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chilichopsticks · 2 days ago

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michael kaiser — "crybaby"

⤷ summary: you knew michael kaiser had a past—he was a heartbreaker, a player, a man built for the spotlight. but you didn’t expect it to hurt this much. and you didn’t expect him to choose you this softly.

⤷ genre: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, romance, emotional healing, insecure!reader × protective!kaiser, established relationship

michael kaiser was a lot of things before he met you.

and everyone knew it.

a heartbreaker. a flirt. a man who left lipstick stains on his collar and never remembered the name of the girl who left them. they called him the emperor for a reason—not just because of how he ruled the field, but because of how he ruled hearts, only to toss them aside when he got bored.

and you? you weren’t stupid. you knew exactly who he was before you even let him touch you. you weren’t supposed to fall for him. but somehow, you did.

somehow, he made you feel like you were the only girl in the world.

but that didn’t mean the fear went away.

especially not tonight.

it started with a tweet. one you didn’t mean to see. you were just scrolling through your feed to distract yourself from studying, and there it was—#kaiserxamelie trending in bold letters. a blurry photo attached: michael, supposedly laughing with some model at an event you didn’t know he went to. she was stunning. the kind of beautiful that made you shrink in your seat.

people were already eating it up. shipping them. calling them "perfect together."

you stared at your screen until the words blurred. until your stomach twisted and your chest grew tight and you couldn’t breathe around the ache.

you tried to convince yourself it meant nothing. you tried so, so hard.

but your mind was a cruel thing, feeding you every 'what if' you’d been avoiding since you met him.

what if he found someone better? what if you were just another one of his phases? what if he never really stopped being a playboy—just got better at hiding it?

and worst of all:

what if he leaves you, too?

like the last one did.

so you cried. you cried the way you always did when the world felt like it was closing in. quiet and curled up under your sheets, pillow pressed to your face, trying to suffocate the sobs.

—

you spent the whole afternoon lying in bed, phone clutched in your trembling hand, that trending hashtag burned into your memory like a scar. you tried to look away, to distract yourself, to reason with the ugly voices clawing inside your brain—but nothing worked. every time you blinked, you saw his name next to hers. saw the photos. the quote retweets. the laughing emojis. the assumptions.

“kaiser and amelie confirmed?”

“i knew he couldn’t stay loyal for long.”

“poor girl, whoever she is.”

you felt like a fool.

every doubt you tried to bury started digging itself out of the grave. all the smiles he gave to others. the way girls still looked at him like he was god. the way he sometimes flirted just to win. and you—how could someone like him ever want someone like you? someone who cries when overwhelmed. someone who flinches at love like it’s a loaded weapon.

you sat there in the dark, curled up under your blanket like it could protect you from a heartbreak that hadn’t even happened yet. but god, it felt like it had. your chest ached. your stomach twisted. your brain wouldn’t shut up.

what if he really was tired of you?

what if you were just another name on a long list of girls who thought they were special?

what if he was already planning to leave?

you bit your lip until it bled just to stop yourself from sobbing again. but the tears came anyway, hot and endless, like they’d been waiting for this moment. you cried until your head throbbed. until your voice went hoarse. until your pillow was soaked and your hands felt cold and useless.

—

by the time michael got home, you were a mess.

"schatz?" his voice echoed down the hall, casual and light. "i brought your favorite—"

he stopped when he saw you. you didn’t even hear the bag drop to the floor. your head was still buried beneath the blanket.

"hey... hey, baby," he was kneeling by your bed in an instant, his hand gently tugging the sheets down. "what happened? why’re you crying like this?"

you turned away from him, biting back another sob. your voice was hoarse and small when you mumbled, "it's nothing."

"don’t do that," he said quietly. "don’t lie to me. talk to me, schatz. did someone hurt you?"

you shook your head. but your shoulders were trembling. he could see it—hell, he could feel it. his girl, the one who cried when she dropped her favorite mug, who got weepy over sad commercials, was breaking in front of him.

and he had no idea why.

"was it me?" he whispered. "did i do something wrong? please—please just tell me."

you finally turned to him. your eyes were red and swollen, lashes wet, cheeks blotchy from crying for hours. your lips trembled as you tried to speak.

"i saw a tweet..." you started, voice barely there. "they said you were with someone. some model. and—and everyone was saying you looked good together and i... i know it’s stupid, i just..."

more tears spilled.

"i got scared. i thought maybe you’d realized you could do better. that you’d leave. that you’d cheat."

and there it was.

the wound you’d kept hidden. the fear that festered quietly behind your smiles and soft kisses. it all spilled out in broken pieces.

michael was silent.

for a second.

then, gently, he cupped your face with both hands. thumbs wiping your tears away like they were poison on your skin.

"hey," he said, forehead pressing to yours. "look at me. look at me, schatz."

you tried, even through the tears.

"do you really think i’d ever do that to you?"

you hesitated. he kissed the corner of your eyes, soft and slow.

"do you really think i’d ruin the best thing in my entire life for someone i won’t even remember the name of tomorrow?"

you hiccupped, sniffling. he kissed your other eye.

"i know i used to be a dick. a dumbass, even. but i’m yours now. completely. every messy, chaotic, obsessed part of me. i’m yours."

his lips found your cheeks, warm and damp with salt.

"i don’t want anyone else. i’ve never wanted anyone else since the moment you looked at me like i mattered. since the moment you kissed me like i wasn’t just another pretty face."

his hands curled around your waist, pulling you into his chest.

his arms tighten around you, like he’s trying to convince your bones that they belong here—with him. he rests his cheek against the crown of your head, breathing in the scent of your shampoo like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“i don’t care what the world says about me,” he murmurs, voice low and scratchy, “but it kills me that you think i could hurt you like that.”

you sniffle, still curled against his chest, fingers fisting the fabric of his hoodie. “i—I didn’t mean to. i just... i got scared.”

“i know, baby,” he says, rubbing slow circles on your back. “i know what that kind of fear feels like. i hate that you felt it because of me.”

he leans back just enough to look you in the eyes—those pretty, watery eyes he swears he’d fight the world for. then, with the softest voice he’s probably ever used in his life, he says, “you’re my person, okay? no one else. no one ever comes close.”

he presses another kiss to the tip of your nose. “even when you cry so hard your nose turns red and you sound like a little hiccup machine.”

you sniff, letting out a shaky laugh through your tears.

“there she is,” he smiles. “still the prettiest girl i’ve ever seen.”

"and if you ever see shit like that online again, please—please just come to me. don’t cry alone like this, schatz. my heart can’t take it."

your arms looped around his back. you felt so small in his arms.

"‘m sorry," you mumbled. "i just... i got scared. my ex—he cheated on me, and i keep thinking you’ll get tired of me, too."

he pulled back, just enough to kiss your lips.

"never. you hear me? never. you could cry every day, snore in your sleep, burn toast every morning, and i’d still pick you in every lifetime."

that made you choke on a laugh.

"...i don’t snore."

"you do. like a baby walrus. but it’s cute."

"kaiser—"

he kissed you again. slower this time. sweeter.

"go to sleep, crybaby," he whispered into your hair. "i'll be right here. always."

that night, for the first time in what felt like forever, you fell asleep in his arms. safe. loved.

and michael kaiser held you like you were his entire world.

because you were.

—

his grip stays gentle even as your breathing evens out, soft and steady against his chest. he brushes your hair away from your face, pressing one last kiss to your forehead, then shifts slightly—just enough to free one hand and reach for his phone on the nightstand.

his other arm never moves from around you. he won’t risk waking you. not when you look so at peace. not when you finally let yourself rest.

and god, the sight of your tear-streaked cheeks still makes something violent twist in his chest.

he's angry. not at you—never at you—but at the world for putting that look on your face. at the people online who think they know him. at himself, for ever giving you a reason to doubt how completely, utterly his you are.

he taps on his screen, presses call, and waits.

“hey,” he mutters when the line picks up, voice quiet but laced with steel. “get those fucking posts taken down. now. all of them.”

a pause.

“you hear me? i want everything wiped—tweets, tags, articles, reddit threads, burner accounts—everything. i don’t care if it’s 1 a.m. i don’t care if you need a damn lawyer. fix it.”

another pause. his jaw tightens.

“i don’t care if you have to contact the platform or sell your damn soul, i want every single photo and rumor wiped. i’m not asking again.”

his tone leaves no room for negotiation. he may be a player on the field, but off it? he’s a king, and he doesn’t tolerate disrespect. especially not toward you.

another pause.

“good.”

he ends the call with a sigh, sets the phone face down, and curls his arm back around you like that was where it always belonged. he buries his face in the crook of your neck, breath syncing with yours, finally letting himself fall asleep.

he’ll deal with the rest of the world tomorrow. the fans, the press, the rumors. he’ll face it all with his chin high and his crown steady.

but tonight? he holds you like you’re the only thing that matters.

and if the world was gonna try and make you doubt him again?

then he'd burn the whole fucking thing down before he ever let it touch you.

“and if the world ever dares to hurt you again, may it know the wrath of the boy who once swore to never let go.”

#bllk x reader #kaiser x reader #h/c #chili library <3

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chilichopsticks · 2 days ago

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Breathe

Summary : Bucky tries to quit smoking for your sake.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Fluff!!!! Canon-compliant. cursing. Smoking and trying to quit. It is mentioned that you and Bucky have been dating for six months. Post-Thunderbolts Bucky (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Word count : 4k

Note : If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments. sometimes. Enjoy!

The cigarette shook slightly between Bucky’s fingers, the metal ones. The ones that didn’t feel heat, or cold, or guilt. Smoke curled from the lit end, rising into the air like it had nowhere else to go. He didn’t inhale it yet as he watched it burn.

The room was dimly lit, save for the orange flicker of the cigarette and the blue light of the city pressing in through the open window. Outside, traffic rumbled busily, headlights sweeping across the ceiling like wandering ghosts. Inside, everything was stagnant.

He brought the cigarette to his mouth, the paper crinkling as his lips closed around it. He took a long drag— much deeper than necessary — and let the smoke fill his lungs like he wanted it to settle there permanently.

This habit… calmed him down.

Bucky exhaled slowly through his nose. The smoke rolled out like breath from a robot trying to mimic life. He stared at it as it swirled and dispersed in the air, useless and fleeting. It looked just like the comfort it used to bring.

He leaned back against his windowpanes with a sigh, his metal arm resting on his knee, the weight of it grounding him in a way he wished the smoke still could.

But it didn’t help anymore.

Not really.

It was just a thing he did, a ritual. The flick of the lighter. The first drag. The downtime between inhales.

He’d started smoking when he was sixteen, when he swiped Camels from a corner store in Brooklyn, back when it felt rebellious and grown-up. Back when cigarettes were cheap and nobody warned you they’d kill you, not that it would’ve stopped him.

He smoked in alleyways behind dance halls, leaning against brick walls with his collar up, pretending he wasn’t waiting for someone to come out and notice him. He smoked on rooftops during the war with blood on his hands and the stars smeared above him. He smoked in silence after Howling Commandos missions.

It reminded him of being twenty-three with his whole life ahead of him, of being James Buchanan Barnes, not a villain or hero with a metal arm.

It reminded him he used to be fragile.

Smoking was a tether, a time machine, a small act of rebellion that no handler ever managed to strip from him. It was stupid and meaningless and a habit he should’ve outgrown decades ago — but it was his.

And this habit had outlasted everything else.

He drew in another lungful, letting it out slower this time. He watched the tip of the cigarette dim, then flare again with the next pull. There was something satisfying about the burn and the silence it carried.

The smoke didn’t ask anything of him. It didn’t care who he’d been. It didn’t flinch at his past.

But it didn’t fill the hollow spaces in his mind anymore, either.

He stared at the half-finished cigarette, watching ash bloom at the edge. The ember pulsed faintly, like a dying heartbeat.

He sneered, almost to himself.

He should’ve been able to quit by now. He’d tried countless times. He tried patches, gum, the water bottle tricks from online articles that John swore by, and even the hypnotic apps Sam downloaded to his phone with a smirk and an annoyingly optimistic, “Man, just give it a try. What’s the worst that happens, you stop smelling like an old speakeasy?” but nothing stuck.

None of it worked, because he didn’t really want to quit.

Because what was the point?

His body rejected the harm like a well-oiled machine. The super soldier serum coursing through his veins saw to it that the nicotine never touched him.

The tar never built up in his lungs. His skin never yellowed. His heart never fluttered. Smoking wasn’t killing him — couldn’t kill him — in any way that mattered physically.

But lately, he wasn’t so sure.

Lately, when he smoked, he didn’t feel relieved. He didn’t feel rebellion. He didn’t feel much of anything, except…

Except the way you had looked at him the last time he lit one near you.

You, his girlfriend of six months that he had fallen head over heels with, didn’t look at him angrily, not with disappointment. You just made yourself… small. You just distanced yourself a little farther away than before, as if the smoke built a wall you didn’t want to step through.

You had turned your head to cough politely and covered it with the back of your sleeve. You didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.

“As long as it’s not hurting you, right?” you’d say, voice hoarse.

And it wasn’t. Not technically. But as he stared at the smoke curling toward the ceiling like a prayer no one answered, Bucky wondered, was it hurting you?

Because if it was then maybe that was the answer to what’s the point of quitting?

He brought the cigarette to his mouth again, drew in deep, letting the familiar sting settle on his tongue, then exhaled through his nose like a dragon too tired to breathe fire. It was automatic and pointless.

His mind was somewhere else entirely, drifting between decades and regrets. He didn’t hear the key turn at first, not until it scraped gently in the lock, the way it always did when it was you.

His head snapped toward the door just as it opened.

“Bucky, babe?” your voice called through the crack. “You home?”

He was already stubbing the cigarette out in the ashtray, grinding the embers down. The scent hung in the air, though.

You stepped inside a second later, letting the door swing close behind you. You looked up at him from the hallway with a sheepish smile and a bag hanging from your shoulder.

“I know I should’ve texted,” you said quickly, a little breathless. “I just… had the absolute worst day at work, and I didn’t want to be alone. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have just let myself in.”

Bucky stood, heart hammering for no reason that made sense.

You had a spare key. He’d given it to you two months ago, tucked into your palm. You took it and gave him your spare key, too.

He’d wanted you to use it, just… not now.

Not when he smelled like ash. Not when he still had smoke clinging to the collar of his shirt and the air was filled with evidence of something he was supposed to have outgrown.

But you didn’t wrinkle your nose or pull away. You just dropped your bag beside the door and walked toward him.

“I just really need a hug,” you sniffled, almost shy.

Bucky walked across the room, arms already reaching. You melted into his chest like gravity had been pulling you toward him all day.

Your arms slid around his torso, your cheek pressing just above his heart. He exhaled, burying his nose in your hair. He could still smell the faint perfume, books, the lavender hand lotion you always carried in your bag on you.

You smelled like… home.

He didn’t realise how tightly he was holding you until you let out a little breath and tilted your head up to look at him.

Your eyes met his fingers brushing lightly over the seam of his t-shirt, and his hand slid to the small of your back like he just couldn’t not touch you.

“I missed you,” you whispered, smiling.

Bucky’s chest tightened. “You saw me yesterday.”

“I know.” You leaned in closer. “But missing you doesn’t really follow a schedule.”

His hand curled instinctively in your hair, and he bent down to kiss you. He was always gentle at first, then deeper just a second later.

You kissed him back, just sure.

But then, just as your fingers curled against the back of his neck, you pulled back suddenly and turned your head to cough.

You tried to muffle it against your shoulder as another followed.

“Sorry,” you said, your voice scratchy. “There’s smoke, I didn’t mean to—” You trailed off, blinking up at him, hand still against his chest.

Bucky froze.

Your eyes flicked to the ashtray still sitting on the windowsill behind him. One cigarette, still smouldering.

You didn’t say anything, not that you had to.

The guilt came in all at once, like a flush that crawled up the back of his neck and settled behind his ribs. He stepped back just enough to give you air, like that would help.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” he said, voice rough. “I wouldn’t’ve lit one if I’d known. I—I shouldn’t have at all.”

You reached for his hand. “It’s okay, Buck.” You reassured him, “It’s your place. You can do what you want here.”

Fuck, that made it worse.

You never guilted him, never pressured him, yet here you were, coughing from a habit he should’ve given up fifty years ago, still trying to protect his feelings.

“I’m sorry,” he said, again, quieter. “I don’t want it around you. I don’t want… I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You didn’t hurt me.”

He didn’t believe that. All he could think was how shouldn’t have to swallow smoke just to kiss him. How you shouldn’t have to make yourself smaller just so he can cling to something that doesn’t even serve him anymore.

Especially when you were looking up at him with watery eyes and a love he wasn’t sure he would ever earn.

He hadn’t realised how much he hated the smell until it was on you.

He looked at the ashtray like a familiar enemy he’d never quite had the courage to face.

He used to tell himself it didn’t matter. That the serum kept him safe. That it couldn’t hurt him.

But it could hurt you, even if you tried to wave it off.

“I’m gonna quit,” he declared abruptly, like the words surprised even him.

You blinked, tilting your head. “What?”

He looked at the way your brows knit just slightly in concern, your hand still resting gently on his arm.

“I’m gonna quit,” he repeated, firmer now. His voice didn’t shake this time. “I’m done.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but he shook his head, eyes already burning. “Not later. Not eventually. Now. I don’t want…” He paused, exhaled hard. “I don’t want you breathing that in.”

Oh.

You cupped his face in your hands, thumbs brushing over the stubble along his jaw, and smiled.

“I…” you whispered, giving him an encouraging smile, “I’m proud of you.”

“You think I’ll actually quit this time?”

“Of course.”

For the first time in a long time, Bucky believed he could do it, too.

—

The next morning, Bucky woke to sunlight.

Not the harsh or blinding kind that reminded him of tents and orders, but a golden filter through the curtains you'd insisted on putting up, even though he said he didn’t care.

He blinked, adjusting to the light. Then he felt the dull ache in his jaw from clenching overnight and the twitchy discomfort in his hands.

It wasn’t overwhelming yet, it lingered like a thought just out of reach, pressing behind his teeth.

He looked to the empty space next to the bed next to him, and realised you weren’t there anymore.

Then, he reached for the nightstand on instinct for the lighter and pack.

But there was nothing.

There was the book you’d been reading aloud to him last week, mug he hadn’t brought back to the sink, and your hair tie.

You must’ve put it away this morning.

He sat up, rubbed his face, and let out a breath through his nose.

Day One. The thought made his chest tighten as his phone buzzed.

It was a message from you.

Good morning, babe. Sorry, had to run, was late for work. How do you feel so far? Want me to bring you something to munch on later?

He huffed a laugh before typing back quickly.

Come over, and don’t even knock. Just use the key.

The reply came a second after.

See you later then. ❤️

He walked barefoot into the kitchen. He made coffee, and didn’t even glance toward the drawer where the lighters used to be. His hands shook a little, so he gripped the edge of the counter and stared at the kettle until it stopped.

Later that night, he heard the door open behind him that evening, he turned around so fast he almost knocked a couple of mugs over.

And there you were.

Hair slightly windblown, scarf a little crooked, a canvas tote on your arm and a smile that knocked every thought from his brain.

"Hi," you said, already dropping your bag by the door.

“Hi,” he echoed.

You walked to him like you belonged there, which, in every way that mattered, you did. You stepped right into his arms without hesitation, like the hours apart had been longer than either of you liked.

He buried his face in your hair and held you close, the tension in his chest bleeding out slowly like a pressure valve opening.

God, he was glad.

You pulled back after a moment and reached into your tote.

“I brought something,” you said, producing a large container. “Chocolate muffins. I grabbed some from the bakery round the corner. Also…” You fished something else out and handed it to him with a sweet smile.

A little wrinkled gold sticker. It said, LOOK AT YOU GO! With a smiling star on it.

Bucky blinked at it.

“Are you—seriously?”

“I am very serious,” you said, sticking it to his shirt before he could protest. “You deserve a damn sticker, Buck.”

His lips curved up just a little. "I haven’t even made it through the whole day yet."

“Still. So far, you're undefeated."

He looked down at the sticker, then at you.

And for a moment, his throat got tight again.

You… looked at him like he wasn’t a collection of bad habits and fractured memories. You acknowledged that he was trying, and that was enough.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

You leaned in, brushing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Any time.”

—

The first few hours of day two felt manageable.

He was used to tension and discomfort by now. So when he made it to noon without lighting up, Bucky almost felt... cocky.

He made tea and poured it into the mug you always used. You sat by the window.

He didn't reach for a pack, so that felt like progress.

But by 3 p.m., his hands were twitching again.

The silence started to feel too loud, his skin too hot, like it didn’t fit right on his body. He started pacing without even realizing. He could feel the craving in his jaw, in the backs of his eyes, like a pressure pushed that can’t be released.

But he didn’t break.

He went into the kitchen, grabbed a spoon, and forced himself to eat peanut butter straight from the jar like you’d suggested. “It keeps your mouth busy.” You’d say.

He barely tasted it, but it worked for about ten minutes.

He tried to nap, but couldn’t.

He called Sam.

Then, he sat in the corner of the couch with his arms around his knees and stared out the window for an hour.

That night, when he came over to yours, he barely said anything. He melted into your arms like your hug was the only thing holding him together.

And when you kissed him and didn’t cough he closed his eyes and whispered, "I made it."

—

The next few days, the cravings started before he even opened his eyes.

His mouth was dry, his body tight. His throat was aching for something that wasn’t there.

His brain tried to lie to him. Just one today. You’ve done enough. Take the edge off. No one would blame you.

He growled under his breath and sat up in bed, grinding the heel of his hand into his temple like he could physically scrape the thoughts out of his skull.

Coffee helped, and a cold shower helped more.

When home felt suffocating, he walked the city until his legs ached, but corner stores felt like they were booby-trapped. When someone passed him on the street with a lit cigarette, he nearly turned around and followed the smell like a damn bloodhound.

But then he thought of you.

He made it back to the apartment and sat with his head in his hands, shaking.

That night, he left the windows open, and the air stayed clean.

—

John Walker, when he quit, had always said the worst part wasn’t the craving. It was the muscle memory.

After decades of lighting it up, sometimes it was easier to let instinct win than stop and think about what he was doing.

Which is how he found himself standing outside the back entrance of the secure warehouse after a mission, metal hand in his pocket, and a cigar already lit between his fingers.

He didn’t even remember saying “yes.”

Alexei had come outside with him, talking some nonsense about American coffee being too weak and how Bucky’s brooding was “bad for morale.” And then, Alexei pulled a pack from the inside of his jacket and offered one.

“Still the good Russian kind,” he’d grinned, handing him one. “None of that watered-down capitalist trash.”

Bucky had taken it without thinking.

He’d lit it.

He’d inhaled.

And the second the smoke hit the back of his throat, the dread inside him twisted like a gut-punch.

His lips parted.

His lungs expanded.

The taste hit his tongue and he froze.

The guilt landed fast and brutal.

“Fuck,” he muttered, pulling it from his mouth.

Alexei raised an eyebrow. “What, not Russian enough for you?”

His hand froze halfway through another automatic drag.

What the hell am I doing?

“I’m trying to quit,” Bucky blurted out before he could stop himself.

Alexei turned slowly, mid-rant, and squinted at him. “What?”

“I’m quitting,” Bucky repeated, more certain now. Alexei looked down at the cigarette in Bucky’s hand. Then back up at him. Without hesitation, he snatched it right out of Bucky’s fingers.

“Then what are you doing, Barnes?” he barked, flicking it to the ground with dramatic flair. He ground it under his boot with enough force to crack the pavement.

Bucky blinked. “I—“

“No. No no no,” Alexei said, holding up a finger. “You do not get to say ‘I quit’ while you are smoking. That is cheating on yourself.”

Bucky just stared.

Alexei jabbed a thick finger into his chest, and stubbed his own out of respect.

“You are super soldier. You have fought robots, flying men, and lived through three Captain Americas. And you’re gonna let this”—he gestured at the crushed paper and leaf—“defeat you? Pathetic.”

“I already put it out,” Bucky muttered.

“You didn’t put it out,” Alexei corrected, “I put it out.”

That actually got a tiny, miserable snort out of Bucky. “You still smoke.”

Alexei stepped back, more serious now. He looked at Bucky with the kind of sideways wisdom that came after too many wars and too many dumb decisions. “Yeah, well,” Alexei said. “You are better man than me. And I am not trying to quit, you are. Do not make excuses.”

Then he slapped Bucky on the shoulder so hard it rattled his ribs. Alexei walked back inside, muttering something about “too many complexities in this country.”

Bucky stood alone in the alley.

Smokeless.

And weirdly… clearer.

He looked down at the crushed cigar, guilty.

“…Cheating on myself,” he muttered. “Jesus.”

He exhaled through his nose and turned on his heel.

There was only one person he wanted to talk to now.

—

He told you the moment you walked into his apartment.

He didn’t even say hello.

“I fucked up,” he said.

You froze, blinking. “What?”

“I had one. Or— a bit one. At work. Alexei offered me one, and I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t plan it, I just—took it. Lit it. I took a drag. One drag. Then I stopped.”

Your eyes softened instantly. “Bucky…”

“I didn’t want it,” he said quickly, stepping closer, desperate for you to understand. “It didn’t even taste good. I felt sick right after. But—God, I felt like—like I’d broken a promise to you.”

You reached for his human hands and held it, even with that faint trace of ash still in his skin.

“You didn’t break anything,” you said softly. “You’re still on the path. One step backwards doesn’t erase the direction you’re heading in.”

“I felt like I let you down.”

“You didn’t.”

“I let myself down.”

You nodded, then lifted his hand to your mouth and pressed a kiss to the back of it.

“I’m proud of you for stopping,” you whispered. “For realising it. For telling me.”

“Am I…. Are we… okay?” he asked, quietly.

You stepped closer and wrapped your arms around his waist, resting your head against his chest.

“We’re perfect,” you said. “You slipped. But you’re still moving forward. That’s what matters.”

He let out a shaky breath, buried his face in your shoulder, and just held you for a long time.

Long enough to start forgiving himself.

Later, over dinner, you peeled off a new sticker and stuck it right to his chest.

—

Weeks Later, Brooklyn.

You were sprawled across Bucky’s bed with a book half-finished and your legs tangled in the sheets. He was at the desk near the window, flipping through a notepad filled with Bob’s observation notes.

There was tea on the nightstand and toothpicks in a little jar beside it. A lo-fi playlist drifted from the speakers. The window was cracked open, letting in a breeze that smelled like rain and bakery sugar.

Bucky got up to find a pen and rummaged through his desk drawer. And then… he paused.

You glanced up just in time to see it in his hand. It was a cigarette pack, permanently sealed and intact.

“Oh,” he said, brows raised. “Forgot I had that.”

You sat up, the book falling forgotten to your lap. “Hm?”

“Swear.” He held it like it didn’t mean anything, like it was a picture of someone he used to be.

And that’s when you realised… he really did forget.

It hadn’t been easy. You remembered the first few days, how his hands would twitch, how he’d lose his words mid-sentence. How he’d cling to you like a lifeline in the middle of the night, forehead pressed to your shoulder, his breathing uneven.

And now... here he was, standing barefoot, holding a pack of cigarettes like it was a joke from another life.

Your eyes burned before you could stop them, but tried to laugh it off. “I’m not crying, there’s just... a lot of dust in here.”

Bucky looked up, realising what had gone through your head immediately. He walked up to you, hands already reaching for your face. “Hey. Wait—look at me.”

You did.

He cupped your jaw with both hands, thumbs brushing beneath your eyes. “I didn’t quit because you asked me to.”

“I know.”

“I quit because… I realised I’d rather breathe you in than anything else.”

You let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a sob.

He kissed the corner of your lips.

You managed a chuckle against his skin. “So... want me to toss it?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding at the cigarette pack. “End of an era.”

You made a show of dramatically chucking it into the trash. “Rest in pieces, smoky Barnes.”

Bucky snorted. “Smoky Barnes?”

“You were kind of like a noir film character. Except hotter and more dramatic.”

“Hey—”

You wrapped your arms around his neck before he could fake being offended and dragged him back to his fluffy couch where he fell with an oof and a smile that reached all the way to his eyes.

You curled into him, your face tucked under his chin and kissed your hair.

“You’re my favorite version of you,” you said.

Bucky’s arms tightened around you. “You’re the reason I got here.”

-end.

Request Guidelines

Masterlist

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

@shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault @average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @boy--wonder--187 @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life @rIphunter

@cjand10 @nerdreader @am-3-thyst @wingstoyourdreams @lori19

@goldengubs @maryevm @helen-2003 @maryssong23 @fan4astic

@yesshewrites1 @thewiselionessss @sangsterizada @jaderabbitt @softpia

@hopeofwinter @nevereclipse @tellybearryyyy @buckybarneswife125

@imaginecrushes @phoenixes-and-wizards @rowanthomasknapp @daystarpoet @thefandomplace

@biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @herejustforbuckybarnes @kitasownworld @shortandb1tchy @roxyym

@badl4nder @natalia42069 @silverdoragon @juliet-is-the-sun12 @nightlight486

@buckmybarnes

#bucky x reader #h/c #chili library <3

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chilichopsticks · 3 days ago

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꩜ angsty texts w bf! kei tsukishima

#screams the pain the angst the sadness it is amazingggg #haikyuu x reader #tsukishima x reader #h/c #chili library <3

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chilichopsticks · 4 days ago

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Push & Pull | inbox (5)

(SUKUNA X READER)

PLOT:

You often find yourself complaining to your pen pal about the annoying IT tech at your soul-sucking corporate job. If only you knew that they shared the same identity beyond the screen.

or: the “You’ve Got Mail” au

MASTERLIST

chapter 4 < chapter 5 > chapter 6

Don’t think, just do it.

Sukuna storms into the office with a deep breath. “What the fuck is going on? I helped you for a reason!” he yelled as he walked to the desk in the middle of the room.

Toji Fushiguro, the new CEO of Zenin Group, sighs as he looks away from his assistant. “Give us a minute.”

“I didn’t give that tip off for no reason. I thought we agreed that nothing would happen to her or her job,” Sukuna went on.

Toji, Sukuna’s old friend, was an heir to the Zenin fortune until he had gone ahead and done the unthinkable–married outside the circle of eligible elite socialites (and then divorcing her later, but that’s a story for another time).

Zenin Group belonged to Toji as much as it did to his cousin, Naoya, so it was only right that he took charge and went against all the people who were taking advantage of being at the top by reporting them. Via Sukuna’s help, of course. The man had been keeping tabs on the Zenin family for his benefit, but now it seemed futile.

“Can you please fucking chill out? Take a seat first.” Toji pointed at the leather chair across his desk, but Sukuna’s pride prevented him from doing so.

Toji sighed, knowing that he was facing the equivalents of an impenetrable fortress and an unstoppable object: Sukuna’s resolve, and his affection for you.

The man had gone soft and hadn’t even realized it, already charging like a bull into the office of one of the most powerful men in the country.

“It’s all a formality, don’t worry. I don’t even think it’s possible to replace so many people so quickly. They’ll all be fine. Just give it a day or two for the investigation to finish up.”

It’s hard enough not to text you as soon as he clocks out. The day still felt long even when he had to share almost all of the corrupt Zenins’ email logs, and whatnot; the team of corporate lawyers rushing all around the main headquarters of Zenin Group had kept him busy from nine to five to the dot. But even then, his mind drifted to you and your long face as you walked out of the office, your large cup of coffee abandoned on your work desk. If Sukuna had the stomach for it, he would’ve downed it in one go, placing his lips right where yours were.

As far-fetched as an expectation it is, he can’t help but yearn for a text from you when he unlocks his phone. Too bad you don’t think of him as much as Suguru, who texts him to go out for drinks at a members-only club that Sukuna was a part of. He nearly threw his phone across the room because of it.

Tonight, instead of going out and drinking his tension away with his coworkers, Sukuna opts for a nightcap with his laptop as he decides to reply to orchid27.

He could type out the website with his eyes shut. After all, a friend had been waiting for him behind the loading screen. The familiar jingle is like a stimulus to his senses: ‘You’ve got mail!’

A forgotten smile grows on his face when he sees a glowing green dot next to his pen pal’s name on the website. For the first time in a while, orchid27 was online for a live chat. Sukuna takes a sip of his drink and cracks his knuckles before typing up a catchy greeting.

----

Surprisingly, you weren’t mad when you had to go home for the day. You almost felt guilty for the glimmer of happiness that twinkled in your eyes as you walked to the elevator with the rest of your team.

Sure, you’d probably have to look for a new job as soon as you get off this high, but maybe this break was much needed after all. All the conversations and discussions happening around you ceased to exist. You could no longer hear Shoko sobbing into Suguru’s shoulder, nor could you hear Nanami cancelling his reservation, or Choso’s incessant whining about having to pause his plans to buy an expensive action figure.

Call it insensitive, but you were starting to look at the world through rose-colored lenses.

When you reach home, you do the one thing that you’d been dreaming of since you became a corporate slave: take a five-hour-long nap during the day. Stripping off your clothes and throwing them in your laundry hamper, you skip to your bed and wrap yourself in your sheets, giggling like a woman in love as you begin to drift off.

Strong hands travel up from your thighs to your decolletage, lifting the flimsy satin night gown up your body. It’s basically a tiny piece of cloth with elastic straps stitched to it if you think about it. Or a handkerchief, depending on who’s using it. The hands throw your gown across the room, and you whine, pushing the meaty mitts away. “I’m cold.” Your nipples are sensitive as they harden due to the night’s chill. A deep chuckle rattles you to your soaked core as the hands pull you against his hardened body, fingers brushing against your aching nipples.

“You’ve got me to keep you warm, baby.” Baritone rumbles in your ears, reaching the part of your mind that melts your sanity. You grind against him, his hardening cock slipping between your slick thighs as you sigh. “Turn around. I wanna see your face as I fuck your pretty pussy.”

You comply, body warm with sleep and delirium. Your eyes flutter open to look at the man who had you caged against him like he’d been shaped to fit you there.

But all the color drains from your face when you realize it’s the fuckass IT tech, Sukuna Ryomen.

You wake up panting, falling off your bed to get away from him as fast as possible, but all you see are messed-up sheets and no sign of the muscled brute. You rub out the dream sand from your eyes and clutch the side of your head as you groan and cringe.

It’s okay, mistakes happen. Intrusive thoughts exist.

But this was a heavy one to deal with. Your core is sensitive, and your thighs are wet when you go to take a cold shower, and you’re horrified at the revelation that you might just have orgasmed to Sukuna in your sleep. Not to mention that the dream felt oddly domestic.

Karma comes for everybody. You’d been celebrating your possible last day at work with too much excitement, considering that your termination letter hadn’t even been written out.

Oh well, only a matter of time.

You order an expensive sushi dinner to celebrate your last working day and pop open a bottle of expensive wine you’d been saving for a special occasion (to be honest, you were never really sure what you were keeping it stored for. You were always one to save and never spend, so it felt good to let loose for once).

If you had friends living nearby to celebrate your termination with, you’d go all out: a Michelin star restaurant, bars where drinks cost more than twenty-five bucks each, and drunken karaoke where you’d again stuff your faces full of deep-fried snacks.

But since you don’t, you go to the one person who’s ever come closest to that status: ceos4unions.

You open up your computer to check if he’d replied to you yet. You don’t hear the jingle you so yearn for, but you see an instant messaging window pop up.

Ceos4unions: I had a gut feeling you would be on line now.

You gasp, taken aback. It had been ages since you two had the time to chat like this. The first time it ever really happened was when you both had first agreed to become pen pals.

You take a sip of your wine and type out a response. “Uh oh.”

Orchid27: Good evening to you as well. I think I’m gonna get fired. How’s your day been?

Ceos4unions: DAMN Sorry that’s happening to you. Did you finally punch Mr. Douche?

Orchid27: He’s been trying to redeem himself lately, so no (although I don’t wanna take my chance, so I always keep my fists warmed up). I’d rather not talk about work. I’m enjoying myself wayyy too much right now.

Ceos4unions: Okay, let’s talk about me then. I think my crush might start warming up to me soon. She doesn’t have a car, so I started driving her to work, and she hasn’t looked at me in disgust since!

Maybe it’s the wine, but you can’t help but picture Sukuna’s contrite expression when he’d apologized to you after the restaurant debacle. You’d hate to picture him as such, but your mind reels over Sukuna’s stupidly handsome and tattooed face when your eyes flit to your computer screen.

Orchid27: I’m happy for you. What else are you planning to do to impress her? Oh, great, Ceos4unions

Ceos4unions: The company field trip is coming up. If all goes well with my wildlife survival skills, we’ll share a tent ;)

Orchid27: Gross. Men are all the same, haha.

There it is again, an odd consistency between your lives. The corporate almanac that’s always distributed as a formality at the beginning of the year always showed when the company’s annual team building trip was, which is just a fancy way of saying that it was a camping trip where whoever goes gets a day off from pulling their weight around the office.

Could he….no, surely not.

You’d heard an old college alumnus say that certain companies plan their trips together to build rapport for future collaborative projects. Gojo Technologies has done so in the past, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise to you.

So why does the possibility of meeting him thrill you?

You choose not to mention your work trip. For your sanity, of course.

But it would be nice to put a face to the person beyond your screen. Then at least you’d know that he wasn’t just someone you’d dreamed up to cope with the crapiness of being a corporate slave.

Ceos4unions: Come on, there’s no need to act all holier than thou. Besides, I wasn’t even thinking about sex.

You chew your lip and rub your hands together before typing up a response.

Orchid27: Can I ask you something?

Orchid27: Promise me that you won’t think I’m weird.

Ceos4unions: I’ve lived a colorful life, so I know what the worst form of weird looks like. Shoot.

Orchid27: I had one of “those” dreams about Mr. Douche.

The conversation takes a pause. It’s over. Your pen pal thinks you’re a gross, perverted, weirdo who uses hate to justify whatever you do.

It’s all over. Your respect in a stranger’s eyes? Gone. Your will to live? Disappearing with each passing second. Your mental state? In the depths of—

Ceos4unions: Man, with the way you’d texted, I thought you’d done something worse. We’ve all been there, orchid27.

Ceos4unions: It may seem like it’s just another dream, but I think your mind is trying to send you a message. Unresolved feelings perhaps?

Orchid27: NO. I don’t even want to entertain that possibility.

Ceos4unions: fine. I guess it’s just sexual frustration. You need to get laid lol.

Ceos4unions: now I’m starting to wonder if my crush has ever had such dreams about me.

The conversation eventually steers back to your pen pal. It’s mostly him taking advice on how he can come off as a good boyfriend to his crush. You think all his effort is adorable. It’s not every day you see someone make a genuine effort towards dating someone, and your pen pal’s existence gives you hope that not all is lost.

Your ex wasn’t the best man, and nor was he the best partner. Cheating greatly hindered your ability to trust someone, but talking to ceos4unions really helped your case.

Anonymity was the main driving force, really. Sooner rather than later, you found yourself easily opening up to a stranger. Knowing that there’s someone out there who doesn’t pity you for your life but rather only knows you as someone who’s interesting enough to constantly correspond with gives you the kind of peace that’s hard to find even in the most quiet corners of the world.

You had a good friend. As unconventional as he may be. One can only hope that they don’t lose a bond like this to time and distance.

—

The investigation only lasted a day, much to your surprise. Deep down, you sort of knew there wasn’t anything to worry about, considering that nobody was in the know about the whole situation (at least as far as you’re aware of). It was Naoya’s absence from the company that excited you the most. Hopefully, things would be different with a new person in charge.

As an apology for the scare, the new CEO of Zenin Group, Toji Fushiguro himself, treated the entire department to dinner.

What you don’t understand is why Sukuna had to be there, too.

He’s charming, you think–in a psychopathic kind of way. It’s hard to shake that image off of him, considering how he had terrorized you for a long time before only recently trying to redeem himself.

Shoko notices that you’re only picking at your plate, rolling around the peas with your fork as you look distanced.

“What’s wrong?” Her intuition and curiosity always get the best of her. It’s probably why she’s so outspoken.

“It’s a team dinner. I don’t get why the IT tech needs to be here too,” you complained as you stabbed your pea with a prong of your fork. Shoko looks a bit concerned, almost as if she assumed that you were visualizing Sukuna’s head as the pea. “He’s everywhere,” you continued.”At work, after work, in my–” You stop yourself from revealing too much, but it’s too late because Shoko is already opening her mouth.

“You had a sex dream about him?” she whispered. Instead of replying, you drink your Aperol spritz. “You sneaky little–oh my gosh, do you have a weird little crush on him now?”

You nearly spit your drink out. “How in hell did you reach that conclusion?”

“You’ve been staring a lot at him lately. I mean, you always do, but it’s usually with contempt. But these days, it’s with a little less of that, and more of… I don’t know, indifference? Plus, you guys have been coming into work together lately.”

Shoko’s still not wrong. To the untrained eye, it would seem like you were hooking up with Sukuna after work.

“He owed me for all the weird shit he had pulled in the past.” You give a straight-laced answer that wouldn’t lead to further inquiries, but Shoko only pesters you further.

“Okay, then, why now? Why is he suddenly so nice to you? Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to hear less bickering around the office, but I don’t understand what took him so long.”

Your eyes flit to Sukuna, who’s chuckling about something Toji said. His tongue sweeps over his lips, and you gulp. Those same lips were on your neck in your dreams. The ‘laidback office worker’ look suits him well; rolled up sleeves, messy hair, blue-light glasses in his work bag. His palms are calloused, likely because of the barbells he lifts. Shit, the sheer swelling of his biceps against his shirt showed you that he could probably bench you like you weighed nothing.

Heat burns your cheeks when your eyes meet, his smile disappearing as you both gulp at the same time. You look away first, only to face a smug Shoko.

“Ugh, shut up,” you groan as you go back to picking at your food.

Shoko isn’t wrong. Why did Sukuna choose now, of all times, to be so nice to you?

The group disperses after dinner. Suguru and Shoko, as usual, leave together. Nanami lived nearby, and Choso had a friend picking him up. Toji said something about wanting to be home before his son got mad at him, leaving you and Sukuna alone.

“Come on, I’m dropping you home.” The words roll off his tongue easily, like he knows you won’t question much when anything was for your benefit.

He’s not wrong, but you, at the moment, don’t think you can be in an enclosed space with him. Flashes of your dream revisit you each time you gaze at him.

“I think I’m just gonna take the train tonight,” you ramble out as you scurry towards the exit.

“Okay, then let me at least drive you to the station.” You notice him about to grab your arm to stop you, but he quickly retracts it.

“No, I want to take a walk.”

“It’s still dark and late. Let me walk you to the station.” Sukuna looks at you with great persistence, and you’re not sure why, but you agree even if it means that he’d have to walk back to the restaurant to get his car from the valet.

Your shoulders occasionally brush when you walk. The alcohol made it a little difficult to stay balanced on your heels, so walk as slowly as possible. But even then, your feet wobble, making you nearly topple over had it not been for Sukuna.

“Here, hold on to my arm,” he says as he extends it to you after your embarrassing incident. Sukuna rolls his eyes when he notices an apprehensive gaze. “Calm down, I just wanna make sure you don’t twist your ankle.”

Wordlessly, you clutch on to his bicep. Your breath gets caught in your throat when you feel just how hard the muscle is there. Your hands can barely wrap around him.

When you arrive at the station, he waits for the train with you. Usually, he’d be annoying you with needless conversation, but instead, he was quiet. When you look up at him, you notice that he’s staring at the ground, the tips of his ears and his cheeks red (which was weird because he hadn’t drunk tonight).

The train’s horn echoes in from the depths of the tark tunnel, indicating its arrival, and Sukuna flexes his jaw before covering your ears as the horn grows louder when the train finally stops.

“Text me once you get home.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You quickly move his hands away from your head, walking into the train. You take a seat that faces away from him; however, you can still see his reflection in the carriage windows across you.

He doesn’t leave even when the train starts moving, and you don’t turn back to bid him a final farewell.

Shoko’s words constantly ring through your mind on the train ride home. Weird little crush really was the best way to describe the situation. You hoped most of it was just your hormones talking, but you weren’t a teenager anymore.

As a grown-up, one doesn’t simply start liking someone because they do one nice thing for you. But Sukuna’s case was different. It started with hate, but then bloomed into something new. When you removed the veil of skepticism and saw him from an outsider’s perspective, he wasn’t all that bad.

He’s good at his job, gets along with his coworkers, has good long-term friendships, takes care of his health, and recognizes his faults when he’s told he’s wrong.

The ideal man. Just not conventional for your circumstances.

So why did this ideal version of him come out after so long? It’s almost as if it were hidden away from you because it was waiting for the right moment. You’re not sure for what reason, but it’s the only conclusion your puzzled mind can conjure up.

#sukuna x reader #series #jjk x reader #chili library <3

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chilichopsticks · 4 days ago

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Permanent Mark Masterlist • Gojo Satoru

When your lover’s past comes back to haunt you, how many times will he choose her over you? When nothing you give was enough to make him stay. Yet, you would still choose him. Everyday.

Genre: Angst

Pairing: Gojo x reader

Status: Completed

Warnings: tragedy, alcohol abuse, self-harm, self-destructive reader, smoking, physical violence, cheating, toxic relationships, manipulation, eventual smut, pregnancy, mentions of abortion…+

Taglist: Closed !!

Playlist

› Part I:Permanent Mark

› Part II: Down

› Part III:Fool

› Part IV: Loose Lips

›Part V:Fear

›Part VI: Mine

›Part VII: Blessings

› Part VIII: Lengths

›Part IX: Mistakes

› Part X: Loss

›Part XI: Epilogue

#angst timeeeeee #chili blah blah

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chilichopsticks · 6 days ago

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The New Avengers?

Sam Wilson x Reader Comforting Sam after he finds out about ‘The New Avengers’

The door to your apartment opened and closed with such force that for a moment you thought there was an earthquake – but of course it was just your boyfriend Sam arriving home.

You looked up from the book you were reading “Sam? Baby? Everything okay?”

Sam comes into the living room. He’s pacing, clearly agitated. You try again “What’s wrong?”

He rubs his forehead and asks quietly “Have you seen the news?”

You think back but can’t think of anything that would’ve got your boyfriend this wound up “No. What’s going on?”

He pulls out his phone and presses at the screen for a moment before handing it to you. It’s a video. When you press play you see a woman introducing the ‘New Avengers’ including one of Sam’s friends – Bucky.

You purse your lips “I thought you were putting together the new Avengers?”

Sam nods “I was- I am. He didn’t even say anything to me. This just… Sarah sent it to me. I don’t know what to think. And John’s there? I mean… Damn.”

You look at him “Okaaaaay. Have you called Bucky? Spoken to him about this?”

He shakes his head, flopping down onto the couch next to you “No, I… What would I say? What do I say that doesn’t sound so damn childish? ‘I’m meant to be putting together the New Avengers, not you’.”

You look at the video again “To be fair… This group… They all look a bit dumbfounded. Especially Bucky. You should call him, ask what’s going on. Look, maybe you could even team up-”

Sam shakes his head “No, no way. I’m not getting involved with anything that includes Valentina.”

You look back at the screen “Which one’s Valentina?”

Sam points to the lady who’d introduced the ‘New Avengers’ “Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.”

You raise your eye-brows “That’s a mouthful.”

Sam nods “She’s bad news. And if Bucky’s involved with her I want nothing to do with it.”

You sigh and put your hand on his shoulder, rubbing your thumb softly “I think you need to talk to Bucky. You’re just overthinking everything at the minute. Don't jump to conclusions, you're only winding yourself up.”

Sam nods again, his voice quiet “Yeah… Yeah, I know…”

He looks so dejected and your heart pangs. You keep rubbing his shoulder “Talk to me.”

Sam sighs “I just… It’s been hard. Taking the shield, becoming Captain America. Putting together this team… It’s like an opportunity. To show everyone who I am as Captain America, y’know?”

You nod. You know he’s struggled – the constant comparisons to Steve Rogers have been difficult on him “Sam… You’re doing a great job, you know that right?”

He smiles “You have to say that.”

You roll your eyes “No I don’t. If you were doing a shit job then I’d say so.”

He snorts and rolls his eyes “Yeah, figures.”

You lean over and kiss his cheek “Call Bucky. Okay?”

He nods and rubs his forehead again “Yeah, yeah… Tomorrow, first thing, I’ll give him a call.”

You shuffle closer to him and he puts his arm around you “You know you don’t need to live up to Steve, right? You can be your own Captain America and anyone who thinks otherwise… Well, fuck them.”

Sam laughs “I know, I know… Easier said than done though.”

You nod “Yeah, I know…” You sigh “I promise you’re doing fine though. Cap.”

He laughs again and nudges you “You’re so cheesy.”

You grin “I know…” He gives a small smile and you feel a wave of relief that he’s not as wound up as before “It’ll be okay. Promise.”

He nods “Yeah… Yeah, it will.” He looks at you “Long as I have you by my side.”

You nudge him “Now who’s being cheesy?”

He laughs “I’m serious. Thank you.”

You smile and he tightens his arm around you, pulling you closer to his side as you lean your head on his shoulder. Everything will work out. You’re sure of it.

#i love him so dearly #the world needs more sam wilson fics #sam wilson x reader #fluff #chili library <3

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chilichopsticks · 6 days ago

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“kei..” you whispered in between kisses.

tsukishima kei is a busy man. if he’s not acing his classes, he’s repping sendai city and racking up points for his team. he barely ever had free time on his hands — specifically, you in his hands.

so, when he stopped by your place, it took you by surprise to see him standing at your doorstep. he was heaving, hair and clothes tassled by the wind. one thing led to another and…

“kei, c’mon..” you whispered again. he kept going, hungry and starved for your lips, deep groans in annoyance and protest to your wishes. he finally had you in his hands — how in the world could he pass up this opportunity? he kissed you in such a manner that if he pulled away for just a bit, you’d vanish from his touch.

he pulled you in closer by the waist, hands roaming around your body for something, anything to keep him on steady ground. his lips were no different from his hands, ravaging and becoming completely insatiable. tongues dancing, teeth clashing — it was just too much for you. with a whine and a small push to his shoulders, he finally pulled away, a string of your shared saliva covering the gap between your lips.

“kei, it’s getting late. don’t you have some work to do?” you panted as you clung to his sweater, small amounts of worry peeking through your voice. you knew how busy he was and how committed he was to his passions, but in this moment, nothing could match how badly he needed you.

“one more, please. please let me stay,” he begged in reply, voice laced with fear of an absence of you, even if it’s just a second. his glasses were long tossed aside, his hair tasseled from your fingers, lips swollen with kisses, and cheeks flushed a deep, bright red. his hand cupped your jaw as his wide hazel eyes searched for the smallest glint of permission to keep going.

“please, i need you…”

well, how could you say no to that?

#tsukishima x reader #haikyuu x reader #fluff #chili library <3

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chilichopsticks · 7 days ago

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➺ husband!sukuna x gn!reader (2/2).

• pt. 1

it's been quiet - the two days since your bloody midnight discovery in the bathroom. you'd taken him to the hospital the next morning to get checked and have his wound treated properly. you've been in the same car, you live in the same house, and yet sukuna feels like he hasn't heard your voice in years. only in passing have you addressed him and while he understands you're position, he will not allow himself to stand by idly as this goes on.

sukuna needs to speak to you, to hear you. to tease you and have you tease him back. he needs things to fall back into their rightful place, into the patterns yo both created, the the routine he's made himself so comfortable with.

but how can be complain? this is all of his own doing. his pride and ego have no place to interfere in this relationship, but that isn't even the problem anymore. he nervous and he's scared. what if he messes things up? what if he can't fix this? what if you finally decided he's too much?? what if he's really lost you now?? pushed you too far?

you hadn't let him do much, insisting he rests so the wound could heal properly and not risk it reopening. what if that's code for saying you don't want him around anymore?? that you don't need him? are you finally sick of him?

realistically, he should know that would never be the case, though he's so far into his own world of worries to think about the situation reasonably. his thoughts now only plagued with the possibility of his greatest fear being realized.

so when he hears your keys jingle and the front door open he panics. you hadn't said anything about leaving, so at the end of everything he isn't even afforded a goodbye??

without much thought given to the consequences his actions may have on his body, he's darting off your bed and down the stairs. sukuna catches your wrist right as you're going to open the car's door. when you turn to face him, confusion and annoyance evident in your expression, "sukuna, what the hell, you're gonna end up-"

he's looking at you so intensely when your eyes meet his. the towering pyjama clad form of your husband is accompanied by brows furrowed and bare feet on the gravel of your driveway in the middle of the quiet morning of your neighborhood street.

what a sight to behold.

he doesn't say anything for a long moment, still, you offer him time. always so damn patient with him it makes him feel like the only person in the world. there are butterflies fluttering around uninvited in his stomach when he thinks about it too much.

"where are you going." it comes off more like a statement than a question. in his mind he's already decided that he knows exactly what's going on, only waiting to hear you affirm it.

he feels a dull pain in his side but it's not difficult to ignore it with the ringing in his ears and loud thumping of his heart. he's scared, hiding behind his expression through a toughened exterior.

what a foolish man you've married.

"sukuna," your being your hand up to rest on the upper part of his tattooed armed, tracing the lines gently with the tips of your fingers. "i'm going grocery shopping. we need food, and gauze, some cleaning supplies, and... oh right! and laundry detergent. just sit tight for me, i'll be back soon."

the way his expression shifts to one of relief brings a smile to your face. he was so worried, too worried to even be embarrassed by the out of place reaction. his hand covered yours as it rests on his arm.

"i'll come with you?" this one he meant as a question. when you don't refuse, he takes your hand in his squeezing ever so gently; reassuring himself mostly "wait for me. i'll be quick."

sukuna's back inside your home, darting back up the stairs with different intentions this time around. as quickly as he can, he's dressing himself and making his way back down. now with a clear enough mind to actually slip on a pair of socks and shoes.

he's rushing, like there's an underlying fear you'll have already pulled out of the drive way when he gets there. a cruel joke you'll play as a final parting gift. you're not gone, he finds you there, leaning against the door to the drivers seat. waiting for him.

oh, the morning breeze has never felt so refreshing, the sun never so warm, and the world never so good.

this is you. he doesn't have to worry about cruel jokes, you're far to kind for that. he doesn't need his toughened exterior or towering posture when it's you. you won't play those torturous games with cruel intentions, won't leave without a goodbye. fear has no place between the two of you.

the drive starts of rather quiet, an air of awkward and nervous still lingers. you don't seem to feel it though, leading him to wonder if it's only one sided.

while he's debating on what's the right thing to say, your voice cuts through all the possible options, a familiar reminder you share with him every so often. this is a safe space. his words don't have to be perfect. they can come out choppy and incomplete so long as they're while in their honesty. so long as that's what he needs to say; what you need ti hear.

"i'm sorry."

a simple start, nothing spectacular, but it's a start nonetheless. your hands remain on the wheel as your eyes find his looking out the window. he's fidgeting with his hands like he doesn't know what they're for again; returning your focus on the road and let him continue.

"i-, i was reckless. again. and i'm sorry, i really didn't mean for it to happen it just — did. i'm sorry baby, i now i should avoid getting myself in situations like that. i honestly don't even know what really happened. i know it must be annoying and frustrating for you to always have to end up dealing with the aftermath of it. i understand that you're probably sick of it all by now, i'll do better. i'll be better. i promise."

he looks over to you from the passenger seat, expectant. almost inaudibly he adds, "don't leave."

you've made it to the grocery store by now, putting the car in park before you begin speaking.

"ryo, i appreciate your apology and i'll accept it, but baby, that's hardly what this is about. my anger, which really wasn't anger at all, came from a place of worry. of concern. not annoyance or frustration. much less directed at you! i love you. i love caring for you. i hate to see you hurt, but i'll never complain about treating you when you are. it means everything to me that your okay, healthy, safe. i was — i still am upset with how passive you are about those things when it comes to yourself. trying to treat such a serious wound like that?? be serious. i need you to prioritize these things more."

"you're my priority."

"to prioritize yourself is to prioritize me. we're married, dumbass. marr-ied. married. we're a team; that means that if one of us is compromised, so's the other. that how this works."

well, that's not at all what he was expecting. his mind had strayed so far in an entirely different direction. one where you finally tire of him. where you realize you could leave and go elsewhere — somewhere less bothersome. and he couldn't be any more wrong. sukuna has never considered that his actions won't raise feelings of annoyance but instead; worry for his wellbeing. worry because you care. because you love.

"i'll be better." he says.

"i believe you." you respond, so easily. as if trusting him is the easiest thing in the world to you. even when it was difficult for him to trust himself.

but why? he wants to ask. how are you so sure?

you only smile at him. just so damn patient, and the butterflies are back to spawning in his stomach again.

"okay cute, very nice. but we really have to go now. there's a sale and i know the lines are gonna be crazy."

god, those butterflies won't be stopping anytime soon.

bonus(!!)

he's pushing the cart and leaning his still aching body over it to rest.

"you know, when you said that we're a team, the first thing to come to mind is those three-legged races"

"mhm, and we'd be falling all over the place thanks to you darling"

"please, we'd do great. in a worst case scenario, baby, i'll just drag you along. you're stuck with me"

"what-"

"not much you could do to stop me", a cheeky wolffish grin playing at his lips.

umm, alright then. psychopath.

#sukuna x reader #jjk x reader #fluff #chili library <3

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chilichopsticks · 7 days ago

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Loved & Lost — chapter one

pairing: gojo x f! reader

synopsis: Your marriage to Gojo Satoru was doomed from the start. You believed in fairytales, he believed in the past. Your futile attempts at gaining your husband’s attention and affection caused more anguish than rapture. And you’re starting to wonder if you can ever survive being compared to a dead woman forever.

tags/warnings: second wife trope, modern au, arranged marriage, heavy angst, smut, fluff, mentions of su*cide, mentions of infertility, pregnancy, societal pressure, elite circles, mentions of classism, drama, cheating (emotional & physical), gojo is an assjole, reader tries her best to make the best of things, character death, talks of mental illness. artwork by mercyerr. dividers by @/cursed-carmine.

wc: 8.4k

series masterlist < two

You’ve only seen Satoru Gojo five times before you married him.

You know close to nothing about the man, except for the fact that he was now the one you would be calling your husband.

The first time was years ago. You were only nine, and he was fourteen years of age. It was some sort of meeting between your fathers, one your own had brought you to after your persistent begging.

Never did you expect to see the young teenager with white hair and even brighter eyes standing beside his father and in front of you, holding his hand out for you to shake. Somewhere hidden in that day, an unfamiliar flutter bloomed in your stomach. It heightened when he bought you a drink from the vending machine as your fathers ushered you out of the room, insisting that you kids have some fun.

His fingers brushed yours, and your cheeks flared up, for some reason. Prepubescent and completely innocent, but confused as to the emotions he made you feel.

He didn’t even smile—more like apathetically frowning.

Still, it made you smile shyly, waving bye to him when your fathers were done with their discussion.

You remember your father lightly teasing you about it on the drive back to your estate.

“Does someone have a little crush?” he chuckled, smirking softly and grabbing your hand as you crossed the street for a pitstop at your favorite ice-cream parlor.

“Dad…” you murmured, hiding your face in his arm. “No, I don’t. He was just nice.”

“What did you two do while you were gone?” he asked, opening the door to the parlor. The young girl behind the counter greeted you both. Your father nodded politely and went up to order for both of you.

You pursed your lips, watching the employee scoop two spoonfuls of cotton candy ice-cream into the waffle cone, decorated with chocolate and sprinkles at the base of it. “I dunno, just random stuff. School and friends.”

Your father hums, releasing your hand to grab the two waffle cones with the cotton candy ice-cream. You both always ordered the same thing. You guys sat outside, enjoying the beautiful warmth the afternoon sun had brought you.

It was a silly, but wholesome tradition you both had. You were the only child who inherited your father’s sweet tooth, and your two brothers were at the age where they’d rather not be seen out in public with their embarrassing father eating…ice cream. You can see the disgust on their faces in your mind.

“Well,” your father prompts. “If you do like him, he needs my approval first.”

“Dad!”

“What?” he shrugged. “It’s true. Whoever you end up marrying, I need to make sure they’re with you for the right reasons. Not the wrong ones.”

You looked down at your swinging legs, bringing some ice cream to your mouth. Right reasons? Wrong reasons? You were too young to understand what he had meant by that. Shouldn’t every husband be with their wife for the right reason? And what are ‘wrong reasons’?

You had so many questions.

“You’ll understand when you’re older.”

That pulled a pout from you, looking up at your father.

He smiled—like any father would at their only daughter (his favorite kid).

“Trust me, babygirl.” He kissed the temple of your head, wrapping a large arm around your small frame. “You’ll know.”

The next three times you saw Satoru were sporadic throughout the years. Your crush on him had dwindled slightly as your maturity grew. You came to the conclusion that he was just very, very attractive. Not that you had a crush, per se.

He remembered you—somewhat.

But after that first meeting from when you were a kid, you never engaged in a lengthy conversation with him.

He was busy, getting ready to become the next CEO of Gojo Global Holdings. You were equally as overwhelmed with the preparation of taking an influential role in your family’s company, NovaLink Corporation.

You didn’t really have time for crushes, boys, kisses, sex.

Not that you wanted to, anyway.

You grew up sheltered. Very sheltered. Compared to your older brothers, who probably had years' worth of experience in the love department, you had none. Okay, well, maybe you french-kissed a boy from school one time in the supply closet. But that was it!

You could say you were quite traditional when it came to that sort of stuff. Wanting to save yourself for marriage—for your husband.

You daydreamed more often than not about who it would be. Would he be kind? Charming? Tall? Handsome? Where would you meet him? Would he love you dearly and make a big family with you?

God, you hoped so.

You were so giddy at the prospect of having a golden band on your left ring finger. At being able to say “I’m married” with a huge grin on your face.

You just couldn’t wait for the man of your dreams to pop into your life out of nowhere, sweep you off your feet, and give you the fairytale every young girl dreams of having when she’s older.

And the wedding. Oh, the big, beautiful, extravagant wedding.

The fifth time you saw Satoru, he was twenty. You were fifteen and just breaking out into the world full of endless possibilities.

And to your surprise, he had the gold band on his finger that you craved for your husband to wear.

You were shocked—extremely so. Questions floated in your head, each overlapping with the last. He’s married? To who? For how long? Isn’t this quite a young age to get married at?

All your questions abruptly came to a halt when you saw the way his eyes lit up. The smile on his face grew, his dimples showing. His cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink, and his feet were moving before you knew it.

He said something. You couldn’t hear.

You just looked.

And a woman welcomed his eager embrace, kissing him briefly, but passionately, in the hall full of affluential people. You looked down at her hand and gasped softly.

Her ring—matching his—was bigger thanks to the humungous rock.

They conversed like a married couple who hadn’t seen each other in ages—when it was really just a couple of days.

You’ve seen her before, spoke a few times.

And that’s when it struck you.

No wonder he married her.

She was beautiful, kind, and extremely loving.

Your eyes followed their conjoined figures around the hall like a creep. But your hand was pressed to your chest, smiling, and you felt warm tears pooling.

That was true love.

That was the fairytale you desperately yearned for.

That was how you wanted your future husband to look at you.

Only now, that same husband—same man—doesn’t have that reverent sparkle in his eyes. He’s barely smiling, very obviously forcing one. He probably wouldn’t be at all if it weren’t for the insane number of people who appeared at the wedding.

Brief flashbacks to that fifth time floor your mind as you walk down the aisle in a long, beautiful white gown.

Only thirteen years later.

He looks handsome. Manlier than you remember, taller, and buffer. You can only imagine how he’s spent the past thirteen years.

You’ve been abroad for the last ten years, studying and living your life overseas. Never would you have thought that you’d come back home to an arranged marriage presented to you on a silver platter.

You only had about a month to prepare mentally and physically for your upcoming wedding to Satoru. Your dresses for tonight came out phenomenal—all thanks to the hardworking stylists and designers who worked extra hard to get them to you in time before the wedding.

Although you were told that you weren’t allowed to see Satoru until your wedding, you hoped he was anticipating and planning for this fateful day just as much as you were.

Perhaps he was raving about you to his friends?

You went shopping, spending vast amounts of money on anything that you could think of. Clothes, jewelry, shoes. You were unsure of your honeymoon or where it would be, but you were sure of the fact that you’d be going home with him the same night.

You shyly picked through a multitude of beautiful, frilly pieces of all kinds of lingerie. Some are more risqué than others. The colors ranged from a plain white to a fiery red—a red that you were sure most men adored. (That’s what you were told, at least. From friends and the media)

You even bought a set that loosely resembled his bright blue eyes. You heard men go crazy when their woman matched one of their articles of clothing—especially lingerie—to their eye color.

Alas, this was all for a man you hadn’t seen in ages. A man—whom you last heard of—was married to another woman.

You were briefly informed of the situation. Initially, hesitance and speculation flooded your being.

But then again, you were told that he was ready to move on.

That he chose you.

Which, when looking back at it now, causes a flicker of confusion behind your elated eyes.

Because, for a man who supposedly ‘chose’ you as his wife, why does he not look at you with the same awe as you do to him? Why does he almost hesitantly lift the veil off your face and behind your head? Why do his hands feel cold when they clasp yours?

Why do they tremble lightly when they slide the wedding ring on your finger?

Why does his jaw clench when you repeat the same action with his golden band?

Why is his voice not filled with passion, like most men, when he recites his vows?

Why does he kiss you swiftly and briefly, instead of long and reverently, like you’ve seen in movies and from those around you?

Why…doesn’t he look happy at his own wedding?

Nerves. Must be nerves. That’s what you optimistically chalk it up to.

There are many people in attendance—most you don’t even know.

You won’t deny the fact that you’re nervous too. Many of those here are business partners from your side and Satoru’s side. People you’ve only ever politely greeted and gone about your day.

Truthfully, you weren’t interested in them.

You were interested in making a good impression for your husband’s family and close friends—for your husband, himself.

When he said his ‘I do’s’, you were very much feeling the intensity of your current situation. You felt happy, giddy. Almost like that nine-year-old version of yourself when he first skimmed his fingers against yours.

Even if he was nervous or scared or whatever he was feeling, he made his sacred vows to be tied to you, for better or worse, in sickness and in health, and ‘til death do you part.

He committed to you. He’s your husband now.

“I wish we would’ve been able to meet up before today, at least. Sorry if it’s all sudden,” you timidly apologized, followed by a sweet smile. Your hand found the crook of his elbow, noticing the tensed muscles under his tailored suit.

His eyes look around, barely offering you a glance with his obligated smile. “Yeah.”

His short answer pulled a tiny frown at your lips. Again, he must be nervous and overwhelmed. You look toward the dance floor, an idea popping in your head to bring your husband out of this little funk he has going on. “Do you want to dance?”

“I’m grabbing a drink,” is all he said before getting up. Your hand slides off his arm, leaving you slightly perplexed at his sudden departure. You stand to follow him, but already see one of his best friends, Geto, stalking up to him.

You’ll let them talk for a bit. Maybe he’s congratulating Satoru on the new marriage.

You take a few steps toward the dance floor, already being squished into a tight hug by your oldest brother.

“Ah! Look at you! They grow so fast.”

“Ren, you’re messing up my hair,” you jokingly push him, pulling away to flatten down the small mess he made.

“Relax, you still look pretty,” your brother waves you off. His brown hair was already tousled, cheeks flushed slightly, and you could assume he had already had a couple of drinks in his system. There’s a dopey grin on his face, one that you reciprocate easily. “So, how ‘ya feeling?”

You pause for a second too long. “Happy,” you say, though your voice doesn’t carry the same certainty as your smile. “A little overwhelmed, maybe. But… it’s a big day.”

Ren raises an eyebrow, then glances over your shoulder toward the bar—where Satoru stands with Geto, head bowed and lips moving quickly in conversation. He hasn’t looked back at you once. “That doesn’t sound like the kind of happy I was hoping for.”

You laugh, too quietly. “You know how arranged marriages are.”

“I don’t, actually,” Ren says pointedly. “Because I’d never let Dad hand me off like a business contract.”

His tone softens when he sees the flicker in your eyes—the one you don’t quite catch yourself. “I’m sorry,” he adds quickly. “I just… I don’t want to see you hurt.”

You bite your lip and shrug, casting a glance back at your new husband. He looks like a painting with glass in front of it, a sign that says ‘DO NOT TOUCH’.

Beautiful, distant, and not even holding the woman with his name now attached to hers. You would’ve thought you’d be glued to each other's side.

Maybe that was just naive of you.

“It’s okay, I’m okay. I’m happy. Excited for what’s to come.”

Your brother nods, eyebrow raising in suspicion. Even tipsy, he’s still as perceptive as ever. He lets it go, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Where you guys headin’ after this? Booked a hotel?”

“I think so. I haven’t really asked yet,” you scratch at your neck.

Ren sighs and nods, a smile creeping up his lips again. “Right, well. You know what they—”

“Oh god. Don’t,” you cover your face embarrassingly, shoving his shoulder weakly. “I know, I know.”

“Fine, I’ll save you the honeymoon advice,” he places his hands up in mock surrender. “Just…make sure he treats you well, got it?”

Your cheeks flush, nodding in confirmation.

Thinking about tonight makes you nervous—rightfully so. But in a good, excited way. You wonder what things will be like when it’s just you two. Maybe he’ll let his guard down since there’ll be no wandering eyes and prying ears.

He’ll feel comfortable once it’s just him and his wife.

That’s how it should be, right?

Right, you concede in your head.

You say bye to your brother, approaching Satoru from behind. Geto sees you before your husband does, quickly straightening and putting a warm smile on his face.

“Hey, Y/N. You look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” you smile, accepting the small hug from him. You peer at Satoru, the drink in his hand already empty. “Am I interrupting something?” You ask, head tilting innocently.

Geto opens his mouth, but Satoru speaks first.

“No,” he says flatly, not quite meeting your eyes. “Just talking.”

There’s a strange tension in the air—one that makes your stomach twist, though you can’t quite name why. You nod, eyes flicking to his empty glass, then back to his unreadable face. “I was thinking we could have our first dance soon… if you’re ready.”

He hums, glancing back toward the ballroom where soft music plays beneath the chatter of guests. “Go ahead. I’ll join you in a bit.”

That catches you off guard.

“I meant together,” you reaffirm, smile faltering just slightly. “You know… the whole ‘bride and groom’ thing?”

Satoru finally looks at you—really looks at you. It makes your stomach flutter. His lips are formed into a thin line, not exactly frowning, but not smiling either. A tiny crease between his snowy eyebrows. But his eyes are unreadable, glacier-cool and tired. “I said I’ll be there in a bit.”

It’s not angry. Not unkind. But it’s dismissive, and something in your chest withers quietly under the weight of it.

Geto clears his throat. “He’s just had a long day,” he offers with a kind smile, like he can feel the awkwardness you’re drowning in. “Big change, you know?”

You smile politely, nodding again as you retreat a step. “Right. Of course. I’ll… I’ll save you a dance, then.”

Satoru doesn’t answer.

You walk back toward the floor, hands fidgeting with the fabric of your dress. You hear footsteps from behind, and you hopefully look over your shoulder.

Only to find Geto coming up to you.

“We can dance, Y/N. If you don’t mind.”

You blink at the suggestion, head tilting back to where Satoru is ordering another drink for himself. “Oh—I—No, I don’t mind. Does Satoru mind?”

A stupid question, in all honesty. But that’s unbeknown to you.

Suguru shakes his head, offering his hand. “Nah, he’s cool with it. Promise.”

You carefully take his hand, noting the way he feels warmer than Satoru. He puts his other hand on the curve of your waist, and yours goes to his shoulder.

You engage in a small waltz of some sort, not entirely intimate, but still offering you his attention. One thing your husband isn’t doing. You try not to dwell on it too much.

“Is…Satoru okay?” You ask, looking up at the dark-haired man with a worried gaze. “He’s not feeling uncomfortable, is he?”

Suguru clears his throat, hesitating for a second before answering. “He’s okay. Just in his head, ‘ya know? But he’s happy to be here with you.”

A wide smile graces your lips, eyes sparkling under the lights. “He is?” You echo, hopefulness in your voice. Maybe you had been overthinking this all. You were one, after all.

There’s a twitch to Suguru’s brow, like he’s holding out on something. But he nods and hums. “Mhm. He is. Couldn’t stop raving about you last week.”

You giggle softly, a hand fluttering up to your cheek. “Really?”

“Mm,” Geto replies with a practiced smile. It's gentle, believable, necessary.

Your heart swells a little, even if part of you wonders whether Suguru is just trying to spare your feelings. Still, the idea that Satoru spoke about you—thought about you—makes your grip loosen, your body less tense in the gentle rhythm of the dance.

“That makes me happy,” you murmur, the smile lingering.

He spins you once, drawing a small laugh from your lips before pulling you back toward him. “He’s just got his own way of showing things.”

You nod, believing him. What other reason do you have than not to believe Satoru’s best friend? The man who knows him better than his own wife. You try not to glance back toward the bar again, but fail.

Satoru’s leaning back against it now, head tilted slightly like he’s watching the ceiling instead of his wedding.

“Guess I’ll just have to learn his way, then,” you mumble, the lace of your sleeve brushing Suguru’s wrist as you move.

He doesn’t respond to that.

Instead, he adds, “He’s lucky. You’re kind.” There’s a strange emphasis on the word, almost like it surprises him.

“Kind,” you repeat with a smile, unsure if it’s meant as a compliment or something else. “Thank you. My father taught me to be this way.”

He shrugs with one shoulder. “That’s good. Kind is rare around here.”

The song ends, and with a graceful parting, Suguru kisses the back of your hand, ever the gentleman. You thank him, cheeks tinged pink, your gaze still drawn—like muscle memory—back to your husband.

Still seated. Still alone. Still avoiding your eyes.

You return to your table in silence, fingers idly tracing the rim of your untouched champagne flute. The laughter around you fades into white noise, each congratulation a little more distant, like it’s meant for a version of you that exists only in theory.

You don’t realize how long you’ve been sitting alone until a soft weight settles across your shoulders—Satoru’s suit jacket, cool and faintly smelling of something expensive and distant.

“You’ll catch a cold,” his voice murmurs, low near your ear.

You straighten, surprised to see him so close. “Oh. Thank you.”

He sits beside you, long legs folding beneath the table, eyes flicking to the floor. You watch him for a long second.

“I saved you a dance,” you try again, voice softer this time. Not pleading. Just offering.

He stares ahead. Then almost imperceptibly, he nods.

“Later,” he repeats the same word from earlier.

Later must be his favorite word. Considering the fact that you never got your dance with him.

The words of praise and congratulations, the hugs and kisses from everyone else beside your own husband offered momentary distraction. He still kept up an image of holding his arm around your waist for pictures, smiling just a little too hard when your brothers and father approached you two later on that night.

It’s over before you know it. After the reception, Satoru doesn’t look at you when you both ride in the backseat of the Escalade, his driver up front.

Not even offering you a hand to step out when you park in front of his manor. His driver does that for you.

You thank the quivering man, holding onto your dress in order to keep it from dragging on the floor as you follow Satoru up the steps and into what would now be your forever home.

The foyer is grand—too grand, like it’s trying to distract you from how cold it feels. Marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and curated paintings with little meaning to you. Everything reeks of wealth, not warmth.

Satoru doesn’t utter a word as he loosens his tie with one hand. You follow slowly, your heels clicking softly behind him, fingers clenched around the delicate fabric of your gown. His jacket still worn by you.

“Your room’s down the hall to the left,” he gestures, not even looking over his shoulder. “Third door.”

Your room.

Not ours.

Not with me.

You stand there for a moment, lips parting, unsure if you’re meant to respond. But he’s already walking away, disappearing up the curved staircase with the grace of someone who’s done this before—welcomed a stranger into his life and left them to figure it out on their own.

You shake your head and quickly follow after him, stumbling over your footsteps. “W-Wait, Satoru. Won’t we be sharing a room?”

Your question makes him stop on the stair above yours, turning his body around to fully face you. His broad shoulders peeked from his ironed white button-up. He completely loosens his tie and unbuttons the top few buttons, all the while staring down at you like you’re an outsider in his safe space.

Like you’re a piece of trash that should be taken out.

“What makes you think I’d want to sleep next to you?”

You blink. “Um…well, we’re married. That’s what married couples do,” you nervously laugh.

“Yeah, normal married couples.” He spits out the words like they’re venom, lip curling in a distasteful sneer that almost makes you take a shaky step back from how repulsed he seems by you.

“W-Wha—”

“What do you have to complain about? You have a roof over your head, food on the table, and shoes on your feet. Haven’t you been taught to be grateful?”

His words strike harder than you expect. You’re not sure what wounds you thought would be spared tonight, but his voice finds them all—deliberate and unforgiving.

You swallow hard. “I’m not… ungrateful.”

Satoru scoffs, tilting his head slightly like he’s debating whether to keep going. “Then act like it,” he huffs. “You knew what this was.”

“B-But I thought you wanted this. Everyone was saying how excited you were, how you were ready,” you stammer out, fingers wringing together, trying to come up with an excuse as to why you two should be sleeping in the same bed.

As if the very idea of a newlywed couple sleeping together on their wedding night is insane. As if you were an idiot for asking that question in the first place.

“I didn’t marry you for—” You hesitate. For money. For power. For safety. You wanted to say so much, to defend yourself. “I didn’t marry you for things, Satoru.”

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it—just cruelty laced with exhaustion. “Then you’re dumber than I thought.”

You flinch, lips parting in disbelief.

His words slam into you like a slap, and for a second, you just stand there—frozen. The weight of your gown suddenly feels suffocating, heavy like chains. You gulp hard, trying to keep your voice from shaking.

“I—”

“Here’s the thing,” he cuts you off, turning to climb the stairs again. “I already had a wife. I already loved someone. And then you showed up in my life like some replacement part everyone insists will work just as well.��

A lump forms in your throat.

“I didn’t ask for you,” he mutters in finality, cutting into your thin-skinned being without an ounce of care. “And I sure as hell don’t want you in my bed.”

He disappears upstairs without a backward glance.

You’re left standing at the base of the stairs—unwanted, discarded, and utterly alone. In a house too big for two strangers, with wedding vows that seemingly meant nothing, and a name that now feels like a taunt.

Why is he acting this way? Why did everyone lie to you to save him? Or were they just trying to save you?

It doesn’t make sense. None of it does. You’re confused, heartbroken, and holding back tears. What should’ve been a warm, loving, wholesome, unforgettable night is turning out to be the complete opposite.

Perhaps still unforgettable, due to how cold the king-sized bed feels.

Your room.

You knew of his previous wife dying six years ago. And you would never expect the grief to magically heal and go away. They say time heals, but time also hurts.

However, was it still normal for him to act so…loyal toward a woman who was no longer on this Earth?

Grief is one thing. You understand distance, guardedness, and even the occasional misplaced anger. But this? The rejection, the venom, the outright cruelty on just the first night of being wed? The way he looks at you like you’ve trespassed into something sacred—defiling her memory just by existing?

No one warned you it would be this bad. They told you he was complicated. That he needed someone kind. Someone patient. That maybe you could be the person to help him start again.

But no one told you he’d punish you for simply earning the title as his wife. His new wife.

Because it’s not just grief that grips him—it’s guilt. It’s the unbearable weight of loving someone he couldn’t save, and the shame of knowing everyone expects him to try again with someone new. With you.

You look down at the shimmering diamond that looks up at you, biting down on your quivering lip as tears blur your vision.

It’s just the first night, you tell yourself. Things could change; he could change. Maybe it’s not worth feeling these high levels of disappointment and sadness when your newfound marriage isn’t completely ruined.

You still have so many more experiences to be fulfilled as a couple together.

He’s grieving; it’s hard for him.

You shouldn’t make things about you tonight. Even if you just wanted a pair of muscular arms—your husband’s arms—wrapped securely around you after soft love-making.

You wipe your tears before they can fall, unwilling to let them stain this new chapter before it’s even begun.

He most likely just needs time. Space. Patience.

He’s hurting still, yes—but if you give him enough kindness, he’ll eventually meet you halfway. And hopefully one day, he’ll look at you and see more than a convenient alliance. More than a replacement.

You sniff quietly and take your heels off.

You’ll be the wife that’s expected of you. The wife he needs, the one he wants, the one he deserves.

Space. Patience. Kindness. Understanding.

All the things a good wife is supposed to give, right?

Even if it means swallowing your own pain just to make room for his.

You slide out of the gown you spent hours picking for him, looking down at the soft, lacy white lingerie you had picked out for this special night. Fingers running along the material, lips pursed at the sad thought of him never getting to see you in it.

Eventually, you crawl into the cold side of a bed that hardly feels like yours. You bury yourself beneath the plush duvet, hugging your own arms, pretending they’re his.

And when the silence becomes too loud, you whisper into the dark:

“Goodnight, Satoru.”

But there’s no reply.

The next morning you wake, you’re told by the cooks that your husband won’t be joining you today, as he left quite early in the morning without anything to eat.

All you could do was save face, nodding like it didn’t bother you.

The long, dark mahogany table only further intensified your feelings of isolation.

You sit at the end of the table, porcelain cup trembling slightly in your grasp as steam curls from your untouched tea. The morning light floods in through the tall windows, illuminating the polished surfaces and gilded edges of the room—a room too grand, too empty, too quiet.

Your breakfast is prepared to perfection: fluffy eggs, golden toast, fruit sliced with surgical precision. But every bite tastes like ash when there’s no one across from you. No husband. No conversation. No warmth.

Just you. A wedding ring. And a silent seat where love was supposed to be.

Later that morning, the movers came with all your personal belongings.

You didn’t miss the way they subtly eyed you with confusion as you told them which room to put your things in. Of course, you could hear their silent questions.

She’s staying in this room alone? Shouldn’t be sharing her husband's room? Aren’t they married?

None of them spoke up. Just diligently made the long trek up three flights of stairs many times. You offered to help, but they kindly denied your request.

“It’s okay, Mrs. Gojo. We’ve got this.”

Your new title brought a warmth to your heart, nodding.

It was around the afternoon when they finally finished up, saying their goodbyes. You thanked them for their hard work and gently shut the grand front door.

You sigh to yourself. Once again, you had the entire manor to yourself.

Your eyes wander around from one chandelier to the next, feet moving you from one room to the other in order to familiarize yourself with your new home.

It felt a tiny bit odd to be giving yourself your own house tour, but Satoru was who knows where, and you didn’t want to bother the cleaners or cooks.

You moved through the house slowly, your fingers grazing polished banisters and cool marble columns. Each room felt like a museum—beautiful, curated, but untouched. Distant. You tried to memorize where things were: the library, the sunroom, the indoor garden that somehow still felt lifeless despite its blooms.

You wonder what secrets these walls had to tell.

Finally, you make it to the third floor. But instead of going left, where your room now is, you turned right.

Where Satoru’s room would be.

This side of the floor felt off-limits, for some reason. Maybe it secretly is. The hallway stretched quietly and undisturbed, the carpet plush beneath your feet as you walked slowly and cautiously, like any sudden movement might awaken lingering ghosts. At the very end stood a tall white door with gold accents—simple but grand, much like him. You paused in front of it, heart thudding in your ears.

Were you allowed in? Would he be furious if he found out? It was innocent curiosity. You’d never do any of this out of spite.

You just wanted to get to know your husband more.

And so your fingers moved before your doubts could catch up. With a quiet twist of the knob, the door creaked open.

Instantly, the air felt colder. Stiffer. You almost hesitated going in fully, but you swallowed hard and trekked further in.

There was an Alaskan King-sized bed in the middle of the large room.

Its crisp white sheets were tucked so perfectly that it almost looked untouched. Heavy navy curtains framed the tall windows, drawn shut to block the morning sun. The entire space felt lived-in, but sacred—like a shrine that hadn’t been disturbed in years.

Your slippers padded softly against the floor as you looked around, heart tightening the deeper you wandered. There were subtle traces of someone else here. A dusty perfume bottle on the vanity. A woman’s book on the nightstand, its spine cracked and pages worn. A framed photo, face down.

And beside the bed—on a small table that looked like it had been untouched for years—sat a single porcelain teacup, cracked along the rim. Dried flowers in a vase, long since wilted.

Your throat tightened.

You wandered over to the walk-in closet, switching the lights on.

On one side was his clothing. Mostly tailored suits, crisp button-ups and slacks, jackets and blazers. Beneath his clothes were his shoes. They all looked the same. Black and polished, some leather and others patent leather. From the brief looks of it, everything on his side was designer.

Louboutins. Dior. Alessandro Galet. Magnanni. Berluti. Tom Ford. Saint Laurent. Salvatore Ferragamo. Prada. Brioni. Zegna. Dolce & Gabanna. You name it.

Everything was arranged with meticulous care—color-coordinated, spaced evenly, not a single hanger out of place. Like he dressed not just with wealth, but with precision. Like appearance wasn’t just about style—it was power.

He even had his glass display of watches and dark sunglasses.

Classy.

But as you slowly looked over to the opposing side, you felt your stomach drop.

The other half of the closet wasn’t empty.

No, it was frozen in time. Almost like most of the house.

Delicate blouses in pastel silks and soft linens still hung neatly on gold hangers. Shoes—heels and flats alike—lined the bottom rack, their soles worn. A faint floral scent clung to the air: something powdery, something soft. Like roses pressed between pages of a forgotten book.

Her things.

You reached out instinctively, fingertips brushing the sleeve of a pale blue dress. It was beautiful—timeless, elegant. Expensive. The kind of thing a woman would wear for a brunch in the garden or a romantic dinner.

A thin layer of dust clung to the shoulder seams. Not enough to show neglect—just enough to confirm what you feared. He hadn’t touched anything. Hadn’t moved on.

She still lived here.

Not in body, but in presence. In perfume. In the lipstick-stained coffee mug still resting on the mirrored vanity table beside her jewelry box.

Was it wrong of you not to anticipate this happening? It's been six years.

Do most widowers have everything from their previous wife left, strewn about their house, even when a new wife now occupies the same space?

There were scarves still looped around hooks. Jewelry boxes unopened. A vanity tucked neatly in the corner with bottles of half-used perfume, like she might walk back in at any moment and spritz some on her neck before dinner.

And suddenly, you understood.

You weren’t just the new wife.

You were the woman who now slept in her house.

Used her dishes.

Carried her name.

But not her place in his heart.

That space was still sealed.

Untouched.

Untouchable.

“Mrs. Gojo?”

You jolt and whirl around, heart beating fast, until you realize it’s just one of the cleaners. You sigh in relief, hand to your chest. “Oh—I—yes?”

The woman offers a small, apologetic bow. She’s older, maybe in her fifties, with graying hair pulled into a neat bun and a feather duster clutched in her hands.

“I’m terribly sorry to startle you,” she mutters gently. “I didn’t realize anyone would be on this floor. Most don’t come up here. Mr. Gojo doesn’t permit any of us to come to this side of the hall…”

You nod slowly, eyes flickering back to the closet before glancing away again. “I was just… looking around. Familiarizing myself with everything.”

The woman hesitates for a moment. Her expression softens, eyes kind but filled with something unreadable—something like pity.

“I understand,” she nods. Then, after a beat, “Would you like some tea sent to your room, ma’am?”

Your throat tightens. You know what she means. She’s offering you a graceful retreat. A way out of this mausoleum of memories.

You swallow and nod back. “Yes… Thank you. That would be lovely.”

As you step out of the closet, you can’t help but glance one last time at the perfectly preserved side of the wardrobe. The woman it belonged to may be gone—but somehow, in this house, she still lingers in every corner.

You follow the cleaner, footsteps dragging slightly at the newfound information.

Doesn’t allow anyone else to come to this side of the wing.

You don’t know why, but that thought alone makes you feel things you probably shouldn’t. He’s still trying to preserve her memory, that much is obvious from his cruel words and his strict rules.

It feels like he’s forcing himself to offer up just a sliver of his safe space to a woman he doesn’t care for. Like it hurts doing even the bare minimum for his wife.

“Does he still love her?” You shock yourself with your own bluntness. Grimacing at the way the woman momentarily stops, eyes widened.

There’s a beat of awkward silence before she clears her throat and faces you.

“I believe Mr. Gojo…still has a lot of love for his late wife, if that is what you are asking,” she carefully responds.

Of course.

“But,” she continues after noticing your fallen expression, “he’s also had much time to heal and reflect. That’s why he married you. His heart is ready.”

You hum blankly, your mind too focused on the negative aspects of your new marriage. You can only hope she’s being truthful. You’ve never been a pessimistic person, but truthfully, it’s hard to stay so optimistic all the time.

All you can do is trust. Trust and listen. That’s what a good wife does.

“Thank you,” you kindly reply, smiling at the older woman.

She nods back before continuing to walk.

When he comes home, you’ll try to talk to him and see more of his side. You know he’s much more complex than your average man, but that will not deter you.

As your day goes on and as you gradually grow excited at the idea of your husband coming back home, you can’t stop the worried, lingering, tiny voice in the back of your mind that whispers to you.

Why does it feel like you’re still in a competition with a ghost who doesn’t even have to try to win?

Satoru didn’t get home until later that same evening.

When he woke up that morning, there was a small part of him that hoped last night was all a dream. That he wasn’t actually remarried already.

It fizzled instantly when he saw your door at the end of the other hall shut.

Something came over him. And then he found himself at her grave.

The hours passed by, but that didn’t stop the way it felt like he wasn’t there for long enough.

Satoru kneeled before the polished black stone engraved with Sayuri’s name. He traced the letters of his late wife’s name, a troubled expression on his face. The damp earth smelled faintly of moss and fallen leaves, and the steady drip of rain made the world seem washed clean, or perhaps just sorrowful.

“She’s not like you, Sayuri…” he sighed heavily, “she never will be.”

His jaw clenched. His mind raced with memories—fragments of laughter, whispered promises, and the fragile moments of a love that had ended too soon.

Somewhere deep inside, the ache for Sayuri battled with the cold reality of the woman waiting for him back at the manor—the one who wasn’t her but bore the same surname on her lips now, the same ring on her finger.

He closed his eyes tightly, swallowing hard. The world was a blur of regret and doubt, and yet, beneath it all, a small spark of something unspoken flickered—a fragile hope, buried deep and unsure.

Because for the first time in a long time, he felt the unmistakable weight of responsibility. Not to the past, but to the present. To you.

Eventually, he rose, one last glance at the stone, a whispered apology escaping his lips.

As he climbed back into the car and the city lights welcomed him home, Satoru knew the hardest part was still ahead—facing the woman who had been waiting all along, in a house colder than any graveyard.

And he’d never be able to offer her the same love he had already given to another woman. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

Because Satoru already had one love story. And it ended tragically. He vowed never to put himself through the same sorrow and heartache with another woman.

It would be beneficial for you to realize sooner rather than later that your marriage was nothing more than legal statements on a piece of paper. That your rings were just expensive accessories, holding nothing more than surface value sentience.

“Dinner?” He asked his personal chef, nodding to the array of ingredients that lay flat on the granite surface of the kitchen table.

The cook, a middle-aged man with a kind smile, nodded. “Yes, sir. Your wife recommended it.”

His brows twitch with an incoming crease, looking closer at just what exactly was being prepared.

Steak. Mashed potatoes. Grilled asparagus. It was simple.

He almost scoffed.

No, his wife would never eat something like this. Sayuri loved dishes that weren’t heavy.

Salmon was her favorite, cooked in the oven. With roasted Mediterranean vegetables on the side.

When he looked further to the right, it seemed the chef was readying homemade mozzarella sticks.

Again, his wife wouldn’t eat that. She hated mozzarella sticks, actually.

Satoru’s gaze lingered on the array of dishes, each one carefully selected and laid out with precision. The contrast between the simple, hearty steak dinner and the delicate, light meals Sayuri once adored felt like a stark reminder of the distance now between past and present, of the irreconcilable gap that separated memory from reality.

He stepped closer to the granite countertop, fingers curling slightly as if he could grasp the ghosts lingering in the kitchen air. The scent of rosemary and garlic mingled with the faint, comforting aroma of butter melting into mashed potatoes. It was all so ordinary, yet the weight behind it was anything but.

Satoru’s lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes momentarily drifting to the sleek dining room beyond, where the soft light cast long shadows against the polished mahogany table. There, in the silence of the manor, sat a reality he struggled to accept:

You.

By the time it got to dinner, he was silently dreading it all.

“Thank you,” you smiled at the chef as he placed the intricately cooked meals in front of you and your husband.

Satoru was seated across from you.

The setting felt more comforting compared to this morning when it was just you.

“Enjoy,” he nodded before quietly leaving the dining room.

Your eyes practically glowed with excitement at the delicious food. When you were prompted by the chef what you’d like to eat for dinner, you couldn’t help yourself from saying the first thing that came to mind.

Your favorite dish since you were a mere child.

You could only hope Satoru shared the same favoritism.

He didn’t.

Because he wasn’t eating the same food you were.

A simple pasta blessed his plate.

The contrast between your choices of supper was painfully obvious. It felt like even the smallest things—he did not want to share with you.

Even if that was a choice of dinner.

“Do you want some?” You broke the silence, pointing to the meat in front of you. “I probably won’t finish it all myself.”

“Ate earlier,” he simply muttered.

You pause. “Oh, you did?”

He nods.

“Before dinner?” A weak chuckle falls from your lips, half-joke, half-honesty.

He flashes his sharp blue eyes to yours, and you almost flinch. Again. “Is that a problem?”

You’re quick to defend yourself. Shaking your head furiously and stammering out. “N-No, no, of course not.” Your voice trembled under his gaze, your fingers tightening involuntarily around the fork you’d barely touched. “I was just curious.”

“Stop being curious, then.” The finality in his tone silenced you. No warmth. No softness. Just a dismissive command that left you feeling small and unworthy.

You bite your lip, feeling the sudden weight of the room grow heavier, as if the air itself thickened between you. The warmth from the candles flickers against the cold distance in his eyes.

“I’m not trying to be difficult,” you whisper, barely above the clink of your fork against the plate. “I just… I thought maybe we could share something. Even just dinner.”

Satoru’s jaw tightens. His fingers curl around the glass of water, knuckles whitening. “You think everything has to be about ‘us,’ don’t you? Just because we sit at the same table doesn’t mean we’re the same people.”

Your heart stutters in your chest. “That’s not fair.”

He scoffs softly, but it carries a bitter edge. “Fair? Since when did fairness enter this? I’m trying to keep things simple. Keep things separate. That’s the only way this works.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Separate. Right. Like we’re strangers who happened to marry.”

His eyes flash. “That’s exactly what we are.”

A silence heavier than before falls. You stare at your plate, feeling small, like the divide between you is widening into an ocean neither of you can cross.

“Why are you being like this? I know we don’t know much about each other, and I know that things may be hard for you. But I’m really trying to make the best of things.” The honesty in your voice makes it tremble.

You feel stupid for almost crying in front of him during your first dinner as husband and wife. But the way he regards you makes your heart ache. It makes you feel unworthy, just like every other part of this house does.

But he does it intentionally. And loudly.

Satoru doesn’t answer at first. He takes a long sip of water, as if giving himself time to swallow not just the drink, but whatever bitter thing was rising in his throat.

You wait, eyes locked on him. Begging, silently, for something. A crack. A shift. Anything.

Instead, he sets his glass down with a hollow clink. His voice, when it finally comes, is colder than before.

“You don’t get it,” he declared. “You think effort changes anything.”

You blink. “I’m not trying to change everything, I’m just—”

“You are.” He cuts in sharply. “You’re trying to make this feel real. And it’s not.”

His words sting more than you expect.

“T-Then what is this? Just a performance? A contract?” Your voice wavers, frustration just barely covering the wound splitting open inside you.

He doesn’t blink. “Yes.”

“So I’m just a placeholder.” You stare at him, hoping for a change on his face that lets you know he’s feeling remorseful for his actions. Hoping that he’ll correct you. “Something to fulfill a requirement.”

“If that’s how you want to see it.”

“No,” you whisper. “It’s how you see it.”

Satoru finally drops his fork on his plate, jaw clenching. There’s not an ounce of tenderness in his appearance. Only exhaustion. Anger. Maybe even guilt, but if it’s there, he hides it beneath the same ice that coats every word.

“You want a partner,” he vocalizes, intonation like sharp glass, “but I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want this.”

“And you think I did?” Your voice breaks.

Quietness again. But your words hang between you, trembling, like a thread caught on fire.

“I didn’t ask for any of this either,” you continue, voice cracking now, “but I showed up. I’m here. I’m trying to make this livable, Satoru. I’m trying to see you as someone I could—” you stop yourself, pain laced behind your tongue. “—someone I could maybe trust.”

His gaze drops to the table, his expression unreadable now. “Just don’t. Don’t make the mistake of trusting me.”

“Why? Because you’ll leave? Hurt me? Use me?”

He lifts his eyes slowly again, and this time—there’s something different. Not remorse. Not pity.

Resentment.

“Because I already have.”

That’s what breaks you.

You sit in stunned silence, a breath caught in your lungs that refuses to leave.

“I never asked for your kindness,” he finishes, standing up despite a full plate of food. “So stop offering it like it means something.”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Because all at once, the weight of this house, this marriage, him—it all collapses on your chest, and you realize:

He’s not building a wall between you.

He’s already buried you behind it.

He leaves you alone just like last night. You watch his back until you can no longer see him.

Your mouth opens and closes, like you’re trying to think of some rebuttal, even if he won’t hear it. But you come up short and speechless.

Because what exactly could you say? How do you convince him to just try to act like your husband? To try to make this work?

You can’t. Not simply, at least.

And it seems no matter what protest or reason you throw at him, he’ll flip it back around on you. And like a weakling, you take it.

You face it. You swallow it. And you continue.

You blink quickly to hold back the hot tears that threaten to spill from your eyes as you indulge in the now cold dinner. You force your wobbly hand to pick at your food, even though it tastes like ash on your tongue.

Because I already have.

He really knows what to say to make you feel like dirt, doesn’t he?

Your fork scrapes gently against the porcelain, the only sound in the room besides the faint ticking of the clock on the wall.

A tear slips free down your cheek, then another, and soon you can’t stop them.

You feel watched. Not by him, but by the house.

A house that once had love between a man and woman. A house that holds many secrets, some you’ll never even know. A house that feels like a morgue in disguise.

These walls—lavish and suffocating—hold the echo of your vows. Empty words spoken for appearances. For families. For legacy.

Not for love. Never for love.

At least not love for you.

a/n: what did we think so far??? i’m honestly so inconsistent someone spank me—i mean lock me up!!🫣😼👅. anywho, i need to finish serial killer toji still 😹. hope you all enjoyed 💕

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@coffee-and-geto @forever-war @sylustoru @ginginha @nina-from-317

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@infatuatedrose @koogiix @yeahhemmings- @authorslastwill @simp-plague

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#the angst is amazingggg #sobbing omgggg i’m going insane and will cry forever #gojo x reader #jjk x reader #series #chili library <3

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