#Hands you a rivulet | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

yeyinde · 12 days

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old, grizzled retired alpha!Price who gets stuck in his cabin with omega!Reader when the winter roads, the only way in and out of his domain, melt with the encroaching spring. and really. what's an alpha like him supposed to do when an untouched, unclaimed omega like you—so sweet, so desperate—is thrown headfirst into a vicious, blistering heat without any suppressants. it's not like either of you really have a choice, after all.

dub con; age difference; power imbalance; rough sex; size difference, size kink; abo dynamics: knotting; breeding kink (astronomical); mean!Price, Dom!Price; unsafe sex; oral (f!receiving); slight innocence kink; implied kidnapping; coercion; slight baby trapping; possessive, greedy Price pulling strings from behind the scenes, as per usual. this is basically Alpha John Price knotting Omega Reader in mating press, bullying you into submission

It's an accident, of course.

An unfortunate combination of poor timing and human error.

But this accident culminates in Price folding his body over you—mating press, you note a touch hysterically; you'd have expected him to be all tradition: presenting to an alpha on your hands and knees, cunt bare for the taking, waiting to be claimed. And while it might not be traditional, Price will claim you tonight. Bully his cock into your drenched cunt, split you wide on the thick of him, on his knot (fuck, fuck, fuck—), and keep you plugged up around him until the unexpected heat passes.

And really. What's an old, grizzled alpha like him supposed to do when an untouched, unclaimed omega like you—so sweet, so desperate—is thrown headfirst into a vicious, blistering heat. It's not like either of you really have a choice, after all. It's agony. It's want. Primal, instinctual. You need him. Ache with it. The urge, the desperation, to be filled. Claimed. Conquered. Owned.

As he presses bluntly against your drenching slit, notching heavy and insistent into your fluttering, aching hole, spilling slick in thick rivulets down your thighs, over the engorged head of his cock, you can't help but wonder how could you be so stupid?

“Spread your legs for me.”

The command rolls off of his tongue, slips—liquid, molten—down his chin, where it dangles for a moment. Pebbled hest. A globbing demand. You want to roll away when it starts to fall, unspooling slowly until it drips down to your chest, but you can't. You're stuck. Trapped. All you can do is watch helplessly as this barking order, matchstick casuistry, touches your kerosene-slick skin, igniting in a bloom of fire that spreads, rapidly, through your veins. Your body.

An Alpha's whim must be met. Even this one. This one—

Your former chief, boss. Now retired in the mountains, chiselling out a little place for himself in a corrie, pitching this log bivouac beside a marbled blue tarn. Cut off from the rest of civilisation every spring when the only way in—and out—melted into a raging, uncrossable stretch of river. The ravine frothing too furiously for boats to dock safely on either side. Trapped here with him until next winter—

(oh god oh god—)

You don't know how it got to this point. Scorched. Soaked. With him leaning over you, in all his tartarean glory, making demands of your body as easily as pulling on loose thread between his thick fingers.

You could blame Gaz for this.

Sat pretty at his desk, idling a jar of gun oil in his hands. Your gun is spread out on the desk, taken apart. Worrying his lip between his teeth, he said, “someone should check in on Price. Haven't heard from him in a while.”

Through a quick game of hierarchy, that someone ended up being you. Forced to trek halfway up a mountain just to make sure your mercurial boss didn't die over the winter. Bitten off more than he could chew and too much of a proud Alpha to admit defeat, and call for help.

You had enough suppressants to last you there and back. Three days. One in the morning, one in the afternoon. Price, despite his surly disposition, is an intense Alpha to be around—

Even for Betas.

Some, unintentionally, succumb to his whims without even a forethought spared on rationality. It's innate. He says something, and people listen—

Like now. Hours after you discovered your suppressants were gone, and his heavy, cloying scent thickened in the air, suffocating you. When he leaned against the thick log doorframe on the porch of his cabin, thick arms folded across his broad chest, murmured, “come all this way just to see me?” and all at once, the world fell out from under you—

Plunging you into his arms, his embrace. His growl in your ear, “you’re in heat,” he grunted, fists balled against your sides. “fuckin’ Christ—” and the death sentence he imparted on you: “either I take care of this, or your heat becomes too much for me, and I tear you to pieces. But it doesn't matter does it, mm? You can't make it back down in this state,” more snarling anger, dry heat. Scorching. His chin jerked to the river at the foot of the mountain. “In a few hours, It’ll be melted through. Uncrossable.”

Per usual, John Price leaves you very little room for choice, doesn't he?

Slowly, shakily, your pitched knees part, unveiling your bare cunt to the man towering over you with a condescending coo on his lips, red-hot desire in his smouldering Tartarean eyes.

“Tha’s it,” he murmurs, voice full of sarky delight. “Such a good omega for me, aren't you?”

It’s not meant to be answered—the jeer chock full of hyperbole. Despite this, your body responds instantly. Back arching, legs spreading out wider around the bulk of his frame, nearly flush against the warmed fur covering the floor of the cabin—wolf, he muttered proudly before he pushed you down against the soft pelt, mouthing teasing at your jaw. Chest heaving. Fingers curling, knotting into the pelt.

The urge to present for him is intense. An unanswerable call when he pins you down on your back, body a cage keeping you trapped where you lay. Open, inviting. All for him.

This surly, awful man—

His hands are rough, padded with calluses and hard, jagged scars that jut up from his flesh. It feels abrasive, sandpaper grit, when he leans down, hand pressed against your knee. The drag, then, when he lets it drop down the skin of your inner thigh, makes you keen in the back of your throat. Gnarled palms bleed heat into your soft skin. The contrast is dizzying—size, scale, texture; it all leaves you breathless. Victim to your own instincts, ones that scream at you to roll over. To run. To make this massive, virile alpha yours—

He cups your pussy in the palm of his hand, heel pressed against your clit, fingers sliding between your slit, touching your entrance with the tip of his middle finger. The way the length of it swallows you whole, long, thick fingers reaching beneath you, grazing the cheeks of your ass, sets you on fire in a way you've never felt before.

Price sees it. He must. He leans back on his haunches, broad chest heaving as he stares, transfixed, at his hand folding over you, wrist propped against your mons.

He groans low in his chest. When he speaks, desire scorches his words to cinders.

“Ever had an Alpha's cock here?”

His question is scorching.

In a small town, choice is slim. The ratio of alpha to omega, and beta to both, is skewed highly in the latter's favour. You think, Price included, there are maybe five eligible alphas in the whole township. Two omegas, yourself included. Everyone else—

Unbothered, unburdened by this horrific anomaly of genetics, of lingering animal instinct. A relic of when people were more beast than man.

But even with that, the suitors lining up ready to claim you since you arrived three years ago is negligible. Nearly nonexistent.

The shame of it is absurd. You know without any shadow of a doubt that your worth is not measured by the number of Alpha's wanting to claim you, but that prickling unease in the back of your head won't be quelled by common sense. Who cares, you want to scream. Who fucking cares—

“No,” you bluster; choking on your anger, your shame. Despite being an omega—rare as they are—everyone in town seemed soured by your scent. Adverse to the pungent pheromones you released innately.

“No?” He echoes, and the stab of worthlessness needling into your pericardium makes you want to howl, want to cry.

He doesn't let you. He leans down, hand resting on the floor beside your head, the other still anchored to your cunt, and presses his lips to the shell of your ear. His breath is a humid kiss that tickles across your flesh.

“Good.”

The praise bubbles in your marrow. You melt under the heat, whimpering. Head lulling to the side, exposing your neck. Offered up for him to take.

He huffs, chest expanding. The coarse bed of hair tangled on his sternum in a smattering of black catches on your nipples, the rough graze making you gasp, soundless, into the humid space between your bodies. Aching already and he barely touched you.

Price follows the twist of your chin, lips pressed flush to your ear. With him crowding so close, you can feel the rumble, the low vibration, through his chest before he even speaks. A soft purr, sultry and rich. Pulling you deeper into the throes of your submission with a startling ease.

“I don't share, and I'd hate to have to tear another alpha apart for touching you,” his beard scrapes against your cheek, words soaked in possessive fury at the thought alone. “You're mine.”

You want to fight against it. Against him. No one owns you. Has claimed you.

You have only ever belonged to yourself.

“M’not—”

Price shushes you with a nip, blunt teeth dragging down the plush flesh of your earlobe. “Don't fight it, love. Just—give in.”

You won't. Can't—

Despite the heat—heavy, oppressive, and wet, like the balmy swelter of a tropical jungle; bubbling dross on molten metal—you fight. Rage. Push back against the heady scent he exudes, ones meant to soothe, melt. Until you're malleable. Tensile. Mouldable to fit his needs, his desires, his cock. Putty in his scorching hands.

It bleeds through, though—noxious and potent. The acrid miasma of a wild, untameable man: leather, hide, and animal rot; bleached bones; felled timbre. A wet forest after a wildfire; charred wood, argillaceous soil. Damp. Cloying. Choking.

Reeking of authoritative power, he leans over you, breathes in the heaving exhales you let out. Lets the taste of you sit on his tongue, curl between his crooked teeth.

He's close like this. All fire, all heat. And underneath the scent of a pursuing alpha, you pick up hints of him. Of what he smelled like before, when you were his subordinate and he spent most of his days making yours miserable. Stale smoke, wet tobacco, old leather, dry whiskey.

You hate how much it calls to you.

Maybe sensing your defiance, or growing tired of this push-pull game, he huffs out a breath that sounds less aggrieved than you'd want it to, full of playful amusement. Like he expected this. Like he knew you'd fight back with brittle fists and wicked teeth.

Price pulls back, leaning against his haunches. Content now to devour you at a distance. His eyes leave a scorching trail from your heaving breast, your quivering stomach before fixing once again on the way your pussy is swallowed by his hand. His middle finger circles your sopping hole. The tease is a burst of pleasure, of sensation. A tickle, a taunt. The drag of it makes a loud, sticky noise; the unmistakable slosh, the squelch of just how wet you are for him.

And it is for him. All for him.

Your heat is an incipient bloom on the horizon—a slow, crawling sunrise. You shouldn't be this slick yet. This drenched.

The embarrassment blisters through you when he makes a choked sound in the back of his throat. A loan bitten, swallowed before it can fully form.

Price coos, voice scorched. Full of char. “All’fer me, mm? Such a good little omega.”

You hate it. Hate it, hate it, hate it—

—but nearly choke yourself on a moan.

He chuckles, dark and rich. The sound entirely too similar to crushing a fistful of charcoal, and you're reminded suddenly why he's unmated at the age he is.

Surly bastard. As approachable as a fucking grizzly bear in a rut.

Your lips twist, jerking downward. “Fuck you—”

He circles your rim once more, chuffing low as he does so, letting the slick noise of your soaked cunt speak on his behalf.

You bite back a snarl, letting it fizzle out in the back of your throat. However reckless you might be, however much you might dislike him, he's still an alpha. Snarling in his face would only get you bent over his knee (at best).

And at worst, well. Maybe they'll find whatever is left of you next spring.

Next spring.

Thinking about just how long you're trapped here with him—no phone, no service—makes you want to cry. To break down, to—

No. You can't. Won't. Not in front of him.

Not Price. The awful man who spent three years picking away at everything you've ever done. Writing you up for every little misstep. You wondered then, and you still wonder now, if he hated you because you were an omega who dared to work with him, as his equal, or if his brand of distaste was just for you.

(The latter, it must be—he’s always been so kind to Alex, an older omega.

You're just the exception.)

This sprawling train of thought is clipped when he sinks his finger into you, to the second knuckle, and you choke.

“Ah, fuck, don't—”

He curls his finger. “Protest as much as you'd like, but if you didn't want this, your pussy wouldn't be this fuckin’ wet would it, love?”

He's right. You hate him for it.

But he doesn't give you a chance to complain. He slips his finger out, the wet drag of your flesh pulling on him, unwilling to let go, is loud. Awful. You burn hot—hotter still when he groans at the noise.

“Such a good girl for me, ain't you?”

Price circles your entrance as he says it, pressing two fingers against your rim, rubbing. Gathering slick. You wish it didn't feel as good as it did—electric shocks of pleasure sparking at his touch, but the feel of it is a tease. You want more. Much more—

He presses those long, thick fingers inside again. Two this time. All you can do is mewl around the sudden stretch, the sting.

Your discomfort is a palpable thing. Unease, distress—the acid scent plumes around you, leaking from your pores. Price stops suddenly, fingers still crooked in a half knot inside you.

“You're tight,” he drawls, jowls working. Tensing. His eyes flash, heat lightning. “You—”

He cuts himself off abruptly, eyes narrowing into slits. They drop down to where he disappears inside of you, flesh stretched tight around him. Drilling into the way the slick runs down his fingers, over his knuckles, drenching the back of his hand, and he hums.

“Has anyone ever touched you here before?”

More shame. It bubbles in your chest, this awful, insidious thing.

It hasn't been for a lack of suitors, really. But rather, other things have always taken precedence over heats, over ruts. School, then your career. And well—

Betas around here don't seem very interested, either.

Maybe you have peculiar wants. Urges, needs, that you've always been hesitant to fill. A wellspool of desire that runs deep, vicious. You want to mate. For keeps.

Maybe they can scent that on you. A loud cry that says, stay away.

You take a shuddering breath before nodding shallowly, twisting your head away so you don't have to look at the patronising gleam swirling in frothing Tryhennian.

“Look at me.”

The command bludgeons your resolve. Your chin jerks back immediately. Desperate to obey. To listen. Frantic with the urge to quell the alpha, to soothe his plight—

But where you expect anger, you're met with the most peculiar sort of expression etching itself into his brow, his rugged face.

His lips parted, lax. The picture of surprise.

Your eyes widen. A gasp is ripped from your throat at the raw, fractured look in his eyes. It's new, this. Unexpected. Where you anticipated scorn is instead a slow, unwinding look of want, of greed, so thick, it glues to the air.

Patchwork hunger, predatory and damning, hews into your skin. Fine needles piercing, pricking, along your flesh.

Branded ownership. You feel it settle against your chest. Dig in when his chest expands with his, hissing inhale.

There's a dark tremble to his shoulders that makes your toes curl.

“I should take this slow, then, mm? Prep you. Get you nice and ready for my cock,” his words have you keening, arching for him. Achingly empty. His hand lifts, settles against your quivering stomach. The slightest pressure makes you shake, quieten; submitting to the touch. “But. I don't have the patience for that.”

He slots his thighs between your legs, pressing it tight against your cunt. The pressure—blissful pleasure; frantic at the touch—is almost your undoing, but there's a plexiglass between full submission and the urge to flee. Still. The heat is rapacious. The desire, the yearning, doesn't abate.

The haze is thick. So thick. It would be easy to slip under the veil, to let yourself go. To give in—

"Easy, omega," it comes out as a guttural rasp; the charcoaled command uttered in a mockingly placating tone. The sort one might use to soothe a wild animal or a startled mare. Fitting, of course, when you're rutting against the thick spread of his thigh, leaking slick all over him.

down girl, he doesn't say, but he might as well have because you're clenched tight around nothing, aching hollowly in a way that rings through your bones. You can't help it, you want to whine when he huffs, lips pulling downward in a frown. Disappointed in you, perhaps. But how do you fight instinct when you're hardwired to want to spread your legs at the pungent, lour stench of a virile alpha's incipient rut, the briny tang of his pre-cum saturating the air. A heady elixir that sends shockwaves of agonising need through your body.

It's too much. The burn of your heat is a vicious, deadly combatant. Knife to your jugular, hand around your throat, it demands compliance.

And when he reaches down to his stained slacks, drawing your eye to the tent in the front, to the dark pool at the front where he leaks his spend into the fabric, you keen. Jealousy scorching through you instantly at the sight; animal instinct that makes you want to bare your teeth at it because his cum is just for you, all for you—

Amusement pierces the air. Punctuates it with the heavy, noxious weight of his satisfaction.

He hums, reaches into his slacks. Curls his fist around the thick of himself.

“Want this, don't you?”

You gnash your teeth against your desperation, legs popping open further. Inviting. Eager.

“Of course you do. Want this—” he frees his cock, pulling it over the band of his trousers, and you choke.

It's wet with his spend, and angry looking. The mushroomed head engorged, swollen. Flushed a deep vermillion. Veins run the length of it. Pulsing with his need. His want.

Price groans, strokes his hand down his shaft. Pearlescent beads of pre-cum bubble up from the tip.

You ache. Suddenly, viciously. Hollow. Empty. You want him. Need him—

“Yeah? Want this fat cock inside of you, mm?”

And you, finally, give in—

"Please, please, Price—"

"No." He taps the head of his cock against your clit once, twice. A warning. A reprimand. You keen at the whitehot agony, the unfathomable burn of pleasure ripping through your body. He coos into it. Echoing your whimper with a derisive snort. Mocking. Cruel. You hate him. Hate him. Need him so badly you think you might go insane if he doesn't pry you apart right this instant—

"I'll give you my knot when I'm good and ready. Now, be good for me, mm?” His eyes are dark in the harsh flicker of the wood stove. Burning liquid black. Molten puddles of crushed sapphire. You hate the way he looks at you. Hate how it makes you want to roll over on your belly, soft and submissive, giving all of yourself over to this terrible man. “That's it. Good omegas get what they want. Bad ones get punished. And I don't think you'll like being taken over my knee, would you?"

His words send a fresh wave of heat through your veins. Hellfire. Scorching. You want to blame the fever on the stove burning away in the corner of the room, on a sickness you can't scrape off of your bones no matter how many times you chisel into your skin. An infection eating away at you from the inside out.

But it's futile. He doesn't care about your excuses. He never has—

“Spread yourself. Go on and show me that pretty cunt you want me to ruin so badly.”

Unspooled, liquid under his bulk, you don't even hesitate before your fingers unfurl from their fight knot in the fur, making a slow, timorous crawl down the supine length of your sun-scorched body.

Your flesh feels foreign, like it belongs to a stranger. To someone else. Each touch is a phantom whisper gliding along sweat-slicked skin; new and different, and not yours.

Not yours at all because your skin would never prickle with goosebumps over the sight of your chief kneeling between your legs, the hair on his thigh matted, slick with your wetness. The unruly black thatch darkening into a patch where you shamelessly rutted against him, eagerly seeking friction over the place you ache the most.

For him. All for him.

It's impossible. Impossible. And yet—

As your fingers curl over the tops of your thighs, notching into the soft, heated flesh at the bend of your hip and groin, you feel just how soaked you are for him. How wet. How eager. It stains your skin, reaches almost down your bent knees. Beneath you is a puddle drenching the fur.

Your fingers slip, sliding in the mess you made. You flush when he huffs, humoured by it all, and dip your chin away from the scorching, piercing look in his cerulean eyes, drilling holes in the apex of your thighs. Greedily taking in his fill as your fingers glide over your sopping folds, gingerly parting them. Presenting to him on your back. Ripe for the taking.

“One hand,” he rasps, words clicking in his throat. He holds his hand up, curling his fingers down and leaving his index and middle finger up in a pointed V. “And the other—” he swallows thickly, Adam's apple bobbing. “I want you to touch your clit for me.”

You follow his instructions, slipping your fingers between your folds, opening yourself up for him. Your other hand sits on your mons, fingertips brushing your swollen clit as heat floods you. Electric. Each touch is a shock of pleasure roiling down your spine, and more slick dribbles out of you, dripping down your aching, empty hole, down your ass, until it soaks into the furs below.

The scent of a needy omega fills the air. Your scent.

Where most are sweet, supple, yours has always had a bite. A tartness to it, an earthy tang. Boysenberry. Loam. Lemongrass. Beeswax. You bluster. Flushing. Embarrassment plumes up, mushrooming in the air—smoked orange peels, coral berry sour—and you wonder if he's repelled by it, this strange smell of yours—

Price’s head rolls back, nose pitched in the air. Breathing in deep, groaning with his exhale. Eyes fluttering, flashing. He eats it clean from the air. Mouth dropping open, panting.

It's then when the unmistakable musk of a pleased Alpha—smoked tobacco and sage—clots beside your scent do you feel the prickle of free will hewing into your periphery.

None of what he demanded of you carried the unignorable weight of a command. Before you can even think of the ramifications of that, he's moving. Heavy body falling, sliding down the furs. His hands come to rest, hot and firm, on your knees, spreading you wider, wider, to fit the boxy heft of his broad body between them.

He hovers over you, head bending to fit in the brackets of your thighs. Leading with nose, nostrils flaring, fluttering, as he pulls in deep lungfuls of your scent. Over and over, and—

His head bows. Humid air ghosting over your sopping cunt when he exhales. It's then when he dips his chin further, further, until the bottom of his face is flush with your pussy, mouth parting around a groan that reverberates through the floorboards, rattles your bones.

“You smell s’fuckin’ good, love,” he rasps, choked. His eyes are gyres. They might just swallow you whole. You fight back a shiver, resolve threadbare. Stitches coming apart. “Bet you'd taste even better.”

It's all the warning you get before he pushes his face into you, mouth dropping open to let his tongue lull out. Licking a scorching stripe from hole to clit. And, oh—

Oh.

Your head drops, eyes slipping closed at the liquid feeling between your thighs. The whitehot sensation of his tongue laving across your slit.

So this—this—is what you've been missing out on. Pure feeling. Molten. It blooms in your loins, knots tight like a spooled bow.

Your fingertips are in the way from him pressing his tongue flat against your clit, where you throb the most, and you move to pull your hand away. To give him access to everything, all of it. Every part of you he wants. It's all his, his, so long as he keeps doing what he's doing with his mouth, his tongue—

But his hand slashes through the air, snatching your wrist in a vice grip. Stopping your retreat. You whimper, hips flexing up, wanting his mouth. Needing more of what he's doing between your thighs.

“Look at me,” he demands. You obey. Instantly. His eyes are black holes. Everdark. Eclipsed, totally, by the bleed of his black pupils spreading out. You moan, thighs parting wider, wider. “Good girl. Such a good omega for me, aren't you?”

He doesn't let you answer. Draws your wet fingers to his mouth, pressing the pads against his lower lip, nails scratching his teeth. He breathes in, shoulders bunching up. Eyes fluttering again, rolling back in his head. And it's divine—

To have such a surly, contemptuous Alpha on his knees for you, fat, heavy cock drooping between his thighs, spitting a steady stream of spend onto the floor. Wasteful. You keen again, back arching. Needy. Wanting—

Price sucks in your fingers, tongue laving between your knuckles. The pressure, the feeling, is good. You like this. Like his mouth.

But your fingers are not where you want him.

“Please, Price. Please—”

He pulls off with a pop. Leans his cheek on your inner thigh.

“What do you want? Use your words, omega.”

Heat blooms in your chest, but you're long past the point of embarrassment anymore. Shame. It's all awash under the torrent of need. Desire. Swept in the rage of your heat. Nearly rendered delirious by it.

“Want your mouth.”

“Where?”

“M–my—” you swallow, fingers spreading your folds wider. Opening yourself up to him. He glances down, nostrils flaring once again. But he doesn't move. Won't. You groan, head rolling back. “My pussy. Please. Want your mouth on my pussy, Price—”

He groans, low. Dark. But then he's moving. Head bowing. His tongue is scorching. Whitehot. He drags it through your folds, teasing at your rim. Presses it inside, just a touch, a shallow thrust. And—

Ah.

You make a noise in the back of your throat. Awful, wet. Choking. The feeling of his tongue inside of you is good. Beyond words.

It slips in more. The full length. Stuffed. You keen, arching. Aching. Hips flexing, jerking against his mouth. He lets you ride his face like this, fucking your hole with his fat tongue, nose glued tight to your clit.

All you can do is sob his name, fingers curling, knotting, into his damp hair, holding him close.

His tongue leaves you, sliding up your seam until it cups your clit. Laves over it. He lifts his chin, and seals his mouth over you. Sucks—

The spool unravels. Pressure released. You flood around him, on him. Pussy gushing slick over his chin, drenching him. Drowning him.

Lips sealed over your throbbing clit, he moans low. Deep. Eyes rolling back in his head. Gyre blue.

“Tha’s it,” he coos, pushing two thick fingers inside your throbbing cunt. “Think you're about ready for my cock, ain't you?”

He doesn't let you answer. And—

You don't think you can form a coherent thought. Running on sensation. On instinct. You make to roll over on your belly, ass pushed into the air, ready for his knot, but he stops you. Hands squeezing your hips. Firm.

“No. I'll take you like this.”

And it's hard to reconcile the urge to present with his demands. His wants. You whimper. He answers it with a grunt.

“Stay still.”

You flatten to the fur, body melting. Lax.

“Good girl.”

The praise is a serrated knife to your jugular, cutting a jagged line across your skin. Spilling blood. You quieten under his bulk, now. Desperate. Docile. Collared in blood.

His hands push behind your knees, lifting your legs. Pushing, pushing. Until they rest under your ears. Spread open for him. Ready to be claimed, owned. Bred.

“Price, Price, please—”

He shushes you with a coo, pitching your heels over his shoulders. Shuffling closer until his heavy cock, hanging thick and fat between his legs, bumps against your ass. Your cunt. You whimper, back arching. Needing him to fill you up. Split you apart.

Ruin you—

“Gonna fuck you now. Knot you.”

It's a warning. A threat. You feel it trail over your skin, branding. A collar. You lift your chin, letting it settle there. So long as he makes you feel this good, he can do whatever he wants to you. Anything—

And so, he does.

His cock is a heavy weight against you, pressing. Pushing. He doesn't wait for you to adjust, for your body to acclimate to the burning stretch of him splitting you apart.

Your slick aids in the brutal onslaught of his cock prying your untouched flesh apart, chiselling open a space just for him to fit.

It should hurt more. And maybe it would if you weren't drowning in the throes of a vicious heat, numbed to everything but the way his cock feels as it slides, inch after inch, inside of you. Thick, fat. Pulsing. You pant shallowly, head turning. Chin pressing into your shoulder.

It's good. This burn, this ache. This madness—

“Christ—” he spits, sounding almost angry. Furious. You peer up at him, eyes wet with unshed tears. Through the murky haze, you catch the clench of his jaw, the prominent divot between his brows. Face tightening with pleasure. Rapturous. “This cunt was made for me, wasn't it, love?”

“Yes—” it's breathless. An airless whisper. “All yours, all yours, John—”

You repeat this as he reaches halfway inside of you. As he bends down, mouth feverish he slots it greedily over your lips in a bruising, sloppy kiss. You mutter it against his teeth, his tongue. He swallows your acquiescence, your submission, down with a moan. Drinks you in as he takes, takes, until you're full of him. Stuffed.

John bottoms out with a moan that trembles down your throat, balls pressed flush against your ass. Split apart on him. Claimed.

He settles, letting you adjust to the sensation. Content to simply mouth sloppy kisses over your face, your cheek, jaw. Nipping your skin. Basking in this, in finally having you stretched around him. His pleasure is ripe in the air. Heavy and acrid. Smoked leather. Fresh, and heady.

It's novice, this feeling. This pressure. This fullness. Your hand drops, falls, palm sliding between his heavy, hairy belly, resting over yours. Feeling the unmistakable bump of him rearranging your anatomy to fit—barely—in you.

He lifts up, elbow dropping to the floor beside your head so he, too, can feel for himself the way he fits within you. His hand comes to lay beside yours, flattening over the bulge of him protruding from your flesh. His cock jerks inside of you, twitching. The feeling makes your toes curl, your cunt throb.

“Like that, huh?”

Your nod is slowly, languorous. Everything feels unreal. Like you're staring at the world from underwater. Inky. Fractured. Raw.

The burn of the stretch is there, throbbing like a bruise. A contusion. He scents the sting, the ache, and slides his hand down, cupped over your swollen, stuffed pussy. Fingers tangling into the thick bed of curls grazing your mons. Price quells the burn with a swipe of his thumb rolling over your clit.

It has you clenching, tightening even further around him. Feeling the thick stretch thrumming inside of you. Plugging you up. And fuck—

If that doesn't just light you up from the inside out. Supernova. Blistering heat.

Pieces of yourself chip off, fluttering to the soft, downy fur below you with each heavy breath he takes. Your heat swells to a crescendo, breaking over the edge of your lingering cognisance. It's all sensation now. Pure, unfettered feeling.

And Price takes no time at all to exploit it. To batter your melting, liquid body into submission even further.

It starts with shallow grinds against the plug of your womb. Carving more space inside of you for him to fit, to ruin.

He fucks you like this. Cock heavy and fat inside of you. Giving you the full length until your rim catches on the burgeoning swell of his knot. Over and over again. Pulling deep, delirious moans from your throat. Breaking you to pieces on the spread of him seated deep. Tugging more and more compliance from your body, wringing pleasure out of every nerve ending.

The sounds are horrific, and had you any sense of self left to mull over them, your shame, embarrassment, would have burned you alive. The wet squelch of your cunt swallowing him down, over and over and over again—

“Needy little pussy,” he bites out, blunt teeth skirting over your pulse point. A tease.

The press of them heightens everything, elevating it to a tipping point.

This is what you were made for. What every atom in your body screams out to. Wanting. Needing to be spread out under him, this dark, awful man.

“I'm not going to claim you,” he's saying, words wet against your temple, tongue snaking out to catch the droplets of sweat beading on your hairline.

It makes you whine in dismay, desperate for his teeth buried in your skin.

“No, no, please—! I need it, John, I need it—”

“Then beg me. Beg for it—”

You do. It babbles out of you. Broken, fractured. Pleas, orisons, screamed to heavens; aching for his teeth on you, in you. Claiming you for his own. You want it more than you think you've ever wanted anything in your whole thing. Half of you, empty and vacant, hollow, begging to be filled. To be completed.

And really—

You've felt it from the beginning. This stirring, agonising want. Desire. A bone-deep yearning for the man who looked at you, up and down, and dismissed you with a charred scoff and shallow shake of his head.

“What's a little omega like you doin’ runnin’ around the woods, love? Ought to be at home—”

Where you belong.

It didn't make sense at the time. He's so different with everyone else—Alex, Farah—but reserves his scorn, his discrimination, just for you. Special little thing, aren't you?

But even still. Still. You tried. Struggled against the crushing weight of his derision, burying your fingers into the rubble, clinging on for three, devastating years until your nails broke, bled. Left stains on the pavement. Until he, stiff-lipped and clipped, told you he was retiring. Escaping the loose binds of a non-existent town on the fringes of civilisation for the sanctum of the wild, untamed forest. The mountains.

You wanted him to say, come with me, even if you might have gouged his eyes out for even asking. Tore his still-beating heart out with your bare hands.

But instead, he nodded at you. A quiet goodbye. Left you bewildered, furious, and unclaimed, unwanted, and now—

Those blood-stained fingers dig into the softness of his nape, biting flesh until it gives, breaks, under the jagged stumps of your nails, and you wrench him forward, into you, snarling mad. Apoplectic with fury at being denied so long.

“Fuck you,” you bite out, brittle with ire. Disobedient even through the noxious curdle of heat subduing your senses. Your rationale. “Fuck you, John—!”

His skin breaks first. The bitter scent of hot, wet pavement, pennies in the summer sun, sickly sweet iron, fills the balmy cabin. He groans, choked, throat bobbing, jaw clenching. You don't let him get anything out.

You pull him by the scruff of his neck into you, face buried in your collarbones. Heels dig in, sliding along the slick sweat of his broad back. Finding purchase against the knob of his spine, and pressing. Pushing. Kicking at him until he slots his hips into yours, pressed as deep as he could possibly go. Throbbing inside of you. Spitting molten spend as he wrenches you open.

The first person to ever do so.

He must know this, feel it simmering in the air, because he groans low, deep. It bubbles out of his chest, a half-bitten snarl saturated in the smoke of his desire. Feverish, possessive.

“Mate me,” you demand, head tilting back into the awaiting plinth of his palm, cushioning your crown. “Claim me.”

He—John, you think, delirious; gone—John places a tender kiss to your pulse point, soft despite the uneven, desperate way he fucks into you now. All that careful finesse falling to pieces under your foot, growing choppier as he sinks in deep. Pistoning shallowly into your sloppy cunt, taking. Taking.

“Please, John,” you breathe, clenching tight around him. Needing that last push to drop over this vertiginous precipice that yawns out, a growling, hungry chasm, before you. Heat spears into your marrow, drowning out all the fight inside of you. Dousing those flames until they're a smouldering heap; clumps of hot, wet ash in your hands. “Please take me—”

The growl he makes is inhuman. Lingering in the shadow of it is a mocking burst of laughter. Dark, hellish. He leans in close, mouth tight against your skin, and whispers, “already have, love.”

Those words lose any meaning when he opens his mouth wider, licking a stripe over your neck. A soothing rinse. And then he buries his teeth into your pulse, tearing through your skin. Claiming. Owning. It rips through you—all heat, sensation: blistering, inferno. You burn alive beneath him, smouldered under his possessive, heavy bulk.

Price leans back with a vicious, terrible growl. Blood dripping down his chin, mixing with the tacky slick of you still covering his face. Pinkish under the waning light of the dying sun.

The sight of it, the horrible throb in your throat, breaks over you.

His tongue flicks out, chasing the drops. With a swipe of his finger over your clit, you fall to pieces around him, clenching. Throbbing. Screaming with your release. Gushing around him as he grips you tight, working you through it, muscles fluttering, flexing. The deluge of pleasure is molten, spreading liquid through your body. Inescapable bliss.

He grunts, pace slowing to a sloppy grind. Letting you leech pleasure from the overfull feeling of being speared open on him. Knot swelling. Bumping into your rim. John gives you respite for a moment, content to hump against your messy cunt until you melt into the furs, panting with exertion. With pleasure.

He keeps his thumb pressed against your clit, stroking. Shoving you into the side of too much, of pleasure-pain. Overstimulated. You mewl, whimpering.

“Greedy girl,” he chides, cruel, and pulls back. The wet drag of his cock against your sore, sensitive walls is overwhelming. You keen, shaking under him. “Couldn't wait to cum around my knot, mm?”

He doesn't wait for your excuses. He never does. He just thrusts into you again, a slow climb until his knot bludgeons into you. Fatten up at the base of his cock. He holds it there, grinding it against your pussy as you arch, mewling at the sting of your hole being stretched further around the curve of his knot.

“You can take it,” he coos. The muscles in his shoulders flex. You reach out, petting along his chest. feeling him. All powerful, corded muscles hiding under a thick layer of pelt. Soft flesh.

His knot catches. Slips. He bullies it against your sore, stuffed rim, throwing the full heft of his weight behind his shallow grinds until finally, finally, your body yields. Giving in. Opening for him.

He sinks in with a broken groan, mouth dropping open. Lax. His shoulders slump under your hands as he pumps you full of cum. Plugged up tight on his fat, pulsing knot. It's too much. Too much. All you do is cling to him, nails biting into his flesh. Marking him like the bloody ring around your neck marks you as his.

Locked together, damned, he leans down. Huffs in your ear.

“Gonna fuck you full all spring until it takes, love. Until you're swollen, fat, with our kid.” His voice is a thunderclap. A promise. A threat. “Won't keep them lonely for long, though, will you? We'll give him a sister or brother. Gonna breed this pussy as much as I want, mm. Give us a big family. I've already started on the nursery for you. After your heat, I'll let you pick the colours, yeah?”

Satiated Alpha permeates the air. It's thick in the back of your throat, clogging your senses. Drowning you. Pulling you under.

The last thought before you sink below the waterline is a broken, fragmented sense of dread, confusion. It comes in a daze. Flickering embers. Quickly snuffed out by his palm gliding across your eyes, closing them.

“Sleep now,” he rasps, hips stuttering as he fills you with more cum. Uncomfortably full, it floods your cunt, locked tight against your womb. “Gonna need it when my rut starts later.”

And, docile, collared, you obey, drifting. Dazed. But wondering, in the back of your head, in the part of you not yet consumed by the ink-black darkness that eats away at you, why did he build a nursery for you if he didn't know you were coming today—

—swallowed, eaten. his teeth are buried in your neck once more, and all thoughts dissolve in an instant. Dissipate into the gnawing aether where he splits them between his molars, gulps them down.

nothing matters anymore. you belong to him—

The cabin reeks of satiated omega—sweet, pungent. Rotten apple peels, and burnt orange. It's this heavy scent—sex, loam, and you—that draws him out of his doze, tired eyes blinking against the flickering light of the wood stove pushed into the corner.

Price groans when he shifts, body aching. Muscles stiff, sore, from disuse.

It’s been a long, long time since he knotted an omega, and he underestimated the sharpness of your claws, your needle-like teeth. But he wears the marks, the scars, of your aggressive coupling on his shoulders, his back. Clawed up, torn. He grimaces when a clotting scab breaks, peels back from the wound. Blood drips down his spine in a steady, ticklish trickle.

It took a lot more than he expected to make you submit. Had to force you to take his knot twice more before you finally, fully, relented, slurring his name into the sheets as he rutted into you from behind, begging for your Alpha to fill you up.

Had you again after that—so soft and sweet for him now. Pulled you down on his lap, let you take what you wanted from him, sluggish and lazy, until he gripped your hips tight, fucking up into you as he thickened with his release. Plugged you up nicely as you drooled on his shoulder, lulled to sleep from three brutal rounds of fucking.

But the battle was worth the victory in the end. To have you tucked into his chest, purring with contentment and too blissed out from heat exhaustion to worry about anything else, was enough. More than, really.

Especially now, with you curled on him, snoring lightly, breath tickling his chest hair, he feels more sated than he ever had, breathing in the heaviness of your smell. Your thick miasma. New, now. Different.

His scent, his mere essence within you, changes your smell already. Chemicals admixing. Body moulding, morphing, to adapt to him. His presence. You smell like the sea, salt water. Algae blooms. He leans down, breathes you in. Tastes his own headiness in the back of his throat—charred timber, smoke; leather. It clings to you. A second skin.

No matter where you go, everyone will know you belong to him.

This thought, this truism, makes him purr. A deep rumble from the pit of his gut. Satisfaction rolls off of him in towering waves, hewing the air where it congeals into plumes of conquest. Hard earned, too—

Three years. It only took three years to get to this point. To chisel under your skin, to break you down in his paws. Fine powder.

He lifts his hand from your back, and scours it down his salt-slickened face. He feels heat blooming under his skin. A telltale flush of his approaching rut. Perfectly timed, too. And that reminds him—

He pushes away from you slightly, spent cock slipping free from your warm, drenched cunt. His cum drips out of you, a deluge that leaks steadily onto your thigh, the ruined fur below. It puddles there and stains the air with his unmistakable musk. The conquering of an omega in heat; claimed. Owned.

He doesn't go far. Can't. There's a possessive, needy thrill under his veins. A snarling growl in the back of his head, snapping rabid jowls at him. Demanding he stay close to his mate. His omega. Don't leave the nest, it warns, or another could crawl in, fill the empty space—

Price cuts that thought off with an aborted snarl. There are no others. He made sure of it. Bloodied his knuckles against every alpha within a one-hundred-square-mile radius of his territory. Growled in their faces, hand against their throat, and told them to stay away from, you, this pretty little omega.

Message received, of course. But you were a prickly little thing. Bitter. As much as he wanted to roll you on your belly, make you present your cunt to him, he knew he had to tread carefully. Baby steps until you were close enough to his jaws to snap up, all his. Always. Ever since you stepped foot into his domain, your tart scent coalescing perfectly with the pine, oakmoss, tang of him. You've been his before you even knew who he was—

Wily omega with your shaking fists and bared teeth. Skittish little thing. Needed to play his hand slowly, to box you into a corner before you were even aware of the walls closing in around you. Snapped up tight his maw. Bear Trap quick. Had to be smart about it, bide his time. Push and push until all you thought about was him.

(checkmate)

John reaches for the loose floorboard, prying it open, and pulls his cell phone out—one he knows he’ll have to bury in the yard before you wake. There are very few contacts on his list, and he idly scrolls through the messages (steaming Jesus, the smell o’er—ye sure ye don’ share, cap?; better take her, Price, before I do) before he finds Gaz’s.

The last message sent was hours ago from Kyle. on her way. but fuck, didn't realise how fast fake suppressants worked, chief. gonna have to find her quick. might not make it up the mountain smellin as good as she does—

Good boy, he types with one hand, the other petting possessively down your spine. Curled there, a weighty pressure. You found him in the end, right on the cusp of your burgeoning heat. Pawing desperately for the suppressants Kyle made sure wouldn't be there.

(His parting gift brought on by a conversation ages ago—

“why haven't you mated, cap? not gettin’ any younger.”

“haven't found the right one. ain't gonna settle.”

“more like, your shitty attitude scares all the pretty omegas away, huh?”

“that, too,” he bit down into his cigar. suddenly angry, viciously so. “‘cept one.”

Kyle followed his gaze, and—

“so, take her. she wants you. reeks like she does. you can smell it, too, can't you?” his eyes flashed. playful. “maybe that'll be my retirement gift to you.”

“not funny, Garrick.”

“m’not tryin’ t’be, cap.”)

Three dots appear almost instantly. It takes a moment. Then: fuckin’ prick. Another message from Kyle pops up seconds after. told you, didn't i? i wasn't bein funny. congrats, cap ;)

As if sensing the sudden whiplash of his mood—deep, proprietorial—you stir in his arms, mewling in confusion. John drops the phone, hiding it from view, and pulls you tighter in his arms. In his embrace. Mouth pressed tight to your hairline, he rumbles, “shush, shush. I got you.”

His words make you quieten slightly. Quelled under the susurrus lull of his bellowing purr. But there's still a deep ravine between your brows. Unease lashes the air, acidic. Bubbling up from deep within you.

None of this must make any sense to you. Mercurial boss to mate, but he knows you'll come around to the idea of him soon enough. After all,

he has you all to himself until winter.

all to himself.

His hand falls, cups your lower belly possessively. Covetous. You grimace in your sleep, shifting away from the heavy, oppressive brunt of his smell. Obsessive. Potent like a wildfire. Dangerous.

But there's nowhere for you to run. Nowhere to go except deeper into his arms, his hold. Gyves around your throat; a bloody ring of his teeth.

Price hums. “Best gift I've ever gotten.”

#captain john price x reader #john price x reader #alpha price #alpha john price x omega reader #idk how this is like 8k its all just smut lmao #captian john price #john price #price x reader #captain price x reader #captain price #cod

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lanabuckybarnes · 2 months

Text

Sergeant’s Got You

18+ Minors DNI

You’re stressed, he knows exactly how to make you feel better.

Note: I was asked for something like this, so it’s heavy on the love for his dog tags

Pairing: beefy Bucky (but he’s got that fatws attitude) x reader

Warnings: Dom Bucky, basically smutty right from the get go, filthy buck, he has his metal arm (I’m a slut for it), you like Bucky’s dog tags, like really like them, Petnames: sweetness, sweetheart, sweet thing, sweetie, good girl, baby, a LOT of dirty talk, sergeant kink, sir kink, oral (M receiving), unprotected p in v sex, he’s rough, degradation, feral Bucky, squirting, creampie, aftercare.

Word Count: 3.2k *insert cat HUH sound*

You were stressed beyond belief. Your mission ended up having a few more loose ends than anyone was anticipating leaving you to pick up the pieces. Now you were finally back in New York and ready to punch the next person who pats your back sympathetically with a ‘you tried’ look on their face.

Just as you were contemplating boxing the cupboard in the kitchen than wouldn’t stay open two strong arms pulled you back and into a hard body.

“You alright sweetness?” Bucky spoke into the locks of hair at the back of your ear. His cologne had you relaxing already, the fingers on his right hand hitched up your shirt to rub soothing circles over your hip bone. What really got you was the subtle grind of his hips against your ass; he was a filthy shit, you loved it when he knew what you wanted.

You flipped your body around in his arms, your fingers running up from his abs to his soft chest until they wrapped around his neck. He smirked, he knew exactly what you wanted him to do but he was a tease, you had to tell him or he wouldn’t. It’s just the way the world worked for you sweetheart.

You surged forward, desperate for a taste of the cherry lips you missed so much. You hated to admit just how much the man in front of you affected you, how often on your mission your hand snaked down your body and in-between your legs at the photos Sam sent of your lost puppy husband, his wide back and tiny waist wrapped in that blue Henley that had the arms pulled up to his forearm revealing the long veins and thick structure underneath. You needed him, now.

He pulled back just as your lips brushed his, a dark smirk and a filthy blue colour surfacing in his orbs. Fucking tease.

“You know you gotta use your words sweetheart” One of his big hands, his metal one, landed on the back of your skull, the metal thumb dancing over your bottom lip before you sucked it into your wet mouth. He growled at the innocent look you gave him as your tongue flicked over the tip before poking out and running up the underside of the shiny plates.

He pushed down, holding your tongue in place as it travelled, drool dripping from the muscle but he didn’t care, the sight of the rivulets of saliva sliding down the silver had him harder than a rock. One of the most technologically advanced pieces of handiwork and you were sucking on it like a little slut, pathetic.

He had you in his room before you could even blink, the rough slamming of the door vibrating the wall he pushed you up against.

“You’re a little slut ain’t you? Sucking on my thumb like my cock, getting your drool everywhere, you’re so lucky I don’t make you clean it up” he spoke as he hastily pulled your shirt and his off, his dog tags jangling softly as they fell back into place between his huge chest. You moved like a magpie, gripping at the shiny metal tags, giving them a squeeze, his name imprinting for a second of the fat of your palm before letting them slip between your fingers.

He watched you, ever fascinated at just how worked up you got about him, but it was your love for his dog tags that had him curious. You always, without fail slipped a finger around them, whether it was when you pulled him close for a kiss or if your slept on his chest, one of your fingers slipped itself through the chain and held them close to your hand.

He wasn’t stupid though, he could practically smell when you soaked yourself, always conveniently after his swinging tags made contact with your chin or ran up the column in your spine, the way that little pussy tightened around him when the old metal swept over your lips, tapping your teeth as you moaned out in pleasure. It made him embarrassingly weak too.

“You want me to fuck you cute girl?” He groaned into the crook of your neck, his plush lips suckling obscene dark marks downward till he reached the crevice of your breasts, your legs wrapped around him tighter as his hand grazed over your sensitive sides to the meat of your tit, gripping it softly and flicking a warm thumb over your nipple. You jerked into him at the shock of pleasure, your hand carding through his waves of hair and pulling him close as worked on the underside of your other boob.

“Words Sweetheart, I need words” He knew it wouldn’t be long till you hit that sub space, the same thing always happened when you were stressed, you needed your big Sergeant to take the wheel, use you a little bit.

“Please” fuck the whimper in your voice had him grinding up into you, the scratchy fabric of his jeans meeting the barely their material of the shorts you wore under your gear.

“Please what sweet thing?” he moved to watch the deep colour of your eyes swim with lust, eradicating any stress they once held, he was doing his job.

“Please use me Sir” you whined, fingers wrapping around the chain of his dog tags again to pull him close, finally getting that kiss you so desperately needed. His left hand cupped your cheek, rubbing a thumb over the high point softly, a sharp contrast to the bruising kiss you had going on. Teeth clashed with teeth, soft whimpers falling from your lips as he pushed closer, flicking his tongue viciously with your much weaker one, running against the top of it and sucking once it gave up it’s fight. He pulled you in again, tender with his lips this time, enclosing your swollen ones with his, his tongue running over your upper lip soothingly.

“Fuck! You’re making me go crazy” he chuckled as he moved off the wall, backing himself up to the bed till his calves hit the frame. He sat down with both of you, your body straddling him, his right hand pushing you back and forth softly on his bulge. The lust in his eyes mixed with a softness as he looked up at you, his metal hand still on your face although now his shiny forefinger and thumb hooked onto your chin, pulling you forward for a kiss, and another, and another. You whined, you didn’t want kisses and grinding, you wanted him to blow your back out, use your pretty face, anything but this.

Seeming to sense your thoughts he stopped your movements, the right hand coming up to join his left on either side of your face.

“What do you want sweetheart? You want your soldier to ruin you? I can feel how hot you are on my dick… you want it bad don’t you?” You moaned at his words, dripping filthily from his tongue, he sure had a way to fuck you up without even pulling out his cock.

“Yes, yes please. Use me” he smirked, satisfied at your whimpered begging. With a click of his tongue and a flick of his eyes he had you manoeuvring onto your knees in front of him.

He was a sight, he looked carved from marble, each bend of his body, every nook and muscle and vein delicately etched into rock solid stone to be preserved for a lifetime. His bulge strained painfully against his jeans, angrily awaiting your slender fingers offering it reprise from its tight cell. You were glad to give it just that.

Clumsily, you fiddled with the thick belt around his waist, smiling in satisfaction when the rhythmic clanks finally hit your ears. You flicked the button open and were about to pull the zip of his fly when his hand stopped you.

“With your mouth sweetness” his lip caught between his teeth, a soft blush decorated his face and chest as he watched you. Your tongue ran up the metal, the slight tang hitting your tastebuds, you flicked the little tab until sat snug between your teeth and pulled it down slowly, each tooth of the zip clicking as it finally opened.

Once you were done, Bucky pushed the thick material down his legs with a relieved sigh, letting it pool at his ankles before flicking them off with your help. His hard-on raged against the soft grey briefs, a pool of darkness lay at the head, precum soaking through.

His hands met yours, pulling them up his thighs and hooking them around the waistband of his briefs. He smiles down at you, eyes crinkling and neck craned as he watched you both inch down his underwear until it caught on his tip, he hissed as the scratchy fabric pulled over his silky head before it slapped deliciously onto his public bone and stomach.

“God” he chuckled breathlessly at the feeling of finally being free “look at you drooling all over yourself for me, you want a taste sweet thing?” His metal fingers had wrapped themselves around the fat base of his length, pushing it forward till the spongy tip hooked onto your upper lip, his salty precum smearing over it like a x-rated lip balm.

You pecked the tip of his dick, the tip of your tongue barely poking him as you did. You moved down, lips brushing against every angry vein on his cock until you met the metal of his hand in which you slowly licked a thick strip back up until you swirled your wet muscle against his head relentlessly.

“Fuck sweetheart, good girl” he groaned, head lulling back as his hips jittered off the bed softly, pushing his head into your awaiting mouth. You sucked him in greedily, selfishly inhaling his thick musky scent that had your pussy drooling against your lace panties, threatening to spill into your shorts— you didn’t doubt that if he had you naked, your essence would drip all over the wood of the floor— he’d have a field day making you clean it up.

“God you’re so good, ha— making your soldier feel so good, you like your sergeant all needy? Ready to pull you up off that floor and sink my cock into you” You moaned against his length, gagging softly when he jerked up into the back of your throat.

“Shit, Nuh uh get up here, I wanna cum in that pretty pussy, move come on” He pulled you up and off his length like you weighed nothing at all, his fingers ripping the shorts from your body and only stopping when he caught a glimpse of you’re soaked panties.

“Fuck girl, who’s got you like this hmm?” His thick thumb brushed small circles over your neglected clit. You moaned loudly, jerking off the bed with a shudder at the feeling, more of your slick pooling into your already soaked gusset.

“Mmm I can fucking smell you, smell so good baby… bet I could fuck you without prep, you want that?” He spoke, his voice deep, laced with primal lust— nothing like the composed grumpy old man everyone else saw— no, he was raw, unhinged, pupils blown wide with sexual desire. You wanted nothing more than his cock in you.

“Please Buck, just your cock I don’t care just please” you cried when he pushed particularly hard on your aching nub, your knuckles turning white as you fisted then covers beneath you; your legs shook as they threatened to close on his thick forearm, you were close already but you didn’t want to cum without him filling you out.

He gleamed at your form, fucked out, soaked and crying already— he’d barely fucking touched you— he couldn’t wait to see your face as he fucked you raw.

He ripped your panties with renewed vigour, the ruined material pulled away from your sensitive heat to hang around the your ankle that now sat over Bucky’s muscular shoulder. Your thigh quaked softly at the stretch but his cold digits ran softly against the tight muscle, soothing it for the time being.

His fat head tapped against your clit, each wet slap causing your body to twitch off the bed at the electric jolts of pleasure it sent up your spine. You could feel Bucky’s fingers circling your entrance, two of his thick fingers squishing into your tight hole as he prepped you lightly. When they left, a long line of arousal followed, connecting him to you, he growled at the sight before licking the wetness from his rough palm and middle finger.

“Mmm so sweet, if I wasn’t so fucking horny I’d make you cum all over my face… make you soak my mouth, shit” he was talking more to himself than you but you clenched around nothing at the thought, the thought of him eating you out for hours was not impossible, he’d done it before.

His thick tip drooling against your entrance pulled you from your trance, he pushed softly, hooking his head along the tight rim of your pussy as he stared up at you.

“you ready sweet thing?” He leaned over, right hand resting against the side of your head, his thumb flicking stray tears from your cheeks. You nodded softly, eyes unmoving from him, watching as his lips twitched in pleasure as his head popped into you, each inch dragging in slowly, aided by your soaked folds.

You moaned pathetically, his head running over your g-spot had you clenching around him, your orgasm hitting you quickly, your hands tightening painfully against the sheets as white hot pleasure soaked through your nerves. Everything was tingling, flashes of colour dancing over your closed eyelids.

Bucky wasn’t much better as he watched you, having to will his own orgasm down at the sight of you losing yourself over him already. You were a fucking sight to him, your tits bouncing with each sharp breath you took, mouth hung open allowing each whimper or silent scream to escape unabashedly.

“Ohh good girl, that’s it mmmm shit you’re fucking clenching me tight baby” Bucky mumbled, words falling from his lips in verbal mush, his own mind barely keeping up. When you finally came down from your high you open your eyes to look up at him, a shy little smile playing on your lips at the way he bore down at you.

“I’m so-“ you began but he pushed forward, sucking up your moan at the feeling of him hitting your cervix into his mouth.

“Don’t you dare be fucking sorry for that sweetheart, you hear? Fucking almost made me cum like a fucking teenager again, naughty girl ain’t you? I fucking love you” His hot breath panted against your lips as he growled at you, the last thing he wanted was for you to feel ashamed about the pleasure you were feeling. You blushed deeply, it was quite funny just how much his love for you made you blush, even when he was currently pushing against the deepest parts of you.

“Can I move baby?” He asked against your lips, smiling satisfyingly as you nodded before planting a wet kiss on your lips and pushing himself up.

He started slow, letting each vein pull against every nerve in your heat, his teeth clenching at just how tight you’d squeeze every time his head brushed against your sweet bundle of pleasure. His smooth pace never lasted long though, his hips jerked violently against you once he deemed you ready enough, your body slipping up across the sheets at each slam of his hips against your thighs.

He was leaning over you now, your leg pushed up between both your bodies, his dog tags clanging above your face at each jerk of his body. You reached a hand up, encircling the darkened metal, pulling on it as your body twitched with hints of a second orgasm.

“Shit! You like when my fucking tags hang over your face, fucking little slut aren’t you? You like being fucked like this? your sergeant fucking all that stress away? Mmm god, maybe I’ll put them around your neck next time hmm? Have you wear them when you’re riding me, let them fucking swing between those tits— god you’d love that” Bucky rambled, on and on, thrusts becoming sloppy as you clenched around him for the umpteenth time, only this time your orgasm slammed into you like a freight train, you could feel yourself soaking Bucky’s dick and thighs— probably soaking the already destroyed sheets below you.

With one final thrust Bucky’s moan caught in this throat as he pushed himself the deepest he could go, hot cum soaking your cervix and pushing out against his length to run along your folds, mixing with your juices. His legs give out forcing himself against you even more, pulling a pained whine from you at the feeling. As your orgasms settled, your breathing slightly less laboured although still heavy, you pulled him close by his tags, kissing his blissed out face right on the lips.

“You were so good for me sweet thing, so fucking good” he praised, his metal hand running through your tangled hair, soothing your heated scalp.

He leaned back up with a groan, massaging your aching leg as he pulled it from his shoulder before slipping out of your pussy. You both moaned at the loss, your heat clenching against nothing as his cum slipped from your body in waves. He couldn’t tear his eyes from your heat, tongue poking out to wet his lips as he watched intently. You giggled shyly at his intense expression, your aching legs closing softly in embarrassment much to Bucky’s dismay.

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up” he smiled, wrapping his arms around you and lifting you to the bathroom. You snuck a glimpse of the sheets as he carried you, the whole area soaked in a mixture of you both.

“Oh my god” you whispered in disbelief against his head.

“What?” He replied as he set you down and began running a bath.

“The sheets are ruined, I can’t believe I did that” you eyed his naked frame from behind, his wide back flushed red but still absolutely stunning, each muscle rippling as he moved methodically, his small waist directing you to his thick globes. It was then Bucky turned to look at you, catching you ogling at his ass, he laughed when you turned quickly.

“It makes me proud when I look at those sheets, I mean who else can make you squirt like that? Fucking no one” he growled the last part against your lips giving you a quick smooch before turning the water off and lifting you both into the hot bubbled water.

His hands massaged your shoulders, working out the knots from your activities as well as any left over stress from your mission, not that there was any after he fucked it out of you.

You two sat in silence, save for the occasional sigh you let out when he hit the right spot, both savouring each other’s presence, reminiscing on the way you exhausted each other. You laugh when you remember his words.

“What? what’s got you all giggly?” he asked, nipping the skin on the nape of your neck.

“Nothing… just… were you being serious?”

“About what sweetheart?” He eyes you curiously.

“About letting me wear your dog tags” you suppress a smirk as you feel him twitch against your back, obviously your words sparking something in him.

“We’ll discuss it later” he rasped causing you to laugh out loud.

Your week had been stressful, with never ending problems and constant nagging from the higher ups to do the job but when you were in Bucky’s embrace, when you had those dog tags between your fingers or dangling over your face, everything melted away into nothingness, leaving you and Bucky alone.

So I lied mwahahahaha, I was going to post it yesterday but I love alcohol so I was drunk but here we are.

I’m a little nervous to post this one idk why.

I hope you enjoyed x

(I do not own any of the photos, credits to original owners)

#bucky barnes #bucky x female reader #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky x you #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky fanfic #marvel #bucky barnes imagine #mcu bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #james bucky barnes #beefy bucky smut #beefy bucky #james barnes #james buchanan barnes

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pucksandpower · 27 days

Text

Champagne Kisses

Lando Norris x Piastri!Reader

Summary: the taste of champagne has never been sweeter than when it’s being poured down your skin in celebration of your boyfriend … too bad your brother didn’t get the memo that these particular festivities were supposed to be private

Warnings: 18+ content

Note: congratulations to my favorite McLaren fan @struggling-with-drivers and all of the other Lando fans who have plenty of reason to celebrate tonight 🫶

The champagne sprays over the sweaty crowd as Lando holds the trophy aloft, a wide grin plastered across his face. This is the moment he’s dreamed of since he was a kid racing karts — his first Formula 1 win.

As the celebrations continue on the podium, Lando’s eyes scan the crowd of papaya below, landing on you watching with a proud smile. He gives you a subtle wink, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. You feel your cheeks flush hot.

Later, once the chaos has died down, you slip away from the McLaren garage and head towards the drivers’ rooms. Glancing around to make sure the coast is clear, you duck inside Lando’s room and lock the door behind you.

“Where’s my winner?” You call out in a singsong voice.

Lando emerges from the bathroom, a white towel slung low around his hips as water droplets cling to his toned torso. “Well, well. If it isn’t my gorgeous supportive girlfriend.” He crosses the room in a few strides, pulling you into a searing kiss.

You melt against him, tangling your fingers in his dampened curls. “I’m so proud of you, babe.”

Lando grins, resting his forehead against yours. “This calls for a celebration.”

He grabs the bottle of champagne leftover from the podium ceremony and pops the cork with a hiss. Taking a swig, he offers it to you. “Your turn, love.”

You accept the bottle, the bubbles tickling your throat as you drink deeply. Lando watches you with hooded eyes, licking his lips unconsciously.

Setting the bottle down, you sink to your knees in front of him. “Let me properly congratulate the newest race winner.”

Lando’s breath hitches as you mouth along the tented towel. “Oh f-fuck, you’re going to be the death of me.”

You smirk up at him. “Not a bad way to go out though, right?”

Pushing the towel aside, you take him into your mouth, swirling your tongue along the silky shaft. Lando groans loudly, fisting a hand in your hair to guide your movements.

“Yes, just like that. God, you’re so good at this.”

You hollow your cheeks, increasing the suction as you bob your head rapidly. His hips snap forwards, driving himself deeper into your willing mouth.

“I’m so close already,” he pants, thrusting erratically. “I want to … can I?”

You just hum in agreement around him, sending delicious vibrations along his length. With a guttural groan, Lando’s release spills down your throat as his thighs tremble.

Pulling back, you swipe your thumb across the corner of your mouth with a satisfied smile. “Mmm, my favorite drink.”

Lando chuckles breathlessly, hauling you up into a filthy kiss, the tang of his arousal sharp on your lips. He grabs the bottle of champagne, tilting it against your lips.

“Open up, darling. Time for a little celebration of our own.”

Dutifully, you part your lips to accept the fizzy stream. It spills over your tongue and down your body, soaking through your clothes in cool rivulets. Lando’s eyes darken with lust as he drinks in the sight of you, sodden and panting.

“Look at you, all messy and debauched. Maybe I should get on the podium more often.”

With a wicked gleam, you shrug off your drenched dress, kicking away your shoes to stand in just your skimpy bra and underwear. “Keep winning and you can do whatever you want to me, champ.”

Lando growls, the bottle forgotten as he crashes his mouth against yours hungrily. You moan into the kiss, nails raking down the tanned planes of his back.

He walks you backwards until your thighs hit the couch, tumbling down with you cradled beneath him. The plush fabric squelches beneath your damp bodies as Lando grinds his rapidly re-hardening length against you shamelessly.

You whine at the delicious friction, arching up to meet his thrusts. “Don’t tease me, Lando.”

“Not a chance,” he murmurs, dragging his teeth along the sensitive column of your throat.

His rough palms cup your breasts, kneading the soft mounds through the flimsy lace. You gasp at the sparks of pleasure, digging your nails into the flexing muscles of his biceps.

Impatiently, you hook a leg around his waist to urge him closer. The scrap of material covering your core does little to dull the scorching heat of him pressing insistently against your slick folds.

“Please, Lando,” you beg shamelessly. “I need you inside me.”

With a groan, he tugs your underwear aside and thrusts home in one slick motion. You both moan loudly at the feeling of being joined so intimately once more.

Lando starts a punishing pace, hips snapping forwards as his cock drives into your fluttering depths over and over. You cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders and leaving crescent marks in the tender skin as euphoric cries spill from your lips.

“God, you feel so good wrapped around me,” Lando pants, dropping his forehead against yours. “My gorgeous, perfect girl. Always ready for me, yeah?”

“Always,” you gasp out between moans. “Only for you, Lando. My race winner.”

He captures your lips in a bruising kiss, all teeth and desperation as his thrusts grow sloppy and erratic. With a final cry, you shatter around his thickness, clenching down hard enough to drag Lando over the edge too.

You clutch at each other through the haze, trembling and sated as your breathing slowly evens out. Lando peppers lazy kisses across your face, tangling his fingers in your sweat-damp hair.

“Love you so much,” he mumbles against your skin. “Can’t believe I get to have you.”

You smile dopily up at him. “Sap. I love you too, my future champion.”

A loud bang at the door startles you both, Lando instinctively rolling to shield you with his body. The handle jiggles fruitlessly before a familiar Australian accent calls out.

“Oi, Lando! You in there, mate? Let me in, I want to celebrate!”

Lando freezes above you, eyes going comically wide. “Oh shit ...” he whispers. “It’s Oscar!”

“Lando?” Oscar’s voice comes again, sharper this time. “Everything okay? Open up!”

You look at Lando in panic, clothes and coverings hopelessly askew. The doorknob rattles more insistently as Oscar tries to force his way in.

“Just one second!” Lando shouts back, grabbing the towel to wrap around his waist as he crosses to the door. He cracks it open a fraction. “Hey mate, what’s up?”

Oscar doesn’t wait for an invitation, shoving his way inside with a wide grin. “Don’t ‘what’s up’ me, you little shit! My teammate finally got a win, time to get messy!”

He stops short, brows shooting up as he takes in the state of disarray. Lando tugs the towel more securely around his hips as Oscar’s gaze lands on your disheveled, half-naked form sprawled on the couch.

You hold your breath, suddenly very aware of your compromising position and state of undress. Lando follows Oscar’s line of sight, wincing as he turns back slowly.

The two teammates stare at each other for a beat before Oscar breaks the silence.

“Is that my fucking sister?”

“Oscar, I can explain-” Lando starts, hands raised placatingly.

But Oscar is already stalking forward, fury etched across his face. “You sick bastard! My teammate and my twin sister?”

He grabs Lando by the shoulders, shoving him back against the wall hard. “I’m going to make sure you never have kids, you piece of shit!”

You scramble upright, clutching your bra to your chest. “Oscar, stop!” You plead, rushing over to insert yourself between the fuming teammates. “It’s not what you think.”

Oscar scoffs, not releasing his grip on Lando’s shoulders. “Not what I think? He had you half-naked and covered in … is that champagne?”

You wince at his disgusted tone. “We’re together, Oscar. We have been for months.”

“Months?” Oscar looks between you and Lando, comprehension and rage warring on his features. “You’ve been sneaking around with my teammate this whole time? Behind my back?”

Lando finally finds his voice. “Look, mate, I didn’t mean any disrespect. You know how much I care about your sister.”

“Care about her?” Oscar laughs bitterly. “Is that what you call bending her over after races? Treating her like some ...”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” you snap, anger flaring. “I’m not some conquest, Oscar. I love him.”

Oscar’s eyes widen at your admission, looking almost wounded. Lando takes your hand, squeezing it tightly as he meets Oscar’s hard stare.

“It’s true,” Lando says quietly. “We’re crazy about each other. Have been for ages.”

“This is … messed up,” Oscar runs a hand through his hair, regarding you both warily. “As teammates, we can’t let this impact the team.”

“It won’t,” you insist. “We’ve kept it professional so far.”

Oscar grimaces as his eyes rake over your state of undress and the clear signs of your activities. “Evidently.”

An awkward silence stretches between you before Lando speaks up again.

“I’m sorry we didn’t tell you sooner. We wanted to, but ...”

“But what?” Oscar demands. “You thought I’d be thrilled my baby sister was sneaking around shagging my teammate?”

You open your mouth to retort but Lando cuts you off, stepping closer to Oscar.

“I know how it looks, and the situation’s not ideal. But I swear on everything, I would never hurt her or disrespect your family like that.” His eyes are deadly serious as he holds Oscar’s stare. “You have to know how much she means to me.”

Oscar’s jaw tenses mulishly for a long moment before he exhales a harsh breath. “If you break her heart, I’ll make sure you can never drive a car again, let alone race one,” he growls.

A hesitant smile tugs at Lando’s lips as you feel relief wash over you. “Deal, mate.”

“Now get some bloody clothes on,” Oscar grimaces, waving a hand vaguely in your direction as he turns away. “Jesus, you two are rank.”

You huff out a laugh, pulling Lando in for a quick kiss before grabbing your discarded clothes.

As Oscar fiddles with the champagne bottle, refusing to tear his eyes away from the ceiling, you share a look with Lando, hearts swelling with love and hope for whatever the future may bring.

Lando Nowins is no more.

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deunmiu-dessie · 11 days

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(unedited) simon loves you, he's just not the best at showing or saying it.

"no, simon. you don't-," you swallow thickly and forcefully pull your wrist away from his grip. "- you don't get to leave and come back when it's convenient for you." your lips are set but they wobble, teetering with the storm of emotions brewing within you. "i'm done trying. i can't do, whatever this…this twisted game is between us." [i’m sorry.]

he's been silent your whole talk, he seems so stoic as if the conversation is a hassle- like he could care less; and maybe he could. you can never guess what simon was feeling. he was like an impenetrable wall, unwavering— even for you; it left you feeling alone most days.

your eyes flit over his face, hoping to see something, anything that would make you second guess what you were saying. but as usual, he’s unreadable; and tears well up in your eyes as you continue, your voice trembling with a mixture of something akin to pleading and sadness. "i've given you countless chances, simon. i've allowed you to come and go as you please, hoping that one day you would realize the love i have for you. but i can't keep living in this constant state of uncertainty, never knowing when you'll decide to leave again." [no more, never again will i leave you. i swear it.]

you take a deep shuddering breath, trying to steady yourself, but the pain in your chest hurts fiercely. it steals your breath away, and flushes your cheeks with heat. "i deserve better than this, simon. i deserve someone who will be there for me, someone who won't treat me like an option. i can't keep waiting for you to change, to finally see my worth." [i see you. i love you with every breath that i take. until my lungs give out.]

your words hang heavy in the air, you wait for him to say something, to tell you that he loves you, that he’ll do anything to get you to stay. say something, you think. "i've spent too long trying to make this work, trying to convince myself that your attention is enough. but it's not. it's never been enough." [say something! tell her you love her, that you'd die for her. say something, simon.]

a singular, angry and furstrated tear escapes, tracing a path down your cheek. "i deserve a love that is whole, that is unwavering. i deserve someone who will fight for me, who will choose me every single day. and if you can't be that person, then i have to let you go." [don't say that, please. i love you.]

your brows furrow and your chin sets, your hands coiling into fists. tears flow in rivulets down your cheeks and you lift one fist and hit his chest weakly. “say something, you coward.” you utter, your other fist raises to hit him once again. “i hate that i love you so much, i hate you for being the only thing that i think about. i hate you simon.” [i love you, so much that you're the only thing i think about. i love you _____.]

your punches get heavier but he's unmoving, a tic starting in his jaw. in a sudden burst of frustration, you shove at him, your lips pressed tightly together, and your cheeks burning. yet, he remains motionless, his gaze steady and unwavering. “say something, damn it!” you wail, preparing to hit him again, however, his large hands swiftly seize your raised fist before you can and he pulls you into his chest, cupping the nape of your neck and engulfing you in…him. "i love you."

and you know you shouldn't but you melt in his arms, go completely slack, and cry harder. “then say that.” simon presses a kiss to your temple, and you freeze at the tremble of his lips, his chest rumbling as he speaks again. “i love you so much.” and just like that, he reeled you back in, just like he always does; and it felt like coming home. the familiarity of his touch, the warmth of his embrace, it all felt so right, as if you were finally where you were meant to be.

but you knew that as soon as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, that the cracks in your situationship would begin to show. and part of you can't help but think that maybe, just maybe, you were fated to live this exact bittersweet cycle with simon until the end of time.

my eyes were sweating a little when i was writing this ngl

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shotmrmiller · 1 month

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im thinking of you, who's a doctor that's been taken hostage by some bandits under the pretense of needing you for a house call for their elderly family member. they had paid for your services preemptively as well.

it's my ma, see. she's got a real bad cough and says her chest hurts somethin' fierce.

you clumsily hop on their horse and let them take you to where she supposedly is, except instead of a quaint, little home they take you to some delapilated wooden shack. before you even get to ask any sort of question, there's the barrel of a gun pressed firmly against your spine.

you heal the man inside, and if he dies, so do you.

this is the only time that you fully regret going to school for medicine, instead of marrying that sheltered rich man like how your father had originally wanted for you.

after searching your coat pockets for the money they had given you earlier, they harshly nudge you toward the roughly hewn wooden door that's barely hanging onto the frame by the hinges.

only to come face to face with a broken, bloody man. and what's worse is that you've seen him before on wanted posters. he's an infamous gunslinger, one so dangerous not even the police want him captured alive, simply dealt with. he's got a hefty $1000 bounty on his masked head. his name is said like a curse among lawmen and the general population alike and he's been evading the hand of justice for years, in and out of sight like a phantom. ghost.

he sat tied to a chair, coarse rope so tight around his body you could see it biting into his bruised skin. blood ran in rivulets down his painfully obvious broken nose, his thin split lip swollen and raw. bruises bloomed on his dirt-streaked cheeks, blonde stubble stained crimson. his breath left him in ragged, wet gasps. your purpose here is clear.

their torture has done nothing to break the man in front of you, so they want you to keep him alive until he does.

his sunken, dark eyes follow your every move— as you shrug off your coat, roll up your sleeves, and reach into your medical briefcase for gloves.

your hands tremble with fear and urgency as they reach for the blood-soaked tattered remains of his shirt and pull it up to assess the damage.

"how unfortunate for you and for me that it doesn't seem like you were hit near anything vital." he remains silent and unresistant as you get to work; breath hitching and jaw clenching only when you dabbed a wet, clean rag on his open wounds. you can feel his gaze on your sweat-slick skin, unwavering.

god only knows how long you're to be kept here, captive, just like him.

(his gang comes to save him eventually, and because you were so useful simon tells price that you're a doctor, and a damn good one. "her talents could come to use in the future." price looks at you sparingly, hardened blue eyes resembling ice. he gives him the go-ahead, and now you're taken captive. again. and what's worse, simon simply hog-ties you and stows you in the back of his horse, like a hunter does the pelts of his game.)

#call of duty #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader

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nighttimenothings · 3 months

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thinking about having my way with you in the shower. the water is hot and steam rises around us. water runs rivulets down our bodies, leaving droplets all over your skin. cheeks flushed and lips parted, you look ethereal.

i spin you around, your back against my front, cupping your breasts and thumbing over your pretty, pretty nipples. you gasp, and i laugh—oh, look at them harden. my hands travel over the softness of your waist before resting on your hips.

you lean back, lips searching for a kiss. you needy little thing. i adore you. our mouths meet, and i take the opportunity to slide my hand over your cunt, ghosting my thumb over your clit. and i'm absolutely floored because you're so swollen and puffy already. my fingers slip through a flood of wetness and slide inside. so greedy, darling.

#lesbian #sapphic #wlw #lesbian nsft #queer nsft #sapphic nsft #wlw nsft #nighttimenothings #men and minors dni

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astraystayyh · 2 months

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The snow falls, we fall apart.

summary: when heartbreak looms on your life, and winter becomes a time you loathe, hyunjin helps you rewrite your memories with the season, and with it, everything you once believed about love.

genre: producer student!hyunjin x reader. roommates!au. friends to lovers. acute descriptions of heartbreak and general sadness. slow burn. hurt/comfort. healing and hopeless romantic hyune. very inspired by long for you so lots of pining and yearning. (wc: 13k)

warnings: mentions of alcohol. it is implied that reader was in an a very toxic relationship but no details are shared.

a.n: happy birthday to my hyunjin, my muse, my light. thank you for being so full of love that it made me love love again in return. this is i think my most personal piece, and i hope it reminds those who need it that love should be soft and kind, that it shouldn’t hurt, that it should heal not break. i love you guys and i love you my xi, writing this collab with you has been a true honor <3 also!! please listen to long for you while reading :,)

winter falls masterlist.

You’ve only ever felt utter despair twice in your life.

First, when you were seven years old, playing hide and seek with your cousins at your grandma’s house. It was a warm summer afternoon, the air sweetened by pastries you devoured hours ago. You decided to hide in a wooden cabinet up in the attic, only to end up stuck there. The walls felt like they were closing in on you, the oxygen seeping away from the cracks underneath the door, leaving you deprived of air, of life.

Second, at twelve, when you've come to discover sorrow's new facet, clad in grief's heavy cloak. Your parents adopted a hamster for your birthday, but they did not know he had a terminal disease. You were distraught, to say the least, when you awoke to its still form, death claiming a frail heart unaware of its imminent fate.

And now, third, many many moons later, you are knocking on Hyunjin’s door a few minutes after midnight. It is cold out, tears tracing rivulets on your cheeks, your fingers tinted pink from roaming outside in the harsh winds, your heart much heavier than when you were a child. More grief-stricken, at your own hands, this time.

A disheveled Hyunjin opens the door, his blonde ash hair tousled and sticking upwards, a clear indication of the many times he had run his hands through it in fits of frustration. His gray hoodie zipped up hastily, revealing the silver cross necklace he was wearing, nestling perfectly against his honeyed skin.

You've always had an aversion to seeking comfort, saw it as revealing your deepest vulnerabilities to a world that isn't always kind. It was easier, much simpler to do so when you were a clueless child— when you sank in your cousin Lia's hold as she attempted to steady your breathing, when your mother cradled you in her lap after Pinky died.

It is much harder now, much more embarrassing because Hyunjin has never seen you this sad, never glimpsed your shadows that now swarm his doorstep, unannounced.

“What's wrong?” he quickly asks, eyes darting over your figure in a rapid search for visible wounds. He wouldn’t find any. All your injuries stem from within— blood doesn’t have to be spilled for your heart to weep.

You had rehearsed a lie as you walked up to his doorstep. You would say that your car broke down near his place and ask if you could stay over for the night. He would insist he could drive you to your place and you’d refuse, saying that it was too late and you did not wish to bother him. You’d sleep on the couch and slip away in the early hours of the morning.

Yet, it is the genuine worry etched in his eyes that dismantles the fortress you've hidden in, melts the lie in your throat, morphing it into a steel lump coiling in your throat. He looks concerned when all you’ve had directed towards you recently was anger. And you missed someone looking at you in care, not reproach.

“I didn’t know where else to go.” You admit, your voice shattered, fragments of your vocal cords scattered out in the wind like a broken mosaic, the sound of it scraping against your ears.

Blow one hurt. It felt like your body turned against you as it deprived you of oxygen. The sobs that escaped you once you perceived the light pained you, perhaps more than being confined in the darkness.

Blow two was even worse, it was your first time experiencing grief. It was too hard of a concept for your innocent heart to grasp, too complicated for you to find solace in anything as adults do.

You promised yourself that you’d reserve blow three for monumental agonies— big pains and big sorrows only. That’s how you managed to keep all your tears at bay for most of your life. Would they be worth losing your third sob for? No, you've always found the answer to be.

And in all the twisted scenarios you’ve conjured up in your mind, deaths and illnesses and the haunting tale of failure, you did not imagine that it would happen on Hwang Hyunjin’s doorstep. That you’d burst into sobs at the compassionate look in his gaze, and the sad smile he sent your way. As if he knew, as everyone did around you. That you had handed a knife to a serial killer and it was only a matter of time before he stabbed you in the heart.

Two weeks ago.

“I’m trying to understand you but you aren’t helping me,” Seungmin is frustrated as he paces relentlessly before you from left to right like a swinging pendulum. You sit on the couch, beholding only his shoes, avoiding his gaze that would reflect the truth you dare not confront.

“He’s sucking the life out of you, can’t you see that?”

You can, out of everyone that surrounds you, you can see it the most. You feel as if you are carrying a skin that isn’t your own, weighed down by a relationship that has taken everything from you. But admitting it is admitting that you were wrong, in trusting him, in loving him. You couldn’t bear it.

“We are fine!” you shout back, the defiance in your voice surprises even you. This is a familiar script with Seungmin, a recurring conversation spurred by your puffy eyes and diminishing appetite. He tells you, begs you to leave, but where could you go? How could you leave a home where you've shed all your treasured belongings at the door— your skin, your bones, your very self.

What place would welcome you now that you're stripped bare of your soul?

“When was the last time he made you smile, huh? All he does is hurt you, and you...” he chuckles incredulously, running his hand through his hair. “You are letting him.”

Deny, deny, deny.

“This isn’t true. He loves me,” the words taste foreign in your mouth like rusty metal dragging across your lips. A small voice whispers that love shouldn't feel like this, but you quiet it down.

“Are you hearing yourself? Yn, I…” he kneels before you, his hands resting comfortingly on your knees. This is Seungmin, your best friend of five years. You know he has your best interests at heart, you are even more sure of it when his voice softens, shakes slightly when he utters your name. “Yn, please. I’m trying to help you. Please.”

“I didn’t ask for your help,” you push away his hands, standing up. “I don’t want your help, and I don’t need it.”

You quickly leave Seungmin’s dorm, your heart heavier than when you entered it, foolishly hoping that he'd ignore your distressed state after yet another fight with your boyfriend. But Seungmin doesn't understand, no one around you does— you’ve gambled your heart, and you cannot stop drawing the cards, even in the face of losing strikes.

❁ ❁ ❁

Hyunjin offers you a cup of tea with a gentle smile and you grab the steaming drink from his hands. The smell of chamomile wraps around your senses, and your brain fizzles out for a second before the soothing aroma. But it is a fleeting respite, the tempest of your thoughts crashes back onto you with an unsettling force, causing you to almost drop the drink as your hands shake. You place it down the table without taking a sip.

“I’m sorry for coming unannounced,” you apologize, wincing at the intrusion, “I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

“I always sleep late. Don’t worry about it,” he smiles, but you know it isn’t a genuine grin, because his eyes betray an unsubdued concern, refusing to morph into their usual moon crescents.

You’ve always thought that Hyunjin wears his emotions openly— when he laughed, he did so loudly, his boisterous giggles traveling around Seungmin’s dorm. When he hurt himself, everyone in the vicinity would know so from his loud yelps. And when something worried him, he would bite his lip, toying with the plush flesh to ease his nerves.

As he is doing now. Looking at you.

“We broke up,” you quickly say, and your words hang over you like a gloomy cloud. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Do you want me to fight him? I’ll bring changbin too,” he suggests a serious tone underlying his playful offer, and it manages to tear a reluctant giggle out of you.

“Changbin doesn’t know me well enough to fight for me,” you counteract and he shakes his head. “He’ll fight for me, I'm his princess.”

“Are you now?” The giggle escapes your mouth less forcefully, and the smile that graces Hyunjin’s face is a genuine one.

“I am. My proposal stands,” he extends his hand and you wrap your fingers around his palm. “Thank you, I’ll keep it in mind,” you smile but he frowns, flipping your hand around in his hold.

“You are freezing,” he whispers, using his other palm to rub warmth into yours.

“It’s fine,” you lie, slipping your hand out of his grasp, not feeling deserving of his kindness.

Wordlessly, Hyunjin stands, walking into what you assume is his bedroom. You only know of his place because you dropped off Seungmin here some time ago. You are too exhausted to even drink in the interior.

“Here,” he returns, handing you a navy hoodie of his and black joggers. “This will keep you warm at night.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, hesitating for a few seconds before speaking again. “Can you please not tell Seungmin, I... I can't face him right now.”

“Of course. I’ll be awake still if you do need something.”

Hyunjin’s clothing is warm, although peeling away your own garments felt like shedding layers of your skin, as if the fabric melted into your very flesh, just like memories from the day did. You have never felt this worthless before, discarded like a forgotten leaf on the roadside, one he stepped on for his own enjoyment, leaving you crushed in his wake, unable to fly away again.

Hyunjin’s rose perfume wraps around you, and you find relief in sleeping somewhere where your, his, scent was no longer around. You foolishly hope that if you close your eyes hard enough, you’ll manage to convince yourself that you’re someone else, tonight. Someone who isn’t tethered to the heartache, someone who can slip away from the clutches of a love that hurts more than hate could ever manage to do.

❁ ❁ ❁

Heartbreak isn’t beautiful, no matter how eloquently you try to dress it in the syllables of poetry, no words can soften the burn in your lungs, the searing ache that courses through your very core, reminding you that deep within, down to the fundamentals of your being and the most basic alchemy that ties your atoms together— you are unlovable. Whether you cut your hair or allow it to grow, change your heart, or leave it as it has always been, you will remain so.

You don’t remember much of the past week, blurry fragments here and there that float in your mind like a distorted water reflection. There is little room for memories when you are busy trying to remember how to breathe— one inhale in, one exhale out. The simple concept seems harder when there are unkind hands permanently lodged into your heart, squeezing it tight.

What you do remember is telling Seungmin through text the next day, because you couldn’t bear the way his eyes would soften if you spoke to him in person. No signs of surprise cast on his figure, because he knew that it was long coming, a train with one final inevitable destination— you in shambles, him okay.

You remember Seungmin cradling you in his arms when he came to see you, and you trying desperately to keep the tears at bay— too focused on pinching your arm to let Seungmin’s warmth radiate through your being, Hyunjin lingering uncomfortably by the entrance of his living room.

You remember begging Seungmin to grab your belongings from the apartment you shared with your ex because you were unable to face him, him, and everything that your old place spelled out for you. Stand in the ruins of what you once thought would be your permanent home.

And now, you watch as Seungmin and Hyunjin bring suitcases full of your stuff into the latter’s place. And you feel like an outsider in your own body, standing at the corner of the room gazing at utter destruction, unable to stop it, unable to mend it. Seungmin quickly reassures you that you could crash in his and Minho’s place until you find a new one to live in, already taking out his laptop to search for new apartments for you.

But you did not care for it, your eyes zeroed in on the satin shirt peeking out of your suitcase. The one he bought you on your first month anniversary. Back when love felt like a gentle feather running down your spine, and not a dull knife slicing away at your skin.

“This place's expensive too,” Seungmin sighs, rubbing his temple warily. Your logical best friend could not fix your heartbreak but he took it to heart to alleviate your other troubles. You would thank him for it, later, when your tongue finds enough will to move.

“What if you move in with me?” Hyunjin suddenly says and his words filtrate through the fog in your mind easily, as if he rehearsed them enough times so they’d roll out smoothly out of his mouth. “I mean, Felix is away for the next year since he went back to Australia. And I was looking for a new roommate anyway.” He shrugs and Seungmin turns to look at you, his eyes convey the question his mouth doesn’t articulate— is it okay with you?

“I don’t…” your voice is croaked, so you clear your throat. “I don’t want you to do things out of pity.”

“I’m not. If I was, I would've told you to move in with me for free. I still need you to pay rent,” he raises his eyebrows, a playful tease and you smile in relief, nodding, “Okay, I will. thank you.”

Heartbreak is ugly and all-encompassing, weaving through the roots of your heart and infecting each organ with its insidious touch. It renders you immobile, incapable of performing the simplest tasks, burdened by a weight unseen by the world. But you try your best, your very best to contain it.

You smile at the cashier as she hands back your money only to wonder if her soft, well-manicured hands would too crush a soul without remorse. You go to all your classes without fail but your mind is elsewhere, contemplating why the sun filtering through the windows no longer warms your skin. Can nerve endings perish when subjected to too much pain? What's left of life when you can no longer feel the caress of the sun?

You watch a movie at Seungmin's dorm but your mind is elsewhere, fleeting to this morning and how you refused to stay in the shower for more than three minutes because your thoughts might become haunting ghosts tempting you to follow them. You brush your hair and spray your perfume, only because you have to, because you live with Hyunjin and you wouldn’t want your sadness to taint him too. You wonder how long you’ll have to bear it. You wonder if it’ll ever leave you or if the veins in your heart have molded themselves after the pain and they wouldn’t know how to accept happiness anymore.

You greet Hyunjin as he walks past you, shaking your head when he asks you if you want to eat dinner with him, quickly retracting back into your room. You have ten unread messages and a pile of growing laundry you need to do, but all you can muster is to gaze at the empty walls, mirroring the void within you. Your mom told you to call her again and you don’t know how you’ll speak to her without bursting into a sob, how you’ll tell her that all it took was one person to break you. Or maybe it was two people, your hands and his tearing apart your flesh and bones. Maybe that’s the worst part about it. So you don’t call her.

And you only ever emerge from your room when you need to, just like now because your water bottle is finished and you need to refill it. You go to open the kitchen door when you hear Hyunjin’s muted shatter, Felix’s distinctive deep voice coming out of the phone speaker.

“Next you add the melted butter and stir it,” Felix instructs, the sounds of pots and utensils clinking in the background. You fidget slightly, mustering the strength to paint a fake smile on your lips.

“What next?”

“Sift the dry ingredients then add them to your wet mixture,” Felix explains, met with a few seconds of silence. You can almost visualize Hyunjin's perplexed expression, blinking rapidly in confusion.

“Explain it to me like I’m five years old,” he requests, prompting a small smile to etch itself onto your face.

“How are you surviving without me?”

“I’m not please come home,” Hyunjin sounds horrified as Felix’s rich chuckles fill the air. “Why do you suddenly want to make brownies anyway?” he then asks.

You go to open the door when Hyunjin’s response catches you off guard.

“They’re for Yn.”

Hyunjin's words resonate in the air, causing a hitch in your throat and Felix’s teasing whistles simultaneously, but Hyunjin is quick to stop him. “No, no, no, it’s not like that. They’re just a bit down and I remember them loving your brownies. So…”

It takes you a fleeting moment to dig the memory out of your mind, a year ago, right before your ex came to pick you up from Seungmin’s dorm. You had a bite of Felix’s brownies, a surprised gasp escaping your lips at its delicious taste, back when food had taste and happiness came easily to you. It was an insignificant memory, you did not imagine Hyunjin, out of everyone, would remember it.

But he did, and he’s now pacing before your closed door, contemplating how he’ll convince you to finally eat something with him. He throws a thumbs-up in the air for no one but himself, inhaling deeply before knocking on your door.

“Hey,” he greets with a hopeful smile, his gaze meeting your tired form. He hesitates for a second, clearing his throat. “Brownies?” You remain unmoving and he falters, “Hm? Please?”

“Sure,” you nod and a wave of relief floods through Hyunjin as you step out of your room. His joy is short-lived when he takes the brownies out of the oven, only to find them thoroughly burnt.

His mouth hangs agape, and he walks back shamefully to the oven, lowering its door only to scream inside of it.

“This will be more therapeutic,” you say, pointing nonchalantly to the fridge and he agrees, opening its doors and yelling once again in the much larger space.

Your melodic laughter fills the kitchen, Hyunjin’s embarrassment is suddenly a forgotten memory.

“I’m craving kimbap. Should we get it instead?” you propose, a touch shyly and he quickly agrees, afraid you’d change your mind and walk back to your room where he can no longer ensure you are okay.

Hyunjin absentmindedly dances along to the music blasting through the convenience store when a girl sidles up to his side, a saccharine grin on her lips as she looks up at him, “hi,” she greets and his tentative smile mirrors hers. “Hey.”

“Are you single?” she asks, her gaze briefly fleeting to the window. “I think you are really cute.”

“I’m…” he glances at you but you're suddenly engrossed in the ingredients of the tuna kimbap you are holding, pretending not to listen. “I am but I’m not interested, thank you.”

“Oh, come on,” she places a hand on his arm and he physically recoils. “Give me your insta and we could talk.”

“No,” he repeats, grabbing her hand to remove it when a loud voice startles him. “Baby, what’s taking you so— What are you doing?” Hyunjin watches in horror as the girl’s eyes grow wide, before she scrambles to the man’s side, feigning fear.

“He kept hitting on me when I said I had a boyfriend, baby.”

“What?” both you and Hyunjin gasped in comical unison. He would find it amusing if not for the escalating anger radiating from the man, who looks like he spends all his days in the gym. Hyunjin suddenly regrets not working out with Changbin.

The man strides towards Hyunjin. “Do you want to die?”

“No? there’s a misunderstanding,” he replies, swiftly standing before you and shielding you with his arm. “Your… baby,” he wiggles his finger in front of the man's face, “she was the one hitting on me!”

The man scoffs loudly, his face growing redder from the anger seething in him. “So you hit on my girlfriend and then accuse her of cheating?” His fist rises threateningly, prompting Hyunjin to step back, accidentally bumping into your chest.

“Wait, wait, wait! Let’s go talk outside, man to man,” Hyunjin pauses, his voice taking on a taunting edge, “unless you're too scared?” he smirks as he feels you pull at his shirt, whispering an incredulous- “What are you doing?” He shakes his head, grabbing your hand and leading you outside, throwing a sly wink at the man behind you now.

“Are you seriously going to fight him?” you ask, your gaze shifting towards the deranged couple who are about to step out of the grocery store. “No, of course not. I'm a lover, not a fighter.”

“You said you'd fight my ex,” you point out and his eyes soften surprisingly.

“You are an exception.” He looks back at the man, who's now walking towards you both. “But anyways, do you know how to run?” he asks and you frown, “who doesn’t know how to—” you pause as realization dawns on you. “No," you whisper furiously.

“Yes.”

“No,” you shake your head, horrified and he nods, eyes apologetic.

“Yes.” His fingers entwine with yours, he squeezes your hand once before he takes off running.

“Hwang fucking Hyunjin!” you shout and he looks back at you, a mischievous smile on his face. “I’m sorry Yn my face is too pretty to be beaten up.”

“He’s following us!” you yell, looking back horrified as the, even angrier, man runs after you.

“Well, run faster!”

“I’m wearing fucking slippers!” you curse and he giggles, tipping his head back, the wind slamming into you both, his hand never letting go of your own.

“Oh my god why is he still running!” you groan and Hyunjin picks up speed, moving you even closer to his sprinting figure

“I know, is it ever that serious?” he yells above his shoulder and you dig your nails into his palm.

“Shut up, this wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t so gorgeous.”

“So, you think I’m pretty too?” Hyunjin grins proudly and an incredulous laugh escapes your lips.

“Really? Is this what you’re getting out of this situation?”

“Silver linings, Yn, silver linings,” he shouts as you round a small alley, finally stopping to catch your breath. You both fall to the ground, heavy breaths escaping your chests.

“Holy shit, I’m not athletic at all,” he heaves, his eyes meeting yours. He expects to find anger lingering in your gaze but all he can grasp is your amused smile before you collapse into a fit of laughter, clapping loudly and clutching your stomach with your hand.

“Oh my god, I’m crying,” you laugh harder, wiping away at the tears falling from your eyes. Hyunjin’s weariness disappears in the blink of an eye— he did not realize how much he missed your smile until he glimpsed it again. And it is beautiful. Happiness looks beautiful on you.

“Idiot,” you hit his shoulder playfully, and his response is delayed for a few seconds, the warmth from your smile rendering him immobile.

“I’m sorry,” he chuckles, pulling you up. “Here, I’ll carry you home,” he squats slightly before you. “How impolite of me. How dare I make your majesty run.”

You shake your head, amused, before climbing atop his back, his warm palms holding your thighs securely. “Only because the slippers hurt my feet.”

You walk in silence for a while, your arms wound up around Hyunjin’s neck, the ghost of a smile still lingering on both your faces.

“They said it will snow tomorrow,” Hyunjin speaks suddenly and you stay silent for so long he starts to wonder if you even heard him.

“Mm? That’s nice,” your tone is melancholic, and he pauses at the peculiar sadness in it— as though you were trying to act nonchalant about something that has once meant the world to you.

“Don’t you like the snow?” he asks and your hold on his neck falters.

“I loved it. Loved ice skating and building snowmen.” Your voice is light and airy, like Hyunjin’s favorite mint chocolate ice cream. “But now it reminds me of bad times, bad memories.”

“I understand.”

Hyunjin knows what it feels like to relinquish parts of yourself you never wished to part from. For someone to grab your happiest places and to cast a gloomy filter atop them. Sometimes it is the loss of a season that hurts more than the departure of a person.

And Hyunjin loves winter.

He’ll do everything so that you’ll come to love it again too.

❁ ❁ ❁

Is it a nightmare if the person in it is one you once loved, looked forward to beholding with your gaze, hoping they’d never slip out of your reach? You don’t know, but you are growing tired of having the same dreams every night. Of waking up with an exhaustion that goes beyond your restless sleep but pleads from your soul to rest after almost a year of torment.

You sigh wearily, rubbing a hand through your face before walking to the kitchen to retrieve a glass of water. You find Hyunjin there, eating a cupcake while standing shirtless, scrolling through his phone. You blink at the sight.

“Hey,” you clear your throat and he startles, dropping the cupcake on the ground. He goes to pick it up only to bang his head on the table, a loud yelp escaping his lips. You barely contain your giggles as you walk to his side, rubbing your palm soothingly on his head. “I'm sorry I didn't mean to scare you.”

“At least pretend you are sorry,” he mumbles, pointing to your amused smile and you chuckle, taking his hand and helping him to his feet.

“What are you doing up now?” he asks as he grabs some napkins to clean up the pink frosting smeared across the floor.

You hesitate for a few seconds before whispering, “Just nightmares. And you?” you quickly add, not keen on pushing the subject any further.

“I'm working on a song,” he explains, as his gaze lingers on your sunken eyes, weighed down by dark circles from too many sleepless nights.

“And the cupcake?”

“Some people need caffeine to function. I need flour.”

“I literally see you drink three americanos per day.”

“Okay well maybe I need both,” he admits sheepishly and you grin, drumming your fingers along the countertop.

“Can I sit with you while you work?” you ask quickly, before the words linger enough in your mouth that you no longer wish to spit them out.

The smile that Hyunjin sends you is kind, pushing the shadows of your nightmares just slightly out of reach.

“Of course, yeah you can. Don’t even need to ask.”

Hyunjin walks first into his bedroom, quickly slipping on a hoodie while you take in the interior. It is a quite simple room— a large bed with gray covers, and a desk filled with what you assume to be his producing equipment sits adjacent. But what catches your attention is the dried rose hung delicately on the wall, and the array of paintings surrounding it. You edge closer to it, drawn to the well-crafted paintings— a sun-drenched beach, a couple lost in an embrace so intimate their forms can no longer be separated, and an elderly pair riding a motorcycle, their love radiating vibrantly as if enclosed in eternal youth.

“You paint?” you ask, turning around to find Hyunjin watching you. He steps closer, enveloping you once more in the fragrance of his rose perfume.

“In my free time.”

“You are amazing, Hyunjin,” you compliment sincerely, your gaze fixed on that imagery of the old couple, one that most likely grew together. It tugs at your heartstrings, stirs a painful longing within you, a memory of a time when you too believed you’d find such boundless love.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, before brushing his fingertips gently against your forearm, for a fleeting second. “Are you okay?” he asks, a tenderness you’ve been aching for latched into his question. Your eyes refuse to peel away from the paintings and the love spilling from each paint brush stroke, a love that refuses to rest on your being as if you were harboring an armor that repels it.

“No,” you reply sincerely, turning to face him. “It’s really hard,” you say with a smile, hoping that the mechanical display of happiness would keep your tears at bay, tricking your brain into believing you're not as sad as you feel.

It fails to do so, and the tears well in your eyes like a gathering storm. Frustration twists your features as you shut your eyes, tilting your head upward in a desperate attempt to contain the flood. It pauses as Hyunjin cradles the back of your head, drawing you close to the warmth of his neck. His palm glides soothingly along your spine, before patting your back ever so gently.

Your back stiffens, hands curling into tight fists, breath catching in your throat. You've grown accustomed to pushing away comfort, putting up tall barriers to shield yourself. But tonight, Hyunjin seems to break through your defenses.

Tonight, you soften, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, head nestling deeper against his tender skin.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he whispers and another sob wracks through you, but he only holds you tighter. “It’ll get better soon.”

“I loved him,” you hiccup, your voice breaks, “a lot.”

“I know, that’s why it hurts.” His voice is gentle, and yet his hold on you feels secure as if you could stumble and fall, and he would be there to catch you

“I want it to stop hurting.”

“It will, with time.”

Your next words are tinged with a childlike vulnerability, reminiscent of blow one, then two. But you do not care for it, in that instant, you crave the reassurance, you need someone to plant a seed of hope in your soul because your hands are too frail to dig for it.

“Do you promise me?”

His response doesn’t come hastily, carelessly thrown into the air like idle chatters. He takes his time, considering it with the gravity of an oath.

“I promise you.” He finally says, each syllable infused with sincerity. A brief pause hangs in the air before he adds. “And if it doesn’t then you can hit me.”

“On your pretty face?” you ask, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.

“On my pretty face,” he confirms with a chuckle.

“What an honor,” you roll your eyes playfully as you lean back and he grins, tenderly wiping away your tears with the back of his fingers.

“I can't believe it took three minutes for you to cry in my room. This isn’t good for my reputation.”

“Good thing this will never leave this bedroom, right?” you point a finger at him threateningly, and he pretends to zip his lips, tossing away the imaginary key. “You got it.”

“So what are you working on?” you ask as you settle on the edge of his bed, knees drawn up to your chest.

“It’s a pretty sad song, wanna hear?” he offers, sitting across from you on his chair.

“Yeah, I'd love to,” you smile, and Hyunjin deftly adjusts a few buttons, before his melancholic whistles weave through the air, coupled with the somber melody of a piano. Your breath catches in your throat, the music reaching into the very depths of your soul. It's as if the notes are calling out for a loved one, for a time that has long passed, for a past that will never come back no matter how much we long for it.

The instrumental continues, each piano note and each violin string echo like a bittersweet lament, springing tears to your eyes. But the melody remains beautiful, akin to the beauty always found in the sadness— in the tears that cascade down your cheeks like glistening crystals, in the tremble of your hands akin to branches swaying in the wind, in the rise and fall of your chest with each breath, mirroring the ebb and flow of the waves.

Hyunjin watches you intently as the music envelops you both, his gaze softening with each passing moment. You bring a hand to your chest, almost unconsciously, too engrossed in the melody to even blink. He feels a blush sprout on his cheeks as your teary eyes hold his with the last fading guitar strings.

“You keep on making me cry,” you whisper, your voice choked with emotion, and he grins, tilting his head shyly against his shoulder.

“You like it?” he asks, a tad eager and you nod, not bothering to wipe the lone tears that are falling down your cheeks.

“I think this is what my loneliness sounds like,” you confess softly.

“As do mine.”

A silent beat runs between you both, it isn’t uncomfortable, but safe. Because you understand him, just as he understands you.

“Sometimes I long for things that have passed," he admits, “although I know I can't get them anymore.”

“The most terrible thing you can long for is yourself.”

“Because no one’s to blame for that loss but you?” he muses and you nod, a sad smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah, exactly.”

You bite your lip, casting a glance back at the paintings adorning the wall. “I don't love him anymore,” you begin quietly. “I stopped a long time ago because there was no room for love anymore to grow amid weeds and thorns.”

He remains silent, sensing that this is a weight you need to unburden yourself from.

“But in the midst of it I think I stopped loving myself too,” you whisper, a confession too terrible to be uttered out loud. “That's what I long for. The things I used to love that I'm indifferent to now.”

“Like you’re a stranger before everything once familiar to you.”

“Yeah, you express it prettily,” you remark with a small smile.

“It's my job,” he grins lightly.

“I think when your heart is pure,” he begins after a while, pausing to carefully choose the words that will soothe your burn, help sleep come more easily to you. “You give love to others more readily than you do to yourself. And it takes time, patience, to redirect that love back to your own heart once again. But it's not a mistake to love, you shouldn’t hate yourself for it. Nor should you blame your past self for loving the wrong person because they did not know what you now do.”

“Think of it as a caterpillar in their cocoon,” he continues gently, “when they finally emerge from their chrysalis, they might long for who they were, where they once were because it is the only place they've ever known. But they do not realize that they've transformed into a beautiful butterfly, that they can now fly, and witness much more than their chrysalis. So maybe, your new self will love the same things as before, or maybe you’ll find new, better things to love that you would have not known before. But in either way, your heart is beautiful. That is what matters, no?”

A small pout draws on your lips, your eyebrows scrunched as you gaze at him.

“You have a very tender soul, Hyunjin.”

Your words linger in Hyunjin's mind long after the sunrise, as you lay peacefully asleep on his bed. The melody of the instrumental he produced continues to play faintly in the background, serving as a gentle lullaby that eases you into slumber, entwined in his sheets, your arms wrapped protectively around yourself, one hand cradling your shoulders and the other resting gently on your stomach. The image sears into his eyes as he sketches the outlines of a figure holding itself absentmindedly, long into the night.

Hyunjin has had his fair share of compliments, mostly pertaining to his face, and others to his craft. but it is you who seems to have sensed that a part of his soul resided in his art, that he left pieces of his heart hidden in the notes he composes and the lyrics he writes, hoping they’ll find soft hands that will take care of them, just like your own.

Five days later.

hyunjin [11:34 p.m.]: are you home?

yn [11:34 p.m.]: yeahh, do you need anything?

hyunjin [11:35 p.m.]: come downstairs, im waiting for youu

if you say no i’ll freeze to death..

hurry i can’t feel my fingers anymore (please please) ㅠㅠㅠ

“This better be a life and death situation Hwang Hyunjin,” you say threateningly as soon as you appear before Hyunjin, causing him to straighten up from the wall he was leaning against.

“It is a very dangerous life-altering situation that requires your immediate assistance, indeed,” he responds solemnly, ushering you gently to his car and opening the door for you.

“Which is?” you ask as soon as he settles inside the car and he simply grins at you, his left dimple coming forth like the very sun on a gloomy day.

“You’ll see.”

Hyunjin’s eyes fleet to your figure every now and then, but you do not seem to notice, your gaze lost into the blurring lights ahead. He can tell you're still not entirely yourself, so he was prepared to forcibly drag you along with him. He’s almost surprised you accepted to come down so easily.

“Is that… Seungmin?” you speak suddenly, pointing to a man waving in the distance, as Hyunjin parks his car near an empty field.

“And Changbin? And Minho?” you continue, squinting your eyes, “and a bonfire?” you giggle with a hint of excitement.

“You love s’mores during the winter, right?”

Hyunjin smiles, your soul softens.

“I do,” you say quietly, “I really do.”

You quickly exit the car, running into Seungmin's arms with a grin of disbelief plastered on your face. “This is insane,” you almost shout, squeezing him tight in a hug.

“It was so hard to find the perfect middle of nowhere for this,” Minho grumbles as you move to greet him, but the warmth of his embrace assures you he's only teasing.

“Thank you,” you say with a smile as you hug Changbin, who affectionately ruffles your hair. “It was Hyunjin’s idea,” he reveals, and you glance back at Hyunjin, who stands with his hands buried deep within his sweatpants behind you. You mouth a silent “thank you” to him, but he shakes his head modestly as if it is nothing to bring happiness to a bruised heart.

The night unfolds in endless laughter, with Minho and Hyunjin taking turns roasting marshmallows over the crackling bonfire, and Seungmin serving you hot coffee to keep your hands warm. Your stomach aches from the uncontrollable fits of giggles that overtook your being as Minho recounts the time he danced so vigorously on stage for his dance club that he ripped his pants, feeling a breeze where there shouldn't be one; and Changbin tells you the story of the time his voice cracked in the middle of a rap battle, and how none of the boys stopped teasing him about it for months to come.

And as the four of them take turns making you laugh, a quiet, tender realization dawns on you—you are loved. It is something he tried to convince you was impossible, that no one around truly cared for you but him. And even then, you weren’t deserving of his love whole, only scrapes of it, as if you were a beggar tugging at the outskirts of his heart.

But Hyunjin reminded you otherwise. And if your friends found something worthy of love within you then perhaps so will you again, one day.

“Did you have fun?” Hyunjin asks as he opens the door to his, your, apartment hours later. What he doesn't expect is for you to respond by wrapping your arms around his slender torso, squeezing tight in gratitude.

“Thank you,” you whisper and he nods, though you cannot see him, returning the embrace by wrapping his arms around your shoulder blades.

Hyunjin doesn't let go first, sensing that perhaps you need this hug more than he does. He smiles as your eyes meet his again, but his grin falters when he notices your gaze flickering towards your bedroom, a hint of unease clouding your expression. It's as if behind that door lie monsters only you can grasp, wearing the faces of people you once knew, once loved.

“Wanna stay with me while I work on the song?”

“Last time I ended up sleeping on your bed,” you say a bit shamefully, recalling the morning you woke up to find yourself covered with a thick blanket that wasn’t there before, alone in Hyunjin's room.

“It's okay,” he shrugs, “I missed sleeping on the couch.”

You stare pointedly at him and he chuckles, “Fine, I did not miss it. But you needed the sleep, so it’s okay with me.”

“Fine,” you concede, though you did not need much convincing for it. “But only if you promise you’ll wake me up if I end up falling asleep again.”

Hyunjin tilts his head, thinking to himself for a few seconds before shaking his head stubbornly, a small pout drawn on his face, his eyes semi-closed. “No.”

“Hyunjin!”

“Nu-uh,” he insists, shaking his head once more as he walks back towards his room. “I'm waiting for you!”

“I'm not coming!”

But you do eventually join him, after changing your clothes and washing your face. You find Hyunjin clad in beige and white checkered pajamas, his glasses pushing back his silky hair as he hunches over his journal, scribbling away before erasing what he wrote.

“Struggling with lyrics?” you ask, leaning against the wall and he startles. “Do you float on the ground? Why can I never hear you come in?”

“Or maybe you just love being dramatic,” you sing-song, laying atop his bed, much more at ease than the previous night.

Hyunjin sticks his tongue out childishly in response, and you playfully mimic the gesture before both of you dissolve into happy giggles.

“Kind of,” he explains once you both settle down, “I have this specific feeling in mind that I need to convey.”

“You'll do well,” you reassure softly, “your lyrics are always so beautiful. Remember Cover me?” you smile and he scratches the back of his ear, a shy grin spreading across his face.

“You still listen to it?” he asks and you nod eagerly, attempting to belt into Seungmin’s ending high note. You fail horribly and Hyunjin throws a crumpled piece of paper on your face to get you to stop singing.

“My poor ears,” he laughs loudly, and you retaliate by throwing back a pillow on his head.

“You just don’t get my artistic abilities.”

“I’d get them more if you stayed silent.”

You gasp, faking offense as you stand up to tickle Hyunjin on his chair, he starts squirming immediately, his loud giggles spilling all over the room, coating it in vibrant hues of happiness, and you’re suddenly captivated by the sight of him— his head thrown back, a golden lock framing his laughter-filled eyes, his top lowering slightly to reveal glimpses of his collarbones and the delicate veins that trace enticing paths on his neck.

You pause, your hand hovering over the side of his stomach, as a long-forgotten warmth spreads through your heart, like the first rays of dawn greeting the earth after a long winter night. It doesn’t diffuse quickly through your being, but rather drapes like sticky honey on your veins, making you well aware of your growing blush, of how beautiful Hyunjin is in his joy.

“Never singing to you again,” you clear your throat, laying atop his bed once again, and quickly reaching for your phone, anything to avoid his eyes which rival the crescent moon outside his window.

Hours pass before a warm hand gently settles on your shoulder, rousing you from your slumber. Blinking away the fog of sleep, you find Hyunjin leaning over you, his grin wide and infectious. “Wake up,” he whispers, but you only groan, burying your face deeper into his pillow.

He doesn’t yield, taking hold of your wrist and guiding your drowsy figure upright, before wrapping the blanket snugly around your shoulders. Without a word, he leads you out onto his balcony, carefully putting his neon green beanie on your head to shield you from the cold.

“It’s snowing!” he smiles, and his excited tone manages to dissipate the fog in your mind. You blink repeatedly and soon enough, you too behold the fallen snowflakes, each one resembling a tiny speck of light bidding farewell to the sky to greet the earth.

“You missed the first snow so I didn’t want you to miss this one too,” he explains, and his thoughtfulness blankets you with a warmth that seeps into every crevice in your body, drips down your fingertips and makes the cold of 4 a.m. seem less harsh, less biting to the touch.

You don’t know how to say thank you, because those two words don’t encapsulate the depths of gratitude that you feel for Hyunjin. Because he is speaking to the person within you who still loves snow, the part buried underneath layers of dust from a ground heartbreak. But you still manage to hear him, and you squeeze his hand tightly, and he doesn’t let go until you finally do.

❁ ❁ ❁

Remembering has become easier for you these past two months— both the good and the bad. And each day, the scale tips towards one side or the other. Sometimes you recall the suffocation you felt with him, the feeling that no matter what you did you could never please him, that your hands were crafted to break rather than mend. And on those days your wound grows, it throbs and bleeds different emotions.

Sometimes it's anger— at him for treating your heart so carelessly as if you were a being devoid of feeling. And then at you— for staying, for giving him excuses and desperately searching for goodness within him, for the one redeeming quality that would convince you he was worth the pain.

And other days bring an excruciating sadness along, a weight that presses down upon you until you're paralyzed. Because you feel bad for yourself and for everything you went through. Because you’re unsure how to rise when unseen hands push you deeper into the abyss.

And on these days, Seungmin becomes your anchor. He buys your favorite food, skips classes with you, and takes you to your favorite gardens. He talks and he talks and you try your best to laugh because you do not wish to worry him more. It is enough to be your own burden, you do not wish to burden him too.

But when he drops you home, your facade slips away, the smile fading from your face as if it were never truly yours to wear. You are too tired to pretend so you don’t, and Hyunjin doesn’t let you, either. He brews you tea and orders takeout because he knows you lack the energy for cooking. He goes with you on walks and drapes you in pieces of his clothing— scarves and beanies and gloves because he knows you couldn’t care less about a cold when there is a frost coating your bones. He lets you sit in his room while he works on his songs, and while he paints. Sometimes you talk and often you don't need to. But he’s there. He's there with you.

But you also remember the good. You remember your movie night with the boys, Hyunjin building an entire fort for you, adorned with twinkling lights and the softest blankets. How you watched movies until 5 a.m. your bodies so closely huddled together that there was no room left for sadness.

You recall Hyunjin begging you to build a snowman with him at the crack of dawn, the two of you collapsing in fits of laughter as you threw snowballs at one another, your footsteps marking the fresh fallen snow.

You remember being so exhausted after one of your showers that you simply laid atop the couch, gaze fixed on the void, too drained to even untangle the knots in your hair. Yet, it is not the tiredness that you exactly recall, nor the salty tears you shed underneath the scorching water jet. But it is Hyunjin's tender hands as he brushed through your hair, his fingers tracing the nape of your neck, his knuckles ghosting over the slate of your shoulder. You remember whispering that it was a particularly hard day and Hyunjin understanding. You remember him watching many YouTube tutorials to prepare your favorite seaweed soup, only for it to end up being too salty. But you still ate it all, because he made it for you, to lift your wounded spirits. And that alone was enough for it to taste good.

You remember your heart hardening then softening again, breaking then stitching itself back together, closing off then blooming like flowers on the first day of spring. You remember smiling only to cry then smile again. And you remember liking snow, a bit more than you thought you would. Because Hyunjin was there, holding your trembling hand, steadying it enough for you to rewrite your memories with winter.

So, you want to say thank you.

You do not wish to spell it out, because there are too many things to thank Hyunjin for and too few words to do so. Instead, you drag him to the farmer’s market near your home, and you tell him to help you pick flowers.

“I could be in bed watching my favorite show and yet here I am bestowing you with my enchanting presence,” he sighs, not too modestly, as you both eye the array of colorful blooms.

“Okay, Shakespeare, are you done?” you roll your eyes, attempting your best to hide your grin.

“Done annoying you? Never. These are very pretty,” he adds, pointing to the white roses in full bloom, their delicate petals emitting a sweet fragrance into the air.

“I agree, what else should we add?” you ponder, picking out four roses.

“Mm, Hibiscus? The red in the center is so vibrant,” he suggests, taking out his phone to capture the flower.

“Cute. Baby breath’s would look good too,” you say as you gather the flowers, heading to the cashier with Hyunjin trailing behind, still admiring the delicate blooms.

“Can I write a note?” you ask the middle-aged man as he wraps the bouquet in a powder blue paper.

“Sure,” he replies with a smile, and you return the gesture, quickly jotting down your words.

“Are you done?” Hyunjin grins when you return to his side and you nod, exiting the flower shop.

“What do you think?” you ask, angling the bouquet towards him.

“It's beautiful.”

“It’s yours,” you smile, growing shier at the intensity of his gaze as it lands on you, then the flowers, then on you again. “Take it,” you hand it to him, your cheeks flushing like the hibiscus’s crimson core.

“Actually?” he says softly, his fingers trembling slightly as he accepts the flowers and you nod in response. You bite your lip as you watch him take out the note, his eyes softening once he reads the words inscribed in it— thank you for making my winter less cold.

“Should we go?” you say a tad too cheerfully, turning away, but Hyunjin grabs your wrist, spinning you around once more. His fingers trail up your arm, coming to rest gently on your cheek as he leans down to plant a tender kiss there.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his lips lingering against your skin for a moment longer than necessary. You think that if his soft lips grace your skin a few times more, your nerve endings might forget the harshness they were subjected to. If his gentle hands remain on your cheeks, then maybe, your heart would heal quicker, better. Maybe your past self that you long for would emerge again, maybe Hyunjin would be able to unearth it.

Your hopeful thoughts disappear as quickly as they arrive, overshadowed by a sense of helplessness that crashes over you, all of the sudden. You sense him before you hear him, the familiar anxiety that is only synonymous with your ex’s presence.

“Yn?” the sound of your name feels harsher in his mouth, the syllables spat out rather than spoken tenderly, as they are when Hyunjin pronounces it. Your veins run cold as his voice pierces the air, your heart skipping three beats at once before plummeting to your knees. You wrap your hand around Hyunjin’s forearm instinctively, and he looks down at you, his expression morphing into one of concern.

You’re unsure of what he sees in you— whether it is your pale face, the quiver of your lower lip, or the fear that has coated all your features— but his eyes harden, his brows furrowing as he gazes at the man behind you.

You refuse to turn around, bracing yourself for his next words. “Yn,” he repeats his tone laced with anger, his fingertips grazing your arm as if intending to force you to face him. But before he can touch you, Hyunjin intervenes, swiftly stepping in between you and your ex, shielding you with his own body protectively.

“Leave,” Hyunjin's voice is cold, dripping with a venomous edge you've never heard from him before, his jaw clenching with barely contained fury.

“Is this your new shiny toy, Yn?” your ex taunts and his voice cuts through your being against your will, triggering a flood of memories you've tried so desperately to suppress. Memories of his cruelty, his manipulation, and the pain he inflicted upon you—using your love as a weapon to bolster his own ego.

“What's in it for you?” you find your voice again, though it trembles when you speak. He is the very embodiment of your pain and everything you loathe about yourself. You wish for the ground to swallow you whole, for a bolt of lightning to strike the earth, anything to spare you from facing him.

“It's only been three months, I didn't know you were a whore.”

Hyunjin's fist connects with his cheek before you can register his words. It all unfolds so rapidly that you barely have time to comprehend it. Your ex staggers back, blood trickling from the cut on his lip, while Hyunjin stands before you, his chest heaving with restrained anger, his right hand clenched into a fist, the bouquet still held tightly in the other.

“Fine, I deserved it,” your ex chuckles, his voice laced with mockery as he wipes the blood from his lip. His gaze meets yours briefly behind Hyunjin's back.

“You might not be a whore but you are unlovable, keep that in mind.” He spits out before walking away, crude words that tear at every scab covering your wounds, reopening them with a brutal force. Hyunjin moves to follow him, but you grab his shirt, pulling him back.

“He’s not worth it,” you murmur.

Your words seem to snap Hyunjin out of his haze as he turns to look at you, worry cast across his figure. He moves to cradle your cheeks but you step back, refusing to meet his eyes. He swallows thickly, clutching the bouquet in his hands. “Are you okay?”

You let out a heavy sigh, your shoulders slumping as you shake your head slightly. “Let's just go home,” you whisper, eyes fleeting to his for a split second. All the lights in your gaze are muted.

You’re crumbling before him once again and he cannot stop it, no matter how much he yearns to.

It's long past midnight when you find yourself seated on the floor of your living room, a bottle of red wine placed between you and Hyunjin. You exchange it wordlessly, taking turns sipping from it, the alcohol warming your insides but doing little to ease the ache in your heart. You don’t exactly recall when Hyunjin sat next to you, but you don’t mind. You were too lost in your own thoughts to even register his presence.

“Yn,” he calls out softly and you hum absentmindedly, memories of when your ex spoke your name haunting you, each time he yelled your name, uttered it in disdain as if it was the starting point of everything wrong with you.

“Talk to me, please?” he pleads, angling his body towards your own. But you refuse to meet his eyes and Hyunjin’s heart twists in his chest. He is afraid of all the ugly thoughts that must roam your mind. He wishes he could enter it, open the windows wide, and usher the light in.

“I'm sorry you were dragged into this,” you say, your gaze fixated on the bouquet placed atop the table. The crimson painted on the hibiscus’ petals reminds you of the blood that spilled from your ex’s mouth, and your gaze fleets to Hyunjin's hand, slightly bruised from the punch.

“Don’t apologize,” he whispers, “there is nothing to be sorry for.”

It’s as though you don’t hear him, your fingers trailing gently across his scraped knuckles, tears pooling in your eyes the more you stare at his hand.

“Does it hurt?” you ask, voice thick with emotion, and Hyunjin’s quick to shake his head. “No, don’t worry about it. He deserved it.”

“You didn’t deserve to be hurt.”

“Neither did you.”

Your disbelieving scoff that follows scares him. What if you’re slipping away into a dark place yet again, one void and barricaded, in which the only sound that echoes is your ex’s hurtful words? What if he can’t reach you again?

“If the only person I’ve ever loved says I’m unlovable then maybe I am.”

You’re drunk, you wouldn’t have said such an ugly thing otherwise, wouldn’t have allowed this sentiment to materialize into the air, to take a tangible form apart from your abstract thoughts.

“No,” Hyunjin says in a panic as though he’s trying to quickly pull the brakes on your free-railing thoughts. He cups your face between his palms, your tears falling freely atop his hands but he does not move away.

“No,” he repeats, more calmly this time. “How he treated you is a reflection of who he is. And how you see him is a reflection of who you are. And you wanted him to be loving because you’re full of love. You wanted him to be good because you are a good person. And he can’t stomach that, can’t stomach that you are happy without him so he’s trying to ruin you again.”

“Hyunjin…” you shake your head but he only inches closer to you, his thumbs gently caressing your cheekbones. “No, listen to me. Seungmin loves you so much he couldn’t eat properly for the first few days you stayed here, texted me all the time asking me how you were and if you were feeling better. He isn't good with words so instead he tries to make you laugh. He wishes he could give up parts of his happiness for you.”

A sob swells within you but Hyunjin presses on. “And Minho, he tried to memorize all your favorite recipes so he could cook them for you. It isn’t a coincidence that every time we go over to their dorm it is your favorite food that we eat. He takes more pictures of his cats these days so he could send them to you because he knows it cheers you up.”

“You told me Changbin doesn’t know you well enough to fight for you but when we saw your ex across the campus one day he wanted to get up and beat him. He always asks me if you are well and if there is something he can do for you, anything.”

He inhales deeply, tears welling up in his eyes as well. “And me…” a tender smile graces his lips as he gazes at you, “you make this house a home. I feel like my true self when you are around and loneliness doesn’t come to me as often as it did. Because you are here. You are like a beam of sunlight that lightens up every life you touch, mine first,” he’s baring his soul to you, vulnerable yet resolute. “So tell me, Yn, what’s not to love in you when you yourself are so full of love?”

“Hyune,” you speak the nickname for the first time, and Hyunjin’s heart thrashes achingly around his ribcage. “If you keep talking like this I might end up loving you,” you smile sadly at him as if it is a terrible thing to be loved by you.

“But I don’t want to love you, because I won’t know how to, not anymore. So I'll end up leaving. And I'll long for you, and I don't think I can stomach longing for you from afar.”

“So please,” you place one hand atop his own, wipe away the lone tear rolling down his cheek. “Don’t make me love you, hm? You deserve more than to be loved by someone like me.”

You leave Hyunjin in the living room, alone before the white flowers you gifted him. He doesn’t want to put them away in a vase, for as soon as he grabbed them from your hold, everything around you both crumbled. So he leaves them there for the night, the creamy white petals aglow underneath the moonlight. He spends the night painting the bouquet from memory, but the petals end up too tinged with red, perhaps mirroring the blood his heart refuses to stop spilling still.

He did not realize it before, maybe he blinded himself so he wouldn’t see what was before him all along. But it is all the clearer to him now— that in his attempts to make you love winter again, Hyunjin only ended up loving you.

A week later.

hyune [1:25 a.m.]: i miss you

You and Hyunjin spent the last seven days avoiding one another, well you more than him. He just understood your silent plea when you took a step back the one time he tried to talk to you in the kitchen, swallowing thickly before inching away, allowing you to move past him.

You did not know how to face him after what he said, partly because you were embarrassed by your own response, mostly because even in your drunken daze, his words etched themselves permanently into your memory.

It is his reassuring words that echoed in your brain for the past week, not those of your ex.

hyune [1: 26 a.m.]: and i miss sleeping on the couch

You giggle, shaking your head before replying.

yn [1:26 a.m.]: no you don’t

hyune [1:26 a.m.]: no i don’t ㅠㅠ

but i finished the song

wanna hear?

Walking to Hyunjin’s room feels as familiar as going into your own. And when your gaze finally meets his you can’t help but break into a relieved smile. It was foolish of you to punish yourself, enough people have done that for you already.

“Hey,” he greets tentatively, and you respond with an awkward wave, a moment pregnant with anticipation passes before both of you dissolve into laughter.

“What is this? Are we in middle school,” he teases and you giggle, settling comfortably on his bed once more.

“I know. We are so lame.”

“You are,” he corrects with a grin and you gasp, pretending to leave but he quickly catches your hand, stopping you. “No, please stay. I meant it when I said that I missed you,” he repeats quietly, as if afraid that his confession would make you run away once again.

Your heart aches, the knots in your stomach tightening and unraveling all at once. “I missed you too,” you admit softly, and he smiles, his thumb tracing a gentle path above your pulse before releasing your hand.

“So it's done then?” you ask and he nods, running a hand through his hair with a hint of anxiety. “How do you feel about it?”

“Good. I hope you’ll like it, mostly.”

“I'm sure I will,” you reassure him with a soft smile, and he nods once more, pressing a few buttons before his melodious whistles fill the air once again.

Nothing could have braced you for the sound of Hyunjin's voice that followed, its timbre soft as silk yet imbued with profound sorrow. It's as though he recorded the song on one of his loneliest nights, his honeyed vocals dipped in an excruciating nostalgia that seeps into every corner of the room, every corner of your heart.

In the faded photo, I come across a smile spread across a youthful face, overlapped with the seasons.

Your gaze flickers to Hyunjin as a shadow of recollection dawns on you. You remember telling him that you couldn’t stomach looking at pics of your past, ones in which you smiled so freely because you were blissfully unaware of what was to come.

The night’s so cold that it’s almost unreal.

Because you weren’t aware of the winter that will follow and the biting cold that it would bear, for everything that will go astray in your relationship, for your ex's facade to crack like a glacier succumbing to the pressure of lies and pretense.

I wake up in another silence, and I close my eyes.

You remember Hyunjin confessing that silence haunted him more than words ever could, and you had agreed, sharing how sometimes you shut your eyes, pretending that the reality you woke up to wasn't the one you were living.

The white flower we planted together has bloomed. I do not dare pick it. Now it withers away.

You gaze at the white flowers you brought him, now wilted in the vase placed on his desk, yet Hyunjin refuses to throw them still. You see the card you wrote for him hung on the wall, right next to the dried red rose. He kept it. Though it withered, he kept it all.

So I long for you. And I long for you. And I'll long for you.

You remember the longing you both spoke of, how he understood a feeling you felt so incredibly alone in. How he tried to reassure you when he too was caught in the webs of the past. How you longed for him in the past week. How you wished he longed for you just the same.

So I can keep loving you. So I could be loving you. And morе.

The violin swells and so does the emotion in your chest. You remember him asking you ‘What’s not to love in you’ and how you've spun those words in your thoughts ever since. You remember thinking that if he gave you a few more weeks, just a bit more time, you might have found it in you to believe them.

You see Hyunjin’s glimmering eyes holding yours, you see his heart atop a platter handed to you, and you see the resignation in his being. Don’t make me love you, you told him. You didn’t dare to tell him not to love you in return, deemed it too foolish of thought to entertain.

For he was Hwang Hyunjin, the quiet producer who paints in his free time and who wears his heart on his sleeve. Who remains hopeful, loving, and tender, despite the thorns pricking at his side. Who is beautiful, so much so that he allowed you to see beauty in the universe once again, through his eyes.

How could he love you?

How could you not love him?

“The song,” you whisper, the words barely escaping your lips as you stand, trembling, on your feet. Hyunjin rises too, meeting you in the center of his room.

“It is about you. For you,” he says simply as if his words don’t cause your world to burst at the seams only to mend itself once again, too eager to fix itself and exist in the same timeline as Hyunjin.

“I don't… I don’t know what to say,” you say earnestly, feeling your heart pound in your chest, its beats resounding loudly in your ears.

It is wrong of you to assume he wishes you to say something. He is Hyunjin, the one who finds words in your silences too, after all.

“I don’t need you to say anything,” he shakes his head, taking another step closer to you. “I don't want an answer, I don't wish to pressure you. I just wanted to tell you that my love is here, it is yours to take or to leave, to cherish or to discard. But it is yours, because this is who I am. I am someone who loves you.”

“So do not tell me to forget you because I don't know how to. And don’t tell me that you’ll leave because I will love you still, because you’d still be you, near or far, you are you. And you are someone I long for.” He pauses, his voice softening. “And I long for you, Yn, more than anything I've ever longed for. And I've spent all my life longing.”

His lips meet your forehead tenderly, and you feel your entire being grow limp at the chaste kiss, as if your limbs wish to liquefy and form a puddle on the floor. His touch is soft, and you miss it the moment he parts from you.

“There must be something in this room that keeps on making you cry,” he smiles and you bring your hands to your damp cheeks, surprised to find there tears you didn’t realize had fallen.

“It’s you,” you pinch his arm playfully and he squirms away from your hold, stabbing his toe on the desk in the process. A loud fuck echoes around the room, and your laughter dissipates the tension clinging into the air.

“Can you play it again?” you request softly and Hyunjin’s theatrics fade as a shy smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

“Is it good?”

“It's everything to me.”

“It's called ‘long for you’, by the way.”

“Long for you,” you repeat quietly. There has never been a prettier combination of words.

The title all but makes sense as you lay on the bed, your gaze fixed on the paintings hung on the wall, Hyunjin sketching quietly on his desk, the song resonating softly in the background. You've longed for many things in your life—the person you once were and the tender love you once craved—but amidst it all, nothing has weighed heavier on your heart than the longing for the man sitting just two meters away, almost in your loving grasp. Almost.

❁ ❁ ❁

It is an excruciating five days that Hyunjin spends apart from you, the both of you too caught up in your assignments to find a moment to properly speak. But you do not shy away from him when he greets you, and your grin is kind as it drapes across his being, and Hyunjin swears he has never seen a prettier sight than you smiling.

On the sixth night, Hyunjin completes the cover for the song— a figure wrapped around itself protectively, mirroring the way you hug yourself in your sleep. He hangs it on the wall, right next to your thank you card and the white bouquet he drew once again, wishing to properly immortalize its beautiful flowers, to purify that memory from the tumult that followed it.

On the sixth night, the house is quiet, the full moon high up in the sky, snowflakes falling softly to the ground. Hyunjin wonders if you too mimicked the snow’s descent— both of you falling apart with it.

But then, there’s a knock on his door.

His heart catches in his throat, his body freezing as if it forgot how to move. You are here.

“Come in,” he manages to say, his voice barely above a whisper. You push the door open, and Hyunjin's words wilt on his tongue as he sees what you're carrying—another bouquet, filled with white flowers, yet again.

“Hey,” you smile, standing by the door.

He remains silent, unsure of what to say, or how to speak. He longs for you when you are away, even more so when you’re before him.

“We shouldn't let these white flowers wither away too, right?” you smile slightly, placing the bouquet on the desk before walking to Hyunjin’s bedside. His voice falters, vocal cords refusing to move and overshadow your voice.

You sit beside him, gently pulling his hand so that you’d both lie on the pillows. Your hand doesn’t leave his own, instead, it moves to rest on his cheek, reminiscent of the many times he had cradled your face before. Inch by inch, you close the gap between you, nuzzle the tip of your nose against his own. “Hi, Hyune”, you say softly, and he swallows thickly, his voice coming out just as quietly.

“Hi, my Yn.”

“If we take care of the white flowers together do you think they’ll survive a bit longer?” you ask, your gaze never wavering from his, countless stars twinkling in the depths of your irises.

“I believe so,” he says tentatively, too aware of the warmth of your palm against his skin, of the sweet ache unfurling within his being.

“Mm, and even if they wilt we can always buy new ones. We can learn how to care for them better, with time,” you say, and he nods in agreement, laying his hand atop your own, tilting his head to bestow a chaste kiss on your palm.

“With time,” he echoes softly and you smile, vulnerable yet secure in his gray sheets, in his hold.

“Will you give me time too?” you ask, and Hyunjin reads in your eyes what you mean, understands in the shake of your voice the question you are too afraid to voice. Will he give you time to heal in order to love?

“As long as you need. I’m not going anywhere,” he reassures, pressing his forehead gently atop yours, and you both close your eyes, as a running warmth encloses you both, blooms a blush on both your cheeks.

His arms wrap around your back, drawing you close until your chests are pressed together, your head resting naturally in the curve of his neck. And it is long forgotten in your mind, all the nights you slept in this very bed alone. You feel safe, safe enough to long for love knowing that it patiently awaits you behind the door, once you find enough courage to turn the doorknob. You feel serene, as Hyunjin’s warm palms glide soothingly up and down your spine, as every muscle, every nerve, every atom in your being relaxes in his hold.

You are healing, slowly, with each fleeting second that passes in which Hyunjin’s heartbeat resounds within your chest, as its melody runs through your veins, melds with your own as if it was destined to be there all along. As you rest in Hyunjin, as you find a safe home within his soul to discard your worries at the doorstep and breathe.

“It did get better,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his shoulder blade. “Hm?” He leans back to look at you, and he’s so beautiful, so tender as he gazes at you, you can’t help but trace the contours of his face with your fingers, hoping to commemorate him with your eyes, with your touch.

“You promised me it’ll get better, and it did,” you smile, as your legs further intertwine with his, and his rose perfume becomes an indelible mark on your skin. “Too bad I can't hit your pretty face now,” you joke and he giggles, tipping his head back.

He's so beautiful, body and soul, and he longs for you, you alone.

“But I can still do this,” you murmur before finally pressing your lips against his like a boat finally reaching the shore after months of sailing. You both exhale, in yearning, in relief, as your mouths move together in a slow, languid dance, his hand finding the pulse on your neck, yours settling atop his jaw.

He would kiss you again, this intimately, in the coming months, when your heart expands enough to contain the love Hyunjin deserves. He would kiss you again, when your past comes to haunt you, and healing sounds like an elusive myth you’d never encounter in your life.

And he would kiss you again, over the kitchen table and under the fridge’s light, in between paintings and in supermarket aisles, while picking flowers and watching the first snow.

He would kiss you, this tenderly, in the next winter, and the ones after it, as if his longing for you never wanes. Till blow three disappears from your memory, till all you remember is the love, the true one, the kind one, the soft one Hyunjin alone could have brought you.

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saintobio · 4 months

Text

sincerely yours. (9)

↳ gojou satoru/reader

when a twist of fate led their marriage to the path of a quintessential tragic romance, two past lovers go through another series of experiences on love, heartbreak, identity, illness, and trauma along the road to a happily ever after.

genre. heavy angst, amnesia, modern au, 18+

tags/warnings. profanity, usage of alcohol, mentions of cheating, implied suicide attempt, toxic relationship, explicit smut

series masterlist -> episode ten

Satoru had a major problem.

And it was his self-control. His lack of self-control was the reason he had engaged himself in an adulterous relationship back when he was married. His lack of self-control was the reason why you had become the recipient of his unreasonable anger in the early stages of your marriage. His lack of self-control was the reason why, out of all the women in the world, he was now sleeping with a friend of yours. For God’s sake, his lack of self-control was probably the reason why you were also pushed to your limits, choosing to cut your marital ties with him and leaving only the scraps of his role as a parent to Sachiro.

Back when he was attending his weekly therapy sessions, his therapist told him that part of what he needed to learn was to control his impulses, resist temptations, and actively exercise his willpower. They were easier to achieve then than now, since he was the loneliest man at the time with no friends, no wife, no son, and no bustling company to run. His decisions remained untainted, his temptations unchallenged, his emotions uninfluenced—a solitary journey at its finest. He was all by himself. How come? It was because he was sent by his mom to Osaka to temporarily seclude him from his harrowing memories in Tokyo, compelling him to sever ties with the outside world and immerse solely in personal convalescence. Reflecting now, it felt no different than being sent to a psychiatric hospital.

He could say it worked at the time. He learned how to keep his emotions at bay. He learned how to control his thoughts, throwing away the bad and keeping only the good. He was a new man by the time he returned to Tokyo, prepared as ever to take on his role as the Chairman of the Gojou Group, ready to once again try and live a normal life. But the moment news had spread about his ex-wife's marriage to his business rival, all the self-control he had painstakingly cultivated seemed to have evaporated in an instant.

Everything also went downhill after that.

He wasn’t going to list down all of the things that happened nor the impact it had on him since you yourself were a witness to them. But if he was going to look at the way your return has changed the trajectory of his life 3 years after you first left, he would still at a hundred percent put all the blame on his shoulders. None of this domino effect would end up like this if he had been a faithful and loving husband in the first place. The pressure from his father was not the only root of all this, the branches also extended to his corporate greed which ultimately ruined his chance at a fruitful marriage with you.

But at least, the chaos should have settled by now. You chose to move forward and he decided to respect your decision by finding his way to another. This should free you both from the emotional torture that had you imprisoned in each other's cage for the longest time. He would still be there for you as the father of your child, but otherwise, he was happy that you had Toji Zen’in by your side to fill in the marital gaps that he had failed to complete.

A heavy sigh escaped his lips. The warm water fell on his body in rivulets, soaking him completely so early in the morning as he decided to take a long shower. For how long? He couldn’t tell. He could stay there for hours if need be. He had to let his mind wander on its own, with a hand pressed against the wall, and another stroking his white hair back. Despite accepting the fact that Toji now owned your love and affection… well, wasn’t that son of a gun too lucky? Did he even realize that the woman he would marry was once Satoru’s entire universe?

Ah, but who cares? Satoru scoffed inwardly, leaning his head back to let the water hit his face. He had Akemi, so why did it matter if you had Toji? He wasn’t bitter. He was just trying to reason with himself that you deserved to be with someone you really, truthfully loved. And he deserved that, too. Maybe not now, but at the perfect time, he could relive the life of a married man after learning from his mistakes the hard way. A much better one. A married man who would never in his life betray, hurt, or ruin his partner. A doting husband who would offer his whole life just to make her happy. He promised to himself that Akemi should have that kind of man from him.

Though, he could ask himself, how far was he from achieving that? He did practice his self-control last night when joined you in the pool—his face, inches away from you. Hand gripping your hip. Eye-to-eye. Skin-to-skin. Your warm breath fanning his cheek. Just another step forward and your lips would touch. But he didn’t let that happen. He mustered all of his power to pull back from the gravity that was drawing him closer to you. Still, he couldn’t deny that you looked absolutely gorgeous last night. As the moonlight illuminated your face, he could swear that the stars also sparkled on your eyes. They must be from the tears you were desperately holding back, but either way, you were still so goddamn beautiful. He almost couldn’t keep his eyes off you last night and had to distract himself from looking at your lips, your collarbone, your chest, your curves…

“Fuck.”

Talk about self-control.

Satoru had none of that right now. His body reacted involuntarily to the thought of you last night. The sensual thought of you. The what-ifs.

What if he had wrapped your legs around his waist and enveloped your lips into a passionate kiss?

He took a deep breath, still holding onto the wall as his other hand traveled to his growing member.

What if he had carried you all the way into the living room and laid you naked on the couch?

Closing his eyes, his hand started moving on its own, stroking his hardened cock and feeling every ridge as he pleasured himself.

What if you had let him devour you? Let him roll his tongue on your entrance and taste your sweet, sweet flesh?

Gojou let out a moan. A quiet yet desperate moan when he continued to jerk himself off faster and rougher. Damn it. He had to keep it low and he better not be heard committing such a sin in the bathroom. Although, he was confident that you were still sound asleep next to Sachiro in your bedroom, so he didn't think you would hear the noise he was making.

After all, it was shameless to know what was driving his feral thoughts right now. Thoughts of you letting him slide his tip along your entrance. Thoughts of him ramming his cock inside your tight cunt, being squeezed by your soft, velvet walls. Thoughts of your breasts bouncing wildly as he continued to hit your most sensitive spot. Fuck. Faster. He would have taken you on all fours, too. He would have let you ride his hardened shaft. He would have pressed you against the sofa and put your legs above his shoulders, letting you milk his cock with the tightness of your cunt. Satoru would release his warm seed into you in every position. He would shoot every drop of his cum straight to your womb, no doubt impregnating you for the second time around. He would absolutely love that. He would love seeing the residues of his wanton desire for you seeping out of your pussy. He would be at bliss watching your belly grow a few months after that, knowing that he had created yet another beautiful life inside of you.

“Y/N…”

Awakened by his senses, Satoru opened his eyes and saw the sticky white mess on his hand and on the wall. What the hell did he just do? More importantly, what the hell was he thinking of?

No one should know about that. Not you, not even Akemi. He didn’t cheat on her, no. He didn’t do anything with you. That shouldn’t be counted as cheating. He didn’t even touch you. And he wasn't even officially dating Akemi.

No, no…

Absolutely not.

Drowning into a pool of guilt, the first thing he did after that sinful shower session was to contact his supposed girlfriend not-girlfiend. And to make things even more awkward, you entered the kitchen in silence at the right time, carrying a sleepy Sachiro in your arms, unaware of the dilemma that was sending your ex-lover into a spiral.

“Morning,” he greeted almost inaudibly, clearing his throat and taking a sip of coffee afterwards. He had to think straight.

“Morning,” was your simple and oblivious reply as you went about your daily morning routine.

Gojou, on the other hand, was typing on his phone because Akemi wasn’t answering his FaceTime calls. He had completely forgotten to update her all day because he had been a little bit too occupied the moment he landed in America. She must be overthinking why he hadn’t reached out to her until now, and he felt extremely awful and responsible for that, but she couldn’t be fast asleep that early, right? It was 7:00 a.m. in New York, so that meant it was only 9:00 p.m. back home.

He nervously rang her number once more, mumbling a ‘please answer’ as he watched her caller ID appear on the screen.

“Dada,” called Sachiro, looking at him as his mother sat him on the high chair to prepare his breakfast.

Still holding his phone, Satoru walked to his son and placed a gentle kiss on his tiny forehead. “Morning, Sachi. Did you sleep well?”

The toddler nodded at him, drinking milk from the baby bottle that he was holding with both hands. His eyes were wide and blue—quite the same hues of blue that would remind you of a clear sky. Satoru couldn’t help but pinch his adorable son’s cheeks.

And while you were busy picking out food from the pantry, Akemi finally answered his call after the fourth attempt and showed her beautiful, soft features on the screen. His eyes immediately lit up at the sight of her. “Hey, how are you?”

He could tell she was still a bit distant and upset because of what happened two weeks ago, when she claimed to have heard him say your name during his sleep. He already made an excuse for it as he also didn’t know why he even did it in the first place, but Akemi was still understandably hurt. He couldn’t blame her.

“I’m fine, how are you?” she tiredly asked, seemingly heading towards her bed. “I just got home from work, that's why I wasn’t answering.”

He could see, in the corner of his eyes, that you were glancing at him but he didn’t return it. All of his focus was on Akemi, feeling bad that he hadn’t exactly been a good partner for her lately. Especially after the shit he just did in the shower this morning, but that was a secret that was meant to be buried. “Alright, did you have dinner already? It’s morning here so I’m having breakfast.”

She offered a small smile albeit the visible exhaustion on her eyes. “I did. How’s Sachiro doing?”

“You wanna see him?” He walked closer to his son, showing him on the screen as his big blue eyes stared at the woman on the other end of the line. “Sachi, say hi to Auntie ‘Kemi.”

“Hiii~” Sachiro happily greeted Akemi, while the latter cooed at the sight of his son. She spoke to him with a gentle and motherly tone, weaving warmth and love into her words. It made his heart full knowing that Akemi would wholeheartedly treat his child as her own, because if there was a slight possibility that she wouldn’t, she knew that Satoru would rather let her go. His child was still more important than any other woman. And so if his future partner couldn’t accept the fact that he had a child with his ex-wife, then they shouldn’t be in his life after all. The case was different with Akemi because she was already your friend and she had the chance to see Sachiro grow up before Gojou even knew his son existed at all. It was a bit complicated, but things turned out to be easier on the part of acceptance.

The only problem was you.

Because by the time the call ended, Satoru could tell that you weren’t in the best mood as you ate breakfast next to Sachiro in complete silence. Your eyebrows were curled into annoyance, and yet your eyes held sadness in them, an expression that had become difficult for him to fathom. Were you jealous of Akemi? He assumed you would say no, but your expressions showed otherwise.

“Y/N,” he called for your attention, hoping that you would look into his eyes for a little bit. Yet, not a chance did you do. “What’s our agenda for today?”

You seemed irritated, if anything. You refused to look at him as you gave a curt reply. “I communicated everything you needed to know via email. You should have checked it instead of letting Miwa do everything for you.”

Jeez. You were definitely angry. “Okay.” He cleared his throat once more. “I just asked in case there was a last minute change.”

“There isn’t. I would have said so if there is.”

“Right.”

Satoru didn’t know how to act in front of his ex-wife anymore. Now that he had seemed to ignite your pique, he chose not to say anything else further as you two finished your meals and cleaned up after yourselves. The only time he spoke again was when he offered to bathe Sachiro so that you could focus on yourself.

You agreed.

And he did his part.

It was simple give-and-take. A transactional relationship, if you must. Nothing else would blossom from that except your responsibilities as parents for Sachiro.

——

The New York trip was already as awkward as it was. And it only just started.

To be fair, it wouldn’t have been as uncomfortable if only Gojou had not decided to make it so. He was the one that made the atmosphere unpleasant by trying to savor every inch of closeness he could get to your skin, only to pull away as if nothing happened. As if he didn’t care about how it made you feel. He even had the audacity to lecture you on how to go about being good parents and setting a good example to Sachiro. Then suddenly, the next morning, he would act like such a loyal and caring partner to Akemi.

The thought of his loyalty made you scoff on the inside. He should be the absolute last one to be saying that. He should be the last one to profess how much of a loyal man he was trying to be to his new girl.

Besides, even before this trip was arranged, you had already made it clear on your mind that the sole purpose of going to New York was for Sachiro's sake. Any interaction outside the need to be there for your son would be unnecessary. He wasn’t someone you still needed in your own personal life nor did he need you in his. Your past relationship no longer mattered in this situation and all that was left was for it to be forgotten. But even with your resistance to be anything more than a parent to your son, Satoru still respected you. He still showed, even in little ways, that he cared about your comfort throughout the trip.

Five days had gone by, and everything you did in New York had been smooth sailing, all thanks to his grand number of connections across the USA. In a short amount of time, Sachiro’s surname had been legally changed, and everything else concerning his birth certificate had been corrected. The only issue left to address was your son’s nationality since Japan doesn’t permit dual citizenship and Sachiro would have to carry a Japanese citizenship and the Gojou name to be able to inherit his father’s assets and multinational conglomerate. You would leave that one up for Satoru to deal with, but everything else had been settled on your end.

Although this trip wasn’t exactly a vacation, Gojou insisted that you two still take Sachiro out to explore the city he grew up in. And you did so by going to Central Park, telling your ex-husband stories of how you used to bring Sachiro there in a stroller when he was still a little baby and that plenty of strangers, both locals or tourists, would coo at him the minute they took a peek at his adorable face. You also took him to the Empire State Building to get the best view of the entire New York City, and Satoru being Satoru couldn’t leave without taking a family photo with you and your son, capturing the beautiful urban cityscape behind you. You could see it in his eyes that even though he was happy to be there, he was also melancholic at the same time. Almost three years of his son’s life were spent in this famous city, without him, and it was as though the bitter memories of those three years for him were haunting him back. Sadness was reflecting off of his crystal blue eyes as he took a minute staring at the view of the city, reminding you that you were the reason why he had missed out on his baby’s first memories.

If guilt could literally eat you alive, you would have been devoured.

“Ready to go, Sachi?” Satoru asked your son, tucking his phone away after having (seemingly) sent Akemi a text message, probably updating her of where he was and what he was doing. In fact, he had been texting and calling her every now and then, as if he was doing his best to reassure her that he wasn’t doing any funny business with you. Has Akemi always been a possessive partner? Even with your years of friendship with her, she had never acted that way in her past relationship. So, was she only like that to Satoru specifically? You wondered if she would go nuts had she heard Satoru tell you how badly he wanted to make more babies with you on your first night here.

Sachiro nodded, clinging to your hand while reaching for his father’s. “Dada, hand pwease!”

Satoru did offer his hand, but mirrored the surprise on your face when your son tried to link your fingers together, urging you to hold each other's hands like a couple. You didn’t want to get too offended by it, but your ex-husband was the first one to pull away. “I, uh, made a reservation for us in Carbone,” he said, unable to exchange eye-contact, “Yuuta will meet us there.”

“Oh, he’s in New York?” you asked, pretending you didn’t notice how he acted allergic to your touch and redirected your attention to your son. “Did you hear that, Sachi? Uncle Yuuta will come and see you.”

Your little one was oblivious to the world, too distracted by the throng of people surrounding the place that he didn’t even notice how his parents were uneasy with each other. To say that you didn’t feel bad for your son was a lie, because it actually broke your heart. Even if you and Satoru were working on co-parenting and making sure Sachiro wouldn’t feel the gravity of a broken household, you knew that when he reached the right age, all of this would still have an effect on him. One day, he would still be asking questions about his parents. Questions about why you separated, why your marriage failed, and why you had to move to New York while his father stayed behind. It hurt. Deep inside, it hurt so much to know that your only son wasn’t given the chance to have a complete family and it felt like a failure on your part as his parent.

You were sure that was what Yuuta thought, too. As you met with him at a fancy restaurant in the city, you could see how his face lightened up seeing his nephew bonding with his parents as if it were a family vacation. He must have known what it was like to have a broken household. In fact, he had lived in a toxic one before, but he still grew up to be a mature and dignified young man who never let the horrors of his family’s actions affect his rational thinking. So if there was anyone in the world who would sympathize the most with Sachiro, it would be Yuuta.

“Sachi,” he spoke to your son fondly, wiping the sauce on the toddler’s chin. Yuuta chuckled as he watched the little boy's grimace after being given a small piece of broccoli. “You don’t like vegetables?”

You fixed the bib on your son’s neck. “He does, but he’s very picky with it,” you tell Yuuta, glancing at Satoru who was busy speaking on the phone with Nanami about what appeared to be matters concerning the company. “Wonder where he got it from.”

“Right.” Yuuta’s eyes turned into moon crescents as he smiled. “I remember nii-san being a little picky.”

“You hear that Sachi?” you teased your son, who looked at you with his cute puppy eyes. You knew that if you had the ability to peak through his toddler mind, it would actually be full of fried chicken. The thought made you laugh. “Don’t be like daddy, okay? Sachi needs to have his veggies so he’ll be strong when he grows up.”

“But…” Sachiro pointed to his father. “Dada is stwong.”

Satoru chimed in at the conversation after having finished the call, “That’s right, Dada’s strong. Mommy could barely even handle me.”

“Do you even know what we’re talking about?” You rolled your eyes, while Yuuta wanted to giggle, but chose to hold it back seeing the awkwardness of the situation.

Satoru shrugged and sat on his chair, eyeing the scrumptious dishes that were served to your table. He was acting like he hadn't been served more expensive meals before. “Have you tried the spicy rigatoni before? I heard it’s famous here.”

You casually answered. “Yes. Toji used to bring me here every time he visited.”

Look, you didn’t mean to overshare nor did you mean to make things even more awkward. You also didn’t mean to slap it in his face about how you were spending your years in New York with Toji. But Satoru, with his pride, took it resentfully.

“Oh, really?” His words were the opposite of his voice. He was mirthless and full of unenthusiasm before changing the topic, redirecting his attention to his step-brother instead. “How’s Harvard?”

Yuuta eased the tension by making small talk, sharing details about his university life, and making sure he didn’t contribute to the growing tension. “I’m really just trying to survive this semester so I can go back home as soon as I graduate.” After taking a sip of his Cabernet Blend, he continued, “Like I promised, I’ll help you with the company.”

You were happy, at least, to know that Satoru and Yuuta had fixed their relationship as step-brothers even after the whole incident with Nana, Eula, and their father. What used to be a relationship full of envy and competition finally became one that was full of mutual trust and support. Yuuta deserved that since he never once wished for his brother’s downfall, while Satoru also deserved to have a family member that had his back and helped him with the business without constantly fighting about inheritance. Because technically, Satoru was the sole heir of the Gojou family, and his dad only made it seem as though he would give it to Yuuta to make his own son comply with his orders. Satoru’s dad was controlling in that sense, and that was what led to all of this.

But the present was more important. Things have changed and mistakes have been learned. It was all up to you on how you were going to manage your new life moving forward.

Only, if only things were a little bit different on his side.

——

You had raised your son all by yourself for the last 3 years, so the presence of his father wasn’t really something you were used to for the longest time. How Sachiro acted around other people was solely a reflection of your teachings, discipline, and guidance as his mother. He didn’t really have a paternal figure up until now, and even if Toji was there to support your journey to motherhood, he never fully meddled with your mother-son relationship nor did he act like a replacement to Sachiro’s biological father. He loved him like his own, but respected the fact that the spot was reserved for Satoru. He knew that. He understood that, because he himself experienced raising a child alone without the presence of a mother. And if you asked him, he, too, would not want Megumi to replace the very love that he was supposed to have for his biological mom. Sure, Megumi could love and respect you, but Toji would still want him to save an unnegotiable spot for his mother in his heart. After all, she had birthed him. And in that same way, you had birthed Sachiro and created him with Satoru during your marriage. If there was anyone Sachiro should look up to, it had to be his father.

And quite frankly, the father himself was doing an excellent job.

But then again, remembering how hands-on Satoru was to you during your pregnancy, you never doubted that he would be a good parent. He may not be a perfect husband, but he loved his child with all of his heart and soul, and he would risk it all just to keep him happy.

It was new to you how, throughout the trip, you didn’t have to take care of Sachiro alone. You and Satoru helped each other harmoniously, attending to your toddler’s needs and making sure he was being prioritized. You were glad. Truly. You were grateful to see that he wasn’t an absent father and that his words weren’t empty when he promised you that he would be a responsible dad to him.

Though, at the back of your mind, you couldn't help but wonder what would happen if he welcomed another child in this world? A child that didn’t come from you? Deep inside, it hurt you to imagine him neglecting Sachiro on the side the minute he welcomed a new baby with Akemi. The reality was, the father would always prioritize the child of the current wife, not the child of the ex-wife. He would still support him, sure. But would he still pay the same level of attention that he was giving Sachiro now? You would probably break in half if Sachiro was thrown to the agonizing realm of feeling like an outsider in his own family because no child deserved that. If Satoru had that experience first-hand, he should not subject his own son to that same feeling.

You would be selfish to say this, but you wanted to seize the opportunity while Sachiro was still his only son. Hiding him from his father was your fault—you had gone through that a million times and you weren’t shy at holding yourself accountable through that mistake. However, you were already doing your best to make amends and make up for the years Sachiro had missed around his father. He was Satoru’s first and only child, and therefore he should never fight for his father’s affection. You weren’t sure what Satoru’s long term plans with Akemi were, but if they were considering having their own children someday, you would never allow your son to be pushed back at the bottom of the family tree.

Sachiro was the true first-born son of Satoru. He should never have to fight for his position in his father's eyes.

And so on the night of your flight back to Japan, when Satoru asked if he could take Sachiro with him for the rest of the week, you had no problems in saying yes. Your only wish right now was for them to spend as much time together as possible.

“Where are you taking him?” you did ask in spite of your leniency to send your son away, waiting inside the car as the pilot and crew prepared the private jet. “Please send me the full address. I need to know where he’s gonna stay and—”

“You’ll get the details from Miwa,” he casually said, rubbing Sachiro’s back as the little boy slept on his chest. He didn’t bother meeting your eyes as he talked. “I’m just taking him to my vacation home in Osaka.”

Osaka…

That was where his mother isolated him from the rest of the world when he was having terrible episodes. Episodes that worsened after he had found out that you ‘terminated’ his child and abandoned him for good. Shoko once said that they felt like Gojou disappeared from their lives while he was there, because nobody else could reach out to him. They couldn’t visit him nor could they contact him for a year or so until he was mentally ready to come back to Tokyo.

You didn’t want to pry on matters that were sensitive to him, so you chose not to say anything concerning his decision to take Sachiro to Osaka. He must have wanted to reflect on his past experiences, allowing him to heal from them as it brought him to the incommutable life he had now—life knowing that Sachiro actually existed after everything that he was made to believe.

“Please take good care of him, okay?” It was only a reminder, nothing else.

Satoru kept a straight face, nodding before he planted a kiss on his son’s forehead. “I got it from here.”

After a minute of silence, you both got out of the car and you watched him carry the peaceful Sachiro in his arms. You left the sleeping toddler a tender kiss on the cheek before parting ways. “I love you, my baby.” Stroking his hair, you kissed his tiny nose. “Mommy will see you soon.”

Satoru knew that you were staying behind. You had informed him of your plans before you even came here to the airport with him, explaining that Toji would be in Miami and that you had made arrangements to meet with your fiancé there. Satoru didn’t say anything much about it either, simply nodding his head at your decision and telling you to ‘do whatever’ because he was no longer a husband you should report your plans to. There was no hint of jealousy in his stance, but you couldn't miss the flicker of bitterness that did appear on his eyes for a millisecond.

You didn’t even say goodbye to each other as you watched them board the plane. And he didn’t even bother looking back at you to tell you to take care of yourself. Not that you expected anything from him, but a quick goodbye would have been nice since you did spend the last couple of days together. Or perhaps, he was upset about the fact that you were staying behind to meet Toji?

Either way, you were on your own now.

It took some time for you to reach Toji in Miami. He had insisted on meeting you at the airport, but because he had to meet with a foreign investor, you headed straight to the hotel he was staying at. Funny enough, you couldn’t help but compare how different it was to stay in the same accommodation as your fiancé vs with your ex-husband and son. With Toji, nothing felt uncomfortable and sharing a room as a couple was as normal as it should be, but things did feel too formal and too forced. With Satoru, it felt awkward to share the same space with him, but since your son was there, it felt like home. It felt strangely close to home, like it was only right. That staying together as a family was what your heart wanted.

Ever since Satoru went back to Japan with Sachiro, you had been feeling a wave of separation anxiety. Your mind was always left wandering towards them; how they were doing, where they were, what they had for dinner. You wondered if Sachiro was giving his father a headache. Smiling at the thought, perhaps he was giving Satoru a hard time changing his diapers.

“Everything okay?” Toji, noticing your trance, put an arm around you as you two sat at the VIP lounge of the Miami Grand Prix. This was Toji’s scene. If Satoru was a fan of horseback riding and polo, Toji preferred big time F1 races. He even personally knew the racers, the type of cars they were driving, and everything a huge fan had to know. You weren’t all that familiar with these things, so it was a little hard to keep up with his lifestyle.

“Y-Yeah, sorry,” you stammered, realizing how distracted you had been all this time. “What were you saying?”

He drank from his glass of 30 year-old Macallan, downing the liquor like it was mere water. A cloud of disappointment settled over his features. “Not interesting to you, huh?”

“No, I…” You made an effort to place a hand on his nape, giving him an apologetic peck on the lips. “I’m really sorry for zoning out. I was just… I guess I was just a little tired from New York.”

Toji placed a hand on your knee, sighing. “It’s fine. I was just trying to introduce the guys to you,” he said, scooting closer as he pointed to the racers. “You know that guy? Lewis Hamilton. He’s quite popular with the ladies,” then he moved his finger towards the other drivers, “And we got here for Ferrari, Carlos Sainz and Charles Leclerc, also fan favorites.”

Your eyes suddenly caught sight of Gojou’s favorite car brand. “Um, how about McLaren? Who drives for them?”

Unsure if Toji caught on or not, he did take a minute before feeding into your curiosity. “Norris and Piastri.”

You wished you had any idea about F1 so that you could be as enthusiastic as Toji was at this event. He was at his happiest right now and you didn’t want to ruin it by being a boring, uncultured fiancé, because frankly, all these women around would have done a better job at entertaining him. Toji was very eye-candy and you couldn’t blame these models from glancing up at him, especially with how manly and suave he was, dressed like a picture perfect example of an old money businessman. The likes of him were the prey of these desperate influencers, willing to sell their bodies in exchange for a night with him. But truth be told, that was their way of living and you could never find it in yourself to insult them. You didn’t want to shame them for attempting to climb the social ladder because that was how they view money and success, or at least a faster ticket to it.

As long as they didn’t try to make moves on your fiancé while you were around, you wouldn’t be so bothered by a few stares here and there.

Neither was Toji. He must have experienced being stared at during these events plenty of times before, and he probably even sent women home crying because of rejection or worse, humiliation. Now that you think of it, how did Megumi feel when his father was being hit on while watching the Grand Prix? Most importantly, why was the teenage son absent at this current event?

“Love, why didn’t you bring Megumi with you?” you inquired out of a sudden curiosity, knowing that Megumi was always present next to his father during F1 events.

Toji took a sip of the hard liquor once more. “He didn’t wanna go. He was giving me the silent treatment before I left for the US.”

Confusion further blanketed your eyes. “Did something happen back home?”

He let out a deep breath, his face signaling that he was deep in dilemma. “The Zen’in elders want to set him up for an arranged marriage,” he revealed, much to your surprise, “They wanna make sure he’s not gonna end up like me, married to someone who wasn’t ‘qualified’ to be my wife.”

At first you were confused if he was referring to you, but you realized that he was describing his late wife. Megumi’s own mother, the only woman Toji had ever loved by a mile. He fought everyone for her, even turned his back on his own family for her, but claimed that he also ultimately led her to her demise because the elders of his family harassed her until the day she died. It was a tragic love, perhaps even more tragic than yours, so you somehow understood why Toji was conflicted about Megumi’s personal life.

But you? You were strongly against it. “I don’t support arranged marriages, you know that,” you told him with conviction, sympathizing for the poor boy, “It’s not gonna end well. You know what happened to me…”

“I know.” Toji’s eyes were filled with regret. “I know, but there’s nothing I can do about it unless Megumi himself tells me he has someone he loves.”

“Did you ask?”

“He’s tight-lipped about it.”

You sighed. “Well, he’s a teenager. They get pretty shy about these things.”

Forcing a marriage was never a good thing. You couldn’t understand why the concept even existed because it didn’t benefit anyone aside from the people around the married couple. That was why they called it a marriage of convenience. They were married for everyone’s sake but themselves; family name, status, business… You have had enough of it. If only you realized it from the very beginning, you never would have subjected yourself to a loveless marriage with Satoru. Even if your love did grow eventually, things still didn’t work out for the best, and now your life was a mess. A divorced couple co-parenting their only son? There was obviously no convenience gained in that false marriage.

Megumi would just be wasting years of his life tied to a person he didn’t love and so you were hoping that Toji would fight for his son’s right. Because if he truly understood you, he would not subject his son to the same suffering you went through.

“I wish my wife was here,” mumbled Toji, forlornly, “She’d know how to handle these things better than I do.”

Were you not there for him? You swallowed your pride, hiding the pain in your voice. “Right…” A smile was all that you could offer. “I’m sure she would.”

——

Something was different about Toji and you couldn’t quite put your finger on it.

It wasn’t his appearance, and neither was it the way he spoke to you. He was all the same except for one thing; the look in his eyes.

He had told you this before. He said that the eyes carry the most truthful and raw emotion that you can see on someone. The presence of love would be visible in someone’s eyes just as you would see stars on a clear, night sky. The lack, however, would mean that the eyes are blank and empty like the dark void in the expanse of the universe. You didn’t have to be poetic to be able to discern the way his eyes communicated his most solemn feelings in spite of trying to show otherwise.

He must have been tired. Being caught up in your back-and-forths with your ex-husband, having to put up with your pretentious co-parenting situation, and the never ending need to keep an open mind about your situation with the same man who had ruined you. When your heart was in pieces, wasn’t he the one who tried to fix it? Wasn’t he the one who remained by your side during your darkest times?

Whether that may be true, whether he truly ever loved you, you could recognize the stark difference of the Toji that genuinely cared for you to the Toji that was only actively trying to be there for you. What had changed him all of a sudden?

“Toji, you drank a little too much.” A weary sigh escaped your lips, pulling all your might to drag your fiancé to lie comfortably in your shared bed later that night. At least, on the way to the hotel room, you had his bodyguards to thank for. They were there to haul him while he was in his drunken stupor, letting you lead the way, and dumping him carefully to his bed because there was no way you would be able to carry such a muscular man all by yourself. Now that you were alone with him, you decided to care for him the same way you used to do when Gojou was coming home drunk at night. Starting with his shoes that you took off, his shirt that you unbuttoned, his pants that you unzipped. “Come on, love. I’ll get you changed.”

The verdant hues of his eyes weren’t present. They were hiding behind his lids, refusing to meet your gaze. But if anything, he did open his mouth to speak, “...You. You wanna know a secret?”

Drunken words are sober thoughts, you reminded yourself. Of the numerous times Satoru had gotten drunk during the early stages of your marriage, it was how you found out that deep inside him, he did care for you. That in spite of his ill-tempered exterior, he was a man deprived of parental love and support. What would be the case for Toji, then?

“Yeah?” You waited for his answer, slipping his shirt off and revealing his toned body.

The scar on his mouth moved when he displayed a mirthless smile. He was as drunk as an alcoholic would be. “I don’t… think… I can love you the same way I loved my first wife.”

Your heart paused. In fact, every heartbeat became heavy. You knew how he felt, but didn’t expect him to say that out loud. “I-Is that so…?”

“Absolutely,” he mumbled, chuckling inaudibly. He was at a point where he was too far gone to realize the magnitude of the words he was saying to you. “Even if you try your best, she was everything I wanted in life and the only woman I could ever offer my heart to. She’s irreplaceable, and I don’t feel guilty about it... because I know you’re still into Satoru, too.”

“That’s…” You held your breath, holding back the sudden tears that formed in your eyes. “That’s not true.”

Toji wasn’t done yet, however. He still went on with his drunken speech like he was finally pouring out raw, yet hurtful words out of the bottle. “Who knows? You would’ve had him touch you back in New York if you didn’t have me. You would’ve had him impregnate you, have his second child with you, and guess what? He still won’t be loyal to you.”

The pain in your heart increased tenfold. Everything went still and every minute felt like a stab to your soul. Should you say something? Should you get angry at him? No, no you couldn’t. Your chest was tightening and you knew it was smart not to let such negative emotions overpower you. His words were just a little difficult to grasp because Toji never in his life had been callous with his words to you. The tears that fell from your eyes were from the betrayal that you felt after hearing the cruel words he had uttered. And yet, you tried to hold on to that thin string of hope that Toji’s words didn’t come from a place of truth.

“That’s enough, Toji. Go to sleep.” You pulled away, swallowing the bitter taste of weakness in your voice.

He hummed, unaware of the pain he had put you through. “The more I look at you, the more I realize how much I actually don’t want to spend my whole life with you,” he admitted, with little to no regard for your current feelings, “I can’t fill this emptiness by being with another empty soul. And if there’s one thing I’m most grateful for, it’s that I let you run away that day before I fulfilled my vows with you—”

“Enough!” You shot up from bed and wiped the flood of tears on your eyes. “Enough! I’ve heard everything you wanted me to hear, okay?! Enough!” you raised your voice in despair, almost begging for him to stop tearing your heart asunder. “I get it! I fucking get it… so enough. Please, Toji.”

Drunken words are sober thoughts.

A drunk mind speaks a sober heart.

Alcohol is a truth serum.

The revelation of Toji’s true feelings that night was a reminder to you that he was just like any other man. That you should have never put him in such a high regard, thinking that he would be the prince charming that would save the poor damsel in distress. Why? What would he benefit from someone like you? You only deluded yourself into thinking that a man like him would take a single mother so seriously. You were only meant to be a placeholder for his dead wife after all.

A placeholder, certainly. Not even deserving to have the title of a wife.

——

There was a huge contrast between being with you and Sachiro in New York vs being with Akemi and Sachiro in Osaka. The difference? There was no awkward air between Akemi and him. They were free to do things as they will—no restrictions, no certain do’s and don’ts. They were happy to have each other’s company, minus the guilt nor the unease of being by each other’s side. If anything, Satoru bitterly assumed that you were having the time of your life in Miami with Toji. You were so keen to see the man back there before parting ways with your ex-husband and son like you were simply discarding them to the side.

If so be it, then fine. Satoru had all the right to have his son all to himself while you were gone. Besides, Akemi was just one call away and she was everything he could ever ask for. She cared for Sachiro as if she was his own mother and Satoru couldn’t be more grateful that he didn’t need to work on building a bond between her and his son.

In fact, Akemi very much knew how to win Sachiro’s heart. As they took his adorable son to Universal Studios that day, she was nothing short of a caring mother. She had acted as a guardian to his son throughout the rides, letting the toddler enjoy his time at all the wonderful attractions that the theme park had to offer. Not once did his son cry too, so that only meant that they were doing a great job at taking care of him.

Of course, it was a different story in the afternoon. After having spent all of his energy during the day, Sachiro had become tired and hungry by dinner time. But he wasn’t such a difficult kid to tend to, so Satoru was proud that his son still wasn’t throwing a tantrum even after a whole day of not having you around.

“We’re gonna get Sachi fried chicken,” he enticed the pouting toddler, kissing his forehead while Akemi carried him in her arms. “Is that what you want?”

Sachiro nodded and wrapped his little arms around his auntie’s neck. “Chicken, dada.”

Akemi smiled at the child’s gesture, tempting her to also place a kiss on his cheek. “You’re so cute and well-behaved, Sachi.”

“—Satoru?”

At the familiar voice, all three of them turned to the woman standing behind like a deer caught in the headlines. She was tall for a woman, slender, and had long, auburn hair, rosy cheeks, and ivory skin. Next to her was a tattooed man with salmon pink hair, a piercing on his ear, and a very defensive stance. Ah… How timely.

Sera and Sukuna.

Satoru wasn’t sure if he should openly greet them, after all, they weren’t acquaintances. And it was only recent that he got his memories back, triggered by Sera's presence at the expo. Other than that, he had no business with the two of them. Sukuna wasn’t a business partner of his, so him and Satoru had no formal connection towards each other. As for Sera, she might be his ex-girlfriend, but they didn’t exactly have the healthiest relationship to begin with, so…

“Of all the places,” she mumbled, almost gaping at the sight of him. Her eyes then trailed off to Akemi and Sachiro, with which her expressions shifted to guilt. Did she recognize his son? Did she remember the horrible attempt she did to harm his child during his ex-wife’s pregnancy? The memory was flooding Satoru’s brain like a tsunami. Yeah, in that case, Sera should definitely be filled with guilt. She tried to kill this harmless child.

He cleared his throat, now becoming protective over his son at the presence of his ex. “We gotta go—”

“I guess it’s true,” Sera spoke again, this time redirecting her attention to Akemi. “The rumors, I mean. It’s all just surprising to me considering how obsessive Satoru was to Y/N.” She paused, seemingly wanting to comment at her ex-boyfriend’s current relationship in a mocking way. She kept her eyes on Akemi only, while Satoru was left wondering why Sera was acting hostile towards her. What was her deal now? She wasn't in the position to be acting all entitled to Gojou anymore, but here she was, talking to Akemi like she had met her before. “Did you know? He sacrificed everything for her. No one else made him beg on his knees the same way Y/N did.”

He couldn’t even tell how Akemi felt while Sera was clearly taunting her with her words, but she still managed to smile and excuse herself, keeping Sachiro away from an environment that should only be between adults. It was ridiculous, surely. What was Sera thinking trying to subject his son around that kind of hostility? Balling his fists, Satoru turned to Sukuna and spoke to him man-to-man. “You’d better keep your woman entertained so she’ll stop meddling into other people’s business.”

Sukuna, however, found the situation equally humorous. “Don’t worry. We both are entertained.”

Making a spectacle of Satoru’s personal life? No wonder they ended up together. They were both pieces of shit.

Before Satoru turned on his heels to follow Akemi, Sera still had one last thing to say to him. This time, she was more calm and less malicious—her eyes following Akemi’s trail before looking back at him, “Satoru, if you have truly grown as a man, you won’t do this to Y/N.”

——

Sachiro was fast asleep when they returned to the Gojou clan's vacation home.

Meanwhile, since the night was young for the two adults in that house, Akemi and Satoru shared a passionate session in the living room downstairs, letting her ride him as he placed soft kisses on her collarbone. They tried to keep quiet, obviously, and all the lights were turned off, leaving only the moonlight illuminating their view. After a few more minutes into their lovemaking, they eventually met their climax and tried to catch each other’s breath, embracing her in his arms as she fell limp against him.

“Satoru, I missed you a lot while you were gone.”

“...Same.”

Silence engulfed them for some time until she let out an exasperated sigh. It was clear in her facial expressions alone that she was pondering about the whole scene with Sera earlier. “That girl earlier, Sera, she—”

“Don’t mind her.” Gojou closed his eyes and leaned his head against the backrest. He knew he had to clear things up straightforwardly, leaving no room for any misunderstandings. “She just loves riling people up. It’s ironic she’s coming at Y/N’s defense now like she didn’t torment her back then. She’s not worth paying attention to.”

“Okay.” Akemi pulled away, cupping his face and stroking his cheek. She also offered him an angelic smile while doing so. “But you don’t feel that way anymore, right? For Y/N?”

Satoru took a deep breath, but steadied the movements of his chest. He felt defensive all of a sudden. “No.”

Her smile grew more relaxed as she pressed a light peck on his lips. “Right.” And for a while, they both stayed silent. His thoughts ran straight to you, while hers was quite on a different route. “Earlier when I put Sachiro to bed, he called me his mama.”

His eyes widened. “Oh… he did?”

She answered with a nod. “I don’t know if he’s just half asleep calling for his real mommy, but… At that moment, it made me realize how much I want to have my own,” she hinted at him, wistfully staring at his blue eyes with her shining ones, “with you.”

——

You didn’t take the flight back to Tokyo.

What you took was an immediate flight straight to Osaka where you knew your son and your ex-husband would be. You weren’t sure if it was due to the height of your emotions, but you surely let your impulse win the best of you this time.

You just wanted to escape. It was for the first time in your life where you were dying to set yourself free from Toji’s presence, the very same person who you once likened to a buoy in an open sea. Now he was no longer that. He was far from that. He was an anchor pulling you down at the deepest part of the ocean. Needless to say, the pain was still fresh from your heart when you took the earliest flight back home after his drunken confession to you.

Despite the many missed calls and texts and emails he had sent you, none of them were returned. None of them were seen, or read, or had been replied to.

All you wanted to do was get to your son. Your son. Your only comfort from all the painful things that the world has thrown at you. If not for Sachiro, you would have long ended yourself. But because he was born in this world, because he relied on his mother for love and guidance, you had to be strong and you had to seek the comfort in your heart from him.

They could all turn their backs on you, but never will your son do.

And so, after a few back-and-forth emails with Miwa to confirm the address of Satoru’s residence in Osaka, you ignored the jetlag that was hitting your body and traveled straight to his place without a wink of decent sleep. Sachiro. Sachiro was all you ever thought of when you asked your driver to drop you off the park nearby the Gojou clan's residence as soon as you spotted your son's mop of white hair, him running across the small bridge and pointing towards a fish in the pond. Your son was happily calling all the fishes, gushing about them to Satoru who stood next to him.

You didn’t even care at how you looked during that moment. You just wanted to get to your son and embrace him in your arms. He had been away from you for way too long and you had already grown pale and sick from the separation anxiety that engulfed your heart and mind.

You had to have your son. You had to hold him.

“Sachi!” you called out, a smile present on your face as you made your desperate way towards the bridge. Your son looked at you the moment he had heard your voice, and was already skipping towards you with a bright smile on his face. “My baby!”

Satoru’s face, on the other hand, turned pallid. His eyes were full of surprise, unable to believe that you were actually right in front of him. It was like he had seen a ghost. No, worse than a ghost. Why? Did he not expect you to come when he had let Miwa send the address to you? Were you not welcome to visit your own son?

“Mamaaa!” Sachiro hugged you tightly, allowing you to attack his cute face with kisses all over.

“Mommy missed you so much, my baby.” You could almost cry. As young as he was, he had no idea how much comfort he was bringing into your heart. Just to be able to see him, hold him, kiss him was enough for you to feel complete again. It was at your brokenness did you realize how much Sachiro could fix you whole.

“Y/N, I thought you…” Satoru paused, confusion seemed to be settling on his features as you looked up at him. “You’re supposed to be back by Monday.”

For a moment, you were reminded of the reason you came home earlier than intended and it stung your heart to think about. “Change of plans.”

A small scoff left his lips. “Don’t tell me you left Toji back there.”

I did, you wanted to say. Satoru had no single idea how true his words were, but that was none of his business and you had no plans of confiding in him about what had happened. You may be angry with Toji now, but you still respected him enough not to do terrible things behind his back.

“I had to see my son,” you lied, although it wasn’t exactly one, and got up while holding your toddler’s hand. “Are you ready to go home with mommy, Sachi?”

Reluctance clouded your son’s face, and he became more resolute at shaking his head the moment a woman’s voice called for him from afar. A woman, a very, painfully familiar woman came into view a few meters away from you. Standing there was your best friend, Akemi Hirai, looking at you with wide, mortified eyes as soon as she saw your presence.

And in a snap, Sachiro ran to her. Your son ran straight to her, joyfully and excitedly as if she was his real mother.

How many more heartbreaks do you have to go through?

How many more tears do you have to hold back?

“I…” Your hands were shaking. Your entire body was on the verge of breaking down. All this time, your son had been in this vacation home living like a happy little family with your ex-husband and best friend.

Now, he even refused to go home with you.

Gojou scanned through the look on your eyes as though he was reading your emotions, but you showed none of it. Not a single emotion could be seen on your face. Not an ounce of pain shown, despite seeing how your son immediately forgot about you and headed straight to another woman. How excited he was to spend more time with his dad and his new girlfriend. How, much to your discomfort, he refused to go back to Tokyo with you. You saw the future family Sachiro was about to have without you in the picture, and damn did it hit you like a truck.

Why, why did everyone in your life choose others before you?

“I’m sorry. I’ll bring him to your house Monday morning,” said your ex-husband in a soft, delicate voice, almost as if he was being careful with you. “We’ll take care of him.”

You could simply nod, avoiding eye-contact with anyone in the vicinity except for Satoru. “Okay...” you struggled with words. Your entire body was shaking. The last thing you wanted was to sound like a selfish mother, but frankly, you were about to self-destruct. “Just keep him happy… that's all I ask.”

Behind your mask of indifference, Satoru knew what right words had to be said. You needed reassurance, and that was exactly what he gave you. “I won’t ever take him away from you, Y/N. I promise.”

You watched them walk away, leaving you alone with a look of sympathy that you didn’t need. Sympathy that you despised having received. This should serve as a wake up call to you that no one in this world would ever love you. That even your own child would, one day, abandon you.

As tears fell from your eyes, you felt a certain pang on your chest that hurt worse than every other pain combined. “You know you’re not so good with promises, Satoru.”

#series: sincerely yours #jjk x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo angst #jjk angst #gojo satoru angst #gojou satoru x reader #gojou satoru x yn

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