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gogolatte · 16 days

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BIGGEST LIE I EVER SAID . . . you finally pick up one of chuuya’s drunk phone calls.

ft. chuuya + f!reader, exes to lovers, implied blackout, taking care of hungover chuu, making up / out, 2.5k w.c.

chuuya is more used to loneliness than he’d ever admit. it came with the nature of his ability and his line of work, but it had only taken a few months with you to completely change his world, years of defense mechanisms overwritten by your soft touches and sweet words. now that it’s over, he can’t find it in himself to break his newfound habits, stubbornly clinging to their familiarity and basking in the fleeting warmth of the embers of your relationship.

even now that he goes to his favorite bar alone, he still covers the seat next to him with his jacket. it’s the one to his right; he always chose the seat closest to the door between the two of you, just in case.

he can still imagine the lipstick mark that would be left on his glass when you’d steal a sip, and he takes one pretending he’s pressing his mouth around it. he frowns as he swallows; was there anything left that wouldn’t remind him of you?

he downs the rest of what’s left in his glass, licking the stray scarlet drop that curls onto his bottom lip. his gloved hand is numb to the chill of the wine bottle as he pours himself another; it’s the last of it. today was hard, dozens of his men needlessly dying due to one subordinate’s laziness. all he wants is to hold you and let you make him forget all about his shitty day; you would’ve threaded your fingers through his hair and rubbed his scalp, letting his tension melt away off his shoulders, and then, he would’ve kissed you until it was all out of his system. instead, he’ll stumble home and spend the rest of his night in his empty penthouse, stress sitting in a tight knot in his stomach, mixed with the queasiness of too much alcohol and the ache of longing for you that never seems to go away.

god, he fucking misses you.

he pulls his phone from his pocket with one hand, the other still carefully cradling his wine glass. he lazily presses on your contact, still saved to his favorites. his eyes trail over your photo: it’s from when he brought you out to shizuoka. your hair is windblown and knotted from the motorcycle ride there, but you’re beaming at him, cheeks dimpled and eyes closed. his black jacket is draped over your shoulders, a stark contrast to the gold and peach of the setting sun behind you.

his thumb hovers over the call button. he only does this when he’s just drunk enough to ignore how bad of an idea it actually is, and to hear the sweet sound of your voice through your mailbox. it’s always after midnight when he calls, when he knows it’s too late for you to be awake and you won’t pick up.

good. he hopes you’re sleeping well.

he finally presses down on the call button, listening to the line ring. the leather of his glove is smooth against the glass as his finger traces the curve of his cup.

one…

he counts the buzz of the rings in his head. it always took five.

two…

he thrums his fingers against the bar’s dark wooden counter in a lazy rhythm. he wonders if you’re wearing that cute pajama set he loved so much tonight, with those tiny shorts that drove him crazy. maybe you fell asleep with your light on again, the way you used to when you’d wait for him to come home.

thrー

“hello?”

everything stops: his fingers, his thoughts, his heartbeat. he pulls the phone away from his ear, making sure this is actually happening, and he wasn’t hearing your voice in some alcohol-induced hallucination.

“...chuuya?” it’s muffled, and when he brings the phone back up, he can hear your sheets ruffle as you sit up in bed, your voice slurred in a sleepy rasp. “is everything okay?”

the room feels like it’s tilting, the dim lights of the bar haloing and growing fuzzy. he thinks he’s saying something, but he isn’t sure what. he feels sick, like his stomach is twisting itself and trying to crawl up his throat; he’s about to spill his guts out.

then he wakes up.

he only opens his eyes slightly before he squeezes them shut again. everything is too bright, and his head pounds in that special way that means he’s hungover or just used corruption. he groans, rolling over and burying his face into his pillow. it feels softer than he remembers, brain feeling like it’s full of static, disoriented and half awake. he swears the sheets smell just like the perfume you used to wear.

you.

he forces his eyes back open, lifting his head. that’s your dresser in the corner. these are your sheets, and there’s you, sitting on the other edge of the bed, typing on your phone. your hair is pulled back, and he can see your profile perfectly, just as gorgeous as he remembered. you see him move from the corner of your eye, looking up and meeting his groggy gaze.

“you’re up,” you stretch over to your nightstand, handing him the bottle of water there. it’s cold, small beads of condensation dripping down the sides. “finally. drink this.”

he downs half of the bottle in one go, the chill coating and soothing his aching throat. his voice is still raspy when he speaks, deeper than usual. “what am i doin’ here?”

“you don’t remember?” you tilt your head, smiling teasingly. “i guess you haven’t changed much. you’re still a lightweight.”

“gimme a break,” he grumbles into the mouth of the water bottle, taking another big sip. he’d let you get away with poking fun at him when he felt so shitty just this once. he tells himself it’s only because your cheeky smile looked so pretty in the daylight flitting through your curtains. “i was wasted.”

“i know,” you get up from the bed, moving toward your closet and shuffling around. he watches the way your legs strain as you reach on your tiptoes for something. you are wearing those shorts he loved so much, and he tries not to stare too obviously at the way they ride up your thighs.“i’m the one who picked you up when you were half unconscious.”

he hears you sigh and the soft sound of fabric as you push shirts around until you finally pull something off a hanger.

“here,” you’re holding a white button-down, and he recognizes it immediately; he has identical ones, pressed and dry-cleaned, lined in his closet. “you’ll feel better after you take a shower.”

“you kept this?” he pinches the fabric between his fingers; silky smooth, just how he liked it. your eyes widen, hand stiffening as you grip the shirt a little tighter. “thought you said you were gonna burn all my stuff.”

“whatever,” you sigh, rolling your eyes and tossing the shirt into his lap. “it was too expensive to get rid of. you already know where the towels are.”

he does know. his favorite part of his days was coming to your place after work, and he still remembers how warm he felt when you gave him a key so he could sleep next to you on nights when mafia work ran into the early hours of the morning.

he moves sluggishly when he gets out of your bed. he grabs a towel from the little shelf in your bathroom before he turns the water on, waiting for it to get warm and looking over your counter; you still have that expensive face mask he bought for you on an overseas mission, and he remembers how he’d stood between your legs as you sat on the counter, hands smoothing the curve of your hips as you brushed it onto his skin.

he takes his time in the shower, scrubbing himself clean lazily, muscles fatigued and sore. the white tea scent of your body wash soothes him the same way it would when he’d bury his face against your neck before he fell into another dreamless sleep.

when he comes out, dried off and dressed, you’re in front of the stove, the familiar smell of miso soup lingering through the hallway. he nearly wraps his arms around your waist out of the familiarity of it all, but clenches his fists at his sides to stop himself.

there’s a bouquet of flowers in the center of your small dining room table, a bundle of camellias and baby’s breath resting mockingly in a vase filled halfway with water. he glares at them as he sits down, thinking about what asshole could’ve bought them for you. did he write you poems on the card like chuuya did? he’d bet his own money he didn’t.

“by the way, those fell out of your jacket pocket,” you break the silence, nodding your chin towards the table; it's his cigarettes, one of the corners of the cardboard box bent. “you’re smoking again?”

“yeah,” he crosses his arms, fingers digging into his biceps. “i needed a new stress reliever. guess you found one too, huh?”

“what?”

“the flowers,” he mumbles. “is he treatin’ you good?”

you turn away from him and back towards the stove, but he can picture the look on your face when you speak, voice soft and tinged with a smile. “i bought those for myself.”

“oh,” he sits up a little straighter, sulk faltering as he clears his throat. “they’re nice.”

your socked feet are quiet as you approach the table. your hands are carefully cupped around the warm bowl of soup, and his eyes catch on your freshly painted nails. you must’ve gotten them done recently, and he tries not to think about how you used to love showing them off to him, or how nice it would feel when you’d drag them up and down his skin until the hair on his arms rose. you place it in front of him, full of steaming broth, kombu, and tofu floating serenely around slices of green onion.

he catches glances at you as you join him at the table, slurping his soup quietly. he didn’t think he could ever feel so unnatural around you, but tension clouds the air, awkward and uneasy. he stares into his bowl, like it could tell him what to say to fix this when you break the silence again. “do you remember what you said to me last night?”

he cringes; the last thing he remembers is that final glass of wine and your pretty voice on the other end of the line. he sighs through his nose, almost scared to hear your answer. “what did i say?”

“you said you missed me,” you brush your finger across the lone, pale pink flower petal that fell onto your table, tracing the curve of it, not meeting his eyes. “you asked me to pick you up and take you back home.”

you knew what he really meant: take me back to your apartment. it’s barely half the size of his penthouse, but it always felt like more of a home than his place ever did. there were signs of life dotted everywhere he looked, from your sink of dishes from last night’s dinner to your favorite candle in your living room, nearly burnt down to the bottom.

“you call a lot,” you finally look at him, voice quiet. “you don’t think i notice?”

“i know you do,” he whispers. “i only call so much ‘cause i miss you.”

you blink stubbornly, eyes watering. your lips tremble as you press them together, trying and failing to hold yourself together. he doesn’t hesitate to cup your cheeks between his palms, like it was an instinct.

“c’mon,” he sighs. “don’t do that. you know how much it breaks my heart.”

“i miss you too,” your voice shakes. “i really, really miss you, chuuya,” you melt against his chest the same way you always used to, arms wrapping around his shoulders and your forehead pushing against his neck. “i just want to stay like this for a few minutes,” you whisper pleadingly, words warm against his skin.

he could almost laugh; he’d stay with you for the rest of his life in your little dining room, holding you against him. he’d break the world in two for you if you asked him to.

“you’re still the best thing that ever happened to me,” he presses a kiss to your shoulder, and his heart flutters when you don’t push him away. he holds your waist, rubbing his thumbs against the small of your back. his cheek rests against your hair, and he inhales deeply. “i mean it.”

he isn’t ready to let you go when you lift your head off his shoulder all too soon, arms still solid around your waist when he feels your lips brush against his. you pull away just as quickly, but he cups your jaw before you can get too far. you fall back into each other like you were never apart, shakily exhaling in relief as your lips slot into perfect place against his own. chuuya loves you with every part of himself, and once he started, it was ingrained in him forever; loving you became a fundamental part of who he was.

you practically crawl into his lap, seating yourself on his thigh and wrapping your arms tighter around his shoulders. his tongue traces along your bottom lip, and the noise you make drives him fucking crazy; his breath stutters as you whimper against his mouth and melt between his hands. he caresses your sides with a tenderness only reserved for you, trailing down to the plush of your ass from muscle memory alone.

the edge of the table presses into his side, painfully prodding at the edge of his ribs, but all he can feel is your soft lips, parted and pliant against his, and the tip of your nails, scratching against his scalp and down his nape.

this is what he meant when he said he wanted to come back home.

“i won’t fuck it up this time,” he pulls back to look into your eyes. “it’s you and me. got it?”

you nod, cheeks wet against his palms, lips curled upward as you press a kiss to the slope of his nose.

“there’s that smile,” he grins, thumb stroking beneath your dewy lashes. “i missed it.”

“i missed you,” you press your hand against his the toned skin of his chest, feeling the heavy pound of his heart beneath your palms. “i’ve wanted to kiss you like that again for so long.”

“oh yeah?” he smirks, nose brushing against yours. “you stay up at night thinking about me or something?”

your fingertips are warm against his cheek as you shove his face away, scoffing as you slide off his lap.

“where do you think you’re going, baby?” he tugs you back, kissing the corner of your mouth. “don’t think i’m lettin’ you go again.”

BSD MASTERLIST

#WAAAAAAAAAAAAH #amazing 🥺#📚 — Asa's bookshelf ₊˚⊹⋆

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