumption that i’d fly across the world for tea.” “bold assumption that you wouldn’t.”

you’d laughed, but part of you knew he wasn’t entirely joking.

the days blurred into a pattern. talk. tease. send a meme. share a song. repeat. he’d send you photos — the fog rolling over his field in the morning, a half-finished cup of tea, sometimes a blurry picture of his cat (“she hates me. it’s mutual.”).

and then came the voice messages again. longer ones this time. lazy, low, and warm — the kind of voice that wrapped itself around your thoughts. sometimes he’d hum. sometimes he’d say your name just to hear it.

you’d reply with short clips of your day, laughter you didn’t know you’d recorded, a soft “good night.” it was small, domestic intimacy — the kind that sneaks up on you.

it wasn’t flirting anymore. it was routine. it was comfort.

and yet, somehow, it was flirting. the kind that lives in tone, not words.

then came the nicknames. “sweetheart.” “hon.” “darling.” “my love.”

each one dropped so casually, like he’d been saying it for years. you laughed them off, pretended your heart didn’t skip, sent an eye-roll emoji to keep your cool.

“don’t you call everyone that?” you’d joked once.

“nah,” he’d said. “just you.”

and you believed him. god help you, you believed him.

the next thing started with something stupid. a photo of ice creams lined up on a counter—chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, mint. you’d been out with friends, but your mind was somewhere else, or maybe with someone else. so you snapped the photo, sent it to him, captioned:“pick one.”

his reply came faster than expected.

“i’d pick you as dessert.”

you froze mid-bite of your cone. blinked at the screen. laughed — half from shock, half because what the fuck kind of response was that?

“you’re disgusting,” you typed.

“you asked.” “i meant the ice cream, freak.” “oh,” he sent, a beat later. “then chocolate. but still, i’d pick you.”

you stared at the message longer than you should’ve. the room suddenly felt smaller, quieter.

and that’s how it always was with him. sukuna had this infuriating way of turning nothing into something. words into tension. a joke into a pulse that lingered at the edge of your thoughts.

you’d been talking for weeks by then — the kind of talking that felt endless. your notifications were his fingerprints. his texts arrived like muscle memory. and then one night, out of nowhere, you received a notification:

“would really like to hear you through a call.”

you read it three times, your heartbeat jumping every time your screen lit up.

“now?” “if you’re free, yeah.”

and god, you were free. too free. too willing.

the call started awkward: static, giggles, nervous fumbling. he laughed first, the sound low and surprisingly shy.

“you sound exactly like i thought you would.” “is that a good thing or a bad thing?” “a dangerous thing.”

your laugh cracked. he teased you for it immediately, of course.

and then, suddenly, the tension dissolved. the conversation unfolded like breath—natural, unforced. you talked about the weirdest things: favorite movie snacks, the tragedy of pineapple pizza, the fact that both of you had downloaded that cursed language app “as a joke.”

“you know,” he said after a pause, “guess i learned the right language.”

you couldn’t think of a comeback for that one. just silence. and your smile.

somewhere between midnight and dawn, the sound of his voice became a comfort. rough edges softened by sleep. he said your name once, quiet, like it was a secret. you fell asleep to the sound of him exhaling. steady, close, like you’d been listening to him breathe for years.

a week later, it was his birthday.

you texted him first thing:

“happy birthday, old man.” “rude,” he replied. “i’m barely older than you.” “barely,” you teased. “what do you want for your birthday?” “nothing but your attention.”

you rolled your eyes so hard you nearly saw your brain. but your fingers were already typing:

“how about a call then?” “absolutely!” like he was excited for that call. and this time, he didn’t even let it ring once.

his voice that night was different. soft around the edges. happy in the way that doesn’t need to be said.

“so what’s the plan?” you asked.

“this. just you talking to me.”

you could hear him smile through the receiver.

you talked about your days—the long ones, the quiet ones, the stupid ones that didn’t matter but somehow did when he listened. he told you about his cows again and how one kept escaping the fence.

“maybe she’s chasing freedom.” “maybe she’s just stupid,” he said, but you could hear the fondness tucked in there.

then he started rambling about tea — how the ritual of it calmed him. how it reminded him to slow down.

“you do tea ceremonies now?” “yeah. don’t tell anyone. ruins my reputation.” “oh yeah, terrifying man drinks jasmine tea—scandalous.” “careful,” he warned softly. “you’re next.”

the way he said it made your throat tighten.

hours passed like that. laughter melting into silence, silence into something heavier.

“sweetheart.” “darling.” “hon.” and finally, the one that stuck. “good night, my love.”

he said it like he didn’t mean to. like it slipped past his usual armor. and you didn’t say anything back, because if you did, the world might’ve shifted a little too much.

you smiled instead. a small sound escaped you and he heard it.

“there it is,” he whispered.

and somehow, that was enough.

a week later, things began to change… not suddenly, but slowly. like watching colors fade in real time.

his replies came later. his messages shorter. the emojis stopped. the nicknames turned into your name again.

you kept it light. sent memes, a photo of your coffee, a lazy “how’s your day?” ––but the rhythm was off. he’d still reply, still laugh, still say sweetheart sometimes, but it felt like muscle memory. like kindness performing itself.

and what hurt most wasn’t that he left. it’s that he didn’t.

he lingered. long enough to keep you hoping. long enough to make you believe maybe you were imagining the distance.

but deep down, you knew. you could feel it in the silences. you could feel it in the way his good nights no longer came first.

and maybe that’s how love ends in this century—not with a fight, or a farewell, but with read receipts that never turn blue.

so you sat on thinking about setting things straight. writing a fucking confession for days. rewrote it in your notes app. reread it on the way home. trimmed every word that felt too raw. you told yourself it wasn’t a confession, just… clarity. honesty. closure wrapped in lowercase letters.

you didn’t plan to send it that night. but your mind had been spinning for days, looping the same what-ifs, the same unsent draft you’d been editing and deleting like it was a crime to feel too much.

so you told yourself this wasn’t about getting an answer; it was about finally saying it.

“hey, ‘kuna. i know this is kind of random, but i’ve been meaning to say this for a while…”

you started light, like you always do—humor tucked between sincerity, hoping it’d soften the edges. you mentioned how you were just waiting for your ride, overthinking as usual.

you wrote about how it all started from that stupid app. how you just wanted to learn a new language, not him. and how weirdly, that random night had become something you’d started looking forward to. you told him you liked him, plain and simple. no metaphors. no overthinking this time.

you even admitted… in that awkward, half-joking tone that hid how much it meant that you’d be open to something long-distance if life ever lined up right. you said it scared you to even write that. but you wanted him to know.

you thanked him for the laughs, the late-night talks, the random voice messages that always came when your day was falling apart. you even mentioned that one night—his heavy lore as he call it and his relationship with his family—how that moment made you realize this wasn’t just a passing thing for you.

and you ended it with a laugh. always with a laugh.

“anyway, sorry if this is random. i just didn’t want to leave things unsaid.”

and then you hit send. and waited.

the wait was unbearable.

you tried not to check your phone. you tried to scroll through something else, anything else, but your mind kept slipping back. those three dots appeared once. disappeared. came back again.

and then at 7:39 a.m. his time.

“that’s really kind of you… i like you too, but i’m not sure if we’re talking about the same thing.”

you blinked at the screen. reread it twice. maybe three times. more like ten times at this point.

he said long-distance wasn’t realistic for him right now. that he wasn’t rejecting you, just being honest. that he still wanted to talk, still liked you as a person, but didn’t want to turn something good into something painful.

“sometimes i don’t have the energy to text, but it doesn’t mean i like you less.”“i hope this doesn’t hurt you.”“god, i hope i haven’t said anything wrong.”

it was gentle. careful. and it broke you in the quietest way possible.

you stared at his words until they blurred. they weren’t cruel. they weren’t dismissive. they were the kind that sound safe… the kind you can’t even hate someone for. or maybe, you’re just convincing yourself that?

and somehow, that made it worse.

your chest didn’t ache all at once because it sank. slow, heavy, steady. like heartbreak disguised as understanding.

then what the fuck was all that for?

the late-night calls. the way his voice softened when he said your name. the “my love” that slipped out between laughs. the way he’d stay up till sunrise just to keep you company. what was all of that if not a breadcrumb trail leading you straight into this ache?

but you didn’t rage. you didn’t call him out. you just… folded into yourself. reread every message. every emoji. every “good night, sweetheart.” searching for signs—red flags, warnings, maybe a line where he hinted this was never what you thought it was.

you scrolled up, again and again, trying to locate where it changed. where it stopped being you and him and became just you.

and you realized there was never a clean break. just a gradual fade wrapped in tenderness. a ghost that still texted good morning.

you didn’t cry right away.

you sat in silence, the blue light of your phone painting your face, replaying everything. and somewhere between denial and acceptance, the realization started to crumble inside your mind:

“is there something wrong with me?” it came out like a whisper. you weren’t sure if you meant it for yourself or for the version of you who still believed he’d say it back.

yet that question looped like a bad song.

you’ve always been a lover girl. someone who feels in full color. who finds meaning in the small things—the tone, the pause, the way someone types your name. and yet, every time, you’re the one left asking if maybe your heart’s just too fluent in the wrong language.

but maybe your heart’s too fluent in the wrong dialect. maybe you keep offering translations to people who never planned to learn.

okay, you don’t want grand gestures or fairytales. you just want someone to meet you halfway. to laugh at your dumb memes. to remember what you said two days ago about wanting matcha at 3 a.m. you thought love was supposed to be a dialogue—but somehow, it’s always been a monologue you perform for someone who claps quietly and leaves before the ending.

and somehow, that’s too much.

you tell yourself that you’re okay alone. you know self-love is important. but god, you also know how heavy it feels to love yourself loudly and have no one to echo it back.

you tried to convince yourself this was growth. self-awareness, duh. healing. whatever word people use when they’re trying to make heartbreak sound like progress.

but it still hurt. because you didn’t want a life lesson. you wanted him.

it’s like he taught you a language you never knew you’d want to learn but it ended up with you trying to teach him yours—the language of care, of attention, of trying too hard.

he learned the words, but not the meaning.

because it’s one thing to understand affection. it’s another to speak it back.

and sometimes, the questions you ask aren’t to change anything…you just need to hear them aloud, to confirm what you already knew.

he didn’t owe you forever. maybe just honesty. and he gave you that. even if it shattered the version of you that still believed in “almosts.”

you lay there until morning, your phone screen still glowing. not crying. just feeling. the kind of heartbreak that doesn’t demand tears, only silence.

you scrolled up one last time, back to the start. back to that first message.

“you look cute in your halloween costume haha.”

you laughed. soft. broken. because of course it started as a joke. and of course it ended as one.

you closed the app, the screen going black and for a brief second, you saw your reflection. you looked like someone who had loved sincerely and lost quietly.

and that, you realized, was its own kind of language too.

the one that doesn’t have a word for almost. only for enough.

----

a/n: long story short... I basically MISREAD the signs (how cruel is that lol) he was giving me throughout the months we were talking, flirting, or wtv u call it = confession: all dialogues here are excerpts (of me and the guy's convo) but kind of like rewritten BC WHY WOULD I SUBJECT MYSELF TO TORTURE??

and I had this idea in my mind that I need to set things straight and know exactly where we stand so I confessed and ended up receiving a message that he doesn’t really mean everything romantically and that wtv we had will NEVER turn into something romantic so yeah that’s why I was gone for the months

this is why I’d rather show love to fictional men atleast the only thing that could hurt me was that they’re canonically dead in their stories (yes, sukuna) so yep enjoy this heartbreaking reflection I went through

ALSO... yeah i did read the vogue article of how embarrassing it is to have a bf now lol

you were finally in the tub.

bubbles everywhere. hair piled up. candle lit. mood set was divine. perfect silence. peace. it was your me time. after a ridiculous week that felt like being hit repeatedly with a spreadsheet and then lit on fire, the only thing you wanted was solitude and maybe for your skin to absorb enough lavender oil to knock you out for twelve hours.

sukuna had been in full corporate tyrant mode the past few days. buried in meetings. constantly yelling into headsets like he was declaring war (he might’ve been).

there were moments you’d pass by the home office and hear him through the closed doors: “i said quarterly projections, not emotional projections. are you fucking with me?”

in that same low, terrifying voice he used when he was threatening that random guy on the street who once slapped your head thinking you were his friend. and obviously, that’s the tone that meant someone’s career was about to combust.

not that sukuna had been ignoring you, though. there were still sleepy kisses in the morning. half-asleep cuddles at night. coffee mug swaps between meetings. the quiet, steady kind of love. but you missed him. his annoying, smug, feral ass. just a little.  

so when the bathroom door creaked open mid-bath, you didn’t even flinch. you just knew. and yep, there he was.

dragging in his entire goddamn office chair. into the fucking bathroom.

yes, a literal, high-backed, leather executive monstrosity. the one he always dramatically called ‘the only chair that respects my spine.’ he wheeled it in like he was about to conduct a strategy meeting in your bubble sanctuary. and then he parked it casually beside the sink, facing you.    

you blinked at him from your lavender-scented cocoon of suds, “what the hell, babe… are you serious right now?”

“hi, baby,” he said, already settling into the seat like this was perfectly reasonable. “i wanna spend time with you. so i brought my chair.”

“…in the bathroom?”

“yeah, got a problem with it? you’re hot. the lighting’s warm. the air smells like that purple crap you love. it’s a vibe. this is my happy place.”

you stared at him. “you brought your chair.”

“‘course I did,” he said, already opening his laptop (he fucking brought one) and clicking away like this was just another thursday. “i’m swamped. figured i could do my stupid shit and look at you. productivity. efficiency. serotonin. and dopamine. win-win.”

you squinted at him. he never used that many words to justify something unless he was spiraling. which meant that he’s fucking really drained for today – an oddity. sukuna never gets drained. he had the chaotic stamina of a toddler with an espresso machine. weird visual, but whatever. 

“you just wanted to watch me and pretend it was multitasking.” you teased.

“baby, i don’t need to pretend to watch you,” sukuna replied without shame, eyes flicking down over your shoulders, lingering for a breath too long. “i’m your husband. it’s practically in the vows.”

you groaned and slid lower into the bubbles. “you’re so annoying. you have zero concept of personal space.”

“bold of you to say when i was balls deep in you last week,” he muttered, eyes back on the laptop screen.

you rolled your eyes. “rude. that was emotional love-making, actually.”

“you cried after,” he added helpfully, with a teasing grin this time, looking at you.

“i was overstimulated and exhausted!”

“from all the love,” he said, voice dropping slightly as he winked. “you looked so fuckin’ pretty like that, by the way. all whimpery and soft. should’ve taken a photo. mental health purposes.” he then turned back to his laptop and continued doing whatever shit he was doing like he hadn’t just shattered your dignity. 

“god, you’re insufferable,” you sighed, watching him lean back and spread his legs like he owned the damn place (he does). shirtless. and just in his boxers. basically, a menace in soft lighting.

“only for you,” he said, then paused, dragging his eyes down again. his fingers slowed on the keyboard. “you always sit like that in the tub when you want me to look.”

you froze slightly. “‘kuna, i’m literally just bathing.”

“uh-huh. with your knees poking out of the bubbles like that. water dripping down your collarbone. are we pretending you’re not trying to make me fail this report?”

you stared him down. “you’ve been shirtless all day. i haven’t said a word.”

“you bit me earlier. for no reason.”

“you were walking around with a pen in your mouth like a chew toy!”

he grinned and stretched out in the chair, legs wide, muscles relaxed. “ohhh, my bad, madame la professeur. je m’excuse.” his voice dipped, teasing. “would you prefer I recite conjugations again?” 

you choked on a laugh, bubbles shifting. “no... baby, stop. i don’t wanna heart it,” you said as you covered your ears.

“sweetheart, you threatened to drown me with a beret when i said ‘voulez-vous coucher avec moi’ in class.”

“because you said it in front of the TA! and winked at me after saying that, who does that?”

“me, obviously. and now look at us,” he gestured vaguely between the two of you, “still conjugating. still undressing with language.”

“gross.”

“grammatical,” he corrected smugly.

“anyway,” you huffed, “this was supposed to be sacred alone time.”

“correction,” he said, typing, “this is now sacred us time.”

“i can’t believe this is what my marriage looks like.”

he looked up again, glasses low on his nose. hair messy from a full day of stress-yanking (not love-making). dark eyes locked onto you like you were another report he was ready to manhandle. “consider me your emotional support office chair. i’m quiet. i click keys. i’m shirtless. it’s a wellness experience, brat.”

you gave him a deadpan look. “remind me again why you’re still doing reports when you own the entire damn company?”

“because my exec team is full of morons and apparently need their daddy to babysit the fucking budget.” he muttered, his eyes back on the screen.

“… so you really say that in meetings? ‘don’t worry, daddy’s here with the spreadsheets’?”

he gave you a withering look. “baby, don’t make me come over there and show you why they call me that.”

you sat up straighter, mock-scandalized. “you are not turning my bath into a boardroom kink.”

“oh, please,” he snorted. “you’d let me reorganize your filing system if i said that it in that voice.”

 “try me,” you puffed your cheeks and threatened, “i will throw a loofah at you. and for the record, ‘kuna? this is ambush. i was having sacred time, you bulldozer.”

“and yet… you married me.”

“temporarily lost judgment.”

“five-year lapse?”

you rolled your eyes in annoyance. “shut up. you’re ridiculous.”

“correct. and in love.” he said easily, shifting the laptop onto his other lap. and you let out a soft laugh at that because you know it’s true. 

for a moment, he didn’t say anything. just watched you, still half-soaked in warm light and bubbles. his eyes lingered, not with hunger and mischief, but with something softer. like he was memorizing. or making sure you’re here.

“you good, babe?” you asked.

he blinked, like coming back from wherever his head has gone. “yep, just…” he shrugged. “you’re the best part of the day, baby. seriously though, i missed you,” he said voice quieter now, like it didn’t just knock the air out of your lungs.

you blinked and froze a little. not because he said it, but because of how soft he said it. you rolled your eyes again, but your heart was already melting. “i’ve been busy. you’ve been busy. it’s fine.”

“it’s not fine,” he said, not looking up from the screen. “i like working. but i like you more. well, love. whatever, you know.”

that... shut you up a little. for a whole minute, even. you stared at him as candlelights softened the hard lines of his face. he was typing again, brows furrowed, but his jaw was tight.

“… okay, damn. for someone who threatened brad from finance with a stapler, that’s surprisingly romantic, ‘kuna.” you said quietly.

he cracked a small smile. “brad’s an idiot. you, on the other hand, are my peace.”

you were silent for a second and sighed out relief you’ve been wanting to let out for the past week. “well, you’re a clingy little bitch.”

“only for you, baby,” he said without missing a beat. then he smirked and cocked his head, eyes sliding over your shoulder, chest, legs – all barely hidden under the bubbles. 

“also, this bath is really doing things to my productivity levels. like, negative productivity. you gonna stand up at some point or do i have to pretend i dropped something in your bathwater?” he added, clearly back to his cocky self.

you threw the loofah at him. he caught it one-handed. “you’re such a menace.”

“only for you, brat,” he repeated again, softer this time. then added, “also, your left boob’s out. always a ten out of ten.”

“get out.”

“i just got comfortable,” he grinned. “and again… i’m your husband. my perving is legally protected.”

––