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godmadeaterribleerror · 16 hours ago

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Chapter 2 - Under My Skin

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: If you're mad at me for getting any lore or myths wrong through this story, consider that Supernatural themselves cannot track their own lore, and I'm doing my goddamn best.

Chapter title from Akaska Sad by Rina Sawayama

Word Count: 15.7k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Dean and John take on an odd, difficult case, and you try—and fail—to avoid them. Usual warnings.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, monster of the week.

Chapter 1 - Chapter 3

Read on A03!

Lately, Dean’s life was fucking lonely. It was made of long car rides where Dad wouldn’t speak to him, countless cases where he felt almost useless, and restless nights where he’d get up to use the bathroom, look at the couch, and feel a little piece of him die again when Sam wasn’t there.

Every town looked the same. Every girl did too. He didn’t try to talk to them—he never had—but there was still something in him that was so furiously lonely, he was burning through chicks night by night in a desperate plea that they’d offer him something. Sometimes they’d talk to him, and that would become enough. He was never really all that interested—they all had the same voice and same words and same boring, apple pie lives that Dean would never get to be a part of—but it carried him over until the next one. Until he and Dad got the monster, left town, and nobody there would have to spare Dean a thought for the rest of their lives.

He tried to make them remember. He poured all he had to spare into the sex, and making it good enough that maybe—when each woman was married with kids and some sort of boring office job—they’d still use the memory of him to get off. They might not remember his name, or his voice, or his face, but they’d remember how he made them feel. And that did a little more to curb the loneliness. The pit like feeling of uselessness.

But sometimes he’d strike out, and be forced to wake up on an empty, stiff motel mattress. Dad would already be gone—getting coffee or working there leads or just fucking sick of Dean not being Sam—and it would only be Dean in the whole world. And that wasn’t enough. It couldn’t just be Dean. It’s never supposed to just be Dean. When it’s just him, everything gets too loud and too quiet and so hot, but also massive and empty and cold. Corners are shaper and knives are duller and colors are all muted, because only Dean can see them and he doesn’t deserve to.

And when that happened, sometimes he’d grab his phone and consider calling Sammy. He’d stare at the number—hidden from Dad with a fake contact, just in case—and allow his thumb to hover over the call button, but never press it. He couldn’t. He’d have no way to get to California, Sam probably wouldn’t want to see him, and Dad would freakin’ kill him for even considering it. Dean couldn’t even say Sam’s damn name without Dad’s jaw ticking and an unsettling tension falling over the room.

So Dean stayed lonely. He worked every case lonely, found every bed lonely, and woke every morning lonely.

But he wasn’t lonely in his dreams. It didn’t matter why he wasn’t, but he wasn’t. That, at the very least, was something Dean could count on. When he slept, he’d never be lonely, because-

It didn’t matter. They were just dreams, and dreams didn’t mean shit. Even it had been the same person starring in them every night—the same beautiful, twisted salvation to the pit that had formed inside of Dean, that he loathed and craved and couldn’t figure out how to get rid of—for the past year, Dean wasn’t some crystals and tea leaves chick who was going to try and find meaning in his freakin’ dreams.

This lady seemed to be, though. She was dressed like she belonged at Woodstock, there were dreamcatchers and random dried plants all over her house, and she kept trying to offer Dean a palm reading. Telling him his aura was strong. That didn’t fucking mean anything, because that shit wasn’t real, and Dean should know. His whole life was figuring out what things were real, and what was fake.

This magic, witchy bullshit was fake.

The ghost haunting Woodstock Chick’s house was very real.

“You know,” Woodstock frowned at Dean and Dad from across the table. “I’m a little surprised you’re listening to me.”

Dad shrugged. “Well, ma’am it’s routine to investigate complaints. It ain’t our job to judge, just hear what you’ve got for us. Now, we’ve got the objects flyin’ around-“

“It’s just,” Woodstock let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head slightly. “I’ve been filing these complaints for weeks, and all I’ve gotten is made fun of by my neighbors. Then, suddenly, you’re taking me seriously? Sending three officers to talk to me-“

Dean cleared his throat, shooting Dad a weary look. “Sorry, did you say three?”

“Yeah. You two, plus the one yesterday. Young woman, with the rings and lip gloss. She was gorgeous, good skin and hair, bright aura, just like yours.” she smiled at Dean as she continued. “She kind of looked like a,” Woodstock frowned, tilting her head. “Like a cat.”

Dad scowled. “A cat.”

Woodstock nodded. “You know, just like how he,” she nodded at Dean, and he frowned. “Looks like a puppy. It not about their faces, it’s about their energy-“

“And you’re saying this chick had the energy of a cat?” Dean asked, not allowing himself to dwell on the puppy thing. He had too much shit to worry about already. “Ma’am, we-“

“We’re takin’ your complaints seriously, ma’am.” Dad’s voice was firm over Dean’s, and Dean felt a cringe of shame in his chest. “Now, tell us about the lights, and we’ll let you keep goin’ with your day.”

Woodstock continued, Dad asking more careful, smart questions as Dean sat in silence, and the lady’s problem was pretty obviously a ghost. Kind of a douchebag of a ghost, but just a ghost. The hard part was just gonna be figuring out who it was, because Woodstock was insisting nobody had ever died in this house, that she had no dead relatives, and that she’d never even killed anyone.

That last question did get them kicked out, though.

“We ain’t accusin’ you of anything, ma’am.” Dad remained in the threshold of Woodstock’s door, holding the angry woman’s gaze. “It’s a just part of our report-”

Woodstock let out a dry laugh. “Nice try, officer, I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, but I do know that’s a lie. If you come back, come back with a warrant, or-“ Woodstock paused, looking between Dean and Dad. “Send Officer Brown. She was nicer, and didn’t ask me stupid questions.”

The door slammed, Dad groaned—running a hand over his face before stomping back to the Impala—and Dean was frozen in place as Woodstock’s words rang a loud, clean, golden bell in his brain. When Dad shouted at him to haul ass he managed to move, but barely. Everything was far away, because things that were supposed to be trapped in dreams were starting to follow Dean into the real world. They weren’t supposed to. Dean had promised himself he’d keep Her trapped down, where he never had to think about her until sleep dragged Her back to the surface of his brain.

And that hadn’t really been working. Sometimes he’d smell fruity perfume on a woman, and She’d flash in front of his eyes. Sometimes he’d have some random girl next to him or over him or under him, and they’d moan, and it would sound like a siren. The worst was when someone would look at him and a tiny, traitorous asshole voice would whisper She’d look at you better. She’d be better. You’re a piece of shit, Dean Winchester, because She’d been the freakin’ best and you left her.

He hadn’t left Her. He’d escaped her. Outsmarted whatever bullshit she’d been trying to pull on him, whatever scam She’d been running. And it didn’t fucking matter that his brain was clinging onto every piece of Her he’d gotten to see that day—that the bells were made of Her beautiful voice saying Brown’s a cop—because she’d probably stopped hunting. Realized it wasn’t the fun little rush She thought it was and crawled back home to her fancy, stupid life.

But She’d told him she’d been hunting since she was fifteen.

That had probably been a lie too.

It hadn’t sounded like a lie.

Well, maybe She’d just been an awesome liar.

Dean needed to snap the hell out of it. He’d tread down this path countless times, the voice—it seemed to live in his chest, a little to the right of his heart—trying to work out what that whole thing had been, and a good reason for Dean to track Her down and ask if She’d felt it too.

But She’d been playing him, and he never wanted to see Her drop-dead gorgeous face again. It didn’t matter what he’d felt, because Dad was right. It had probably been some sort of trick, made of all those pretty lies and words She’d been using on him. So Dean didn’t mention to Dad that Brown had been one of Her aliases, because he wasn’t supposed to remember anything about Her. Dad was seething in the driver’s seat—grumbling about lone, stupid hunters interfering in their case—but She wasn’t here, probably, so it didn’t matter anyway.

Another three days passed, and they still couldn’t figure out who the ghost was. Everyone Woodstock knew was clean—and claimed she was too—and everyone in this town died of old age like a bunch of freaking suckers, so they had nothing. This ghost couldn’t chill the fuck out, Woodstock had been telling anyone who would listen about how it had started to throw plates at her head—how she didn’t feel safe—so Dad had them on rotating watches. Keeping an eye on the house from the forest in case Woodstock started screaming while the other kept working it, searching for just one goddamn idea of who the ghost could be.

They hadn’t figured out who the other hunter was, either, but Dean was growing more and more certain it might be Her. He could’ve sworn he saw a flash of perfectly styled shiny hair on the street. He was either going batshit crazy, or he’d heard Her voice in a corner store while he was buying aftershave. And a feeling like gravity had reformed in his eyes, bringing his attention to shadows that might be Her and making his every nerve flare when he smelled something sweet. Most of all, he’d been in the motel parking lot a handful of times and felt it. That odd, light feeling that had surrounded him when he’d met Her, making it so easy to breathe he’d been certain he’d been doing it wrong before. That he’d started to do it wrong again, after She’d left. It had felt so good and been so impossibly to duplicate—Dean had really tried to, as well, in body after body after body—but it was back like a fucking asteroid, crashing into him and obliterating everything he’d thought had been right.

But he hadn’t told Dad. To start, Dad would look at him like he was a fucking idiot, and ask if Dean had watched a chick flick while drinking one too many beers. Then Dean would mumble no, and Dad would roll his eyes and tell him to get his shit together, because they had a job to do.

Dean could’ve told Sammy. He would’ve listened, made a little fun of Dean, and then started to ask a bunch of questions about what made Dean think it was Her. Maybe Sam would have found an explanation about how the vampire baby made men go crazy or something. Maybe She’d been a monster, and Sam would figure out what kind the moment Dean explained it.

But Sam wasn’t here, and Dean didn’t have any real evidence. He hadn’t seen that fancy car She’d been driving, and when he’d very casually asked the front desk of their motel—the only one if town—if anyone with Her name was in a room he’d gotten a no, but she’d probably be in a real hotel. With good water pressure and room service and little shampoo bottles that she didn’t need.

She hadn’t been in a fancy hotel last year. But that had probably just been another part of the scam.

So he didn’t tell Dad. Dean just took his shifts to watch Woodstock, worked the case, and fucking prayed they’d wrap this up and he could forget the whole thing. Dad would find something soon, they’d gank the ghost, and it would be done.

Dad had even said he had a new lead, when they’d swapped the watch. Dean had dropped off the car and gotten orders to stay here until Dad got back, to call only if it was an absolute emergency, and to message if he thought of anything new.

He’d been trying to. Dad was off working the lead, and Dean really wanted to help, but no matter how long leaned against the trees—watching Woodstock’s house and frowning into the air—he couldn’t think of shit. His brain felt numb, because this was freaking boring, and none of it made sense. It was just a ghost, it shouldn’t be this hard. Shit, with another hunter on the case, the asshole should’ve been ash days ago. Maybe it had been Her, and she’d realized they were in town, and She’d left. Been worried they’d try to turn her in for her bullshit, even though She had no way to know they’d figured her out.

Maybe She hadn’t wanted to see Dean. Which shouldn’t bother him at all, but the thought made his stomach turn and heart split down the center. He didn’t get it. It shouldn’t hurt, because he sure as hell didn’t want to see Her. He was looking everywhere for Her, but he didn’t want to see Her. He didn’t. He didn’t-

He did. He could. That was fucking Her. Walking up the steps of Woodstock’s house with a large bag, knocking on the door and being welcomed in with a warm smile Woodstock hadn’t offered Dad or Dean.

She looked hot. Dean wasn’t sure it was possible for Her not to—She’d even looked sexy covered in blood—but she’d somehow gotten hotter. She wasn’t wearing that horrible jacket anymore, but well-fitting, casual clothing that She moved so easily in. Clothing that suited Her, that She looked comfortable in, that Dean wanted to touch to see what fabric She liked. It would tell him more about Her, about what she deemed suitable for herself, what she enjoyed, what she wanted. And if She allowed him close enough, maybe Dean could rip it off Her body-

Fuck. It was happening again. Dean had just looked at Her and she’d dragged him under some sort of trance. The feeling had returned in full force, like an inevitable kind of cancer over his brain that Dean didn’t know how to cure. Part of him didn’t even want to cure it—it felt right and natural and filled up that pit with a shifting light that was shaped like Her—but he had to. He was useless like this. Useless to the hunt, useless to himself, useless to Dad. Dad would smack him on the head and tell him to get a goddamn grip, because a girl wasn’t worth falling down for. Dean’s job wasn’t staring at pretty things and trying to make sense of them, it was creating ash and spilling blood. He was a solider, not a prince who was going to save the damsel.

And She wasn’t a damsel. She was a bitch. The prettiest, funniest, smartest bitch Dean had ever met, who seemed like Cinderella but was really a stepsister. Dean didn’t need Her, and he shouldn’t be sparing Her a single thought at all. He should just text Dad that She was the other hunter, that She seemed tight with Woodstock, and that She’d been in the house for a long time.

A really long time.

Too long. It had been almost an hour since She’d disappeared off the porch, and unless she was there for a sleepover, she should’ve been out by now. Maybe the ghost had gotten the jump on Her and Woodstock. Maybe Dean had to go in and save Her, not because it was Her, but because that was his job. And maybe She’d thank him, and kiss him because She was so grateful he’d put his grudge aside to save her life, and it would be awesome and She’d taste like sugar and be soft under his hands-

“Dean Winchester.”

He nearly leapt out of his goddamn skin, spinning around with wide-eyes and clenched fists that couldn’t seem to remember how to fly and land square in Her pretty, mocking face. She was standing barely three feet away, Her arms crossed and brows raised, her bag nowhere in sight.

“Fucking hell, Princess.“ The nickname slipped out of him without thought, because She really did look like royalty. He knew why that was now—easy to look smoking hot and fancy when you had the money for it—but it didn’t change the fact. Her lips were glossy, her eyes seemed to shimmer with that pretty color that washed over his dreams, that causal clothing really did look like it was made to touch Her, and Dean couldn’t believe he was jealous of a fabric-

“What are you doing here.” Her voice still had that haunting, angel-like quality, but it was flat. Bored. Almost dead.

He gave Her a smirk, and he wasn’t sure why it hurt that She barely even blinked back. “Funny, I was just about to ask you the same thing. What could a bitch like you be doing in a place like this?“

Her eyes narrowed, and Dean could’ve sworn She curled a little into her body. “I asked first.”

Dean shrugged. “I asked louder.”

“I- You know what? I don’t care.” She stood a little taller, her voice somehow growing colder. “Whatever you’re up to, stop. This is my hunt. I got here first, I’m handling it, and you’re only going to slow me down.”

Dean let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Ghosts aren’t really gonna respect dibs, sweetheart.”

Her eyes flashed with something Dean didn’t really understand. “They don’t, but I’m not that worried about it, De. Like I said, I’m handling it.”

He glared at Her, ignoring how something in his chest was humming, trying to get Her to call him De over and over again forever. “Sorry,” he drawled Her name, leaning forward and trying not to think about how she didn’t flinch away. How he could smell that same, fruity perfume and sugar from before. “I guess we’ll just have to let the better hunter win.”

She raised Her chin, holding his gaze. “I’m warning you, Winchester. Leave.“

He chuckled. “I’m good, Princess. Think I’ll pass, but trying to warn me was cute-”

“Listen to me.” She hissed, leaning close enough that Dean could pick out every small bump on Her face, isolate every color in Her eyes. “I’m not asking. Go back to Sam and John, tell them you figured it out and it’s done, and get the fuck out of my way.”

Something brittle snapped in Dean’s spine, his jaw clenching as the words pushed out of him like vomit. “Sam’s not with us. He left.”

He didn’t know why the fuck he’d tell Her that. She wouldn’t care. She seemed to hate Dean as much as he hated Her—probably bitter he’d got the up on Her, didn’t want him to mess with whatever scam she was trying to pull on Woodstock—and She’d met Sam twice. He shouldn’t have told Her that, because Dad hated even talking about it. Hell, Bobby barely knew about it. It was family business, and She wasn’t family, and that perfume had to be some sort of pheromone because it was making Dean a freaking dumbass-

“Is he okay?”

Dean blinked at Her, and her expression wasn’t soft, but it wasn’t empty. She didn’t seem like a statue anymore, and whatever was behind Her eyes looked real. Just as real as it had been last year, like there was a whole universe inside of Her that Dean had wanted to explore. To find out what She was made of, and if it was as similar to heaven as it seemed.

It wasn’t. Dean knew that, in his working brain—rather than his heart that stretched for Her and his dick that ached for Her to be just a little closer—She wasn’t heaven. She was temptation in a beautiful form, determined to make Dean weak and pathetic and soft, everything he couldn’t allow himself to be. But he still told Her the truth. His voice lower and without any venom, his body tensed slightly, his brain spinning as the strange look in Her eyes seemed to glow, dragging the words out of him.

“He’s fine. Off at college. Decided he didn’t want-“ Dean cut himself off with a small shake of his head. He wouldn’t be that weak or dumb, exposing a gap in his armor she’d use to make him crumble to his knees. “He was done hunting. Wanted a normal life.”

She was just looking at him. Scanning over him carefully, holding one of Her own hands and just fucking staring, like Dean might be an illusion or his words might be a lie, and She was trying to look for evidence of it.

“That sucks.” She finally said, and it sounded so real. Like She might actually give a shit that Dean was lonely. That Sam had left him. “Sorry.”

“I don’t need your pity, sweetheart-“

“I don’t pity you.” She snapped, Her features growing harsh once more. “I’m saying that fucking sucks, I know you cared about him. I’m apologizing because it’s probably complicated and messy and not all that fun to deal with.”

Dean scowled, something raw snapping along his heartstrings. “I’m doing just fine, Princess. I’ve got my dad, and Sammy’s safe in California. He’s still my brother, and it’s not like he’s fucking dead. So I’m good.”

She raised her brows, an amusement that made Dean’s gut boil written over Her face. “Yeah, you really sound it.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Watch it-“

“Or what.” She hissed, leaning forward until Dean was almost drowning in Her. “You gonna run to John and tell him that the little moroi bitch is bullying you? That you need to hurry up on the hunt, because you can’t stand that I’m going to get this thing all by my fucking self-“

“All by-“ Dean stared at Her. “You’re still hunting alone?”

Her face twisted, her words hushed and furious. “That is none of your fucking business-“

“It is if you’re going to get yourself killed-“

She snorted. “Shut the fuck up. Don’t pretend like you give a shit about me-“

“I give a shit if you end up monster chow.” Dean sneered, pretending something wasn’t cracking along his ribs at the certain, settled hatred in Her voice. “The job is saving people, not choosing who. You try and jump in front of that ghost, I’ll stop you-“

“Please,” She scoffed, narrowing her eyes. “I’d like to see you fucking try.”

Dean’s breathing was ragged. His heart was violent in his chest, and his hands were curled at his side, and She was so fucking infuriating. Dean shouldn’t give a shit about Her, but his skin felt like it was being flayed at the thought of Her in danger or pain, and She shouldn’t sound like she was wounded by being the little moroi bitch, because She was, and Dean wanted to grab Her by the neck and slam his lips to Her’s-

“Stay out of my way, Winchester.” She hissed, still so close, and looking so warm and soft, and Dean was so close to figuring out what the hell that fruit was-

She was gone. She leaned back in a rough, sharp movement—like Dean was a magnet and She was only just strong enough to pull herself away—and just walked away.

He might be stuck here forever—on the edge of the woods outside Woodstock’s haunted house—his body trying to cling to her and his brain trying to erase Her forever. It was something he’d been trying to do for a year, something he’d never managed, and something that was made so much more difficult by the fact that She looked back. That their eyes met one last time, and it was like lightning through his blood.

He would have chased Her in Dad hadn’t called right then. He spent the next two days trying to convince himself he wouldn’t have, but it was a fucking lie. He wasn’t sure what he would have done when he caught Her, but he would’ve chased Her. Rushed after Her and asked why had She lied, why did She look like she wanted to punch Dean when She’d been the one to hurt him, if She had looked back because she could feel it too. Feel the gravity, feel the drug, feel the storm that threatened to consume Dean in Her name. Ask if She dreamt of him, ask if She saw him in shadows, ask if She was a monster and beg her to set him free.

But he hadn’t chased after Her. So it didn’t matter. Dad had picked Dean up—long after She’d been gone, Dean still rooted in place, his head still spinning—and he hadn’t seen Her since, so it didn’t matter. Maybe She’d left. Maybe She’d just skipped town, and Dean would never see her again.

That shouldn’t feel horrible. It should be relieving, the idea that he’d won. That he’d gotten the hunt, gotten Her away from him, gotten a justification for why he hadn’t told Dad he’d seen Her. It would mean that She was gone, and Dean could pretend that had never happened at all. But it still felt like fucking shit, and Dean couldn’t figure out how to stop it. It ate away at his brain as the days blurred together, and they hit dead end after dead end. She remained at least out of sight, Dean still didn’t tell Dad that She’d ever been in town, and the hauntings just fucking stopped. No more lights, no more temperature drops, no more screaming Woodstock.

It couldn’t have been Her. There were no graveyard disturbances, She hadn’t entered the house since their conversation, and it wasn’t like the EMF was gone. On the second day of no activity they’d had broken into Woodstock’s house, checked to see if it was gone, and it wasn’t. It had just stopped haunting.

Dad was losing his mind. He was barely speaking to Dean, shooting down all his ideas, and mostly just reading book after book and grumbling that it didn’t make any goddamn sense. Ghosts just didn’t stop, they still didn’t know who the hell the son of a bitch was, and they couldn’t leave until this thing was dealt with.

Dean suggested drinks—the motel room was starting to feel like a cage, they both needed it, and maybe the answer would be one or two bottles deep—and Dad had grunted an agreement. It was a small victory, but a victory all the same. Maybe Dean could find a woman there to distract from this disaster, distract him from Her-

He didn’t need to be distracted from Her. There was nothing to distract from. Dean might be dreaming about Her still—dreams where he did grab Her and kiss her, She fell to her knees and he went right down with Her, and it was fucking awesome—but She wasn’t anywhere real around him, so it didn’t matter. Every shadow on the darkened street was shaped like Her, but shadows weren’t real. That gravity in Dean’s chest was trying pull and pry Dean open so She could take a look, but that was just an emotion, and Dean wasn’t about to be some sort of pussy about his feelings. The whole bar seemed to smell like that strange fucking fruit and sugar, but Dean could just be losing his mind. The woman in the booth looked exactly like Her, and sat with her knees tucked up like she did, and was wearing the same shirt-

Shit.

“Dad, I don’t feel great, maybe we could-“

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

Dean felt the blood drain from his face. Dad had seen Her. His face was drawn in a scowl, the glare he used during hunts was furrowing at his brow, and there was a glint in his eyes that set everything on edge.

He was fucked. She was going to tell Dad they’d run into each other, Dad would fucking murder him for not mentioning it, and She’d just fuck off and get herself killed with the ghost. Dean didn’t know why that last one felt just as terrifying as Dad’s wrath, but it might actually be worse. Dad wouldn’t actually kill him. He’d get yelled at and probably banned from driving for a month, but Dad would never hurt him.

Dad would hurt Her. He was already stalking over to Her booth—She hadn’t even looked up, which didn’t increase Dean’s faith in Her lone hunting abilities—with white-knuckled fists that would have probably collided with Her face if she wasn’t a chick. Dean barely ran after him in time for them to reach the booth, to stop at Dad’s side right as he slammed his hand on the table.

She flinched slightly as she looked up, and the air around them became wired and electric.

“What the hell are you doin’ here, girl.” Dad lowered himself down to Her eye level as he spat the words out. “Ain’t no way you’re in town just by fuckin’ coincidence.”

She huffed a dry laugh, holding Dad’s gaze as she answered. “Not a coincidence. Just me, having the worst luck in the world.” Her attention finally turned to Dean, he felt alive, and Her words remained just as flat as before. “Hiya, Deano. You look like shit.” She looked back to Dad, her pretty lips curling into a smirk. “You both look like shit.”

“You think you’re smart-“

She snorted, cutting Dad off with a bored grin. “I am smart. Sit down, you’re drawing attention.”

She waved a loose hand around the bar, and She was right. People were wide eyed, watching them nervously, and they didn’t need that. Attention was bad in this line of business. It was downright dangerous. And Dad knew that, so he gave Dean a curt nod to listen to Her, and slid into the booth once Dean was settled across from Her.

It was a little freaking insane, how She only got prettier. How in the low, golden light of the bar she seemed to have a halo around Her head. But it wasn’t real. Nothing about Her was real, and Dean would have to remember that. Dad was real, was looking at Her like she’d tried to key the Impala, and Dean needed to figure out where that hatred for Her had gone and bring it back. Convince Her to skip town—because She’d get in the way, not because the idea of Her being thrown across a room by a spirit made him sick—and cover his own ass, because he was still in danger of Her snitching on him.

But She was hardly looking at him. Her attention was divided between Dad, her own hands, and the neon red, cherry and ice and paper umbrella drink in front of Her-

“Are you drinking a fucking Shirley Temple?” Dean spoke before he could stop himself, and She shot him a glare.

“You got a problem with that, Winchester?”

“Nah,” Dean shrugged, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I just didn’t know you were that much a prissy little princess-“

“They’re good drinks, dick.” She snapped. “It’s called having fun. Something you two buttheads,” She gestured between Dean and Dad. “Clearly know nothing about.”

Dean learned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. “I know plenty about having fun, sweetheart. Some might call me a master at it.“

She snorted. It was freaking adorable. “Some might call you a manwhore-“

“Watch yourself, girl.” Dad snapped, and Dean’s whole body tightened. Everything was rigid from the fury on Dad’s face—all directed at Her, all sick in Dean’s stomach—and raw from Her words.

Manwhore. She wasn’t wrong, and he’d been called a lot worse, but it still stung like a freaking hornet along the cavity of his chest. There was no way for Her to know that, unless Dean’s whole face just screamed lonely. Lonely fucking trash to be used up and forgotten. It didn’t. He was so goddamn careful to ensure it didn’t. Even Dad didn’t know the extent of that pit, so it was impossible for Her to, and why did it feel like She’d just punched him in the gut-

“Listen to me,” Dad hissed Her full name, and it was a low threat that snapped Dean back into his body. “Skip town. This is our case, and we don’t need some fancy brat gettin’ in our way.”

She glanced at Dean, and he almost didn’t catch the small frown on Her face. It was fleeting—barely a flash on Her gorgeous features—but strong. Reaching all the way to Her eyes and filling them with an emotion Dean didn’t understand.

But then it was gone. And when She looked back to Dad her face was in bored and taunting once more.

“I’m hate to break it to you, buddy, but ghosts don’t care about dibs.” Her lips curled into a smirk, and this was it. She was going to rat Dean out, he was dead-

“Lucky for you,” She picked up Her drink and leaned back in her seat. “It’s not a ghost. So maybe if you ask it really nicely, it’ll refuse to be killed by anyone but you.”

Dad scowled. “What the hell are you talkin’ about, girl. This ain’t another moroi thing, this is a fuckin’ ghost-“

“It’s not.” She grinned at them from around Her straw, and shit She had nice lips. They were a little puckered, Dean could still remember how soft they’d been, and they’d probably look even better wrapped around Dean’s-

“Whatever game you’re playin’,” Dad hissed at Her, snapping Dean out of his thoughts. “Cut the shit and say what you mean.”

She hummed, still wearing a bright, mocking grin. “You think it’s a ghost.”

“It is a ghost,” Dean muttered, watching Her carefully. “You’re not stupid, Princess, EMF plus random flying plates equals evil Casper.”

“That’s true.” She dropped Her empty glass on the table, leaning toward with a shrug. “But it’s still not a ghost.”

“You heard Dean, girl, it’s a ghost, plain and goddamn simple.”

“Have you seen it?”

Dean glanced at Dad, and he’d bet a lot of money that their expressions were identical in pure freaking confusion.

“We don’t have time,” Dad grunted, his voice low and edged. “For fucking riddles. You-“

“It’s not a riddle.” She raised her brows, picking a cherry out of the glass. “Have either of you actually seen your alleged ghost? Did Maggie Rose tell you she saw it?”

Maggie Rose. Woodstock. The woman who would’ve definitely seen the ghost by now.

And who hadn’t mentioned it a single goddamn time.

“I’m guessing you haven’t found remains either.” She hummed, picking the cherry off the stem with Her teeth. “And you’ve been looking for who the ghost could be, but you’re not finding anything. You’ve been looking in the wrong place. Poltergeist’s don’t have to haunt the places where they died, and they often have little to no connection with their victims.”

Dad’s eyes narrowed. “This thing ain’t nearly violent enough to be a poltergeist-“

“That’s because it’s been getting enough attention so far. Maggie’s been screaming about it, and it’s found that satisfying enough.” She spun the stem between two fingers, looking between Dad And Dean with a triumphant grin. “Poltergeist.”

Dean was pretty sure Dad was going to leap across the table and strangle Her. His jaw was clenched, his body stiff at Dean’s side, and his words—when he finally spoke—were pushed through his teeth.

“Dean.” He grunted, not looking away from Her. “I have to make a call to your uncle. Deal with her.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean nodded, and Dad slid out of the booth without another word. Leaving Dean.

But not alone.

Dean blinked at Her. Dad was gone, and She hadn’t mentioned that they’d seen each other before. Shit, She hadn’t even mentioned Sam, and his obvious absence. Dad would just chalk that up to Her being a bitch, but Dean was clinging to it. She should’ve said it. She had every reason to. But She fucking hadn’t, and some part of Dean was desperate to know why. To know if it was because the idea of him in trouble made Her feel like her skin was being ripped to shreds. It felt like that for Dean, whenever he was reminded that She hunted alone. Whenever a memory of Her covered in blood flashed through his brain.

And he could still feel it. Feel the electricity in the air that was so different than before. It was charged and tense, but in a way that made Dean feel like he was breathing. He could feel things that didn’t make sense, but they were right. She was right. Across the table, running Her hands over her calves and watching Dean like he might try to take a bite of Her, She still felt like she could fit against him like another piece.

“You’re not going to deal with me.”

Dean frowned at Her. She wasn’t meeting his gaze, poking the paper umbrella around the glass. “What?”

“What your dad said,” She muttered. “He told you to deal with me. You won’t.”

“What makes you think that?”

She finally looked at him. Really looked at him, for the first time since last year. On the curb She’d seen him, but not looked at him. Not like before. Not like that. Where Dean felt like She was seeing right into the pit—how empty and fucking pathetically worthless he was—and filling it up with something peaceful and silver and molten in his gut, like a melted star lighting him up from the inside. He wished it was real. Dean wished, more than almost fucking anything, that he didn’t know that this was part of Her scam or game. That She was looking at him like that because he made Her feel stripped and raw too. Because She saw something in him she wanted, and just kept digging for more without fear of him breaking Her.

But he also wished he wasn’t so fucking lonely that he could care about that. That he could get a hold over himself and just deal with Her. That She wasn’t giving him a strangely soft smile, and he wasn’t caving from how it made his heart freaking glow like a night-light.

“Because,” She said, like it was simple. Like Dean should just know what she meant. “You won’t.”

“I might.” He leaned forward, holding Her eyes on his as he smirked. “You’re putting yourself in danger, Princess. Dealing with you would be the responsible thing to do.”

“Really.” Her voice was dry, disbelieving. “How would you deal with me, Dean Winchester?”

God, She was trying to kill him. She was looking at him like that, and there was a smug smirk on Her full lips, and Dean had spent the last year hating Her but now all he could think about was how the universe that existed in Her eyes, and how he wanted to see every inch of it. Bare skin and brilliant eyes that had been phantoms in is sleep, now real and touchable. He had a million ways he’d like to deal with Her, and all of them started with those blinding fucking eyes. Rolling back in Her head and fluttering under him and sparkling on his. Her voice saying his name like it was more than just a breath, like it was the blood in Her veins-

“I’m afraid that’s top secret, Princess.” Dean dragged himself together to shoot Her a wink, and he could’ve sworn she flushed. “But I’ll tell you if you give me that answer you owe me.”

She gave him a strange look. “We were even.”

Dean shook his head. “You had asked me two questions. I only asked you one.”

There was a small, frowning pout on Her lips, and Dean realized She might be trying to work out if he was lying. He wasn’t. That conversation lived in the corners of his brain all the goddamn time, he couldn’t forget it if he tried. And he had. He’d bet his life that he was right. She’d asked him two questions about Dad and Sam, called him De, and his whole brain had short-circuited. He’d only realized on the drive back, and he’d been planning to use that to try and get Her to do the game again, but-

But She’d been tricking him. A con-woman and spoiled bitch who had been planning to use him. He’d seen the evidence. He knew that’s what was real. That between them, Dean wasn’t the liar.

He should care about that more. He should stand up and leave, or threaten Her to get the hell out of Dad’s way, or at least stop fucking smiling at Her. But She’d nodded, dropping Her knees down to lean closer, and he was drugged on Her voice and smell and face.

And he stayed.

“Fine.” She said, and Dean felt a thrill-like rush through his body. She was so pretty. “Go.”

He didn’t have a question ready. He hadn’t really expected Her to agree. But She had, and now he was staring at Her, trying to find something. Anything at all that didn’t make him look like a gaping dumbass, lost in Her eyes and high on her smell. He should ask everything he’d wanted to scream at Her on the street, and throw in a shout of why the hell didn’t you tell my dad I knew you were here. It didn’t make any goddamn sense that She hadn’t, and Dean needed to know why. That’s what he should ask. He should just freaking ask why.

“Where are you staying?”

Son of a bitch. That wasn’t what he’d meant to ask, now She was staring at him like he was some kind of creep or asshole, and Dean had to figure out how the hell he could justify asking that.

“For the case,” he added quickly, his voice drained of most of the artificial, cocky arrogance he prided himself on. “Ya’ know. In case we need to find you.”

“You won’t.” She said, Her finger running over that scar on her palm. “This is my case-“

“Yeah, and you’ve got it handled.” Dean drawled, raising his brows. “You gonna answer the question?”

She sighed. “Same motel you’re at. Down the road.”

He shook his head. “No, I haven’t seen your car-“

“You remember my car?”

He felt a little heat rush to his face, only worsened by how there was a little, dancing light in Her eyes that was trying to draw him into Her, as if he was only a moth and she was the freaking sun. And of course he remembered that car. It was Her car. He’d felt something seize in his chest every time he’d seen one like it for the last year.

“I like cars,” Dean grumbled—hoping She wouldn’t see it for the half-lie it was—and a small smile pulled at her lips. It looked a little too real.

“Like your dad’s.” She nodded, starting to fish ice cubes out of Her glass. “The Impala.”

It was Dean’s turn to grin. “You remember my car?”

She definitely flushed that time. “Yeah,” She mumbled. “It’s memorable. Shut up and answer my question.”

Dean raised his brows, remained silents, and tried to bait Her into saying it again. It worked.

“You’re such a-“ She cut herself off with a sigh and roll of Her eyes. “How would you deal with me.”

“I’m so glad you asked,” Dean drawled Her name, feeling his grin overtake his face, every bit of his confidence returning—stronger than before—as She swallowed under his gaze. “I’d deal with you however you’d like.”

She blinked at him, and he was certain Her voice was higher than before. “I don’t, um, I-“ She glanced down at his lips, Her tongue poking out between her teeth. Dean wanted to bite it. “What?”

“However you tell me to,” he winked, and She looked like he’d shot her. Good. “I’ll deal with you. My question is how?”

“How-“

“How would you like me to deal with you, Princess?”

Dean was pushing it. Shit, he didn’t even know what he was saying anymore, or why he couldn’t bring himself to sneer at Her, or mock her, or deal with her the way Dad had definitely meant. But he did know that Her eyes were wide and blown out, and Her lips looked soft, and he wanted to know if could get Her to be speechless. To gape at him all needy and dumb, so he could show Her exactly what fire She’d been playing with. That he wouldn’t roll over like a puppy, that whatever spell She’d cast on him—whatever aphrodisiac she’d been using—Dean might not be immune, but he could give better than he got. Maybe he’d get Her to bend enough that She’d admit what she’d been doing last year, and Dean would forgive Her because he didn’t know how not to. Because She was like tattoo on his brain that he didn’t want to get rid of.

Maybe he’d get to keep Her.

Maybe they could start over.

“I…” She trailed off, and Dean wanted to smash his lips to Her slack, open ones and start over. She was still gaping at him with a wide, open expression, and fuck he wanted to start over so bad. Against every bit of willpower and intelligence he had, Dean wanted to give into this strange instinct and start over.

“C’mon.” He drawled Her name, shooting her a wink. “Use some words.”

She glared at him, something hot flashing in Her eyes. “Pass. Ask me a different question.”

Dean scoffed under, dropping his voice to under his breath. “Who’s not fun now-“

“I heard that.”

“Course you did.” He rolled his eyes. “Fine, party pooper. What do you like?”

She blinked at him. "What do I like?"

"Like you said, sweetheart, I like cars." Dean said, trying to make his words sound casual. Like he wasn't desperate to learn everything about Her that she'd offer. "What's your thing?"

"My thing." She said slowly, still looking at Dean like he was insane. "That I like."

He nodded, watching Her carefully, and she frowned into the air as she continued.

"I don't know. Books? Movies and music?"

Dean gave Her an amused, flat look. "C'mon, you can gimme more than that-"

"No, I can't." She snapped. She was really hot when she snapped. "Movies and music is my answer, Winchester, deal with it."

Dean drawled Her name. “Everyone likes movies and music-“

“That doesn’t make it any less important to me.” She said, narrowing her eyes. “How would you like it if I said everyone drives cars-“

Dean scoffed. “They don’t drive them like I do, Princess-“

“And you don’t watch movies and listen to music like I do, Deano.”

He chuckled, raising his hands in surrender. “Alright. Point proven.” He titled his head at Her. “What’s your favorite movie?”

She laughed. A real laugh, and it sounded like music and rain and a soft summer breeze that shot right into Dean’s blood like a drug. “It’s my question, De. But nice try.”

He grinned at Her, clicking his tongue. "Bossy-"

"Shut up." She tilted her head at him, and Dean just grinned. "What's your favorite movie?"

"Untouchables." He said with a shrug. "Your turn."

She just looked at him with a small, teasing grin, and Dean realized she was waiting for him to repeat the question.

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Fine, sweetheart. What's your favorite movie?"

Her face split into a wide, full grin, and God, he was fucked. Nothing in the world seemed to matter more than that smile, and the way it made him feel like he was circling the sun, crashing down to Earth in a ball of fire, and turning to steam as She swallowed him in her gravity. He really didn't give a shit if it was real. Maybe Dean could get himself to be bloody and bright enough to match Her, and she'd feel this too. She'd feel this, and stay, and offer an explanation about last year. An explanation that would prove it wasn't all that bad, and that She was just as fucking empty as Dean was, and he'd fill Her up-

Fuck, he couldn't think that. Not right now, when She looked like that—beautiful in a way that might be deadly—and was smiling at him, and he couldn't get a damn grip and just hate Her. He wasn't supposed to be crashing back up into Her. Dad would be so freaking disappointed that Dean was dumb enough to fall for this act again.

But he was. His jeans felt tight, he couldn't stop grinning at Her, and that siren-like voice kept Dean in her orbit, with absolutely no desire to leave.

She had a million favorite movies. And She hadn't been lying. She watched movies differently than Dean did. Differently that anyone did. He'd never heard anyone use so many big art words in a row, followed by about twenty, very creative swears at a speed he could only describe as frantic. Like if She didn't get Dean to understand exactly why Indiana Jones was the perfect adventure movie, why chick flicks had irreplaceable cultural value, and sitcoms could be the best medium of television, the world might end.

And it should be reminding him that they weren't the same. That Dean was trapped in the mud—he'd been born here, he'd die here, and he belonged here—because it was the only place for things like him. Gut covered weapons, made of rust that would crumble to dust before they made it out alive. And She was just visiting. Using the mud to make Her feel alive or important until she could return to a world of people with ivory and marble who all spoke like this. She was using Dean to do the same, maybe more. Maybe worse. Maybe trying to pry him open and steal what little he had inside him.

But, son of a bitch, She could have it. He'd stay right here with Her for a million freaking years, just as long as She kept smiling and rambling and giggling at Dean's small jokes between Her breathes. Maybe he could take that bite out of Her. Taste sugar and fruit and whatever else he was starting crave. He could take Her flesh and blood and call it even for what She’d done, because She was still so pretty, and Dean felt like he could be valuable under Her bright attention.

He’d repay Her for that bite by offering himself. He'd be that smeared, dulled weapon for Her. He shouldn't be. Dad would kill him. But he wanted to be. He wanted to stay here forever. And when the waitress came over—with plastic tits and syrupy words—he didn't even fully realize until She cleared her throat and jerked her head to the side. Even then he just frowned at Her, a drunken trance of her voice and smile still clouding his attention, because what the hell could possibly be more interesting—more important—than listening to Her talk?

Then the waitress leaned down, almost blocking Her from view, and Dean frowned.

"What?" His voice was irritated, impatient, but he didn't really care. He needed think lady to freaking move, before She somehow vanished like a dream through Dean's fingers, and he was alone again.

"You want anythin' to drink, handsome? The waitress asked, and Dean nodded. He could use a beer—it might help dull the raging wildfire inside him, trying to tear him between his hatred of what he knew She was and the raw, feral instinct to latch onto Her and never let go—and Her glass was almost out of ice cubes. If he got Her another glass, he could keep Her here just a little longer. As long as he could.

"Beer for me," he raised two fingers, pointing between Her and himself. "Virgin Shirley Temple for the lady."

The waitress blinked at him for a second, but got the message. Dean had Her. He didn't need to company of another pretty face, because none of them could be prettier that Her's. Shit, it wasn't even a fair comparison. Leaving this booth for anything—leaving Her for anything—would be like trading a burger for a fucking salad. Insane and pointless.

When the waitress finally moved, She was gaping at him, her words suddenly soft. Almost nervous.

"You, um-" She shook her head slightly. "Thanks."

Dean shrugged. "Not a big deal, you blew through that fancy girl drink in like a second anyway-"

"No, that's not-" She frowned at him, and Dean realized she was touching that scar again. "You remembered. That I don't drink."

"Oh." Dean stared at Her, his tongue almost glued into his mouth, his brain a little warm and soft from Her almost vulnerable gaze. "Yeah."

They were just staring at each other, and all Dean could manage to do was clear his throat, scratch the back of his neck, and force himself to speak.

"You, uh," he swallowed, fidgeting with the cuff of his jacket. "Never mentioned why."

"Why-"

"You don't drink."

"I'm not twenty-one yet, Winchester, I don't think I-" She cut herself off, leaning a little away from Dean with a small frown. He waited, the silence resuming for a long, heavy second that sat and froze in Dean's lungs. She wasn't looking at him anymore, twisting a ring on Her finger, and when She spoke again, her voice had dropped to a mumble. "I want a clear head. It's safer."

"Safer?"

"For our job." She curled a little into herself, like Dean was trying to peel her apart. "I mean, I can't really afford to get drunk. It could end, uh, badly."

Something became sharp over Dean's skin. That wasn't it. It wasn't a lie, but Dean could read it all over Her—he wasn't sure how, but he could—that there was more to it. But that's not why there was a sore prickle rooted in his muscles.

"Because you hunt alone."

She nodded, bringing Her knees up to her chest, and the ache worsened.

"You could drink." He muttered, leaning back with a slight slam of his hand on the table. "If you'd hunt with a partner."

She sighed. "I'm not going to hunt with a partner-"

"Why?"

He'd snapped. He hadn't meant to, but the ache moved to his mouth and he needed Her to understand. To get that hunting alone was fucking dangerous, and would get Her killed, and he cared about that so goddamn much for no real reason. He shouldn't care. But the thought of Her covered in blood make his gut twist and his heart burn in his chest, so She needed to get it. Now.

She narrowed her eyes, finally looking at him. "Why what."

"Why won't you hunt with a partner." He grumbled, holding Her gaze. "What would make that so fucking bad, sweetheart?"

"Because, as I've told you all week, I don't need to.” Her words were firm, dropped to a hushed sneer. "Anyone else would get in my way."

"I haven't even seen you since the freaking house," Dean said Her name with a low huff. "How could that be getting in the way-"

"I'd be fucking babysitting." She hissed. "I don't need a bunch of assholes tell me what to do, how to fight, how to kill something, how to-"

"Be safe?" Dean cut Her off with a sneer. "Not act like you're too good for anyone else?"

"I never said that, you asshole." She was starting to hug herself, and Dean felt ill, but he wouldn't be the one to break. "I am not too good, I just refuse to be a little hunter fuck-doll beating bag."

Dean blinked. "What?”

She sighed in flat, unamused disbelief. "Hunter's don't have great track records with women. I mean, be fucking real, dude. It wouldn't be the monster's that kill me."

"You," he shook his head. "That's- There are assholes out there everywhere, that doesn't mean you just roll over and accept death-"

"So what should I do?" She raised Her brows. "Be your partner? Be you and your father's little fucking toy until one of you puts a bullet-"

She cut herself off, and Dean gaped at Her, fire crawling over his veins.

"I-" She swallowed, and Dean wished he didn't give a fuck how She suddenly seemed so small. "I'm-"

"Do you seriously believe," Dean muttered, unsure if the fire in his voice was for himself, Dad, or how She looked like a wounded animal. "That we'd- Shit, are you fucking kidding me-"

"It's- I-"

"Save it," He snapped. "We are not killers or fucking savage trash-"

"That's not-"

"You listen to me, Princess-"

"No! I just-" She sounded panicked. Cornered. "I’m sorry, I didn't mean it like that, it's complicated-"

He scoffed. "Not that complicated, sweetheart, you think I'm just as bad as that shit we hunt-"

"No I don't-"

"You do," he hissed Her name. "Drop the act. And, just so we're clear, I'd never hurt you-"

She laughed, shaking Her head. "You can't be fucking serious. That’s-“ She tensed, her face twisting slightly as she scratched at Her skin. "You don't get to tell me what I should and shouldn't do, Winchester. You don't get to act like you give a fuck if I hunt alone."

Dean's hand curled into a fist. "Nobody should hunt alone, it's, fuck, it's stupid-"

"I am not stupid-"

Dean huffed a dry laugh. "I got that, Princess. But you know what? I think," he leaned forward, letting the words fall out of his mouth before he could think about them. Before he could stop them. "That you're just too much of a crazy bitch to have anyone stick around."

It was silent, and She was just staring at him, her features moving through a million emotions that Dean couldn't understand. He'd won. She looked like he'd taken a knife right to Her heart, and she wasn't fighting back, so he'd won. And he couldn't fucking breathe. He felt sick, and faint, and freaking awful-

"Choke on my dick, Winchester.” She snapped, but there was something weaker in Her voice. Something that told Dean he’d hit on something fragile. That he was a piece of fucking shit that went for the killing blow because he couldn't help it. Because he was the very fucking, lower-than-the-sewers trash She'd just accused him of being-

He opened his mouth to say something, anything, to take it back or say they'd both gone too far, and he felt like shit and still wanted—despite literally everything—to start over. To at least ask Her to tell him the truth, to at least tell Her how hating her like this made him feel wrong-

But She was gone. She'd left the booth and stomped out the door before Dean could even make a sound, and he just goddamn sat there. She wouldn't come back, but he was still just sitting there. Dad was probably waiting for him, ready to demand a reason why he'd taken so long, but Dean still just sat there. Shit, they might have a poltergeist to deal with, but Dean wasn't freaking moving.

What finally got him was the waitress, making her way back to the table and saying some snide comment about his girlfriend not appreciating him. Dean didn't even spare the woman a look as he shot up, shoved past her, and marched out into the parking lot to find Dad and get the hell out of here. If Dad asked, Dean would say he'd taken care of it. Not of Her—She'd looked like he'd torn Her to shreds with his teeth—but the situation. She'd probably be gone by morning, not wanting to be anywhere near two mud and gut covered hunters. Near Dean.

Dad was still on the phone when Dean saw the Impala. Sitting in the front seat with a frown, the windows rolled down to combat the flat heat of air, speaking in a low, gruff voice to whoever was on the other end of the line.

"I don't care," he was muttering as Dean approached, his voice carried on the wind. "I can get the asshole no problem, Bobby, the poltergeist ain't my issue."

It was a poltergeist. If Bobby said it was a poltergeist, it was a poltergeist. She'd been right. And as Dean got closer, Dad obviously couldn't see him in the shadows, so he should probably say something to alert Dad that he was here

"Obviously it's the fuckin' girl." Dad snapped, and Dean froze. "Shit, she just shows up again? On another weird fuckin' case, bein' right about what it is, sinkin' her claws into Dean-"

Dad stopped talking—Bobby was probably saying something Dean couldn't hear—and Dean's breathing was shallow. He shouldn't be eavesdropping. Dad would kill him, and he just shouldn't. He trusted Dad, and if this wasn't something Dad wanted to hear, it wasn't something he had to hear. But She hadn't sunken Her claws into him. She'd just scratched him over his brain and scarred him, but Dad couldn't see that. She just haunted him, and drove him mad, and made him want to-

"She's the one Dean's obsessed with."

Dean frowned. He was not obsessed with Her.

"She's a hunter alright. That moroi case me and the boys worked-" There was a small pause. "Yeah, moroi. Freakin' nasty little vampire baby shits. She-" Dad huffed, and Dean could hear the muffled sound of Bobby's voice. It sounded urgent.

Then Dad said Her full name into the speaker, and Dean could hear his frown. "You heard of her, Bobby?"

Bobby must have said no—there was no reason for him to know Her—but whatever he did say made Dad's hands grip the wheel with white knuckles.

"The hell you mean you have to go- Bobby-" John groaned, the click of his phone being closed snapping through the air and Dean swallowed. The call was over. Time to pretend he wasn’t a piece of fucking shit that had been invading Dad's privacy.

Dean moved out of the shadows and opened the car door, Dad barely waiting for him to be seated before he started talking.

"We got a poltergeist." He grunted, turning on the engine. "Let's go."

Dean blinked. "Go? Like, now?"

"Damn right, now." Dad shot him a raised brow. "Why, you fuckin' waiting for somethin'-"

"No, sir." Dean shook his head, and Dad nodded, still watching him carefully.

"You take care of the girl?"

"Uh, yeah." Dean hated that the words tasted rotten in his mouth. "She's gone."

Dad nodded. "Remember, son. No pair of tits are worth more-"

"Then family." Dean finished. He'd heard that sentence enough to recite it in his sleep. It didn't matter. She didn't matter. Dean felt like a fucking asshole, but She didn't matter. "I know, Dad."

"Good." Dad muttered, pulling out of the lot. "Let's kill this fuckin' poltergeist and get the hell out of here."

—————————

Bobby doesn't know you're here. He thinks you're in Louisiana still, dealing with the kelpie.

You're not. You're in Illinois. Trying something on a poltergeist.

You'll tell him when you get home. Explain that you'd just wanted to test your ghost ritual again, and if you'd told that him before, he would've snapped that testing that stuff was dangerous, and the thing had already worked once, so there wasn't any goddamn reason to risk it again.

And he was right. The rituals and spell and curses that had started to come to you in the dead of night—when it was just you and the White in the world, and the darkness became consuming—weren’t exactly safe to test on hunts. Not because of the rituals themselves, but because of the exposure. The danger of using magic where you could be discovered by another hunter. But you had to test them. You didn't know where they were coming from or how to stop them, but they always worked. You wake up and know that, if you said all these words and mixed these things together, you could make a veil between dead spirits and the living. A barrier that didn't kill the ghosts, but stopped them. A blockade that could be torn down, but bought you plenty of time and minimized any casualties.

It was why Bobby wasn't stopping you. He insisted you stay far away from other hunters, and update him after every test to make sure you hadn't blown yourself up or worse, but he wasn't trying to hold you back. Convince you to just drown in the darkness until it eroded the White, and you lost control forever. But he still wouldn't be happy about the second test. And you could've justified it by pointing out that this was actually a poltergeist, so you'd had to figure out how to alter the ritual, but then you saw the Winchester's Impala in your motel parking lot.

Which meant this it would be stupid to keep working the case. It meant you were in danger, because they were probably hunting the same poltergeist you were trying to do magical experiments on.

Worse, it meant Dean was here.

And you're going to fucking scream.

He'd never left your brain. You haven't stopped moving, you never stop moving, but Dean has followed you everywhere. Into your head every second, still circling around his handsome face and pretty face and beautiful smile. Into the darkness when it started to slip out of you, fueled by an echo of unworthy and sick, edged with the phantom feeling of his body at your side.

He was in countless, lonely motel beds where you looked to the side and expected him to be there. He was on the curb when you were covered in grime and monster guts, and you looked up to find the shadow above you only a shadow. He was in your bag, because you’d never thrown out his shirt. It didn’t smell like him anymore—he was there too, in wet grass in the spring and the spice of cheap aftershave on a man in a bar—but you were still holding onto it. Holding onto Dean.

You weren’t sure what could make you let go. You’d even started to fish for information about him from Bobby with careful questions about the Winchesters. What they usually hunted, so you could avoid them. What Sam and Dean were like, in case you ever ran into them, so you’d know what to expect. If they always hunted with John, or if they ever went off on their own. Bobby would always give you a strange look and a short answer—whatever they ran into, they’re good boys in the same shit situation as every other hunter, and John never let them hunt alone—but you’d pieced more from what you already knew. Sam hated hunting, and Dean loved it, their relationship with John was complicated—you could’ve gotten that one yourself—and Dean was what Bobby called eager with women.

He slept around. He’d probably been trying to sleep with you, and given up when he realized that you weren’t easy. That you were tired and rough and so, so angry all the time. That you might be beautiful, but the same was a thunderstorm is beautiful. The same was a statue is beautiful.

Something you shouldn’t touch. Something you shouldn’t try to hold, even for a night.

Something that wasn’t worth Dean Winchester time. Something he’d seen, turned away from, and then left you. He’d left you because he’d seen you for what you were, and he hadn’t wanted anything from you in the first place, but he’d still fucking left you. And you hated him for that, because you’d been ready to offer him whatever he wanted. Against all reason and logic and caution, you’d wanted him more than you could describe.

And against all your willpower, you couldn’t let go of him. Because you’d seen the Impala in the parking lot—the one you’d been searching for on every highway, in every small town and city—and the force of Dean is here had hit you like a hurricane. Everything had felt so fucking big, and you couldn’t hold onto the darkness in your body as your breathing became heavy and you attempted to keep yourself together. Nails digging into your skin as the wind howled through your room, the peeled paint on the walls cowering from you as your attention became vigilant, everything crashing back down into you when you bit down, and a lightbulb shattered across the room.

You’d avoided him. You’d hidden in crowds on the street when you saw him, and ducked behind shelves when he entered the corner store. You’d kept your shades angled so you could see the parking lot, and pushed down the way the White howled at the sight of him coming and going. You’d planned to handle the hunt in silence, and then just go.

The house owner was a sweet hippy who agreed to let you do the ritual when you told her she had the aura of a swan. You’d give it a few days after to ensure the barrier could hold, get rid of the poltergeist for good, and then leave without the Winchester’s ever even knowing you were here.

Then you’d seen Dean in the woods, and you couldn’t resist talking to him. He’d seen you anyway, so there wasn’t anything left to lose. And he’d still been so pretty, and your knees still felt weak, and the White still whined for him no matter how much of a dick he was being. It was insufferable, you’d left with darkness eating at your blood, and you’d looked back. You couldn’t stop looking back. Every time you had run on the street you’d turned around to see if he was frowning in adorable confusion around the busy sidewalks. When he was in the parking lot you’d checked to see if he was still pretty, even though you knew he would be. Of course he would be. He was an asshole like that.

You’d looked back outside of the poltergeist house because you had to. You had to see if he was real or just another flickering dream, and you couldn’t resist the desire to see him—staring at you on the street and suffocating you with that same smell from last year—one more time. It’s why you hadn’t skipped town right after. It’s why you’d stayed so long in the bar. You just fucking had to. You could fight against his winks and grins and smooth words, making you smile when you hated him, making you laugh when you should’ve been running. It had seemed—for whatever strange reason—that Dean hadn’t told John you were here, but he definitely knew now, and you were certainly in very real danger. But Dean had carved you open again, and you’d stayed in that stupid booth until he’d given you a good reason to leave.

And it was a great reason. It would’ve been kinder to shoot you in the temple than say that. At least he would’ve killed you, and you wouldn’t have had to wage this war in your body. The war between your hatred of him, and how you want to go back. He’s such a fucking asshole, but you still want to turn around and go back. To ask him why he left, why he cares, how he seems to know your every raw nerve and if he's still feels this too. If he felt it before.

You don't really want to know that last one. Because if he felt it before, that means he felt it and left. That he can feel it now and hates you for it.

Because he does hate you. If it wasn't in his words, it was all over his face. How he’d laughed like you were just a silly little girl. How he’d looked right into you like he could see the darkness. How he’d grinned at you like a wolf, like he wanted to rip you apart. He sees what you are, and he despises it.

And you were fine with that. You despise him. He was an arrogant, smug, dickish, charming, controlling, annoying, handsome, caring, selfish, funny, sexy, adorable, funny, strong, sweet-

God fucking damnit. He was an asshole. He'd left you, he hated you, and you wouldn't fall for the cowboy-in-shining-leather thing again. You were going to take care of this poltergeist now, and leave town right after. Dean and John could be here another week trying to figure out if it was even dead for all you cared. You just had to go. Before this all got worse.

You've barely parked when your phone starts to buzz. You don’t look at the contact when you decline it—you don’t have the time—but then it just starts buzzing again.

It’s Bobby.

You still don’t answer. If he’s in danger, he wouldn’t call you. If it’s an urgent question, he can handle it himself. If it’s a non-urgent question, he can wait for this to be done. If he was dying-

You almost pick up the phone. The thought flashes through your brain, a small stone grows in your throat, and you reach for the phone with a frantic movement. You’re about the dial him back when the first message comes through, and you sigh in relief.

You better call me back now, kid, we need to talk.

Not dying. Can be dealt with later. You’ll call him back when you’re done, because this will be quick, and you’ll get through it. You always do.

You’d convinced the homeowner to get out of town for a few days, to stay with her sister until you were done. The purification ritual was in the trunk of your latest stolen car—you’d meddled with the ingredients, giving it an extra kick—and this would be quick.

There’s no blur as you start. You’re alert for your barrier to break—keeping in iron poker in your hands—but there’s no disturbance, so you just go through the motions. The basement is finished in five minutes, the first floor in ten, and you’ve only got two bags left when glass shatters downstairs, and the blur starts to cloud your head. Something cracked in the ritual, maybe because you’re almost done, but now you have to fight-

“Dean, you got the guns?”

You freeze as John Winchester’s voice sounds from down the stairs, and everything becomes too sharp. There’s a creaking sound from downstairs, the darkness is starting to spread up your spine and over the white popcorn ceilings of the house, you’re fucked, and the White is reaching out to-

“I got it, Dad, but I thought poltergeists-“

“Son of a bitch wants attention.” John snaps over Dean, and you might crush the bag in your hand. “We’re gonna give him some until he shows himself, and we find the asshole’s remains and burn them.”

This is bad. That’s not how poltergeists work at all—you’re a little shocked John thinks it is—and they’re going to fuck up your barrier, and you can’t tell them they’ll fuck up the barrier or John will turn one of those guns on you-

“Is the hippy chick home?” Dean asks, snapping you out of your panic as the White howls inside you. “I can deal with her while you take care of-“

“No need. Car ain’t in the driveway.” There’s a pause, and you can hear them shuffling downstairs. “Plus I know how you deal with the vics, Dean. We don’t need that right now.”

Something’s bitter in your mouth that has no right to be there, and no right to vanish at Dean’s grumbled words.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Dad-“

“I don’t care how you meant it. Focus up so we can get this shit done.”

There’s another few muffled sounds, an unmistakable click of a gun, and you’re moving before you think better of it.

“Stop!” You’re almost shrieking—dropping the poker and shoving your last two bags into your pockets as you run down the stairs—and barely stop your body from colliding with Dean’s in the entrance hallway.

“What the fuckin’ hell are you doin’?!“ John’s roar makes you flinch, his rifle aimed right at your head. You take a stumbling step back as darkness wraps around your hands and your heart kicks into a rapid, frantic rhythm you can hear in your ears. John can see you. He’s going to kill you. You going to die, and they’ll burn your body, and shit you never called Bobby but the darkness is going to burst out of you and John’s going to kill you-

A hand steadies you by your shoulders, grass and spice and leather ease the darkness down, and you wish you didn’t relax into the warmth of behind you, that the pretty, rolling voice a little over your head didn’t soothe your panic.

“Woah, Dad, it’s just-“ Dean says your name, and John scoffs, not lowering his gun.

“I know who it is, Dean, that ain’t my issue.” John’s eyes narrow on you, hatred painted all over his face. It’s worse than Dean’s somehow. There’s something pure about it, like John didn’t have to look into you to see what an atrocity you are. He just senses it. “Why the fuck are you here, girl.”

“I’m hunting my poltergeist.” You snap, forcing your voice to sound angry and not terrified, your face to be a mask of annoyed and not painted in dread. “What possible other reason could I have.”

“Could be looking at real estate.” Dean mumbles with a shrug, and he’s still touching you. You can’t help but glance back as you jerk away from him, and the expression on his face is unreadable. Guarded but cautious, like when he’d watched you and John snap at each other in the booth. Like he’s waiting for a bomb to go off. “I hear this is a good neighborhood.”

You give him a flat look. “This house is haunted.”

He shoots you a wink, clearly fueled by you not just ignoring him. “Won’t once we’re done with it-“

“Once I’m done with it.” You narrow your eyes at him. “This is my hunt, Winchester. I was here first.”

“Poltergeists don’t respect dibs, Princess.” Dean snaps. “And you don’t even have a freakin’ gun.”

“I don’t need a gun-“

Dean lets out a dry, shouting laugh. “I take back what I said earlier, you are stupid if you’re about to try and kill this thing without a freakin’ gun-“

“You’re stupid if you think I’m just going to let you fuck this up-“

“We’re saving your ass from getting whacked by a poltergeist, some gratitude might be nice-“

“You’re getting in my fucking way-“

“You’re-“

“Enough!” John’s shouts over Dean, and you both freeze. You hadn’t realized you’d been shouting, or how close Dean had gotten. You can see his every freckle, every shade of green in his eyes, how his lips are slightly parted so his breath fans over your face-

“I don’t want you two talkin’ unless it’s telling me where the poltergeist is.” John hisses, and you force your body away from Dean’s. “We’re killin’ this thing right fuckin’ now, got it?”

Dean nods, bowing his head slightly, and you just glare at John. All you have to do is get upstairs place the last two bags, and you’ll be fine. If agreeing to work with them does that, you’ll do it.

You split up. John goes to the basement, Dean takes the first floor, you rush upstairs. The bags are in your pants, and you’re so close, but John and Dean are waving around guns and talking about ganking the poltergeist, and it can definitely fucking hear them. The paintings shake on the walls as the temperature drops, and it’s trying break through. You get the first bag just as the lights begin to flicker, and you sprint down the hall to the last wall. Just one more and it will be done, and you can leave-

“Fuck-“ Dean shouts right as you reach the spot, and your blood goes cold. “Dad! It’s on me- shit-“

Then he roars your name, and you’re moving before you can think. Grabbing the poker, half-falling down the stairs, and reaching Dean just as his gun is yanked out of his hands by nothing at all. His eyes widen as they meet your, his mouth opens to say something and-

“Dean!” You can barely hear your own scream as he flies across the room, his head knocking on the counter.

His body slumps, and you’re not in a blur. This is a rush. Everything is wide around you, there’s an airy chill in your lungs, and the darkness is pouring out of you as the lights grow too bright and the windows bang on a windless night. The darkness starts to ignite over your hands—a phantom flame you’re not sure is real, burning and stinging at your skin—you whirl around, and, on instinct alone, shove the air. There’s a high, shrill, horrible sound of pain as the air goes up in flames, and then it all comes down. The room grows warm, the house goes quiet, and the darkness returns to you without a fight.

And Dean’s still slumped on the floor.

“Dean!” You fall to your knees at his side—rolling his face to the side, grabbing his hand to take a pulse—and only notice John as he silently joins you, taking Dean’s face between his hands with a set jaw.

You don’t know how long he’s been there.

You don’t know what he saw.

“What the hell-“

“Poltergeist.” You whisper, watching John examine Dean’s head. “Threw him across the room.”

John scowls. “You just let this shit happen-“

“I didn’t- I got the asshole.” You hiss, clawing at the skin near your nail until it stings. “House purification ritual, which I was already doing before! Nothing would’ve happened at all if you didn’t jump in with fucking guns-“

“Just-“ John raises his hand, and you fall silent. You’re still holding Dean’s hand. You don’t let it go.

“He’s okay.” You mumble, mostly for yourself. Mostly to fight the bile in your throat at the sight of him, sweaty and pale, not bleeding but moving, eyes fluttering but not waking up. “He’s gonna be okay.”

You almost miss John’s strange look. You almost forget about the axe over your head, and how he might know what you are. All you can really think about is Dean. You barely hear John order you to stay here while he grabs the car, and it feels a little pointless. You would’ve stayed here no matter what.

He’s groaning. Dean keeping making low noises of pain, and his hand keeps flexing in yours, but he’s breathing. Shallow breathes, but he’s breathing. And he’ll be okay. He has to be okay. It’s just a Poltergeist, not even a strong one, and he’s young and strong, and he’ll be okay. Your breathing has become a little uneven, and you can feel the White rioting and bellowing inside you as he shudders slightly, but he’ll be okay. You won’t let him not be. He feels clammy when you press your hand to his brow—your fingers brush his hair, and it’s soft, and that’s not important but you’re going to think about it for a million years—so you shrug off your own jacket and toss it over his body. He’s still holding onto you, so you don’t drop his hand. When John gets back you loop his arm over your shoulders, your own arm around his waist, and haul his dead-weight up until John grabs the other side.

When you reach the Impala—you working in silence with John to slide him carefully into the backseat—he clings to you. John drops his arm and it shoots over your stomach, his head falling onto your chest as he makes another low grunt of pain. And there’s such little color on his face, and he’s still shuddering when you move the jacket back over him, and you could fix this. You’ve never healed anyone before, but you could. You can feel the darkness moving into the tips of your fingers and over your heart as Dean takes a stuttered breath, and you have to-

“Get out.”

You look up and find that John has walked around the car and opened your door. “I-“

“Leave.” John grunts, not even sparing you glance as he speaks. “Now.”

You shake your head, and it’s a weak movement. There’s that feral instinct of survive still in your bones, but it’s not bigger than Dean. Nothing’s bigger than Dean. “No, I-“

“I ain’t askin’-“

“It’s not up to you-“

“My car. My rules.” John’s words sound pushed through his teeth. “Out.”

“I,” you swallow, glancing back down to Dean. “I could help-“

“You’ve done enough.“

“I could fix him!” You shout, and your sounds pleading. You feel like you’re pleading. It’s pathetic, and you don’t care because Dean makes a low, strained noise and you feel like you’re choking. “I could-“

“Listen to me very fuckin’ closely.” John sneers your full name, finally lowering down to meet your gaze. “The out of my fuckin’ car, and stay the hell away from my son. I don’t need you fixin’ him, because he’s not broken, and if he was the last thing he needs is some high horse brat making him weak.”

There’s a high ringing in your ears, and your voice is soft. “I-“

“He’d be fine if you hadn’t interfered with our work.” John snaps. “You’re out of your little pond, girl, and if I ever see you distractin’ Dean or fuckin’ with his brain again, I’ll put a bullet in yours. Got it?”

You nod, something vast and numb spreading over your chest as you carefully climb out of the car—making sure not to disturb Dean, or make his head worse—and leave John without another word. But you look back. You can’t help yourself from turning and watching the Impala pull away, from digging your nails into your skin as you cling to yourself until their headlights vanish around a corner.

You’re already packed. Everything’s in your car—clothing, tools, books, makeup and hygiene products, first aid kit—and you could just drive out of town, but you don’t. You toss the last purification ritual bag into the truck, sit behind the wheel, just stare into the darkness.

You need to call Bobby. You need to go. John wouldn’t kill you with an injured Dean to care for, but he’d seen. He had to have seen. And not leaving now would be a death sentence.

But you just sit in the car. Sit in the cancerous darkness that’s alight in your body, the image of Dean’s pained features burned into your eyes, flashing in front of you whenever you blink. All that boiling hatred for Dean is gone. Evaporated into thin air, leaving you ill and pained and empty. John was right. You hadn’t been fast enough, and Dean got hurt. Your barrier against the poltergeist made it violent, and Dean got hurt. You’re the sick one. It’s why he left to begin with.

He was better for it. He didn’t need you—no one needed you—and John’s threat hadn’t been empty, so you need to drive away and never look back.

And yet you end up in the motel parking lot. Hunched in your seat as you wait for just a little proof that Dean’s okay. That you hadn’t held him and shattered him, like he’d shattered you. You’re there until the sun breaks the sky, until it’s beating over your head and you have to crack the windows.

You’re there when your phone starts to ring, and you realize you’d forgotten to call Bobby.

You’ve barely picked up when he starts shouting, and you flinch away from the speaker.

He uses your full name. First, middle, and Singer. He only uses your full name when he’s proud of you, or furious. And this feels more like the latter. You’re in trouble.

“You wanna tell me,” he hisses. “Why John fuckin’ Winchester knows who you are?”

“I, uh-” You swallow, twisting a ring with your thumb. “I don’t-“

“And I ain’t gonna buy your bullshit, kid, that shit doesn’t work on me.”

You sigh. “Bobby, look-“

“No, you look. I didn’t teach you to be a goddamn idjit dumbass,” he snaps your name, and you curl a little further into your seat. “You know what he’d do to ya’. Shit, what are you plannin’ on doin’ if you have a slip? If he sees that hoodoo shit happen?”

“Um, he might have already seen it.”

There’s silence on the other end for a long second, then a low, “What.”

“We just finished a poltergeist case.” You mumble, hoping he’s too angry to catch onto the why are you on a poltergeist case part. “And it attacked Dean. And I killed it.”

Bobby says your name slowly. “How the hell did ya’ kill a-“

“With my hands. I just, um, burned it.” You take a long breath. “And I think John saw.”

“And he just let ya’ off the fuckin’ hook-“

“Dean got hurt.” You whisper, and the words sting your tongue. “He was focused on that.”

“Balls.” Bobby mutters, and you can picture the frown on his face. “Well, you’re outta there now, we can-“

“No.” You sigh. “I can’t go, I have to-“ You cut yourself off, because it sounds stupid in your head. You do not have to make sure Dean’s okay. He hates you, everything logical in your brain says that you should be remembering how to hate him any time soon, and he’s not yours tocare about. John made that clear with his threat. Dean made it clear by leaving. But you’re still in the parking lot. And you still have to make sure Dean’s okay.

Bobby says your name through the phone, his voice slow. “You gonna tell me what happened last year. On that moroi hunt.”

“I ran into the Winchesters-“

“I ain’t slow, kid, I worked that part out. What happened that made you call me and flop around the house like a widowed fish for a week.”

You bring your knees up to your chest, shaking your head. “It’s… I can’t-“

“What if I ask if that was Dean’s shirt.” Bobby grunts. “That you were wearin’.”

“Yeah.” You drop your head back on the seat, letting out a heavy exhale. “It-“

You freeze, watching Dean finally step outside like he’s been summoned. He’s walking slowly, but walking, and he seems really okay, and he’s looking around the parking lot with a frown-‘

Shit.

You drop down in your seat, out of the view of the parking lot, and pray he didn’t see you.

“Bobby, I gotta-“

“You ain’t goin’ anywhere, we still got some shit to sort out-“

“I’ll come right home.” You keep your voice hushed, in case it could carry on the wind. “And you can yell at me there.”

Bobby sighs. “I wasn’t gonna yell-“

“Yeah you were-“

“No-“

“Lying is a sin, Bobby.” You smile, carefully pulling the car keys out of your jacket. “You’re not a very good role model-“

“Well, I’m gonna fuckin’ yell at ‘ya now!” He snaps, but you can hear the slight amusement in his voice. “Get home quick, and we’ll deal with this. John don’t know you’re with me, and unless Dean needs a week after your hunt-“

“I think he’s fine.” You mumble, craning your head up to see Dean gone from the lot. “I’ll be safe at home.”

“Not if I kill ya’ for pullin’ this shit on an old man.” Bobby grunts, and you grin he falls silent, a long moment of static before- “You okay, kiddo?”

“I’m okay.” You mumble, and you’re not, but you will be. You always are. “And I’m really sorry for-“

“Apologizin’ ain’t gonna help us,” Bobby mutters. “Get home, and keep outta trouble till we sort this.”

You nod. “I will.”

You’ll try. Dean’s still pulling at you in your chest and consuming your head, but you’ll try. If only for Bobby’s sanity, you’ll really try.

You’ll pretend you don’t stay in the lot for a minute longer to watch Dean walk back to his room, that you don’t glance back at the room as you drive away, and you’ll keep yourself away of trouble.

Away from Dean.

End Note: I’d say this story is about to be John vs Bobby on who’s a better dad, but that would be like making a mouse (John) fight a dragon (Bobby).

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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izurelia · 2 days ago

Text

MIDNIGHT RAIN

p a r t 1

wc: 937

warnings: fluff, a little bit of angst

•••

it was the first day of summer, school had ended about three hours ago, and all you had done was sit on the doc in your backyard. as you let the wind blow through your long blonde hair, you took in the true beauty of the outerbanks. but your thoughts were interrupted by a call.

you picked up your phone and read the caller id: rafe 🤍. you quickly clicked the green button on your phone.

"hey, what's up?"

"are you coming with us?"

"coming where, exactly?" you laughed as you swayed your feet on the edge of the doc.

"to the boneyard, obviously. dont tell me you forgot, we've been talking about this all day!" there's a faint hum in the back ground of music and a running car.

"also me and kelce are already here, we're gonna pick top up on the way back."

"seriously rafe! i'm not ready im on the doc right now." you say as you quickly stand up, walking back to your house.

"well hurry up princess, we don't have all night." and with that he hung up, causing you to let out a groan as you walked back to your house.

•••

after about 15 minutes you were dressed and ready, wearing a short jean skirt and a red lacey tube top paired with birkenstocks. you quickly made your way over to the car and opened the passenger door, throwing your purse onto the car floor.

"the fuck are you wearing?" rafe turns to you, giving you a disgusted look.

"whats wrong with it? it's cute." you say, furrowing your eyebrows. rafe's mouth slightly drops, looking at you as if you were the most stupid person on earth.

"whats wrong with it? it looks like your wearing a fucken' napkin!" he slightly yells. "you're not goin' out like that." he turns the car off, waiting for you to get out and change.

you scoff and stare at him in disbelief. "i'm not changing rafe, it's already seven! can we please just go!"

"y'know what- fine. but your wearin' this." he takes his jacket from the backseat and shoves it into your chest. you reluctantly take the jacket, rolling your eyes at him and turn to face out the window.

rafe sighs, feeling sorry for yelling. "i'm sorry. i didn't mean to yell, okay? you want aux?" he holds the cord up for you even though you weren't facing him.

"no."

he furrows his eyebrows, confused. "come on, baby. you always want aux." he places his hand on your bare thigh. you turn to face him, seeing the sorry look on his face and giving in.

you try to compress the smile creeping through your lips, but it's almost impossible. "fine." you give in, reaching for the cord and plugging it into your phone.

"knew you couldn't stay mad at me for too long." he smirks, kissing your cheek as you choose a song.

•••

during the party you distanced yourself from rafe, mostly hanging out with sarah and some of your shared friends.

the group of girls talking about boyfriends, crushes, ect. you mostly stayed quiet though. you had never had a boyfriend. yes, you had kissed people and you weren't a virgin. but the boys never stayed around long enough. you didn't know why. you always thought it was something you did.

"so scarlett, you and rafe together?" your friend lucy asked with a smirk on her face as she raised her eyebrows up and down, eliciting a few laughs from the group. "no, no. we're just friends." you smiled sweetly at her, though she didn't seem to believe you.

"you sure? cause the way he looks at you... god i would die for a man to look at me that way." she sighs turning to look at rafe who was engaged in a conversation with topper and kelce.

"yeah, im sure."

•••

after a few more hours the party started to die down, you met with rafe so that he could drive you home. "hey." he greeted you, wrapping and arm around your shoulder. you smiled up at him, relaxing under his touch.

"why don't you spend the night at mine? it pretty late and i don't want to wake up your mom." he suggested, already knowing what your answer was.

"yeah, i'm fine with that." it was normal for you to spend the night at tanney hill, whether you were with sarah or rafe, you were constantly there.

when you arrived at the house you made your way up to rafe's room, throwing yourself onto his king size bed. you immediately melted into his navy sheets, his cologne embracing you. he threw an old t-shirt at you, telling you to get changed.

you made your way into his bathroom, changing then taking off your mascara. you went back into his room and climbed into bed next to him, snuggling into his embrace.

your head rested on his soft-but-hard chest and your legs became tangled with his. he loved this. these moments where it was just you and him. he may not be able to have you as his girlfriend, but he got to have you as his bestfriend. and he dreamed of the day you gave in, letting him have you as truly his.

you quickly drifted into sleep as rafe placed a kiss on the top of your head and snapped a quick photo, one that he'll probably post later. mostly to remind all the boys on the island who you really belonged to.

a/n: i did not proof read one bit!! next chapter coming soon...!

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zaycheese · 1 day ago

Text

Mmm Oc Art

I didn't realize till later how fucking zoomed out it is till now but hopefully the text is somewhat visible anyway

Close ups!

Batshit insane ramblings under the cut!

My beautiful blue child whom I love

Sorry anyone who has been around me the past three days has been subject to me randong about photosynthesis in animals due to me going "I wanna make a guy who can do photosynthesis and also control light waves to a certain extent."

Everyone appreciate my Amphibious daughter rn, I could go on for like a straight up hour about all my scifi sciencey bullshit about how this species developed and what their environment is like. (I get more excited about that than the actual character I fear)

I have so many thoughts but I'm really bad at expressing them but behold my shitty Star Trek oc fan made alien guy I suppose

Basically they are an amphibious species that evolved in water with low levels of oxygen, this caused them to have a symbiotic relationship with a species of algae that found its way into their cells and consumed the nitrogenous waste from mitochondria, while producing oxygen in the eggs allowing them to continue to grow. (See Yellow Spotted Salamander for real life instance of this.)

Over time they evolved into quite the apex predators mostly living in water, but due to shifts in the planets climate and atmosphere they became land animals and build civilizations close to the water.

The star system they are in is pretty far out of federation space so a different alien species native to their solar system lands on their planet before they are NEARLY evolved enough and due to the planets rich resources in being a largely tropical environment they set up outposts there

Because of this the species (Who I'm tentatively calling the Z'oldar) never really evolved their own technology, trading and utilizing other species in their quadrant, and civilization migrated largely to the mountainous regions of the planet where outposts were located for work and better access to the goods brought into this planet

Long and short of it K'prin works at one of these outposts as a bartender for most of their adult life, having been raised by the workers there, when the Borg show up and totally fuck up the whole (Already technologically limited, compared to the federation anyways) solar system and start assimilating Z'oldar outposts first, K'prin manages to find their way into a small impulse shuttle craft that was definitely stolen from the Federation like a solid 15 years ago and got traded to this side of the galaxy.

With absolutely 0 flying skills, Borg related chaos and an old ass shuttle head together with scrap metal, K'prin totally the course and it is left with 0 rations and minimal life support drifting through space when suddenly (for the plot okay guys listen) a wormhole opens up near by and sucks then it, leaving her in weird worm hole time stasis for like 10 years before spitting her back out in the dead center of Federation territory

Who then logically freak the fuck out cause how the fuck did a unidentified ship on IMPULSE POWER get this far into federation territory, and why.

Anyways theres more but I realized this is hella long already and I kinda feel bad for any unsuspecting mutual who just happens to click on the read more. I'll explain more if anyone asks and can go into more detail about K'prin specifically, I have so many thoughts, character ggrrr

#zayspeaks #zaydraws

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glassladyoftheopera · 12 hours ago

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In Stars and Time as a Musical Follow Up: Costumes

Okay, a topic I may have enough thoughts on to make a full post about; costumes! (and a little bit stage craft in some places.)

This is mostly about what people would do if they wanted to actually put on a live version of this, versus treating it like a concept album. I am however going to mostly ignore cost restraints outside of like, truly ridiculous stuff.

So first, some general notes.

The color palette: we will still have all of the costumes and sets be in grayscale, with the red used in the 'say it's name' and Act 5 sequences probably mostly being done through lighting. We will not have the actors use skin paint though. I'm not that mean. The audience can buy the idea that the world is meant to be black and white just fine without it.

Materials: I would avoid overly synthetic looking fabrics to maintain the 'vaguely fantasy medieval' vibe, but I wouldn't worry about using actual natural fabric. Comfort and cleaning are higher priorities.

Ensemble: Not much to say about them! Just that the production would have to be careful to make sure everyone is in truly neutral grayscale and not let too warm / cool of grays slip in.

Okay, let's talk characters.

Siffrin is tricky basically every option for interpreting the cloak has it's own pros and cons. Having sleeves means better movement options for the actor, but they only show up in a handful of images in the game. Full poncho means we get Full Triangle Vibe, but it would hamper movement a lot. Cloak with a pinned closed front means we see more of the rest of the costume more often, which I wouldn't mind, but it does break up the classic triangle silhouette. It's honestly still my pick though. Then there's the eye patch. I know some shows just give characters eye patches, and as long as you're careful staging the dances it will probably be fine? But I assume semi-mesh eye patches for performers are a thing, so I'd try to find one of those. Lastly, hat. It probably couldn't be as absurdly big as in game without casting major shadows we don't want on Siffrin's face, so they'll need a slightly narrower brim and we'd keep the hat pinned in a more back position.

Mirabelle's outfit probably wouldn't need to change much, but her little fingerless gloves would need some reinforcement at the top to keep them from falling down her arms. There's also the matter of her needing to have her sword with her most of the show; it might need to be a little smaller than a true rapier, but Shakespeare shows have duels and such so we can make something work.

Odile wouldn't be particularly difficult to costume as long as you don't make her sweater / jacket too heavy and put some straps on her shoes. Fake glasses aren't hard too bad, but some rigging in the back to keep them on will be helpful.

Isabeau I'm sorry but your sleeves have to be a little less gigantic, it will get in the way of the audience being able to read your gestures / get caught on stuff. They can still be long and loose though. Also, in real life the stripes on his pants being that wide could be an issue in terms of reading where he is on stage with the set / looking kind of goofy, so I might make them just a bit thinner.

Bonnie... I do not know how to make your weird pillow hat work in real life. For most game accurate version you'd have to make it completely from scratch. Something like a beret in terms of construction but... big. And probably held up internally with stuffing and wire. The alternative would probably be a big sunhat, and if you want to include Bonnie getting a new hat just slightly redo that scene to find something else that's similar.

Heck yeah its time for Loop! Now, we're definitely not doing a full star head, that wouldn't let the actor do any of that good emoting. But! I think a lower face mask could still work. You might have to hide the actor's mic under there to make sure they could be heard, but it's definitely possible. They would definitely need a custom wig for spikiness, plus a star-like head piece to top it off. Now the rest of it... I mean, you could go full body suit. I'd probably do that as the first choice, though maybe adding a wispy loin cloth or tie around the middle for modesty depending on your performer / venue. But! Different productions could get really creative with it, as long as the base still has them black and covered with stars and there's the star in their chest. Add in some specific design quirks that are only elsewhere found in Sif and The King's costumes, but just tiny little detail type things? Chef's kiss.

Speaking of the King! He unfortunately does need to be Very Big, but thankfully Broadway shows can pull that off! Something similar to the Wizard head in Wicked could work here, where only some parts of the set piece move (mechanically or via puppetry) and the actor is a voice over. The hair could be a mix of practice and projections. The tears that show up in the fight would probably also need to be projected. The hard thing would be getting it to disappear quickly enough. Maybe the last bit before the loop resets is always in front of the curtain? Could be cool. A less well funded production would probably have to either use mostly projections or re-work to use less moving parts.

Last up Euphrasie! Since she has a long dress getting her some extra height wouldn't be too hard, and she doesn't have to dance or anything so that helps. But! She does need to do the Act 4 finale dramatic kneel down, which is harder to work around. If we cast a tall actor and just use lifts in her shoes, it could work. She wouldn't be as super tall as she would be if we used hidden stilts, but I like the image of her cupping Sif's face, it goes all the way back to the comics, I gotta keep it.

What about y'all? How would you dress everyone? Any little details you'd want to see? And tricks to deal with the problems I thought of? Have fun!

#isat #in stars and time #isat spoilers #isat au #isat musical au #isat siffrin #isat mirabelle #isat isabeau #isat odile #isat bonnie #isat loop #isat king #isat euphrasie

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nicoline1998enilocin · 16 hours ago

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Love under the fireworks || NYE Special ✨

PAIRING || Fiancé! Tony Stark x Fiancée! Female! Reader

WORDCOUNT || 6.6K

SUMMARY || You’re spending your last night together for a while, as Tony will be leaving for an extended, undercover mission, and you’ll be busy with near back-to-back surgeries for the foreseeable future. This means you and Tony will make this New Year’s Eve one for the memory books, giving you some special memories to look back on when you’re apart.

RATING || Explicit (E)

WARNINGS/TAGS || Former sugar daddy/-baby relationship, established relationship, explicit sexual content, light angst (tearful goodbyes).

SMUT || Teasing - Edging - Use of a remote control vibrator - Referenced exhibitionism - Oral (F receiving) - ass worship - Daddy kink - marking - spanking - light anal play - fingering - multiple orgasms - dirty talk - hair pulling - back scratches - pregnancy kink - breeding kink - lovemaking - nipple play - unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!) - cream pie - cockwarming - size kink - innocence kink - lactation kink - marking

A/N || This can be read as a standalone or a follow-up to Our Christmas. Thank you all for the support and love I received from you all last year, and I'm looking forward to sharing more stories with you all this upcoming year! I want to thank @ccbsrmsf1 for everything you do for me. From your support, love, and proofreading to your listening to everything I go through, I'm deeply thankful for it all. I love you, bestie! 🤍

EVENTS @fandombingo || Walking around with a vibrator remote-controlled by someone else @fandom-free-bingo Book Night || Fireflies @fandom-free-bingo Book Night || "Just trust me." @fandom-free-bingo Frosty || Dick pic @fandom-free-bingo Maritime May || 'People fall in love in mysterious ways'

@fandom-free-bingo Maritime May || Secret vibrator + "You're not hungry?" @fandom-free-bingo Pride || Gagging + Spanking @fandom-free-bingo Wild || Exhibitionist + Ass worship @fictionaldelightsbingo Under The Sea || First kiss of the year @julybreakbingo Post-JBB || "I need your help."

@seasonaldelightsbingo Sweater Season || Praising someone who isn't used to good things @slumberpartybingo Ultimate Sleepover || Would you rather... wear a sex toy in public OR in private @tonystarkbingo #8005 || Regrets

All the graphics in this post are made by @nicoline1998enilocin

Main Masterlist || Tony Stark || Sugar Daddy! Tony Stark

“Are you ready to see the dress?” Your voice rises in excitement as you’re going to show your fiancé the black off-shoulder dress he bought not too long ago. Before now, he has not seen it on you because you wanted to keep it a surprise until tonight, though you’re sure he will not be disappointed when it is revealed. He has the best taste in clothes and accessories, and even though you’re more than capable of buying those things yourself, he still likes to gift you things now and again, just like when you were still his sugar baby.

A chuckle is audible before his answer floats through the air, impatience evident in how he answers that he ‘was born ready’ so quickly. Shortly after, your large walk-in closet door creaks open to reveal Tony in an all-black, tight suit with red-tinted glasses and his hair looking perfectly messy. Tonight, he looks like sex-on-legs, and you can’t wait to unwrap him like a present after the dinner he is treating you to. Every ridge and muscle of his perfect body is on display, and you can’t help but bite your bottom lip when your gaze is drawn to his bulge, displayed nicely between his thick thighs.

“Fuck-” he gasps as his lust-filled gaze takes his time to look all over your body. From the way the dress brushes the floor around your heels to the split that runs to the middle of your thigh and from the curves of your body to the way that your breasts are looking elegantly lifted, he cannot get enough of the sight. The dress is sinfully sexy without giving too much away,

“Are you sure we don’t have to cancel dinner? I’d do it without a second thought,” he whispers between the small kisses he leaves on your shoulder and neck, his hands on your waist as he stands behind you. You shake your head with a small smile, even though the thought is very appealing. The only thing that keeps you from agreeing is that tonight will be your last night together for a few months. Tony will leave for an undercover mission tomorrow, and you’re looking forward to having a beautiful dinner with him before he has to go.

“Let’s go to dinner tonight, Tony, and end the night by making love. I think we both would like to make it a night never to forget, especially with you leaving tomorrow.” Tony closes his eyes as he sighs softly against your skin, knowing you’re right about his mission. He has fought hard not to go, but in the end, it wasn’t enough as he still has to go, but he was able to push it off enough so he would be able to spend New Year’s Eve with you, and your first kiss of the year will be one of passion and memories, as you’ll make love under the fireworks.

As he breathes a small sigh against your skin, he can hide his smile as he thinks about what he has planned for you tonight - if you accept his offer. With one more soft kiss against his skin, he steps back before grabbing a small velvet pouch out of the pocket of the pants he’s wearing - inside lying something that will make the evening unforgettable.

“What do you think of making the night a little… spicier?” Tony asks as he meets your gaze in the mirror, your breath hitching slightly at his words. Based on the smirk he’s now portraying, you get a hunch about what the following words will be out of his mouth. If you’re thinking about the correct idea, you will be in for it, as you always love to experiment outside the bedroom, too.

“Hmm, you know I love some spice, Handsome. Let’s do it,” you say with a sultry wink, which sets his cheeks on fire as you turn around, his grip on the little bag quickly loosening as you take it from him. He’s left with rapidly tightening pants as you head to the bedroom to put in the little remote-controlled vibrator that’s inside the bag. It doesn’t take long for it to be comfortably nestled inside your warmth, your core already dripping at the thought of Tony controlling you in such a way.

As soon as you’re back, Tony is ready to go, and with every step you make, you’re highly aware that you’re walking around with a vibrator remote-controlled by someone else, and it sets your insides on fire in the best way possible. Downstairs, Happy is already waiting to drive you both to the restaurant and just as you’re about to greet him with a kiss on the cheek, Tony presses the button on the remote, making the bright pink toy come to life inside enough to make your cheeks burn.

“Are- are you okay?” Happy asks when you flinch, worry settling on his face as he inspects you. While he does, Tony quickly turns his face to try and hide a smile, though he’s not very successful at it. However, before you know it, the vibrating sensation is gone, and you’re left a little disappointed at the feeling it leaves you with - you want more of the vibrations and feelings it has to offer you.

“I’m fine, Happy. Thank you,” you smile before getting in the car, followed by Tony, wearing a satisfied smirk on his stunning features. As soon as the door falls shut, you immediately turn to your fiancé with a glare. Still, instead of saying anything, he leans in to kiss the corner of your mouth, once again leaving you wanting more, and you have a feeling that you’re going to feel this way more often than not tonight.

During the car ride, Tony has a gentle grip with his thick, strong fingers on your thigh while the other one clutches the remote to bring the secret vibrator inside you. A soft gasp is audible, and Tony smirks as he looks at you to see your reaction. The entire time, Happy is focused on the road ahead of you, and you’re grateful he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t let it show if he does. Either way, you’re positive that it will be a long night.

Without warning, the vibration disappears inside you, and you’re left with a thoroughly soaked pair of panties and a wanting pussy that cannot get enough of the stimulation the man beside you can bring you. The rest of the car ride goes off without a hitch, as Tony and Happy are talking amongst themselves as you clutch your thighs together, trying to get your mind off the toy inside you.

“Here’s our stop. Thank you for the ride, Happy - I’ll let you know when we’re done with dinner,” Tony says very matter-of-factly, and you hum in response as you’re not sure you can trust everything that might come out of your mouth now. Then, as soon as you’re out of the car, you can feel your legs giving out a little, making you hold onto Tony a little tighter.

“I- I need your help staying upright, I think,” you admit shyly, and Tony smiles proudly as he ensures you’re stable by his side before leading you into the restaurant. The hostess leads you to a table that gives you the ultimate view over Manhattan as the floor-to-ceiling windows offer a sight you’ll never get used to. You can spend hours watching the city even after being with Tony for years and moving into his penthouse.

Then, as you’re seated, Tony squeezes your hands softly. The gesture makes the butterflies in your stomach go wild as you look into his dark brown eyes, which look back at you with nothing short of pure love and admiration.

“In the past years, I’ve been asked often if I have any regrets, but I’ve always told them no until now. And it’s not falling in love with you or taking you here because you’re the best thing that ever could have happened to me, Sugar. As I’ve said before, I wouldn’t be where I am today without you, and I stand by that. The only thing I do regret is not asking you to marry me sooner. From the moment you and I met, I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you, and I wish I had asked you to be my wife sooner,” he tells you, bringing tears to your eyes as he does.

“When I grew up, my mom always told me that people fall in love in mysterious ways, and it took me meeting you to understand what she meant by that. You’ve shown me what true love is, and I’m happy to be spending this last night together with you. I will miss you so much when I’m gone for my mission, but I promise I will not leave you without saying a proper goodbye. And a dick pic or two.”

His face splits in a large grin as he says those last words, showing you both sides of the man you fell for. He can be the sweetest man you’ve ever met but is also a massive joker when moments call for it. It makes him perfect in your eyes, and you can’t imagine him being any other way. It doesn’t take long for one of the waiters to bring you a glass of the finest champagne they offer and take your food order for the night, and you’ve opted to go for your favorite seafood pasta to end the year off on a high note.

“Cheers to being in love,” you say as you raise your glass, and Tony approves with a hum and a smile before clinking his glass against yours and taking a sip of the golden, bubbly liquid.

It isn’t until you’re about to take the first bite of the pasta you ordered that Tony suddenly turns the vibrator inside you back on, and a surprised noise escapes your lips before you put your hand over your mouth to cover it up. As you look at him with squinted eyes, he smiles back at you with a bright smile that lets you know he’s enjoying every second of the teasing.

“What’s wrong? You’re not hungry?” Tony’s brow quirked up as the question hung between you two, unable to be answered. He turns the power up a notch, quickly followed by another. While one hand is still over your mouth, the other is gripping your thigh for dear life as your climax is quickly building, but just before it can push you over the edge, it stops. Again. Deep down inside, you know it will be worth every second when you two get back to the penthouse, and you can finally have the pleasure you’re so deeply desiring.

The entire time this is going on, there are people around you eating and enjoying their dinner, too, which primarily feeds the exhibitionist side of your fiancé. Still, you’re happy to indulge him in moments like this. Because as much as he does for you - he’s more than willing to go to the moon and back for you if that’s what you’re asking of him -you’re happy to do just as much for him and his pleasure. There hasn’t been anything you haven’t been willing to do for him, and tonight is no different.

“You don’t know the half of it,” you say with a small smile as you eye your pasta, the smell of it making your mouth water. Thankfully, Tony happily lets you finish your pasta with only a few moments when he puts the vibrator on the lowest setting, but not high enough for you to be unable to enjoy your food. As soon as you’re both finished eating, you’re making your way to Happy as he is waiting by the car outside, excited to go back to your shared penthouse and finally relieve the tension that has been building between you both for the entire evening.

Just before you and Tony arrive at the penthouse, he gets a text from Natasha telling him everything is ready for their night and to ‘’not have too much fun together ;)” which makes him chuckle as the elevator takes you two up to the penthouse. Inside, there’s a trail of bright red rose petals that lead to the bedroom, accompanied by candles and fairy lights everywhere, making the penthouse look like it’s decorated with fireflies. The bathroom is also set up for you both to enjoy after your night of passion, and all you have to do is let go of every thought you have and let Tony take the lead for the rest of the night.

“Welcome home, Sugar,” Tony whispers in your ear as the elevator doors open, and you see everything your best friend has arranged for you. His fingers dig into your hips as he leads you into the hallway over the path of rose petals, and he can’t stop smiling as you’re taking in everything. Your eyes are pulled from one thing right to the next, and before you know it, you’re in the bedroom. Tony slowly loses his patience as he tries to stop himself from ripping every last bit of fabric off your body.

“God, I can’t fucking wait to see how much you’re dripping for me, Sugar. I’ve prepared your pretty little pussy very well for me, and I will have a feast soon,” he says as he lets your dress fall to the floor, his lips placing soft kisses on your neck and shoulder. Your head falls to the side as an almost automatic response to his lips on you, and you’re looking forward to everything he’s going to give you.

“Now, get on your hands and knees on the bed so Daddy can have his dessert,” he growls in your ear, his fingers gliding over the bitemark he left a few days ago. While it’s mostly faded, he can still see some of the indents his teeth left as a proud smile lies on his lips. You’re looking forward to getting more of his marks on your body - and putting some on him, too.

He doesn’t waste any time by unhooking or pulling down any of your lingerie, instead choosing to rip it off and replace it later, as he couldn’t care less about that. However, he does instruct you to keep the vibrator in for now, as he’s planning to put it to some good use as he finally gets to taste you and see how wet he has gotten you from the anticipation of this moment. And he’s not disappointed in the slightest.

The moment he sees you on your hands and knees - your ass positioned as high as possible with your legs slightly spread - he gets the perfect view of the bright pink toy settled neatly in your dripping folds, as well as the way your ass looks like the juiciest peach he’s ever seen. He intends to have a lot of fun with you tonight. An appreciative groan rumbles from his chest as he quickly gets undressed as well, and you hear the unmistakable splat of his thick, long cock against his stomach as the precum is already making a mess of him.

Your eyes are closed in anticipation of what’s coming, but you’re not even close to expecting what Tony does next as you feel a large hand coming down on your ass, the smacking sound echoing through your penthouse. It’s quickly followed on the other cheek as well, and you’re clenching the toy inside you as the pleasurable burn of the spanks settles.

“Looking so beautiful for me, you’re such a fucking beauty,” Tony says as his hands soothe the warmed flesh of your ass, taking his time to get reacquainted with them again. While he always loves marking your ass, he’s now going to make an effort to add in some ass worship, too, as every inch of you deserves to be worshipped. Your body instinctively pushes back into his touch, seeking out more as you enjoy the attention you’re getting from him. As you feel one of his hands leave your skin, you’re left with a bit of disappointment, but it doesn’t last long as you suddenly feel the vibrations return, and this time, Tony isn’t planning on slowing down anytime soon.

“D-Daddy,” you exclaim as the pleasure immediately builds again, your arousal dripping off the toy and onto the sheets you’re positioned on. As your fiancé takes his place behind you on the mattress, he leans in to place a few kisses on the reddened skin where he can see his handprints, his fingers gathering some of the arousal and spreading it over your puckered hole, earning a surprised gasp.

“It’s okay, Sugar. Just trust me, okay? I’m not going to do anything you can’t handle,” he reassures you as he gently works his thumb over the tight muscle. As soon as the words settle into your fuzzy mind, he can feel you relax underneath him, as you trust him completely. The entire time he does this, your mind drifts to this one memory of you two where you’re sucking him so deep and demanding that you’re gagging around his length, and it only adds to your arousal.

“God, I can’t wait to get a taste of this pussy,” Tony whispers before he gently presses the tip of his thumb into your tight ass, a gasp leaving your lips as your brows furrow, though it immediately sends you over the edge, too. Combined with the vibrator that’s nestled inside and happily buzzing away and the way he built your climax earlier in the evening, it took minimal effort for you to fall over the edge of pleasure for the first time tonight.

“That is, you’re doing so well for me, Sugar. Such beautiful girl when you cum for Daddy,” Tony praises you through it, your entire body shaking as you can’t stop moaning and cumming around the toy. Just as it’s to border on overstimulation, he pulls the vibrator out of you and throws it on the bed to replace it with his thick fingers, quickly pulling your second orgasm from you as well.

“Fuck- Look at you cumming for Daddy like a good girl! That’s it, ride my fingers like the little slut you are!” Your hips move back and forth on his fingers to get as much pleasure as you can, your body moving in a sloppy rhythm as you’re being worked through cumming so soon, one after the other. When you’ve worked through your high, Tony pulls his fingers out of you before leaning over you and letting you lick them clean, allowing you to taste your arousal.

“Hmm.” The soft hum is audible as you clean his fingers, happy to have something in your mouth. When you’re done, Tony praises you more before helping you to lie down on your back and your head on the pillows, and he reaches to put a pillow beneath your hips, too. When you’ve found your position, he gets comfortable on his stomach, his achingly hard cock trapped between his sheets and his stomach as he’s taking his rightful place between your thighs.

“Ready?” he asks, and you nod before letting your fingers glide into his hair and guiding him to your willing pussy. You can feel his hot breath on your sensitive clit as he leans in, your back arching into the feeling as a ripple of pleasure goes through your entire body. Tony wraps his strong arms around your thighs to keep you in place before diving in like a starved man.

From sucking on your sensitive clit to licking up every last drop of your arousal, not a single inch of you is left untouched as he takes his time eating you out like it’s the last time he’ll ever do this. As if he wants to commit every last inch of you to memory. The entire time, you’re pulling on his hair to guide him where you need him most, and when you’re getting close to your orgasm again, you’re burying your fingers even deeper in his hair to pull him impossibly closer.

Deep groans are audible together with the delicious sounds of Tony enjoying you as his dessert, and your fiancé can’t help but rut his hips against the sheets for any friction he can get to relieve some of the tension that’s been building inside him, too.

“D-Daddy! I’m so- close!” Your voice pitches near the end as Tony lets one of your legs go in favor of using his fingers to massage the sweet spot inside you as his lips wrap around your clit, bringing you to your next high of the evening with a very loud shout of his name. While he’s working you through your high, he cums, too, as the pressure inside him has been building constantly and is finally reaching its tipping point.

“Fuck, you made me cum with you, Sugar! Such a delicious pussy, and your sweet noises made me make a mess of myself for you,” he says in a breath voice. He has crawled upwards to lie next to you and pull you into his arms, wanting to have you as close as possible as you’re both basking in the afterglow of everything that has brought you both to this point.

“I love it when you’re messy, Daddy,” you tell him softly, and Tony smiles in agreement.

“I do, too, Sugar. You’re the only one who can make this much of a mess for me without even trying.” He gently positions your head onto his shoulder, and your hand lies over his arc reactor as your eyes fall shut for a moment, the need for recovery strong enough to pull you into a light slumber in your fiancé’s arms. He keeps tracing abstract figures on your soft skin; he doesn’t want to let you go now. He’ll worry about the mess he has made of himself later.

While you were peacefully sleeping, Tony called one of the many robots that make your life in the penthouse as easy as possible. He brought some wet wipes to clean himself off before pulling you closer and putting the blanket over the two of you. Then, as the clock is nearing 11.15 PM, he gently wakes you with soft kisses on your head and gentle strokes of his fingers over your cheek, bringing you back to reality gently. A soft groan is audible as you slowly wake up again, and Tony can’t help but smile at the cuteness that is you being woken up from a nap.

“Hi there, Princess. Did you have a good nap?”

“Hmmm, yeah. I wish it could’ve been longer, though.” Sleep is evident in your demeanor as you stretch yourself out, the blanket shifting a bit to reveal your bare breasts to the coldness of the room, resulting in hardened nipples that have an immediate attraction for Tony. Within seconds, his fingers are gently playing with your nipples to make them even harder, and you’re clenching your thighs together again as your arousal warms you from the inside out.

“Let me take care of you, Sugar. I want to make love to you and treat you like a true Queen for the rest of the night. I want to start the new year with you in my arms, and when buried inside you,” Tony whispers against your head while you push your chest against his hand for more. A soft please falls from your lips, and it’s all he needs to hear before he climbs over you, covering your much smaller body underneath his as he reaches for his thick, leaking cock.

“You’re so big, Daddy; are you sure it’ll fit?” You try to sound as innocent as you possibly can, much to his delight, and he can feel himself throb in his hand as he slowly strokes himself up and down, his thick fingers gliding over the sensitive veins before paying some special attention to his soft tip. His eyes slip shut as he bites his bottom lip, trying his hardest not to cum right away when you say things like that.

“Don’t worry for even a moment, Sugar. Daddy will be very gentle with you, and it’ll fit beautifully like we’re made for one another. I promise.” His words are sealed with a peck on your lips, and when you’re busy melting from his sweet words, he lines up with your dripping entrance, arousal already making a mess of the sheets again.

As Tony takes his time working himself into you, some fireworks are already going off outside despite it not even being midnight yet. Still, it perfectly conveys how you’re feeling - like fireworks go off between you two with every passing second. Tony takes his time working every inch of his length inside of you; your gazes are locked the entire time so he can see your face with every roll of his hips, with every inch you’re taking of him. Neither of you is in a hurry, and Tony plans to make this moment last as long as possible.

“I love you, I fucking love you!” The words are emphasized with every stroke, and soon, he’s nestled deep inside you, his pelvis flush against your body as his balls are full and aching to be emptied deep inside you. He shifts his weight so he’s leaning on one arm, allowing the other one to move freely over your stomach and breasts, looking to play with your nipples again.

“How did I ever get so lucky, hm? To have a woman like you in my life, who I love unconditionally, who’s making me a better man with everything I do? Who said yes to marrying me? And who I fuck wherever, whenever and however I want?” He smirks as the last sentence rolls off his tongue, an uncontrolled moan slipping out as it does.

“I-I’m the lucky one, Daddy,” you tell him as your fingers glide over his cheeks and into his hair, pulling him in for a much-needed, passionate kiss. As soon as your lips collide, Tony sets a slow pace that has you soon seeing stars, and it doesn’t take long for your climaxes to build again. Each time he hits your sweet spot deep inside, you can’t help but tug on his hair in a reflex, and he groans each time you do.

“You are very lucky, Sugar. Especially when I fuck every last drop of my cum inside you until you’re fucking pregnant with my baby. Gonna look so beautiful with your big belly and massive boobs- Are you gonna let me drink from you?” Without thinking, you exclaim a loud yes to his question, as you want nothing more than to carry his baby.

“Hmmm, that’s it, Gorgeous. Taking my cock so well for me,” he praises you, and it’s making your cheeks feel warm as he does. Before meeting Tony, you weren’t exactly used to much praise, but he isn’t either, and you can’t get enough of praising someone who isn’t used to good things. It’s undoubtedly been a process for you both, but now you’re more than happy to hear him tell you how good you feel and how well you’re doing for him. With every bit of praise, he feels you pulling his hair again, but it still isn’t enough, and he needs more.

“I need you to pull harder, Sugar, harder,” he orders, and you do as he asks while he sets an even faster pace, the bed now rocking back and forth as he does. Every last bit of self-control has gone out the window as you pull his hair with one hand, your nails raking down his back with the other as you’re clenching around his cock like a vice before arching your back and experiencing your last orgasm of the year.

“FUCK!” is all Tony exclaims as he pumps you full of every last drop of the cum that he’s been saving for you, and it’s so much that it’s already leaking out of you before he even has the chance to pull out. Your eyes roll back into your head with every stroke he makes, your nails digging even harder as you moan uncontrollably from the pleasure he’s bringing you.

“I have to say, I think this might be our best New Year’s Eve yet,” he says with a smile while catching his breath, his face tucked into your neck while you’re wrapped around him like a little koala bear. Mindful not to crush you, he pulls out gently before rolling on his back and pulling you with him, allowing you to catch your breath on top of him.

When you’ve finally caught your breath, Tony offers to tuck you in while he runs a bath for you both - knowing full well that Natasha has prepared everything short of filling the tub, and before you know it, he’s back to lift you over there. The rest of the night, you don’t have to move a single muscle if Tony can help it, wanting to give you as much rest as possible.

“Are you comfy like this?” Tony asks when you’re seated comfortably, his cock nestled deep inside you after you asked if you could cockwarm him in the bath. He’s never been able to say no to such an offer, and he will make the most of it for as long as he can with you. After all, he has to leave early in the morning, so he’s happy to soak in every last bit of you that he can.

“Very,” you say as you bring the glass of champagne to your lips, a strawberry inside to add some flavor. The large floor-to-ceiling windows give you a beautiful sight all over Manhattan after Tony has turned off the frosted effect - not that anyone can look inside unless they’re flying -and you’re happy to spend the last moments of the year with the man you’re marrying next year.

“I can’t wait to marry you next year,” you tell him when you’re snuggled against his chest, your head lying against his shoulder as you look outside. Fireworks in all colors and shapes illuminate the night sky, and you’re relaxing through and through while you do.

“I can’t wait either, Sugar. Then you’ll finally be Mrs. Stark,” he says, a wide smile on his features as he does. It’s always been a dream to get married, but to call you his wife is better than anything he could have ever dreamt of. From the moment you two met to when you proposed, and from his own proposal until now has been a rollercoaster of emotions in the best way possible, and he wouldn’t change it for anything. Without you, his life wouldn’t be the same, and he’s looking forward to finally putting that ring on your finger.

“You know what else I can’t wait for? I’m stepping back as Iron Man when I'm back from my mission. To spend time with you, care for Sun and Moon, and start our family. God, I can’t wait to fuck you every single day to pump you so full of my cum that you’re going to get pregnant with twins. Or triplets. Either way, we’re going to have the most delicious sex whenever we want until you’re round with my babies.”

His voice deepens at the mention of you getting pregnant, and his breeding kink is going wild inside his head. Every thought about positions and places is going through his head - folding you in half so he can reach even deeper spots, as well as fucking you on every surface of the penthouse and your cabin in Austria. He can’t wait to get you pregnant, but he will have much fun before then.

“Yeah? You want to get me pregnant that badly, huh?” you ask, and Tony’s eyes widen in surprise at your words. He nods enthusiastically, and you kiss him on his cheek, making him blush.

“I’d like that too,” you whisper in his ear, leaving a trail of goosebumps on his sensitive skin.

“Mark me, Sugar, I’m all yours. Mark me as much as you want, as I’ll proudly show every single one of them off to everyone,” he says, and you can’t help but clench around his cock inside you as he does. He’s never been shy to ask for what he wants, and it always turns you on even more when he does.

From his ear, you move down to his neck, where you start sucking a path of hickeys, marking him just like he loves doing to you. You keep this up until you hear an announcement from JARVIS that it’s almost midnight and a countdown from 30 to 0 has started.

“Lemme quickly get two glasses of champagne,” Tony says, and when there are only 5 seconds left, he hands you yours. In unison, you two count down the last few seconds, and right on cue, Tony crashes his lips onto yours, punching every last breath out of your chest as the kiss is all-consuming. Your tongues are dancing in a passionate rhythm, wanting to commit each other to memory one last time. When he pulls away, you’re left breathless as you smile at him, his eyes shimmering with love and admiration.

“Happy New Year, Sugar. I love you.” His words are sealed with one more kiss and a sip of champagne—the best start of the year ever.

You two spent another hour and a half in the bath together - talking, sharing kisses, sipping champagne, and already saying most of your teary goodbyes before his mission - before it was finally time to get ready to sleep. Tony massaged you to help you fall asleep, and the following day arrived too soon for your liking. While you’re still in bed, Tony has put on loose sweatpants as he will pick up Sun and Moon from their stay with Bucky.

It doesn’t take long before you’re greeted with lots of meows and furry cuddles as your fiancé places both of them on the bed, ready for some much-needed cuddles. While Tony can’t stay long, he’s trying to soak in as much time with the three of you as possible, wanting to remember this moment for a long time when he’s on the other side of the world.

“Good morning, Beautiful. How did you sleep?” Tony asks as he’s settling on his side of the bed, though Moon has already claimed his pillow as he’s curled up on it. You can’t help but smile as Tony kisses you, but before he can go too far, you kiss him on his nose, making him smile, too.

“Surprisingly well, though, that has everything to do with the amazing massage you gave me last night. And the way you wore me out, too,” you say, and he nods proudly. During the rest of your time together, Tony kisses you, tells you sweet things like how much he misses you, and cuddles your cats, too. But then, it’s finally time for Tony to leave.

“I will call you as soon as I can, okay? And take good care of yourself in my absence, no matter how hard times may be without me there. You’re amazing, and I love you so much, Sugar.” Tony’s words bring tears to your eyes as his thumbs rub softly over your cheekbones, and you nod. Nothing you can say will make this any easier, but you’re thankful you two have been able to share all your thoughts last night in the bath.

“I love you, Tony. And please, take good care of yourself, too. I’m going to need you back in one piece.”

He nods before leaning in and placing a featherlight kiss on your forehead, sealing his promise of coming back in one piece. Goodbyes have always been hard for you, but now that Tony will leave for the next six months, a chunk of your soul is going with him, and you won’t feel complete until his return.

“I love you too, Y/N. More than I can ever put into words,” he whispers against your forehead, and then he pulls you in for one last bone-crushing hug. Then, the elevator bell rings, letting you know he must leave. Fury is waiting in the now open elevator for Tony to join him, and you’re placing one last kiss on his nose before he officially leaves.

“I’ll take good care of him, Y/N. I promise,” Fury says, and you nod as you wipe the tears from your cheeks. With one last air kiss, the elevator doors close, and Tony is officially gone for six months. The moment you’ve been looking up to the most is here, and you can’t help but let out heartwrenching sobs as Moon comes to comfort you - his paw softly batting against your leg in comfort.

You gather him into your arms before getting up and walking to the couch, where you let yourself go for a while. Eventually, the tears stop, and you’re preparing for the breakfast date you planned with Natasha, anticipating this moment. If you can’t be with the man you love, you’d be the happiest spending time with your best friend and looking forward to it.

You grab sports leggings, a sports bra, and one of Tony’s t-shirts from your walk-in closet to be comfortable this morning. Natasha doesn’t take long to arrive with the breakfast items she promised to bring. As soon as you see her, you pull her into a much-needed hug, and it’s like the pieces of you are slowly coming back together in her hold.

“How’re you holding up, Detka?” she asks, and you shrug before letting yourself fall back on the couch again, not knowing how to feel yet.

“It’s weird to know I won’t see him for at least six months. Normally, I spend every second I possibly can with him, but having him gone for that long will be quite an adjustment. Thankfully, I was able to get a proper goodbye last night,” you tell her with a small smile, thinking back to everything you have done with Tony last night.

“But enough about me. How was your New Year’s Eve with Bruce?” you ask as you sip the coffee she brought. Her eyes immediately light up at the mention of Bruce, and before she says anything, she lifts her hand and shows a large rock on her ring finger.

“OH MY GOD, ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?!” you exclaim before pulling her into another hug. Bruce has gone down on one knee last night, and Natasha is beaming with pride as she tells you all about what he did - and how they celebrated afterward. Neither of you can keep anything a secret from the other, so it’s nothing short of routine for you two to share your sex lives.

“He went feral when I wrapped this hand around him! I’ve told you before about him having a temper in the bedroom, but this was absolutely out of this world,” she starts, and the rest of the morning is spent eating breakfast, cuddling both your cats and sharing every last detail of the way you spent your New Year’s Eve with your other halves.

Even though Tony is gone for six months, you’re still surrounded by people you love and who will make the time without your husband-to-be fly by. You’re thankful to be loved by so many people, and you will make many memories to look back on with everyone. But that will be a story for another day, as you’re now having a fantastic time with your best friend and two cats, which is another fabulous start to a tremendous year.

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sutherlins · 17 hours ago

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Down In The Heart SydCarmy Short Set about 2 and a half years after their first date written for my beloved @conceived-angel

I love the taste of you in the morning Maybe if I'm lucky, you might stay the afternoon I love the thought of us in the evening I knew you were the real thing When you walked through the door

Carmy took the front entrance to The Bear for a change, smiling at the sign in the window as he unlocked the door.

The Bear will be closed until July 1st due to a family event. We are excited to welcome our guests back to dine with us then. Thank you.

Once inside he locked the door again and dumped his things on the bar, making himself a coffee and returning to his desk for the day.

It had been almost an hour and the only thing on his notebook was her name.

Sydney.

It wasn’t that he didn’t have things to put down, it was how to put the magnitude of his feelings into words that was his struggle. He was so engrossed in the paper in front of him he didn’t hear the back door open, or the footsteps making their way closer. Didn’t notice until a hand tapped the notepad and pulled him from his thoughts.

“You good?” Nat laughed

“Yeah, no, yeah.”

“That a yeah, a no or a yeah?”

Carmy laughed and closed the notepad. “I’m great, just struggling to write my vows.”

“Ahhhh.”

“How did you write yours?”

“We got married in Chapel remember?”

“Oh yeah, no freestyling.”

“No freestyling.” She laughed, and poured herself a glass of water. “We did write each other a letter to read in the morning though. Pete wrote about our first date and everything he wanted us to do in life together”

He couldn’t help but smile at the way her hand stroked at her ring at the memory. “What did you write about?”

“The little moments. They mean more to me than the big ones.”

“I love the little moments too.”

“Then write that.” Nat grabbed her back and then took a folder from under the bar. “You good?”

“Yeah, where you going?”

Nat smiled at his question. “To meet my soon to be sister in law, we left the vendor shit here a few days ago.” She said tapping the folder in her hand.

Carmy smiled at just the thought of his future bride. “Tell her I love her.”

“She already knows but I will, and... Bear?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t overthink it. Little moments. The important shit.”

“Thanks, Sug’”

Natalie left him alone once more and he opened his phone, swiping through his photos, the last image he took was from that morning, she was in bed, sitting up against the headboard, smiling at him. He put his pen to paper.

Sydney, I used to dread mornings and wish for the next one to never arrive, and then I found you, and now the idea that every morning I get to wake up with my arms around you make me think a life I no longer wanted to live will never be long enough.

He returned to his phone, swiping through photos that included meals, his nieces, and things around Chicago he wanted to draw. It wasn’t long before he came across another photo of Sydney. This one was taken late one evening, she was sitting on the sofa, the sun setting outside the window behind her and she was staring at the TV, her face was set in a soft smile and he had taken the photo because it was easier to do that than confront how overwhelmed he felt in his love for her. The ink started to flow as his feelings spilled out.

Sydney, nights used to be so lonely, nothing could tear me away from the kitchen because finding distractions from my life got me through the days. Now the only distraction is you. You tear me away from everything just by existing and I’ve never been happier. In those quiet evenings when I get to sit with you, I wonder how I survived before you. There will always be a before you, but there will never be an after and I’d go through all of the before a million times again to end up here with you.

He swiped some more, the photo making him laugh, it was a photo of her through the peep hole of the apartment door. The small window making a fish eye lens and she had her face pressed close to the door making it even funnier to him. He was writing once more before he even realized.

Sydney, the first time you walked through a door and into my life something shifted cosmically. Every time you walk into a room I’m in it’s like that day all over again, the world shifts a little, and everything wrong corrects itself.

He brought his phone back out, swiping some more. The photo of him and Sydney at the park, the bright mid day sun shining in the sky. The photo had been taken by Gia. The angle was low, as she pointed the camera up at them. That day they had been on babysitting duties and he’d had a sudden vision of a future date, their own kids joining them.

Sydney, to be your husband and the father of our children will be the greatest accolade I could ever achieve in my life. I will spend every day of my life making sure you know that. The lazy or rushed mornings, the content or chaotic afternoons, the slow and relaxed or the frenetic nights - as long as the rest of mine are spent with you I don’t care what they look like. I am so excited to be your husband, and have you as my wife.

Just as he was about to put his phone away it rang out with an incoming face time call. He swiped, smiling as she appeared in front of him.

“There was an issue with the napkins so we need to pick new ones. What do you think?” She jumped right in, ignoring the pleasantries and she switched the camera, pointing the phone at five napkins. He liked the second one, the simplicity of it. He knew she would like the third one the most, the little ruffle trim was something she would love.

“I like the third one the best.” He lied.

“You do? Me too, okay gotta go, love you!”

“Love you too.”

The call disconnected and he put his phone away, packing up his stuff and heading home, grateful for a life that gave him Sydney.

On the day of their wedding, with his hand in hers, he let her lead them to their sweetheart table. As they passed through the long rows of tables he admired the way the tables were set up, and the ruffled napkins lining the tables.

When they finally got to their own seats he laughed hard and kissed her deep when he spotted their place settings, the simple napkins he secretly liked more sitting beside their plates.

#not properly edited #sydcarmy fic #dith #the bear fic #sydcarmy #i miss dith sydcarmy lol #if you havent read dith all you need to know its they are together and love each other a lot lol

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eunseoksimp · 2 days ago

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is there going to be a part two of west coast 🥲🥲🥲 i need them to finally get together or reader to move on and wonbin realize what he lost

after months of deleting and rewriting and an absurd amount of overthinking, part 2 is finally here. i love this fic so much and i’m glad you guys enjoyed part one, here’s to hoping you enjoy this too :)

p.s this is now a three part series because this part was way longer than i expected it to be

Pairings: Lead Singer!Park Wonbin x Bass Guitarist!Reader

Genre: Angst, Songfic

Description: falling for park wonbin was inevitable—like chasing a song you’ll never finish. he’s magnetic under stage lights and even more dangerous when they dim, leaving behind glances that linger too long and touches that feel too much like promises. you told yourself that night meant nothing, but some things don’t stay buried. now, every song you write feels like him, and you’re not sure how much longer you can pretend otherwise.

Warnings: alcohol consumption (again), gut wrenching heartbreak (you have been warned), a tension filled kiss, wc is somehow 24k.

read part 1 here

. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ .

the final show of the tour should’ve been electric—alive with the roar of thousands, the kind of rush that settled deep in your bones and lingered long after the last note faded. the crowd’s energy surged forward in waves, pulsing beneath the weight of the stage lights, each scream carving itself into the air like static desperate to cling to something solid.

but tonight, it felt distant, hollow in a way that no amount of sound could fill—like trying to chase the echo of a song that no longer belonged to you.

your fingers flexed around the neck of your guitar, the strap digging faintly into your shoulder, but even the familiar weight felt wrong—too heavy, too much, yet not enough all at once. every movement was automatic, drawn from muscle memory you couldn’t shake, but there was no spark beneath it.

not when he was there, standing just feet away, the bright stage lights catching in the tousled strands of his hair, painting him in hues of gold that felt blinding and unreachable.

park wonbin.

even in the middle of a stage, with thousands of eyes on him, he made it seem like the whole world had narrowed to fit the edges of his silhouette. his head dipped low, fingers curling around the mic stand as the rough edge of his voice slipped into the air, wrapping around the crowd and pulling them under as easily as breathing.

every note felt deliberate, the kind of performance that left no room for hesitation, and you hated the way your eyes traced the lines of his frame as if tethered there, unable to look away.

wonbin stood at the very edge of the stage, the crowd stretching endlessly before him, but it felt as if the entire room funneled into that single point—him.

the mic dangled carelessly in one hand, his fingers curling around the metal with the same ease he wore in everything he did. his other hand raked through the damp strands of his hair, pushing it back just enough for the stage lights to catch along the sharp curve of his jaw, painting him in fragments of silver and gold.

he looked untouchable—impossibly perfect, as if he existed just a breath outside of reality, shimmering at the edges like something your mind could only conjure at night, in dreams you wished you didn’t have.

his smile was a weapon—bladed and bright, slicing through the thick air and leaving a trail of casualties in its wake. you could see it in the way the crowd responded, how the front row leaned in just a little closer, how the sound of screaming filled every hollow part of the room. it shouldn’t have reached you, shouldn’t have cut so deep, but it did and you felt it settle somewhere beneath your ribs, sinking into the fragile parts of you that you’d thought were buried beneath layers of stage lights and sound.

this was the man you’d written everything for—the melodies, the lyrics that spilled from your hands late at night when sleep felt too far away. the chords you’d strummed until your fingertips were raw, hoping the weight of your heart might somehow carry across the strings. you had poured yourself into each note, crafting the very shape of him through the songs you bled onto paper, driven by a love that tangled itself so deeply into your music that it felt inseparable from who you were.

but he hadn’t seen it.

not the way you saw him.

wonbin existed just beyond reach, lingering at the edges of every song, every glance that held for too long in the quiet spaces between rehearsals. and when you had dared to close the distance—to lay your heart bare in a way that felt terrifying and inevitable all at once—he hadn’t crushed it with words or sharp rejection. no, that would’ve been easier.

instead, he’d met you with the kind of indifference that left deeper scars. it wasn’t cruelty. it wasn’t malice. it was worse.

because he didn’t know.

he hadn’t seen the depth of the wound he left behind, hadn’t realized the songs he sang now—so effortlessly, so obliviously—had been born from that ache. and as his voice spilled into the air, filling the space between you, it felt like he was singing those songs back to you.

but not for you. never for you.

this was the song.

the one you had written for him—about him—in the stillness of the night when the only sound was the soft hum of the tour bus and the ache in your chest you couldn’t put into words any other way. it wasn’t just a song, it was your confession, your breaking point, every jagged piece of your heart laid bare in the form of melody and chords.

wonbin stepped forward, mic in hand, and smiled faintly, his voice warm as it washed over the crowd.

"this one’s special, written by our incredibly talented guitarist and our very own goddess of words—give it up for her."

the audience roared, their applause crashing like waves, but the sound barely registered. the stage lights felt too bright, bearing down on you as if they knew too much, as if they could see straight through the cracks you were trying so hard to hold together. you gave a small nod, barely enough to acknowledge the cheers, but your throat tightened when your fingers hovered over the strings.

your hands trembled, just faintly, as you picked the first few notes, the soft, aching melody stretching out over the venue like a secret you hadn’t meant to tell.

the crowd swayed, lights flickering softly like fireflies in the dark, but the only thing you could focus on was him—the way his head dipped slightly, the microphone close to his lips as he sang the opening verse.

and then it was your turn.

your voice slipped in beneath his, weaving through the melody like a breath you couldn’t hold back, soft and fleeting but impossibly intimate. it threaded through his effortlessly, your harmonies clinging to his in ways that felt too heavy, too raw. every word felt like reopening an old wound, pressing into the places you thought had long since scarred over.

his gaze stayed locked on the crowd, his eyes reflecting the sea of faces that stretched endlessly beneath the glow of the stage lights—hungry for him, devoted to him. you hated the ease with which he held them, how effortlessly he poured himself into their open hands like sunlight spilling through cracks, leaving nothing untouched.

wonbin was a force—bright, untouchable, impossible to contain—and you felt like one of the thousands standing beneath him, trapped in his orbit but forever out of reach.

you strummed the final note, letting it hang in the air, suspended and bittersweet like a breath you didn’t want to release. for a fleeting second, the room seemed to pause with it, as if the sound could tether you there a moment longer, but the illusion shattered beneath the eruption of applause.

the crowd swallowed everything, their cheers crashed against the stage, drowning out the fragile rhythm of your heart still echoing in your ears.

wonbin grinned, flashing it out across the room like a weapon, and they ate it up—falling apart beneath the weight of his smile, their voices rising higher, feeding into the glow that surrounded him. he basked in it, soaking in their adoration like he belonged there, while you stood half a step behind, your guitar slung low and heavy in your hands. the strap dug faintly into your shoulder, but the weight pressing against your chest felt far worse.

you didn’t feel like you belonged here anymore. your stage, your music, only served of a reminder of him, of the pain it caused you.

the realization settled uncomfortably beneath your skin, tightening around you as the set barreled toward its inevitable end.

rhe closing anthem roared to life—loud and blistering, the kind of song that lit the crowd on fire, shaking the foundation beneath their feet. wonbin leaned into the mic, his voice molten with charisma, the kind that made hearts leap and arms reach toward the stage like he was something divine, just barely within their grasp.

"thank you for an unforgettable tour," he called out, his grin widening as the noise swelled impossibly louder. "we love you!"

and they loved him—loved him so loudly it felt as if the stage itself could barely contain it.

the cheers were deafening backstage, a chaotic symphony of laughter, clinking glasses, and the low hum of exhaustion masked by the adrenaline of finishing a tour. bottles of champagne popped open like firecrackers, sending golden arcs of champagne cascading through the air, dripping off fingertips and pooling in half-empty glasses as your bandmates whooped loud enough to shake the ceiling.

it was the kind of scene that was supposed to feel triumphant, the culmination of months of hard work, sleepless nights, and endless miles on the road. but you couldn’t bring yourself to celebrate. the celebration drifted around you, filling the spaces you didn’t occupy.

you sat perched on the armrest of a worn-out couch in the corner of the room, your guitar resting against your thigh, the familiar weight grounding you even as the world spun around you. the energy in the room was infectious, but it didn’t reach you.it couldn’t.

not when he was standing there, oblivious to the way his mere existence unraveled you, threaded into the heart of it all, like the entire room had shifted to revolve around him.

wonbin was at the center of it all, as he always was. his easy laugh cut through the noise, rich and melodic, the kind of laugh that made people gravitate toward him without even realizing it. he had a drink in one hand, the other slung lazily around the shoulder of the waitress from earlier. the one who’d been lingering at the edge of the stage, her eyes glued to him like so many others.

she clung to him now, her fingers curling possessively around his arm, her smile bright and adoring as she looked up at him. he didn’t seem to mind. in fact, he leaned into her touch, his posture relaxed, his face a picture of effortless charm.

the sight of it twisted something sharp and unwelcome inside you, settling heavily in the hollow of your chest like stones sinking into water, squeezing the air from your lungs.

you tore your gaze away, eyes dropping to the scuffed floorboards as if their worn, splintered surface might offer some kind of refuge. but it didn’t. the image of them—wonbin and the girl—was already burned there, seared into the backs of your eyelids like an unwanted tattoo, impossible to scrub away.

the weight of it lingered, gnawing at the fragile edges of your composure, until a familiar voice cut through the fog.

“hey, you good?”

yunjin’s tone was soft, but there was a sharpness beneath it—the kind of sharpness that saw too much. she dropped down beside you with the kind of casual ease only she could manage, her dress rumpled slightly from the night, cheeks still faintly flushed from the heat of the stage lights and the champagne.

but her eyes—clear and steady—searched your face with quiet precision, narrowing faintly when you hesitated a beat too long.

“yeah,” you said, the lie slipping from your lips before you had time to soften it. you forced a smile, tugging the corners of your mouth upward until it felt tight, stretched thin enough to break.

“just tired.”

her gaze lingered, weighing the answer as if she could peel back the surface of it with nothing more than silence. she didn’t believe you, not entirely, but she didn’t press.

instead, she nudged your shoulder lightly with hers, a small gesture that somehow felt grounding, her voice dipping low—soft enough that it barely carried over the thrum of conversation filling the room.

“it’s okay to let loose, you know,” she whispered, her tone light but edged with the kind of quiet sincerity that made your throat tighten.

“we made it. the tour’s over, and we killed it.”

you nodded once, grateful for the attempt, but the words felt hollow—empty, like an echo swallowed by too much space.

across the room, hongjoong’s laughter rang out, bright and unrestrained as he draped an arm over gunil’s shoulders, both of them swaying slightly as they stumbled toward the makeshift bar.

“to the best damn tour we’ve ever done!” hongjoong shouted, lifting his glass high above his head in a triumphant toast.

the declaration earned a loud chorus of cheers and whistles, someone banging a fist against the table in agreement as the bottles clinked together in celebration.

the energy swelled around you, infectious and warm, but it slipped right past you—like standing outside in the cold, watching a fire through the glass but never stepping inside.

and even as you smiled faintly, nodding along to yunjin’s words, your heart remained fixed elsewhere—still lingering in the shadow of someone who didn’t even know you were waiting there.

wonbin’s voice rose above the noise, effortless and warm, and somehow it carried more weight than the rest—cut through everything, even when you wished it wouldn’t. his laugh followed, low and rich, spreading through the room like wildfire, igniting smiles and drawing every eye toward him as if he was the very center of the world.

and maybe he was.

the waitress at his side laughed too, tipping her head back in that familiar way—the one you’d seen a hundred times from countless girls in countless cities. she leaned into him, her arm brushing against his, and the sight of it made your stomach twist violently, like something fragile inside you was curling in on itself, recoiling from the scene playing out just a few feet away.

you couldn’t look.

you couldn’t not look.

the knot in your chest coiled tighter, pulling so sharply it felt like it might snap if you stayed here any longer. the room shrank around you, the air growing thick and suffocating with each passing second, pressing in until the walls felt too close—until everything felt too loud.

every laugh grated against you, scraping raw against nerves already frayed at the edges, the clinking glasses and echoing cheers rang hollow, amplifying the ache beneath your skin, deepening the storm that had been quietly brewing in the pit of your stomach since the show ended.

your hand slipped to the guitar resting against your thigh, fingers grazing lightly over the strings, desperate for the familiar feeling beneath your touch. it grounded you, offered something steady in the middle of all the chaos. it didn’t hurt. it was the only thing that didn’t.

“hey rockstar, you’re way too quiet for someone who just killed that stage.”

minjeong’s voice cut gently through the haze, her hand finding your arm, warm and steady—a tether pulling you back down to earth. her eyes were soft, concerned but not prying, and for a moment you wanted to lean into that warmth, let her pull you from the edge.

“come on,” she added, giving your arm the faintest squeeze. “let’s get you a drink.”

“i’m not sure if i—“

“come on, one drink won’t hurt—“

“i’m fine,” you answered, but the words came too sharp, cutting the space between you like glass.

her hand slipped away, leaving behind a cold, hollow trace where her warmth had been, and guilt flared instantly beneath your ribs. you opened your mouth to apologize, but the words wouldn’t come—not when your throat was already too tight, not when it felt like the moment you spoke, everything might shatter around you.

instead, you rose abruptly, the movement sudden and graceless, pulling a few wandering glances from across the room. wonbin’s eyes never strayed from the girl beside him, but somehow that made it worse.

the noise—their laughter, his laughter—stretched thin, brittle against the edges of your mind until you couldn’t bear it any longer.

“i just need some air,” you mumbled to the two girls, the excuse barely audible as you slipped past minjeong, past the bodies filling the room, desperate to escape before the weight of it all swallowed you whole.

you didn’t stop until the door closed softly behind you, sealing the noise inside like a distant memory.

the hallway was a sanctuary of silence, the muffled echoes of laughter and celebration dissolving into the background like distant thunder. you leaned heavily against the cold concrete wall, letting it press into your spine, sharp and grounding.

your palms slid up to your face, fingertips dragging along your skin as if the simple act of touch could smother the ache blooming relentlessly beneath your ribs. the chill bit into you, seeping through your fingers, but it wasn’t enough—not against the weight that had settled deep in your chest, heavy and unmoving.

he didn’t know.

not about the songs—the ones you’d written when sleep felt like an impossible thing, when the darkness outside the tour bus windows felt too heavy to bear alone. every lyric had been carved from the raw, unrelenting ache that he had unknowingly left behind, each melody a confession too fragile to say out loud. the words had poured out of you like blood, as if spilling them onto paper might ease the burn lodged beneath your skin.

but none of it reached him.

not the sleepless nights. not the way your gaze clung to him on stage tonight, silently pleading for his eyes to meet yours, only to watch him look past you—through you and at the crowd. as if you weren’t there. as if you’d never been there at all.

your arms folded tightly across your chest, knuckles pressing against your ribs like that could hold the storm inside at bay, but the tremble had already started—deep and uncontrollable, unraveling you thread by thread. the cold wall against your back was solid, grounding in theory, but it did nothing to steady the shaking that crept beneath your skin.

the faint hum of celebration seeped through the door behind you, distant but persistent, bleeding into the quiet that wrapped around you like a shroud. the contrast felt unbearable—they were celebrating but you were breaking.

his voice echoed in fragments, replaying uninvited in your mind as he came to a stop next to you as the group exited the stage.

you were great tonight.

it should have been enough. hearing it from him, feeling the brief flicker of his attention—it should have been enough. but the hollowness in his tone, the effortless way he’d said it, twisted something sharp and unforgiving inside you.

he didn’t know. he didn’t feel it. not any of it.

the realization sliced through the haze like cold steel, quick and merciless, knocking the breath from your lungs. your fists curled at your sides, nails biting into your palms—deep enough to sting but not deep enough to drown out the ache curling tighter in your chest.

the air felt colder now, slipping down the corridor and winding around your body, tugging at the hem of your jacket, curling against the bare skin of your neck. it stung, but the cold was nothing compared to the raw, gnawing emptiness clawing at you from the inside, threatening to spill over if you stayed here too long.

and then, the door creaked behind you, soft footsteps breaking the fragile stillness, echoing faintly against the floor.

you didn’t look up, every part of you silently willing it to be someone else—anyone else, but you already knew. you felt him before he spoke.

wonbin.

his presence lingered just behind you, heavy and unmistakable, and even without seeing him, you could feel the weight of his eyes trailing over you, searching for something you weren’t sure you could give.

“you’ve been doing this a lot lately.”

his voice was low, just barely cutting through the quiet, like he was afraid to shatter the fragile stillness that hung between you. the weight of his words curled around the empty space, soft but certain, and something inside you twisted painfully at the sound.

your stomach flipped, and you swallowed hard, willing the sudden tightness in your throat to ease as you dragged your gaze up to meet his.

wonbin stood a few steps away, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, his head tilted slightly as he watched you. his hair, still damp from the stage lights, hung in loose, uneven strands over his forehead, the kind of careless perfection that felt maddeningly effortless. the soft glow from the hallway lights caught along the edge of his jaw, tracing his profile in faint gold, making him look more like a daydream than someone standing right in front of you.

his face was unreadable, calm in a way that felt impossible for the moment unraveling between you. but his eyes—those eyes—they didn’t waver. they stayed locked on you, steady and searching, as if he was peeling back every layer of silence and holding each fragile piece up to the light.

“doing what?” the words scraped against the walls of your throat, but you managed to keep your voice level, even though your heart hammered violently beneath your ribs.

“disappearing.”

he stepped forward, slow and deliberate, his movements careful—like he was approaching something fragile, something that might break if he got too close.

“you vanish right when everyone’s celebrating.” his gaze didn’t leave you, and the way he said it felt heavier than it should’ve. “it’s the last show, and you’re... here.”

“i needed some air.”

it came out clipped, harsher than you intended, as you shifted your focus to the floor, eyes trailing over the scuffed lines along the concrete. anywhere but him.

wonbin repeated the word under his breath, almost like he was trying it out for the first time, as if the concept itself was strange to him. the disbelief in his tone was faint, but it still brushed against you like an accusation.

a long pause stretched between you, thick and suffocating, until the weight of it pressed hard against your chest.

“you feeling okay?”

the question should have been simple, casual, even, but it wasn’t. it hit with the force of something heavier—something that cracked through the delicate balance you’d been desperately holding together since the show ended.

you forced a laugh, light and brittle, hoping it would break the tension. but it didn’t. it only made the ache sharpen, coiling deeper beneath your skin.

“i’m fine.”

“...you don’t seem fine.”

his voice softened, and damn him for that—for the quiet way his concern slipped into the space between you, for the way it made you want to crumble right there and let it all spill out at his feet, like it always did.

“what do you want me to say, wonbin?”

the words snapped out of you, harsher than you meant, but you couldn’t pull them back. they tore through the silence before you could stop them, unraveling like frayed edges you’d tried so hard to keep tucked away.

“that I’m tired? that i’ve got a headache and would like to go home? would that satisfy your curiosity”

his brows furrowed, and for a moment, he just stood there, letting the silence stretch between you—not reacting, not recoiling, just looking at you. his eyes softened slightly, but the weight of his gaze didn’t lift. it pressed harder, as if he was turning your words over in his mind, trying to decide what to do with them.

“no,” he said quietly, his voice dropping lower.

“i just wanted to know that you were doing okay. that nothing was bothering you.”

you bit down on the inside of your cheek, hard enough that you tasted copper, hoping the sharpness of it would ground you—hoping it would keep the tears pricking at the edges of your vision from spilling over.

the silence after that felt heavier, stretching long enough to become unbearable, long enough for the ache in your chest to morph into something suffocating.

“you should go back.”

the words barely made it past your lips, forced through clenched teeth like glass, cutting on the way out.

“everyone’s waiting for you, the star of the show”

wonbin didn’t move, barely reacting to what you said. instead he stayed where he was, his head tilting slightly, but his eyes never left yours.

“and you?”

you couldn’t answer.

the words dissolved on your tongue, swallowed by the storm tangled inside your chest—the love, the pain, the unbearable weight of everything you hadn’t said, all crashing and colliding like waves threatening to pull you under. the silence stretched, taut and unrelenting, pressing hard against your ribs until you thought you might drown in it.

so you did the only thing you could. you shook your head, turning away before the crack in your composure betrayed you. the movement felt stiff, like each muscle resisted the urge to stay, to let him see the fractures spreading beneath the surface. but you couldn’t—you wouldn’t.

wonbin lingered, his presence anchoring the space behind you. you could hear it—the soft rhythm of his breathing, uneven and quiet, weaving into the faint hum of celebration filtering through the door. the distant echoes of laughter and glass didn’t reach him, didn’t touch this fragile moment suspended between you.

for a second, you thought he might say something else—something that could undo everything, something that could slip beneath the walls you’d spent months fortifying. the air felt too thick, as if the weight of whatever was left unsaid could break apart the fragile stillness hanging between you.

“you were great tonight. if anyone’s the star of the show it’s you.”

and then he turned, the slow fall of his footsteps fading into the distance, each one pulling him further away until the hallway emptied and the weight of his absence settled hard against your chest.

you exhaled sharply, the breath leaving your lungs in a trembling rush, but the cold air did nothing to ease the ache burrowed deep beneath your ribs. it filled you instead, stretching wide and endless, hollow in all the ways that hurt the most.

your hands trembled, slipping down to press against your thighs, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress until your nails dug sharply into the material. the sting grounded you—barely—but it wasn’t enough to pull you back from the edges of the unraveling.

the hallway seemed smaller now, the shadows creeping in at the corners, the walls pressing closer as if they might collapse under the weight of everything you couldn’t bring yourself to say.

you leaned back against the wall, the rough texture scraping faintly against your skin, and let out a breathless laugh—brittle and sharp, but too hollow to hold any real amusement. it barely passed for anything other than the shape of a sob, thin and cracking apart at the edges before it faded entirely.

the ache in your chest didn’t fade, but you swallowed it down, the pain, the heartbreak, the love that burned inside you like a wildfire as you pushed off the wall, making your way back to the noise and the lights and the man who would always be just out of reach.

. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ .

the studio hummed with a low, ambient quiet—the kind of stillness that seemed to hold its breath, its walls thick with the scent of aged wood and metal strings, the kind of smell that clung to your clothes long after you’d left.

you sat alone in the corner, your fingers brushing absently over the strings of your guitar, coaxing out soft, mournful notes that dissolved into the air like exhaled secrets.

it wasn’t deliberate; it never was. the music always found you in moments like these, seeping through the cracks in your resolve, filling the empty spaces with sounds that carried everything you couldn’t say aloud.

the light spilling through the high windows was pale and muted, catching the floating dust motes in a quiet dance. it painted the room in a palette of grays and golds, softening the sharp edges of the equipment scattered around the studio. the low light from the hanging bulbs painted the room in muted golds and ambers, casting elongated shadows that stretched and swayed with every shift of your body.

you let the weight of the guitar anchor you, its familiar curve resting against your body like a second heartbeat. each note you plucked seemed to pulse in your chest, resonating deeper than the strings, like the music was reaching into the raw, aching center of you. the hum of the guitar strings vibrated softly beneath your fingers, a muted melody that felt more like a heartbeat than a tune.

and then the door creaked open, shattering the fragile cocoon of sound you’d built around yourself. hongjoong walked in first, his expression a blend of practiced calm and sharp observation. his eyes flicked to you, lingering for a beat too long, as though he was trying to gauge the exact temperature of the storm you were hiding behind your carefully composed face.

“figured i’d find you here early.”

hongjoong’s voice was soft but carried a warmth that filled the room. you glanced up to see him standing in the doorway, a to-go coffee cup in each hand. his dark eyes held a flicker of amusement, but there was something else beneath it—a quiet understanding he didn’t voice. he crossed the room with deliberate steps, the soles of his sneakers barely making a sound against the hardwood floor.

“i brought you this. thought you might need it,” he said, setting the cup down on the edge of the amp beside you.

his tone was casual, his expression carefully neutral. he didn’t press, didn’t ask why you were here so early or why your eyes looked a little more tired than usual. instead, he gave you a small smile, the kind that said he’d noticed but wouldn’t say anything until you were ready.

“thanks,” you murmured, wrapping your hands around the warm cup. the heat seeped into your palms, grounding you in the present moment. you took a tentative sip, the rich bitterness of the coffee cutting through the haze that clung to your mind.

before hongjoong could say anything else, the door swung open with a cheerful creak, and gunil strode in, his presence as loud and unapologetic as ever.

“man, two days off and we’re already back here? this has to qualify as workplace cruelty,” he declared, tossing his bag onto the couch in the corner.

hongjoong let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “complain all you want, but you’re here, aren’t you?”

“barely,” gunil shot back, his grin infectious as he walked past you, ruffling your hair without a second thought.

“you look extra broody today. what, the strings giving you a hard time?”

you swatted at his hand half-heartedly, a faint scowl tugging at your lips.

“ever heard of personal space?”

“nope,” he replied breezily, collapsing onto the couch with a dramatic sigh.

hongjoong rolled his eyes but didn’t bother hiding his smile.

“you’re impossible.”

as the three of you settled into a comfortable rhythm, the sound of footsteps echoed from the hallway. minjeong appeared in the doorway, her hair still slightly damp as if she’d rushed to get here. she offered a small smile as she entered, her gaze flickering to you briefly before she headed to her usual spot by the keyboard.

“hey, you didn’t reply to my text yesterday” she said softly, her voice carrying the same quiet strength that always managed to put you at ease.

“sorry, fell asleep early” you replied, your fingers idly plucking at the guitar strings.

she didn’t push further, but her eyes lingered on you for a moment, a silent acknowledgment that she’d noticed the shift in your demeanor but said nothing as yunjin burst through the doors, taking the attention away from you.

the new quiet was broken by the sound of the door opening once more, and this time, it was wonbin. his presence seemed to fill the room effortlessly, his sun-kissed skin glowing under the warm light, and his tousled hair somehow managing to look both messy and perfect. he moved with an easy confidence, the kind that wasn’t overbearing but commanded attention nonetheless.

he held a coffee cup in one hand and a bag of pastries in the other, his smile disarming as he approached.

“morning,” he greeted, his voice smooth and warm like honey. he handed the cup to you without hesitation.

“thought you might need this.”

you blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “uh, thanks. but hongjoong already…”

for a moment, his gaze drifted to hongjoong, something unspoken flickering behind his eyes—there and gone in an instant, smoothed over before you could grasp its meaning.

“guess you’ll have two, then,” he said with a shrug, his smile never wavering. “never hurts to have extra caffeine, right?”

the room seemed to hum with his presence, the air shifting subtly as he took the seat across from you. his gaze was steady, a mix of curiosity and something softer, something you couldn’t quite place.

“have you been working on anything new?” he asked, gesturing to the guitar in your hands, attempting to make conversation with you.

“a little,” you admitted, your voice quieter than you intended.

“just messing around really, drawing from some inspiration”

“messing around or making magic?” he countered, his tone light but the compliment sincere.

“you always come up with the best stuff when you’re ‘just messing around.’”

you felt a faint heat rise to your cheeks and quickly turned your attention back to the guitar.

“it’s nothing special.”

before the conversation could go any further, gunil’s voice rang out from the couch. “

“are we actually going to practice today, or are we just going to sit around complimenting each other?”

“leave it to you to ruin the moment,” minjeong muttered, earning a chorus of laughter from the others.

you couldn’t bring yourself to join in, the weight in your chest making it hard to muster even a faint smile. instead, you focused on the strings beneath your fingers, letting the vibrations seep into your skin, grounding you in the one thing that always made sense: the music.

the room settles into a quiet hum as everyone takes their places. the faint scent of coffee and the lingering warmth of laughter begin to dissipate, replaced by the raw anticipation of creating something new. yunjin taps a steady rhythm against the edge of her keyboard, her fingers moving in a dance of idle precision, while hongjoong adjusts his microphone with the care of someone about to bare his soul.

your guitar rests in your lap, its polished surface reflecting the muted studio lights. the strings feel like a lifeline beneath your fingertips, taut and ready to carry the weight of your unspoken emotions. you let out a slow breath, the cool air filling your lungs as you begin to strum, the first notes blooming into the space like ink spreading through water.

the melody you play is haunting and raw, a reflection of the turmoil churning within you. each chord is deliberate, resonating with a depth that makes the others pause and glance your way.

wonbin is the first to speak, his voice warm but tinged with curiosity.

"that’s new," he says, leaning slightly forward, his attention fixed on you. "what’s it called?"

you shrug, keeping your gaze on the strings as your fingers continue to move.

"it doesn’t have a name yet."

"it’s beautiful," he says softly, and there’s something in his tone that makes your heart clench.

"play it again."

you do, this time letting the notes unfurl with more confidence. the melody builds, a cascade of sound that fills the room, weaving through the space like a story yearning to be told. your fingers press into the strings with a force that’s almost desperate, as if each note is a piece of the pain you’re trying to expel.

hongjoong picks up on the rhythm, his voice slipping in seamlessly to complement the haunting tune. his lyrics are improvised, raw and unpolished, but they carry an emotional weight that anchors the song. minjeong follows suit, her keyboard adding a delicate, ethereal layer that lifts the melody, while gunil’s drumsticks tap against his thighs, testing out a beat.

the room comes alive, each member adding their own voice to the burgeoning song. but for you, it’s not just music—it’s a lifeline. the guitar strings bite into your fingertips, the faint sting grounding you in the present. the vibrations hum against your chest, echoing the ache that refuses to leave. you close your eyes, letting the music guide you, each strum a step further into vulnerability.

"that’s it," hongjoong says suddenly, his voice breaking through the spell. "let’s build on this."

the band falls into rhythm, the synergy between you all palpable despite the undercurrent of tension. gunil’s drumming grows bolder, a heartbeat that anchors the song, while minjeong experiments with harmonies that dance around the melody. wonbin’s bassline is steady and grounding, a quiet strength that ties the disparate elements together.

his presence, however, is anything but quiet to you. every time you catch sight of him—his fingers moving deftly over the strings, his brow furrowed in concentration—you feel the music falter, your emotions threatening to spill over. he looks up at you occasionally, a small smile tugging at his lips, and you force yourself to look away, focusing instead on the guitar strings and the way they seem to vibrate with your pain.

as the practice continues, the song begins to take shape, its edges smoothing out as the band finds its groove. the room fills with sound, a cacophony of creativity and collaboration, but for you, it’s more than that. it’s a battlefield, each note a weapon you wield against the ache in your chest.

the last chord hung in the air like an unfinished thought, trembling before dissolving into silence. the room should’ve felt full—buzzing with the energy of creation, the satisfaction of crafting something raw and unpolished—but all you felt was emptiness. the kind that crept beneath your skin and stayed there, curling around your ribs like smoke that refused to dissipate.

gunil’s voice cut through it first, loud and buoyant, shattering the delicate quiet you were trying to lose yourself in.

"we’re geniuses. i mean, honestly. did you hear that?"

he stretched like a cat, tossing his drumsticks onto the floor with the lazy confidence of someone entirely at ease in his own skin. the grin on his face was radiant, wide enough to outshine the dim studio lights overhead.

hongjoong snorted softly, rolling his eyes, leaning casually against the edge of the soundboard.

"yeah, it’s almost like we’re supposed to be good at this."

"i’m just saying," gunil countered, grinning at the ceiling like the notes were still floating up there, just waiting for him to catch them.

"that was some top-tier stuff. and you know what top-tier stuff deserves?"

there was a collective pause.

"celebration." gunil grinned, flashing his teeth like he’d been holding onto the word just for this moment.

the room stirred at the word, faint murmurs of agreement rising like sparks, drifting slowly toward ignition. hongjoong raised a brow, though the amusement tugging at his lips betrayed his resistance.

"didn’t we just drink enough to drown a small village on tour?"

"and yet, here we are. alive and well," gunil shot back, undeterred.

"you of all people should not be saying that," minjeong muttered under her breath, shaking her head as she reminisced all of the times she had to beg him to get into the van after a long night of partying hard.

but the room was already stirring with the promise of a night out. the hum of conversation grew louder, and even minjeong’s faint amusement tugged at the corners of her mouth. gunil’s enthusiasm was infectious, spreading like wildfire as the others chimed in.

"come on, hongjoong," gunil pressed, his voice rising above the chatter. "we earned this. final show was killer, the album’s practically writing itself… one night won’t hurt."

the suggestion hung there, and despite hongjoong’s half-hearted protest, the atmosphere began to shift. the idea of a party swirled like a low flame, licking at the edges of the room, spreading through the rest of them with ease. gunil thrived in these moments—the instigator, pulling everyone into his orbit until they were caught in the gravity of whatever whim struck him that day.

hongjoong sighed, but the grin tugging at his lips betrayed him.

"fine, fine. if it means you’ll stop talking, I’ll go."

a cheer erupted, loud and unanimous—gunil’s voice carrying the most weight, echoing playfully around the room. the excitement gathered like a tidal wave, pulling everyone along with it.

you, however, remained rooted. their excitement drifted past you, ghostlike, as if there was an unspoken barrier between their laughter and the hollow ache that had settled deep within your chest.

celebrate?

the word tasted strange. foreign. how could they be so light when everything inside you felt heavy—when every glance at wonbin during practice felt like swallowing glass? the weight of it all hadn’t lessened in the days since the tour ended. if anything, it had thickened, pressing against your ribs until breathing felt like an effort you had to remember to make.

your grip tightened around the neck of your guitar, the strings humming faintly beneath your fingertips as if the instrument was the only one listening. you tried to disappear into that—into the comfort of its weight in your lap, the way the cool metal bit against the soft skin of your palms.

"you’re thinking too loud."

yunjin’s voice drifted in softly, cutting through the fog. her presence was quiet but grounding, standing just beside you. she hadn’t been there moments ago, but she always knew when to appear.

"you don’t want to go."

it wasn’t a question.

you let out a slow breath, your fingers absentmindedly trailing over the strings, pulling faint, broken notes from the guitar.

"i just don’t know if i can handle it tonight."

the words were quiet, almost drowned by the sounds of the others still talking across the room. but yunjin’s eyes softened, catching on the slight tremble hidden beneath your voice.

"maybe that’s why you should," she said simply, her gaze steady but not forceful.

"you’ve been carrying this for too long. sometimes a little noise helps."

the ache in your chest curled tighter.

if only it were that simple.

you wanted to tell her that noise didn’t distract you—it amplified everything. the lights, the sound, the closeness of it all made wonbin’s presence impossible to ignore, his absence impossible to forget, but you said none of that.

"i don’t know," you whispered, as if the uncertainty might shrink into something smaller if you spoke it softly enough.

yunjin offered a small smile, brushing her shoulder lightly against yours in a way that felt more comforting than words ever could.

"i’ll stick by you. if it sucks, we’ll leave."

her voice carried the kind of certainty you wished you had, and somehow, that was enough to loosen the grip of hesitation just a little.

"fine," you exhaled, feeling the weight of the word settle somewhere deep, somewhere heavy.

yunjin’s grin softened the blow.

"that’s all i needed to hear."

you glanced up, just long enough to see hongjoong’s gaze flicker in your direction. he hadn’t said much, but the way his eyes lingered told you he’d noticed your reluctance. hongjoong always noticed.

"meet at nine at my place," he said casually, as if your answer was inevitable.

"don’t be late,” he directed the last part towards you, discouraging you from having any last minute change of heart.

gunil’s grin widened. "i’ll drag you there if i have to."

you offered a faint nod, though the words felt distant in your mouth.

as the others began to filter out, wonbin lingered near the door. his bass case hung from his shoulder, his tousled hair catching faint light from the overhead bulbs, glinting like dark gold. he paused for half a breath, his gaze catching yours.

you thought he might say something—maybe offer one of his casual comments, the kind that tugged on the strings of your heart more than it should have.

but he didn’t. he just smiled, small and unreadable, before stepping out after the others. the studio was quiet again, save for the soft hum of amps cooling down. you sat in the silence, the ghost of his smile still lingering in the room like a faint echo.

maybe a little noise will help, you thought, but the ache in your chest whispered otherwise.

. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ .

yunjin’s suitcase had become an extension of the room itself, its contents spilling onto the bed in a cascade of silk and satin. the fabrics caught the dim light like oil slicks, shifting hues with every turn of her hand as she rummaged through the pile with the focus of someone convinced salvation lay at the bottom.

dresses pooled across the sheets in soft waves, some half-folded, others left to spill over the edge onto the floor. her hands skimmed through them with surgical precision, sifting through the cascade of black and silver, each piece discarded with growing dissatisfaction.

“you’ve got to have something in here that doesn’t scream nun,” yunjin muttered, tossing aside a long black dress that pooled onto the floor like liquid shadow.

he room hummed softly with the sound of minjeong’s playlist, drifting in and out like waves lapping against the shore, but the music felt distant, as if it belonged to another place entirely. minjeong sat by the window, one leg tucked beneath her, hair falling in loose sheets over her shoulder as she watched with idle amusement.

she didn’t bother scrolling through her phone, the faint glow of the city outside enough to occupy her gaze, but you could feel her attention linger, settling quietly on the two of you from the corner of her eyes. she hadn’t contributed much to the dressing-up process beyond the occasional hum of agreement or head shake, but her presence was grounding. It was comforting in the way only minjeong’s quiet support could be.

“it’s not supposed to be this hard,” minjeong replied smoothly, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “you’re just impossible to please.”

yunjin ignored her, rifling deeper through the pile, undeterred by the jab.

you sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed, tugging at the hem of the oversized t-shirt that still hung loosely off your frame, trying to shrink into its comfort as you hadn’t found the energy to part with it yet. the worn fabric felt safer than the glossy array of dresses before you. each option seemed louder than the next—demanding attention in ways you didn’t want.

“i don’t need anything flashy or revealing,” you murmured, trailing your fingers over a silky slip dress before quickly pulling back.

“you’re not hiding tonight. you deserve to feel good… even if it’s just for a few hours.”

you didn’t respond, not because you disagreed, but because part of you wondered if you even remembered how to feel that way. it had been easier during the tour—easier to let the music fill the spaces where your feelings threatened to seep through. but now the quiet was suffocating, leaving nothing to drown out the weight pressing against your chest.

yunjin didn’t wait for your answer. she pulled something dark and slinky from the pile and held it up with a triumphant gleam in her eyes.

“this is it.”

"maybe I should just—"

"—not finish that sentence," yunjin cut in, raising a hand to silence whatever excuse was on your lips. "you’re not skipping out on tonight."

"i wasn’t going to skip."

"mm-hm." yunjin’s eyes narrowed in challenge.

"then you’re wearing this."

minjeong arched a brow, her gaze flicking between the two of you with amusement. "are we trying to start wars tonight, or…"

"if we have to," yunjin replied, her lips curling into a mischievous grin.

“no.”

“yes.”

“yunjin, i’m serious—”

“so am i.”

minjeong let out a quiet laugh, propping her chin on her hand as she watched the two of you.

“you’re fighting a losing battle. just try it on.”

you slipped into it reluctantly, the silk cool against your skin, fitting in ways that made you hyper aware of every movement—the soft brush of fabric against your thigh, the subtle shift when you walked, as if the dress was designed to remind you of its presence.

the dress felt unfamiliar, even as it slid over your skin, molding to your shape like it had been waiting for this moment. the black fabric clung to you in waves, the high slit brushing against your thigh with each subtle shift, teasing glances at your legs as you moved.

yunjin hummed softly behind you as she swiped a thin layer of red over your lips, the color blooming beneath her careful hand, rich and bold against the softness of your skin.

“perfect,” she whispered, stepping back to admire her work.

you stared at the reflection in the mirror, the familiar slope of your collarbone catching the low light, the soft fall of your hair framing your features. it wasn’t a transformation—it was still you. only sharper. like someone had peeled away the softer edges and left behind something more defined.

it’s not someone else in the mirror, but the version of yourself you use sparingly—the one you keep tucked away, for moments like this.

minjeong had been careful with the makeup, blending shadows at the corners of your eyes until they smoldered just enough to draw focus, but not enough to overwhelm. the person looking back is still you. but sharper, guarded. as if every detail has been edged in something dangerous.

minjeong watched quietly from the bed, her gaze steady, arms crossed as if to say i told you so.

“wonbin’s not ready for this,” yunjin added, smirking knowingly.

your chest felt hollow at the mention of his name, an ache curling beneath your ribs that hadn’t fully subsided since the end of the tour.

you could still see him—wonbin, leaning against the edge of the stage, the low sweep of his hair falling into his eyes as he tuned his bass, completely unaware of the way your gaze lingered. he never noticed the way your breath hitched when his hand accidentally brushed yours during practice, or how your fingers fumbled over the guitar strings when he laughed, loose and careless, his arm slung over another girl’s shoulder at some party you didn’t want to remember.

“it’s not about him.”

yunjin’s gaze softened, but her grip on the dress remained firm.

“maybe not. but it wouldn’t hurt, would it?”

minjeong rose from her spot by the window, crossing the room with the same quiet grace she always carried, but her gaze lingered when she stopped beside you.

“he’ll notice,” she said simply.

and somehow, that terrified you more than the thought of him looking away.

the rain had stopped long enough for the streets to dry, but the dampness still clung to the air, curling in the spaces where warmth had no business lingering. yunjin’s arm looped easily through yours, her body angled closer than usual, like she could sense the weight pressing down on you, even if you hadn’t said a word since leaving the hotel.

the dress hugged tighter than before, each shift of your hips against the silk like a reminder of how exposed you were beneath the thin layer. the heels felt too high, the cold biting at the sliver of skin where the slit along your thigh dared to catch the wind, and with each step toward hongjoong’s apartment, the gravity of the evening pressed harder into your chest.

your heart pounded—not from excitement or anticipation, but from something heavier, like dread disguised in a prettier shape. the kind of ache that curls inward, weaving through the cracks until you can’t tell if it’s even possible to separate the pain from yourself anymore.

you could already see wonbin in your mind—the way he’d sit with one arm slung over the couch, his head tilting just enough to push his hair from his eyes, that smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. effortless. like everything about him had been carefully crafted to draw people in without ever letting them get close enough to matter.

and yet, you could never seem to stop yourself from standing just close enough to get burned.

“you okay?” yunjin’s voice was softer now, breaking through the cold silence that wrapped around the both of you.

you forced a nod, the lie settling between your ribs, heavy and sharp.

but the truth was lodged deeper—no, i’m not okay.

you weren’t okay when the tour ended, when the final show’s lights dimmed and you watched him from the side of the stage, knowing that no song, no applause, could drown out the ache blooming inside your chest.

you weren’t okay when he laughed with another girl at the last party, her hand curling over his forearm like it belonged there, his gaze never once flicking in your direction.

and you weren’t okay now, knowing that by the time this night ended, nothing would have changed except the depth of the wound you were already carrying.

the apartment building loomed ahead, the faint glow of hongjoong’s window spilling out onto the street below, shadows of figures moving behind the glass.

gunil’s voice was the first thing you heard when the door cracked open, his laugh low and careless as he leaned one shoulder against the frame, beer bottle dangling lazily from his fingers.

but the second his eyes flicked over you, something shifted—his posture straightening just enough to notice, his grin faltering as his gaze trailed slowly down the length of you, lingering where the dress slipped over your hips before snapping back up to meet your eyes.

“damn.” the word left him like a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. he stepped aside, waving you through but not before shaking his head with a disbelieving smile. “i mean—wow. somebody went all out tonight.”

you felt the heat crawl up the back of your neck, cheeks warming under the weight of his gaze, but yunjin just grinned, giving him a playful shove as she followed behind.

“don’t start drooling, gunil. she’s way out of your league.”

“i’m just saying,” he defended, holding his hands up as if to surrender. his eyes flicked to you again, softer this time. “you look great. like, seriously.”

the warmth in his voice felt genuine, enough to tug at something beneath the ache that had settled in your chest long before the night started.

the room was warm—warmer than it should’ve been with the windows cracked and the faint brush of night air curling in from the streets below. the soft thrum of music pressed against the walls, low enough to dissolve into the hum of conversation, laughter trickling in from the far side of the apartment where gunil was already making himself at home.

but none of it touched you.

your glass hovered halfway to your lips, fingers curled loosely around the cool edge as you stood by the farthest corner of hongjoong’s kitchen, barely skimming the edges of the gathering. it wasn’t crowded, but it felt like it was. the apartment stretched thinner, the walls pressing in, shrinking the space between you and the one person you were trying so desperately not to focus on.

wonbin.

he was leaning against the counter near the window, one hand cradling a glass that he hadn’t touched since you walked in.

the soft glow of the string lights draped across the ceiling spilled over him, illuminating the angles of his face—the soft curve of his mouth resting in that easy, half-smile he wore like second skin, dark hair falling over his eyes in lazy strands that framed him too perfectly.

he wasn’t doing anything remarkable, just existing. and somehow, that alone had the power to hold the entire room in orbit around him.

the space he occupied seemed heavier, pulling at you like some unrelenting tide, tugging at the threads that already felt too frayed to hold. you could feel him without looking—his presence crackling at the edges of your awareness, magnetic in that quiet, dangerous way that made you want to step closer even when you knew it would only hurt.

gunil said something loud enough to pull laughter from the others, his voice rising over the rest like a spark in dry air, but it didn’t reach you.

because wonbin’s gaze had found you.

it was slow at first—a fleeting glance that should’ve passed over you like it did everyone else, but it didn’t.

his eyes lingered, trailing over the dip of your shoulder where yunjin’s necklace rested against your collarbone, skimming the soft curve of your waist before settling on the slit of your dress that shifted with the subtle sway of your weight.

and in that moment, the room dissolved.

everything blurred into the background—gunil’s voice, the music, the quiet murmur of hongjoong’s conversation with minjeong—all of it faded into static.

because the only thing anchoring you to this moment was the weight of wonbin’s eyes holding yours.

your breath hitched, catching in your throat like fragile glass, and the ache you thought you’d buried months ago pressed itself sharp against your ribs, curling tighter the longer he looked, he wasn’t smiling now, his expression was unreadable, but the intensity in his gaze was enough to set your skin alight, each second stretching thinner, pulling taut until it felt like you might break beneath it.

you didn’t move and neither did he but the space between you felt electric, charged with something unspoken that neither of you dared to reach for. you wanted to believe—for just a second—that maybe this time it was different, that maybe he was looking at you the way you always caught yourself looking at him.

but hope was a fragile thing, and it shattered the moment he blinked and his gaze dropped, falling away like the air had been sucked from the room, leaving behind the hollow echo of what could’ve been.

his attention shifted easily, sliding toward gunil as if nothing had happened—as if you hadn’t just felt your entire chest cave in beneath the weight of his stare.

you tried to breathe, but the air felt thick, and the whiskey in your glass did nothing to chase away the cold settling beneath your skin but it hurt—worse than you expected because it was always the same.

wonbin saw you, but he didn’t see you.

you were just another part of the room—another fleeting glance that didn’t stick, another shadow he’d forget the second he turned away. your heart twisted painfully, but you masked it with a slow sip of your drink, letting the burn scrape down your throat in the hopes that it would drown out the ache swelling in your chest.

yunjin was by your side before you even registered her presence, her shoulder brushing lightly against yours, grounding you in the only way she knew how.

“you’re doing that thing,” she murmured, leaning in close enough that her words barely carried past the rim of her glass.

“what thing?” you asked, though the faint tremble in your voice betrayed you.

“staring.”

your grip tightened subtly, the cold sweat of the glass slick against your palm.

“i’m not—”

“you are,” she interrupted softly, but there was no judgment in her tone—just quiet understanding.

she followed your gaze for a beat too long, watching the way wonbin’s head tilted back as he laughed at something gunil said, his hand lifting to brush through his hair.

you hated how easily he could exist like this—untouched, unaware of the way he held pieces of you you’d never been brave enough to hand over.

“it’s exhausting, isn’t it?” yunjin’s voice was low, but the weight behind it hit you square in the chest.

you didn’t answer, because there was no point in denying it. the ache had already carved itself so deeply into you that it felt permanent, like something you’d have to carry long after this night ended.

wonbin hadn’t glanced at you again, but that didn’t stop you from feeling the ghost of his gaze trailing along your skin, burning even when it was no longer there.

you wished you could stop caring, but no matter how much you tried to untangle yourself from him, he was woven into the fabric of you, threading through your veins like a quiet, persistent ache..

“we should head out soon,” hongjoong said, glancing at the time. he reached for his jacket slung over the back of the chair, slipping it on without urgency. “party won’t wait forever.”

gunil raised his bottle in mock agreement tilting it in your direction. “i’m just saying, if we’re bringing her like this, we might as well show up late and make an entrance.”

“you’re not subtle,” yunjin shot back, but the laughter in her voice softened the edge of her words.

the group began to gather near the door, the slow shuffle of jackets and boots filling the quiet that had settled over the apartment. hongjoong slipped into his usual role—organizer by default—moving between conversations as he rounded up stray belongings and gently nudged everyone toward the van waiting outside. his movements were easy, practiced, like someone who’d done this a hundred times before without thinking.

wonbin hung back, lingering near the window, the rim of his glass brushing against his lower lip as he took his time finishing the last of whatever he’d been drinking. his gaze drifted somewhere far beyond the street below, unfocused, almost thoughtful, before he finally set the empty glass down with a soft clink against the table.

the keys flashed silver as hongjoong pulled them free from his pocket, tossing them toward wonbin with a flick of his wrist. the metallic glint caught faintly in the streetlights seeping through the blinds, and for a moment, the apartment felt still—like something hanging in the air between the exchange.

wonbin caught them easily, fingers curling around the keyring with practiced grace, the jingle sharp enough to pull your attention back to the room.

hongjoong, already halfway into his jacket, hesitated just long enough to cast him a sideways glance.

“you sure you’re good to drive?”

wonbin’s gaze shifted, meeting hongjoong’s with the faintest quirk of his brow, a soft half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“haven’t had a drop. you’d know if i did.”

the way he said it—smooth, unbothered—made your pulse stutter for reasons you didn’t want to dissect.

“it’s true,” gunil chimed in with a lazy grin, draping himself over hongjoong’s shoulder.

“i watched him sip on mocktails the whole time. the man’s practically a saint.”

hongjoong snorted. “right. saint wonbin.”

“if we crash, at least we’ll die with the prettiest driver in town,” gunil added with a grin, earning a chorus of laughter from yunjin and minjeong as they pushed their way out the door, the laughter echoing faintly as the group spilled out into the cool night air.

the weight in your chest only deepened when you stepped outside, the cool slap of night air rushing in to fill the empty space around you, the cold biting harder now as the wind curled around your legs where the dress left your skin exposed, but you said nothing, hugging your arms across your chest as you followed the others to the van.

the van waited just down the curb, parked beneath the hazy flicker of a streetlamp that buzzed faintly against the quiet. yunjin and minjeong made their way inside first, their laughter softening as the doors slid shut behind them, leaving only you, gunil, and wonbin lingering on the sidewalk.

gunil leaned against the van casually, taking his time finishing off the last sip of his beer.

you were already moving toward the open door, the quiet creak of hinges cutting softly through the night as you stepped toward the backseat. the city lights flickered faintly along the car’s surface, casting pale reflections that rippled like water beneath the curve of your fingertips. you didn’t think much of it—didn’t have to—until the faintest brush of warmth skimmed across your wrist, halting you mid-step.

the touch was featherlight, barely more than a flicker against your skin. but it burned. your breath stilled as your fingers hovered over the car door handle, the sudden weight of the moment crashing down as if time itself had narrowed to this—just the soft heat of his palm, the space between you, the silent pull that tugged at the edges of your resolve.

you turned, pulse thrumming at the base of your throat, each heartbeat painfully loud as your eyes lifted—slowly, hesitantly.

wonbin stood just behind you, his gaze already fixed on yours, steady and unreadable beneath the faint glow of the streetlights.

he didn’t say anything, he didn’t have to.

there was something in the way he looked at you—anchored you there, like gravity pulling you to him with an inevitability you couldn’t fight. the quiet hum of the distant city softened to nothing, the sound dissolving beneath the sharp, suffocating awareness of how close he was. his hand lingered just over yours, loose but present, the warmth seeping into your skin in a way that felt impossible to ignore.

wonbin’s eyes didn’t waver and neither did you. the silence stretched, threading itself tightly between you until the weight of it settled in your chest, thick and unrelenting.

then finally—finally—he spoke.

“sit up front. with me”

his voice slipped into the narrow space between you, low and quiet, curling around the inches that separated you. the words weren’t a request—soft but firm, threaded with something just beneath the surface that you couldn’t quite place. His head tipped faintly toward the front seat, the smallest tilt, but it was enough to unravel you.

your breath caught, heart slamming painfully against your ribs as the edges of the night seemed to press in closer, drawing the world smaller until it was just this.

just him.

gunil’s head tilted lazily, his eyes flicking between the two of you as something flickered across his face—a slow, knowing smile that spread like molasses, unhurried and far too pleased with itself.

“ah,” he drawled, crossing his arms over his chest with exaggerated amusement. “i get it now.”

The playful lilt in his voice dragged your attention sideways, but the hold of Wonbin’s gaze didn’t loosen.

“she looks too good to be admired from the backseat, huh?” gunil teased, his grin growing sharper as he leaned casually against the side of the car.

you barely heard him, the blood rushing in your ears was deafening, a steady thrum that drowned out everything but the weight of wonbin’s eyes still holding you in place but gunil didn’t seem to notice as he continued.

“can’t blame you,” he added with a carefree shrug, gesturing toward you with an easy nod.

“she looks good enough to distract the whole damn car. might as well keep her up front where you can admire her properly, right?”

his words floated somewhere at the edge of your awareness—light, harmless, nothing more than the usual banter gunil was known for. but the tightness curling low in your stomach refused to ease, no matter how playful the intent.

wonbin didn’t laugh, he didn’t even glance at gunil his gaze remained anchored to yours, dark and steady, as if nothing else in the world existed in that moment but the space between you.

the silence stretched long enough to feel suffocating. and then, just when the weight of it threatened to press too hard against your chest, wonbin spoke again—soft, but unyielding.

“sit up front with me, please..”

the words slipped through the tension like silk, smoother this time but still leaving no room for argument. there was no teasing edge to his voice, no trace of the lighthearted indifference he so often carried. the usual glint in his eye, the careless charm—all of it was gone.

it wasn’t a question, it wasn’t even a request. it felt like a decision he’d made long before gunil ever opened his mouth—long before you had stepped toward the car at all and somehow, that realization made your heart stumble harder.

gunil hummed under his breath, a low, teasing sound that might have tugged a laugh from you on any other night but now, it barely registered—a distant echo drowned beneath the quiet hum of something far stronger.

the faint trace of wonbin’s touch still ghosted along your wrist, lingering like the remnants of a fading flame, delicate yet searing in its absence. it shouldn’t have felt this way—shouldn’t have meant anything, but it did.

your head dipped in a small nod, but even that felt heavier than it should have, as if the simple motion pulled at some invisible thread stretched taut between the two of you, tightening with a quiet inevitability.

a flicker crossed wonbin’s face—so quick, so fleeting—that you almost missed it. the slightest crease at the corner of his mouth, the shift in his eyes, something unreadable that dissolved the moment you caught it, vanishing as if it had never been there at all.

but you saw it, or maybe you only wanted to.

either way, he released your wrist, his fingers slipping away with a slowness that felt deliberate—like he meant for you to notice the absence, to feel the space left behind.

you swallowed, the heat rising beneath your skin at odds with the cool night air, and stepped forward. the soft thud of the passenger door closing behind you cut through the quiet as you settled into the seat. the leather pressed cool and smooth against your thighs, grounding you just enough to remember how to breathe.

funil slid into the back with the others, his laughter trailing softly behind him, though the grin he wore lingered—persistent, even in the faint reflection of the rearview mirror.

wonbin said nothing.

instead he slipped behind the wheel, the slow, fluid motion unnervingly calm, his hand hovered briefly over the ignition, but he didn’t start the car right away.

the soft click of his seatbelt broke the silence, the sound small but cutting in the closeness of the space, and somehow, it made the air between you feel even thinner.

the drive wasn’t long, but the silence stretched it thin, pulling the minutes like thread unraveling beneath the weight of something unspoken. the low hum of the engine beneath your feet seemed louder than the voices drifting lazily from the backseat—soft, distant, dissolving somewhere in the space between.

wonbin sat just inches away, his hands loose on the steering wheel, gaze fixed ahead, but his presence filled the van in a way that made the air feel heavier. the others kept talking, their laughter rising and falling in soft waves behind you, but it might as well have been static—background noise swallowed by the steady loop of your thoughts.

you hadn’t stopped thinking about it—the way he looked at you.

it wasn’t the brush of his hand against your wrist, though the ghost of that touch lingered somewhere beneath your skin, light but inescapable. no, it was the eyes that met yours in the moments after—the quiet weight in them, dark and searching, like he was trying to find something he couldn’t quite grasp.

it hadn’t left you.

even now, as the van eased to a stop and the low rumble of the engine faded into nothing, the weight of that look sat with you still, pressing into your ribs like an ache that refused to dissolve.

gunil was the first to move, his shoulder bumping into hongjoong’s as he twisted toward the door, hands planting against the seat as he shoved it open with one easy motion. the hinges groaned softly, the cool air rushing in like a breath of relief as gunil climbed out, stretching with the exaggerated groan of someone who had no right to be as energized as he was.

“finally,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders back. “felt like we were in there for hours.”

you didn’t follow—not yet.

your fingers curled around the handle, but the metal beneath your palm felt colder than it should have, grounding you in place even as the others began to filter out. the van felt safer somehow, quieter, like it might anchor you if you sat there long enough. the air, sharp against your bare arms, made you shiver, but you stayed rooted to the seat, watching the way the night folded softly around the edges of the open door.

wonbin didn’t move either.

his hand slipped from the steering wheel, falling to his lap, but he didn’t make any effort to climb out. instead, his gaze flickered toward you, lingering for just a second longer than it needed to—long enough for your breath to catch at the back of your throat.

but he didn’t say anything and neither did you.

his hands rested loosely on the steering wheel, fingers relaxed but unmoving, as if he had no intention of starting the car just yet. his head tipped slightly toward the window, eyes half-lidded beneath the faint wash of streetlights that crept through the windshield. the soft amber glow caught on the sharp lines of his profile—the slope of his nose, the cut of his jaw—illuminating him in fragments that felt too fleeting, like something slipping just out of reach.

the slow drag of his thumb across the leather beneath his palm was the only motion, tracing faint, absent-minded circles against the steering wheel. there was something deliberate about it, like he was grounding himself, tethering his thoughts to the sensation beneath his skin.

“everything okay?”

his voice slipped through the quiet, soft but clear enough to cut through the distant hum of laughter echoing from the house behind you. it wasn’t intrusive—barely louder than the rustle of leaves stirring in the night air—but there was something careful in the way he asked, like he’d been holding the question back until now.

you nodded once, quick and automatic, but the weight pressing against your shoulders told a different story. wonbin didn’t shift, but his gaze slid sideways, cutting through the thin space between you, lingering just long enough to steal the air from your lungs.

“you look good tonight.”

the words didn’t fall lightly. they weren’t tossed carelessly into the dark, the way gunil’s playful teasing had been, or wrapped in laughter the way yunjin’s voice had sounded when she zipped you into the dress hours earlier.

no—wonbin said it like it meant something, like it was a quiet truth that had pressed too long against the edge of his tongue and slipped free before he could stop it.

and just like that, the world inside the car shifted.

the compliment slipped beneath your skin, warm and unsettling, curling in the spaces you tried to keep untouched. you felt it settle low in your stomach, heavy and relentless, refusing to let go even as you glanced away, fixing your gaze on the house glowing faintly through the windshield.

but his eyes stayed. they lingered, pressing against your profile, unwavering in their weight. even as yunjin’s voice echoed from the front door, her bright laughter cutting through the night as she called for you to hurry inside, the heat of wonbin’s stare didn’t fade.

it lingered—burned—long after his gaze finally drifted away.

you followed the others toward the entrance, but the sound of wonbin’s footsteps trailing behind you felt louder than the music bleeding out from the house.

“now this is what i call a party,” gunil mused, the grin evident in his tone even as his back turned toward you.

the music throbbed low beneath your skin long before you even crossed the threshold, the bass a steady pulse that seemed to bleed through the walls and out into the night. the house was already alive, windows cracked open to let the heat spill out onto the damp street, but it did little to temper the weight pressing into your chest—the kind of heaviness that sat just beneath the surface, quiet but impossible to shake.

the house is alive with movement and sound, the heavy throb of bass reverberating through the floorboards, puling beneath your feet like a second heartbeat as laughter spills out in waves that stretch and ripple through the warm, hazy air.

there’s a weight to it, something tangible in the press of bodies that slide past one another in the narrow hallways, something that clings to your skin like the faint, sticky sheen left behind by too much heat and too little space. the low hum of conversation ebbs and flows, mingling with the faint trace of smoke curling out from the back porch and the sweet, syrupy tang of alcohol that seems to settle on your tongue without warning, as if the air itself is thick with it.

hongjoong and gunil were the first to drift off, their footsteps already echoing toward the kitchen before the door had fully shut behind them. gunil’s laughter trailed after them, his arm still draped casually over hongjoong’s shoulder as if the two had done this a hundred times before. they slipped through the crowd with ease—comfortable, familiar—like the night belonged to them, stitched into their skin long before this moment.

yunjin and minjeong didn’t follow.

yunjin caught your wrist gently, keeping close as the current of bodies pushed past, her gaze flickering across the room before she leaned in, voice barely louder than a whisper.

“we’re staying with you tonight. no vanishing acts.”

minjeong hummed her agreement beside you, arms crossed as she glanced toward the thick crowd gathering by the bar, unimpressed but unwavering. she didn’t need to say anything to confirm it—the weight of her presence at your side already spoke volumes.

wonbin lingered near the door, his hand brushing against the frame as he stepped inside, but his eyes were already on you. he didn’t move further, instead, his gaze shifted slowly, skimming over the crowded room as if he was searching for something—or maybe waiting.

the soft glow from the living room stretched across the sharp lines of his face, casting half of him in warm gold while shadows dipped beneath his jaw, the faint spill of light catching in his dark hair.

you felt the moment his attention flicked back toward you.

but yunjin’s arm looped through yours then, tugging you gently toward the living room. minjeong trailed just behind, a silent shadow at your side.

you didn’t look back, but you didn’t need to. wonbin saw the two of them anchored beside you—one glance, and his posture shifted, subtle but telling. his hand slipped from the doorway, and without a word, he disappeared into the crowd, the flicker of his presence folding into the blur of people before you could even exhale.

time blurred beneath the steady thrum of music, the house growing warmer with each passing hour as more bodies pressed into the narrow spaces, their laughter rising and falling in waves that seemed to crash against the walls. you stayed anchored near the edge of the room, where the lights didn’t quite reach, the condensation from your untouched glass pooling against your palm, forgotten.

yunjin’s arm looped comfortably around your shoulder, her weight pressing lightly into your side, while minjeong leaned against the wall next to you, arms crossed and gaze sharp as ever. they had barely left your side, brushing off invitations and whispered suggestions with casual ease, their presence unwavering like a pair of quiet sentinels.

you tried to appreciate it—tried to let the comfort of their loyalty settle somewhere beneath the ache still blooming in your chest—but the guilt curled in anyway, creeping up your throat as the night stretched on.

“you guys don’t have to hover, you know,” you said, forcing a faint smile that felt thin even as you tried to keep your tone light.

“i’m not going to combust if you leave me alone for five minutes.”

yunjin’s eyes flicked toward you, her head tilting slightly in mock consideration.

“no, but you might slip out the back door if we’re not paying attention. remember that thing you do?”

minjeong snorted softly, barely concealing her amusement.

“i swear i’m fine.” you laughed under your breath, nudging yunjin’s arm with your elbow.

“seriously. go have fun. those two guys haven’t stopped staring at you since we got here.”

yunjin glanced toward the dancefloor, where two boys stood awkwardly pretending not to be watching your group, their heads dipping closer to each other every time yunjin looked in their direction.

“not really my type,” yunjin mused, but her gaze lingered a second longer than necessary.

“mine neither,” minjeong added, though the flicker of curiosity in her expression didn’t quite match her words.

you shook your head, rolling your eyes playfully.

“okay, maybe not, but you can still dance with them for a bit. go. i’ll be right here when you get back.”

yunjin hesitated, her fingers tightening slightly around your shoulder, but minjeong was already tugging at her wrist, urging her toward the floor.

“we’ll be close,” yunjin relented, but the teasing edge to her voice had softened, and she gave your arm one last squeeze before letting go.

you tilt the glass loosely in your hand, watching the way the condensation pools along the edges before slipping down your fingers in slow, deliberate rivulets, the coolness of it sharp against your palm, grounding you in a way that feels fleeting at best.

the drink sits half-forgotten between sips that burn just enough to keep you anchored, but not nearly enough to dull the ache that coils deeper with every passing second spent in this room, in this house, in this night that stretches endlessly ahead of you.

this was supposed to be enough.

you told yourself the music would drown it out, that the drinks yunjin kept sliding into your hand would blur the sharp ache sitting just beneath your ribs. that if you stayed in motion, if you stayed laughing and moving and tilting your head just right when someone leaned in a little too close, it would feel like the version of yourself you tried so hard to convince everyone you were.

but it doesn’t. nothing about this night fills the hollow space curling tighter inside you.

not the taste of liquor that lingers too long on your tongue, nor the glittering haze of strangers’ smiles catching faintly in the flicker of the lights overhead.

your focus drifts, unraveling itself from the music and the crowd until it finds him, as it always does.

wonbin stood at the far end of the bar, the faint glow of low-hanging lights casting him in soft, uneven shadows that stretched long across the counter’s edge. he leaned against it with the kind of ease that looked practiced but never forced, like the moment bent itself around him, settling to fit the sharp cut of his frame as if he’d always belonged there. one hand rested loosely along the curve of the counter, fingertips tracing faint circles against the glassy surface, while the other curled around the neck of a drink he hadn’t touched in what felt like forever.

it was the posture—that posture—that made it impossible to look away.

relaxed but deliberate, as if even the smallest shift of his weight could ripple through the room unnoticed but not unfelt. there was something magnetic in the quiet stillness of him, something that tugged at the edges of your awareness, making the noise around him feel like static.

his hair—still damp from the heat inside—fell across his forehead in careless strands, sticking just enough to hint at the lingering warmth beneath his skin. the collar of his shirt dipped low, the fabric loose where it sloped along his collarbone, revealing the faintest sliver of skin that seemed to catch the light in a way that made it impossible not to stare. the shadows chased the curve of his throat, dark where the soft dip met his chest, and you hated the way your gaze lingered there—drawn to the movement of his hand as it flexed gently against the glass.

he hadn’t even taken a sip, and yet, he seemed perfectly content to let the moment pass him by, standing there like the night revolved around him—like he could shape the room without lifting a finger.

there were girls—there always were—hovering just close enough to brush against him, their eyes bright, shoulders angled inward as if pulled by the steady gravity that followed wherever he went. one leaned in closer than the others, her arm barely grazing his as she tipped her head to say something, the soft lilt of her voice swallowed by the music but somehow still there, threading through the low hum of the bar like the faintest echo of something familiar.

you told yourself not to look. not to watch the way her fingertips skimmed along the inside of his wrist, lingering longer than they needed to, or how his head dipped just slightly—just enough to catch the words she pressed into the space between them.

but your gaze betrayed you, it always did. and the worst part?it shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.

you’ve told yourself that a hundred times before, whispered it like a quiet mantra beneath your breath on nights just like this one, nights when the room feels too small and the space between you stretches impossibly wide, no matter how near he stands. but the truth is, it does matter—more than it should, more than you’ll ever let him see, and the realization of it settles deep in your chest, heavy and unrelenting as you swallow another mouthful of liquor that does nothing to soften the edges.

the music shifted, the tempo rising like the pulse of something urgent, threading through the thick air in heavy waves. for a fleeting second, you thought about leaving—letting the crowd pull you under, dissolving into the blur of bodies where faces became indistinct and the weight of your thoughts might slip away beneath the noise.

the idea curled at the edge of your mind, tempting in its simplicity, and your feet hesitated, the first step backward already sinking into the crowded floor. but before you could disappear into the current of people, his eyes lifted—like they had been waiting for yours to follow.

the connection is immediate, electric in a way that catches you off guard, locking you in place as the noise and the heat and the blur of the party around you fades into something distant, something small and irrelevant beneath the weight of his gaze.

there’s nothing hurried in the way he looks at you, his attention trailing slowly from the slope of your shoulder down to the dip of your collarbone, lingering there for just a second too long before sliding lower to trace the curve of your waist beneath the silk that clings faintly to your skin, each movement deliberate and measured, as if he’s committing the shape of you to memory in a way that feels far too intimate for a crowded room.

your breath catches, heart stuttering painfully beneath the pressure of his stare, and even as the weight of it pulls tighter around your chest, you hold it, unable to move, unwilling to look away as something unfamiliar and unsettling flares quietly in the narrow space between you.

but it doesn’t last.

and then it broke.

the shift was subtle but absolute, the moment fracturing as one of the girls beside him leaned in, her fingers curling softly around his wrist. whatever she whispered barely stirred the air, but it reached him, tugging at his focus until his gaze slipped from yours—falling away like the last flicker of a dying ember.

cold washed over you in its absence.

it’s almost laughable, the way your chest aches in his absence, as if he’d been standing beside you rather than across the room, but the feeling remains, gnawing steadily beneath the surface even as you lift your glass and down what’s left of it in one long, desperate swallow.

yunjin’s gaze flicked toward you, cutting through the blur of the crowd with the kind of precision that made it impossible to pretend you hadn’t been caught. her eyes, warm but sharp, searched yours as if peeling back the thin veneer you had tried to layer over your expression.

you felt the weight of her unspoken question—the slight tilt of her head, the pause in the way her hands moved as she danced—like she was already preparing to step away, to make her way back to your side the moment you needed her to.

but you wouldn’t let her, not tonight.

you forced a smile, light and easy, lifting your glass just high enough for her to see, as if the gesture alone could convince her. it barely touched your eyes, the strain tugging faintly at the corners of your mouth, but you held it there anyway, willing it to settle long enough for her to believe it.

yunjin’s gaze lingered, doubt flickering behind the soft glow of party lights, but after a moment, she nodded, her attention shifting back to the boy in front of her—the one who hadn’t stopped trying to make her laugh since the music started.

her laugh rang out a second later, bright and careless as she twirled beneath his arm, and relief washed over you in slow, cooling waves. you wanted that for her—for all of them.

even if you couldn’t quite reach for it yourself.

you let the smile drop the second her back was turned, the faint ache pressing back into place, familiar as the pulse that thrummed low beneath the music.

and even as you try to follow her lead, try to let the music and the drinks and the night pull you back into the moment, your attention drifts, seeking him out once more, as it always does.

because no matter how much you tell yourself to stop, no matter how much you try to bury the feeling that festers low and bitter in your chest, you know the truth of it. it’s always him and it always will be.

the bass seemed to sink beneath your skin, rattling through your bones in slow, pulsing waves, each throb heavier than the last as it settled low in your chest. the music wasn’t just sound anymore—it was weight, pressing against your senses until the edges of the room began to blur, the faint hum of overlapping voices weaving together into something indistinct, hollow, and distant.

the warmth from the alcohol you’d downed earlier lingered in the back of your throat, burning faintly as it mixed with the stagnant air thick with perfume, sweat, and the sharp bite of something metallic that curled at the edges of your tongue. you blinked against the haze, but it didn’t help, the dim lights scattering in soft halos across the glossy floor beneath your feet, and for a moment, the entire club felt like it was spinning in slow motion—tilting just slightly off its axis.

someone brushed past you, their laughter loud and sharp in your ear, but it dissolved as quickly as it came, melting back into the crowd that swayed and pulsed in time with the relentless beat. the room felt too small, too close, the bodies pressing in around you until your breath came shallow and uneven, and suddenly the need to escape was undeniable, coiling tight beneath your ribs until it was all you could focus on.

your grip tightened briefly around the edge of the table, fingertips sliding against the slick surface as you steadied yourself, but even the contact felt fleeting—like you weren’t fully anchored in the moment. the room was shifting around you, or maybe it was just the alcohol catching up, burning low and slow beneath your skin, trailing through your veins in a way that made the lights smear at the edges.

the crowd stretched out ahead of you, bodies tangled together in clusters that swayed lazily with the rhythm, and for a moment, the space between the exit and where you stood felt impossible to cross. the music pressed down harder, vibrating through the soles of your boots, each beat crawling up your legs and settling uneasily beneath your ribs. your heart thudded in sync with the bass, every pulse a sharp reminder of the weight you couldn’t shake.

you started moving without fully realizing it, your body threading instinctively between the groups that filled the room. each step felt too quick and too slow all at once, the ache in your chest urging you forward, while the drag of the alcohol in your bloodstream blurred everything else, dulling your senses. the faces around you drifted past in streaks of warm skin and glittering eyes, laughter blooming somewhere to your right, but the sounds were muted—faint echoes that faded the further you pushed through the crowd.

the air thickened the closer you got to the staircase, curling against the back of your neck, hot and stifling, until the ache sitting low in your chest unfurled into something sharper—more desperate. the throb of the music swelled, loud enough to rattle through your teeth, and by the time you reached the edge of the room, it felt like the floor itself was vibrating beneath your feet, threatening to pull you under if you stopped for even a second.

the stairway stretched upward in front of you, narrow and half-lit, the kind of forgotten corner of the house that felt colder—untouched by the heat and pulse of the party below. each step creaked faintly beneath your weight, the sound swallowed quickly by the bass that still throbbed through the floor, echoing distantly in your chest like an unwanted second heartbeat.

the further you climbed, the heavier the air seemed to grow, thick with the lingering scent of alcohol and something sharper—regret, maybe, or the remnants of disappointment clinging stubbornly beneath your skin.

it wasn’t just the crowd pressing too close or the warmth prickling along the nape of your neck that drove you here. was the way wonbin hadn’t looked at you—*not really.* the brief flicker of his gaze had slipped past you too easily, and the hollow ache it left behind had settled deep, curling into a shape you couldn’t shake.

climbing the stairs felt like trying to outrun it, though you knew you wouldn’t. still, the slow burn of each step beneath your feet offered something—distance, if nothing else. distance from the music, the stifling heat, the soft edges of laughter curling out of mouths that weren’t yours.

the hallway was hushed, the faint thrum of music filtering up through the floorboards like a distant storm, softened by layers of wood and space. the air felt sharper here, cooler against the back of your neck, slipping beneath the collar of your shirt in a way that made your skin prickle.

it was a relief—a stark contrast to the heavy, suffocating warmth that lingered downstairs, where bodies pressed too close and the weight of Wonbin’s absence felt louder than the music itself. one of the doors stood slightly ajar, pale light spilling out in a thin, uneven line across the hallway, and without thinking, you slipped inside.

the room was small and sparse, walls bare except for faint smudges where posters once hung, the faintest scent of something sweet—cigarette smoke, maybe, or someone’s forgotten perfume—still hanging in the air. you leaned back against the door until it clicked shut, the latch settling quietly, and for a long moment, you simply stood there, the cold seeping in through the soles of your shoes.

eventually, the weight in your chest pulled you down, and you slid carefully to the floor, knees bent loosely in front of you as your shoulder pressed into the wall’s smooth surface. the floor was cool against your thigh, grounding you in a way the alcohol couldn’t, and the pressure of your head tipping back against the wall felt like the only thing holding you together—fragile, maybe, but steady.

his name felt like an echo that refused to quiet, reverberating through the hollow spaces inside you, filling the cracks you hadn’t realized were there until he slipped between them. it didn’t matter how much you tried to push him out—the memory of him was woven too tightly into the fabric of your thoughts, unraveling only when the night stretched long and sleepless.

you hated how easily he occupied the quiet, how the shape of him still pressed against the edges of your consciousness even now, as if the ghost of his touch lingered beneath your skin. wonbin had always been like that—effortless. the way he moved, the way he laughed, the way his eyes softened in fleeting moments that weren’t meant for you but still burned when they landed there.

even after he’d left you splintered, after his gaze had flickered past yours like you weren’t worth lingering on, some part of you remained tethered to him, as if your heart hadn’t gotten the message that it no longer belonged to you. It ached in the worst ways—quietly, but persistently, like a dull bruise beneath the surface.

you told yourself it wasn’t love, but that felt like a lie too fragile to hold. whatever it was, it kept you restless, fingers curled into the sheets at night, wide-eyed beneath the ceiling, counting the faint shadows cast by distant headlights that slipped through the blinds. the weight of it pressed into your ribs, deep and aching, refusing to be ignored, and even now, in the stillness of this room, he lingered—always lingering.

you’d told yourself a hundred times that he was never yours to begin with, but somehow the words never felt true enough to settle. they sat heavy and sharp on your tongue, cutting deeper each time you whispered them beneath your breath, but they never bled the ache from your chest.

the truth was colder than you expected, more merciless in the way it wrapped around you at night, curling tight until it became something you couldn’t shake. he had always belonged to everyone—his smiles, his laughter, the fleeting glances that seemed to rest on strangers more easily than they ever landed on you.

and yet, there had been moments, soft and fleeting, that felt like they were carved out for you alone. the way his eyes lingered just a little too long during late-night rehearsals, or the gentle brush of his hand against your arm as he passed by—small, thoughtless things that shouldn’t have mattered but stayed with you long after they happened. you tried to convince yourself it was imagined, something you stitched together in the dark corners of your mind when sleep wouldn’t come, but it didn’t make the ache any easier to bear.

accepting that he would never be yours felt less like letting go and more like tearing something vital from the hollow beneath your ribs, leaving behind only empty space and the echoes of what could have been.

you barely registered the creak of the door over the hum in your head, too lost in the tangle of your own thoughts to notice the subtle shift in the air. the weight in your chest had grown familiar by now, wrapping around you like second skin, and the idea of him was as constant as your breath—so much so that when you sensed him, it felt like just another manifestation of the way he lingered behind your eyelids when you closed your eyes.

you didn’t look up, unwilling to break the fragile thread of distance you were clinging to, even if it was only in your mind. but then the faint scent of him swept in, heady and unmistakable—the sharp bite of leather softened by something warmer, something that made your stomach twist in ways you wished it wouldn’t. it settled around you slowly, wrapping itself into the cracks like it had every right to be there, and for a moment you thought maybe you were imagining it.

but then the air shifted again, and you felt it—the briefest brush of his sleeve grazing against your arm, the supple texture of worn leather skimming over your skin like a phantom touch that lingered long after it passed. the heat of him followed, subtle but undeniable, radiating outward in soft waves that melted into the space between you until the room felt smaller, more intimate in a way that made your pulse stutter unevenly beneath your ribs.

your eyes flickered open, slow and hesitant, and there he was—real. wonbin had slipped into the room quietly, his figure half-shadowed by the faint glow of the hallway behind him, but even in the dim light, there was no mistaking the way he filled the space. he didn’t say anything, not right away, but the weight of his presence alone was enough to unravel the careful threads you’d tried to pull around yourself, leaving you exposed beneath the quiet intensity of his gaze.

the silence between you felt fragile, stretched so thin that you swore he could hear the erratic stutter of your heart as it climbed higher into your throat. each beat seemed louder than the last, pounding relentlessly beneath your ribs, and you hated how impossible it was to quiet the tremble lingering just beneath your skin.

wonbin hadn’t moved, but the space between you felt smaller with every second that passed, his proximity dissolving the delicate barrier you were clinging to. he was close enough now that you could make out the faint scattering of beauty marks that traced a path along his neck, each one as familiar as the chords of a song you’d memorized by heart.

your gaze lingered there longer than it should have, following the subtle curve of his throat to where his collar dipped slightly, exposing just enough skin to remind you how many times you’d pretended not to notice. his hair had grown since the last time you were this close, strands falling in soft waves just past the nape of his neck, curling slightly at the ends in a way that made your stomach twist.

it was such a small detail, but it ached—the memory of the last time you’d been beside him like this unraveling in your mind without permission. you remembered the heat first.

the way it pooled low in your stomach, twisting tighter with every soft press of his lips against your skin, with every inch of space he closed between you until his weight pressed fully into you, warm and grounding. the air had thickened, heavy and languid, settling between each breath like honey—stretching time, making every second feel slower, sweeter, as if the night itself didn’t want to end.

his touch wasn’t hurried.

it lingered—each drag of his palm along your waist deliberate, like he was memorizing the curve of you beneath his hands, mapping the distance between your ribs and the dip of your hip with reverent care. his fingers curled against the small of your back, tugging you just a little closer, until you could feel every shift of his body, the subtle ripple of muscle beneath smooth skin as he moved.

and god, the way he looked at you.

dark eyes half-lidded, heavy with something that felt almost fragile in its intensity, like he wasn’t quite sure if he should hold you tighter or let go before he lost himself completely.

the weight of it all tugged at something sensitive beneath your ribs, sharp and tender in the same breath, and before it could spiral further, you forced your eyes away, grounding yourself in the faint cracks along the floorboards instead. The ache dulled, but it didn’t disappear, settling into a quiet hum that you tried to ignore as the seconds stretched on.

the silence continued to stretch unbearably thin, so fragile you thought even the sound of your breath might shatter it. his presence filled the room so effortlessly, as if he belonged there, while you sat pressed against the wall, arms wrapped loosely around your knees in a dress that suddenly felt too thin for how exposed you felt beneath his gaze.

the weight of it lingered, dragging over your skin like static, and before you could stop yourself, the question slipped out—soft but edged with something you couldn’t quite name.

“what are you doing here?”

your voice felt small in the stillness, cracking slightly at the edges, but he caught it anyway. wonbin’s head tilted just slightly, dark hair falling messily into his eyes, but he didn’t answer right away. instead, his gaze traced the soft curve of your shoulder, dipping lower to where the thin fabric of your dress stretched delicately over your knee.

his eyes lingered there—too long. it sent a flicker of heat curling under your skin, the air between you growing heavier, suffocating in the worst way.

“thought you might need some company,” he said at last, his voice low but light, like he hadn’t just unraveled something fragile inside you.

the corner of his mouth lifted, almost teasing, but it didn’t meet his eyes.

he shifted closer then, slow and deliberate, until his thigh rested faintly against yours, the leather of his jacket brushing against the bare skin of your arm. the touch burned—not enough to hurt, but just enough to stay. you couldn’t ignore the heat radiating off him, seeping through the space between you, making the thin straps of your dress feel insignificant.

you swallowed hard, but it did nothing to loosen the ache curling deep in your chest.

“i’m sure those girls downstairs won’t be too happy you left them behind,” you muttered, forcing your gaze down to the floor, watching the way the shadows stretched long beneath the soft pool of light overhead.

his chuckle was soft, breathy—almost like he wasn’t supposed to let it slip.

“they’ll survive,” he said casually, but the weight in his voice was anything but.

you could feel him watching you, the intensity of his stare drawing heat to your cheeks, and the longer you sat there, the more suffocating the quiet became. his shoulder grazed yours once more, subtle but intentional, and the faint pressure of it sent a shiver down your spine, your body betraying you in ways you wished it wouldn’t.

the worst part was that he didn’t even have to try.

wonbin existed in a way that made the space around him feel smaller, tighter—like he could pull someone in without even meaning to, and you hated how easily you slipped under that gravity. even now, with him sitting just inches away, you felt like you were falling all over again, even though you swore you’d stopped letting yourself trip over him a long time ago.

but here you were.

and there he was—close enough to touch.

you kept your gaze trained somewhere near the floor, fixated on the shadows stretching beneath the doorframe, but it did little to steady the fragile rhythm of your breath. the warmth radiating off wonbin, so close yet still untouchable, felt like it could unravel you if you weren’t careful.

you could already feel it—the delicate thread of composure fraying at the edges, pulled tighter by the way his thigh rested just against yours, the soft brush of his jacket sleeve lingering faintly on your arm like an imprint you wouldn’t be able to shake. you told yourself not to look at him, not to indulge the ache curling low in your stomach, but your body betrayed you.

before you could stop it, your eyes lifted—drawn to him like the ocean dragged toward the shore, inevitable and unrelenting.

he was beautiful in the most dangerous way, and you hated how easily the thought slipped into your mind, settling there like it belonged. the faint glow of the light softened the edges of him, pooling along the curve of his jaw and catching faintly on the strands of hair that brushed past his eyes, longer than you remembered.

his lips, slightly parted in the kind of breathless stillness that felt unintentional, twisted faintly into something that wasn’t quite a smile but held the same weight. the soft dip in his collarbone was visible just beneath the open neckline of his shirt, and you caught yourself lingering too long there, following the path down to where his arm rested loosely against his knee, his fingers tapping thoughtlessly at his jeans.

every small movement felt amplified in the silence, each rise and fall of his chest leaving you breathless in a way that had nothing to do with the alcohol burning low in your veins.

he hadn’t said a word, but he didn’t need to. the flicker of his gaze—the way his eyes slid just slightly toward you without fully turning his head—was enough to confirm what you already knew.

he felt it. he knew you were staring, drinking him in piece by piece as if you could commit him to memory, as if looking at him long enough would soften the hollow ache sitting low in your chest. but he said nothing, and somehow, that made it worse.

your throat tightened, heat crawling up the back of your neck until you had to look away, forcing your gaze back down to the floor as if grounding yourself to something steady might keep you from unraveling entirely, but it was too late.

wonbin had always known how to linger in the spaces between, how to slip beneath your skin without trying—and even now, even in the heavy quiet of that room, he was everywhere.

his voice cut through the stillness, soft but steady, curling around you in the quiet like he’d been waiting for the right moment to speak.

“everything’s good with us, right?"

the words felt too careful, too deliberate to be anything but intentional, and for a fleeting second, you forgot how to breathe. your heart lurched, betraying you in the worst way—loud and erratic, hammering against your ribcage with a force you were sure he could hear in the silence that followed.

his eyes remained fixed ahead, but the weight of his question hung between you like a thread pulled too tight, stretched to the point of snapping. you wanted to say something, to let the answer slip from your lips in a way that felt casual, indifferent—yes, of course, why wouldn’t it be?

but the words caught somewhere deep in your throat, tangling with the mess of thoughts you’d been desperately trying to ignore all night. had you been too obvious? had your eyes lingered too long, or had the silence stretched a little too thin, leaving just enough space for him to notice the way you’d withdrawn without meaning to?

you forced yourself to stay still, afraid that even the slightest shift might betray the storm unraveling beneath your skin. his gaze flickered sideways, catching the faintest movement in the corner of his eye, and your body tensed instinctively under his attention.

the moment stretched endlessly, the pulse in your neck thrumming painfully as you tried to gather your composure, but your heart wouldn’t cooperate. it never did when it came to him.

wonbin shifted slightly, the movement soft but deliberate, like he was giving you space to speak. when you didn’t—when the silence held firm between you—he exhaled quietly, his gaze dropping to where his hands rested loosely on his lap.

“i just mean… you feel far away lately. like you’re here but not really present.”

his voice dipped softer, low enough that it barely cut through the faint thrum of music bleeding from downstairs. the kind of softness that didn’t belong to him—like he wasn’t used to carrying words that fragile, as if he wasn’t sure how they’d land but couldn’t bring himself to swallow them.

his eyes lingered on you, dark and steady, searching for something he wasn’t even sure he’d recognize if he found it. there was a quiet weight there, the kind that settled in the spaces between what was said and what wasn’t, stretching taut between the inches of air keeping you apart.

his fingers twitched absently against the zipper of his jacket, tugging it up halfway only to drag it back down again, the faint metallic rasp echoing louder than it should have in the heavy silence that had started to press in around you both.

the way he fidgeted—restless and distracted—felt out of place, a subtle unraveling at the edges of someone who was always so composed, so maddeningly effortless in everything he did.

“you’ve been slipping away.”

the words came quieter, like they almost weren’t meant to be said aloud, but once they were, there was no pulling them back. his gaze never wavered, pinning you in place as if daring you to deny it. there was no accusation in his voice—just something heavier, something that sat low in his chest, threaded through the spaces between each word.

“i see it even when you think i don’t.”

his brows knitted together, barely, as if the distance between you was something tangible, something he’d been measuring long before this moment. when his gaze dipped, it wasn’t aimless—it followed the worn path of your footsteps, tracking every inch of space you put between him and the truth you refused to say aloud, before finally settling back on you, sharp and searching..

and for the first time in a long time, he looked… bothered. like the distance between you had started to gnaw at him too. like maybe, just maybe, he felt it too.

the words pressed into your chest, sinking deep, and for a brief second, you wished he’d left them unsaid he always had a way of noticing the things you thought you hid well, and somehow, it made the walls you’d tried to build feel thinner, like he could see right through the cracks you’d been so careful to ignore.

his eyes lifted then, searching yours for something you weren’t sure you could give, and you felt it again—that unbearable heat creeping up the back of your neck, curling under your skin until you had to grip the hem of your dress just to keep your hands from trembling.

you could feel him watching you, waiting for some kind of reassurance, but the words sat heavy in your throat, unwilling to rise.because what were you supposed to say to that?

that he was the reason you felt far away? that you were retreating not because you wanted to, but because staying too close—letting him see too much—hurt more than you knew how to explain?

you swallowed, forcing the breath caught in your throat to steady itself before it could betray you.

"i’m fine," you said, and somehow, the words slipped out smoother than you expected—so smooth they almost felt real.

your voice didn’t crack, didn’t waver, but it sat uncomfortably in the air, stretched thin like a wire ready to snap

“i’s just the tour. long nights, long drives… it’s catching up to me, i guess." you tacked the last part on casually, adding a faint shrug for good measure, hoping the ease in your posture would sell the lie well enough to make him stop looking at you like that.

but he didn’t. wonbin’s eyes narrowed slightly, just enough for the weight of his gaze to press heavier against your skin, and you felt the shift before he even spoke.

"that’s not it," he said simply. there was no hesitation, no room for you to slip through the cracks of false reassurance.

“you’ve been different since… that night."

the words hung in the air, suspended like smoke, curling between you until it felt like they left shadows against the walls. you wished he hadn’t said it, hadn’t pulled the memory from where you buried it because now it was here again, sitting just between your ribs, burning slow and steady like it never really left.

you stiffened involuntarily, your fingers tightening around the fabric of your dress as you glanced down at the floor.

“i don’t know what you mean.”

you meant for it to sound light, dismissive, but the words landed wrong—strained and thin, like they didn’t quite fit into the space they were meant to fill.

“yeah, you do.”

his voice wasn’t confrontational, but firm.

“it was just a night, wonbin. it doesn’t have to mean anything.”

wonbin leaned forward slightly, enough that his knee brushed against yours, and the faint press of it left your pulse stumbling over itself. his eyes searched yours, flickering with something unreadable—something quiet, but not distant.

"you didn’t hate it, did you?"

the question lanced through you, cutting clean and sharp, and for a second, you felt like the breath had been stolen from your lungs. your fingers curled tighter against the hem of your dress, twisting the fabric slowly between your knuckles as if that might somehow keep the frustration bubbling beneath your skin from rising to the surface.

how could he not see it? the thought pulsed, loud and sharp in your chest, echoing in the spaces he left bare with his questions. was it really that impossible for him to imagine the truth? that the weight sitting between you wasn’t regret, wasn’t confusion, but something far worse—something you’d been carrying alone for far too long.

you shook your head, slow and deliberate, eyes fixed on the faint cracks spidering along the floorboards, unwilling to meet the gaze burning quietly into the side of your face. you didn’t trust yourself to speak.

wonbin exhaled softly, the sound barely more than a breath, but the subtle shift in his posture was unmistakable. his shoulders relaxed, the tension unwinding from where it had been coiled, and for a fleeting second, his relief settled over the room like the soft hum of static.

it felt like a weight pressing deeper into your chest.

"so… what is it then?"

the question sliced through the stillness, pulling you apart in ways you didn’t expect.

there was no teasing lilt in his voice this time, no quiet smugness lingering at the corners of his mouth. he wasn’t brushing it off, wasn’t laughing or letting the moment slip through his fingers the way you thought he would.

he was waiting, and that made everything worse.

"i won’t push," he said finally, his voice dipping low, rough at the edges but laced with something gentler. "but… i’m here, you know? if you ever feel like talking."

the words settled heavily over you, pressing into the ache sitting just beneath your ribs, and for a second, it felt like the air in the room had grown thicker—almost too much to swallow. you nodded faintly, the motion small and fragile, but even that felt unsteady beneath the weight curling in your chest.

a hum slipped from your throat, soft but strangled, and you hated the way it felt—how it barely held together when the edges of your composure were already splintering. your fingers tightened against the thin fabric of your dress, nails biting faintly into your palm as if the sharpness might keep the burning behind your eyes from spilling over.

you forced it back—swallowed it down—until the ache dulled into something manageable, something small enough to keep hidden just beneath the surface.

wonbin didn’t look at you after that. he let the silence linger, stretching wide enough to give you space to gather yourself, and somehow that made it both easier and harder all at once.

the silence between you didn’t dissolve; it thickened, coiling tightly in the narrow space that separated you—if it could even be called that. his knee still brushed faintly against yours, a point of contact so small it shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.

it felt like everything.

the warmth radiating from him seeped beneath your skin, clouding your thoughts, tangling them into a haze that made it hard to remember how to breathe it was overwhelming—the way your pulse tripped over itself, the way the air felt too hot despite the coolness pressing through the wall at your back. and then he looked at you.

not in passing, not like before. this time, his eyes dipped low, slow and deliberate, dragging over the shape of your shoulders, the soft curve of your collarbone, before resting somewhere just below your chin.

his gaze lingered, dark and steady, tracing the delicate slope of your collarbone and the faint rise and fall of your chest as if committing each subtle detail to memory.

“you look pretty.”

the words slipped out quietly, but they landed like stones, rippling through the space between you, heavy in a way that felt irreversible.

it wasn’t the first time he’d said it. you remembered the low murmur of those same words in the soft, dim light of his car—the way his hand brushed the steering wheel as if the compliment had been an afterthought, something so simple yet lingering long after the moment passed. but even then, there had been sincerity tucked beneath the calm curve of his voice, no trace of jest or casual charm.

and now—now it was different.

his voice carried the weight of something that had been pressing at the edges of him for too long, something unspoken that finally bled through before he could stop it. the words tumbled out like he’d been holding them back, and there was no disguising the way they sat, raw and unpolished, between the two of you.

he wasn’t teasing. there was no faint curl of his lips to soften the blow. just the faintest flicker of hesitation in his eyes, the briefest pause that felt too fragile, too intimate, like even he hadn’t meant to let it slip.

your breath caught, shallow and uneven, and you felt it—the shift in the air, the slow unraveling of the fragile thread you’d been clinging to since the night began.

his eyes hadn’t left yours, hadn’t strayed from the subtle tremor in your hands as they twisted absently against the hem of your dress, the silk wrinkling beneath your fingertips in a way you couldn’t stop.

you wanted to speak, to downplay it, to offer something light that might untangle the knot tightening low in your stomach, but the words wouldn’t come. and he just kept watching, his gaze unwavering, like he was daring you to look away first.

his gaze dipped lower, lingering at the curve of your mouth, and the breath you’d been holding slipped out too sharply, catching in your throat. the words you wanted to say—the easy, dismissive ones that would push him away and smooth over the crackling tension—froze somewhere between your chest and your tongue, heavy and unmoving. His eyes stayed there, dark and unreadable, following the slow press of your teeth as they sank into your lower lip, and for a fleeting second, you thought he might say something—might do something to ease the tension.

but he didn’t.

the air between you felt electric, like a wire pulled too tight, thrumming with an energy that could snap at the slightest movement. you knew you should look away, should peel yourself from the wall and put distance between you, but you couldn’t. your body wouldn’t cooperate, no matter how hard you willed it to listen and his proximity rooted you in place, the heat radiating off him felt like it was soaking into your skin, holding you there.

you swallowed thickly, heart rattling against your ribs, and before the moment could spiral further, you tore your gaze away, dropping your eyes to the floor as if the sight of scuffed floorboards could cool the warmth burning its way beneath your skin. your fingers twitched faintly at your sides, brushing against the soft fabric of your dress, and you bit down harder on your lip, the faint sting grounding you—reminding you.

you can’t do this.

you told yourself to leave—you knew you should. the thought rang loud and clear, rattling through your head with every agonizing second that passed, but your body betrayed you, anchored stubbornly to the spot as if your limbs no longer belonged to you. every inhale felt heavier, weighted down by the intoxicating pull of him, and no matter how fiercely you urged yourself to step back, the space between you felt impossible to cross.

you could already see it—the disappointment written plainly across yunjin’s face, the way her eyes would narrow knowingly, sharp but sympathetic as if she’d been waiting for this moment. minjeong wouldn’t say anything, but you could hear her sigh in your head, that quiet exhale that spoke louder than words, echoing with disapproval she wouldn’t bother to voice.

they were right, you knew they were right.

but it didn’t matter. not now—not when wonbin was this close, his presence consuming every inch of the space around you until it felt like there was nothing left but him. his warmth melted into yours, heady and overwhelming, drowning out the faint hum of music bleeding through the walls, drowning out the echo of reason whispering at the back of your mind.

your pulse betrayed you, thundering beneath your skin in frantic bursts, and you hated how easily he unraveled the parts of you you’d worked so hard to protect. it was overpowering—he was overpowering, and the sheer force of him kept you frozen in place, as if stepping away would only pull you deeper beneath his gravity.

wonbin hadn’t moved, hadn’t said a word, but somehow that made everything worse. the absence of distance between you pulsed like a live wire, charged and dangerous, and no matter how hard you tried to focus on anything else—on the scuffed floorboards, on the faint draft creeping in from under the door—your eyes still gravitated back to him, helpless against the current that pulled you under.

the moment unraveled in slow motion, the weight of the silence folding in on itself until there was nothing left to hold it back. wonbin’s eyes flickered down—barely, but enough for you to feel the shift in the air, thick and electric, like the seconds before a storm breaks. your breath caught, lodging somewhere between your chest and throat, but you didn’t pull away.

you couldn’t.

his gaze lingered there, heavy and deliberate, tracing the soft curve of your mouth with an intensity that sent heat rushing to the tips of your fingers.

and then he leaned in.

it wasn’t sudden—not really. his movements were slow, careful, as if giving you space to slip away, to stop this before it crossed the line you’d danced around for so long but you didn’t. you stayed.

and when his lips finally brushed against yours, it was like something inside you cracked open.

the kiss wasn’t soft—it was fire, burning hot and immediate, pouring out of him in a way that stole the breath from your lungs, akin to that night. his hand slid along the side of your neck, fingertips grazing the line of your jaw as if to anchor you there, and you melted beneath it, pressing closer until the space between you no longer existed. his other hand curled loosely at your waist, the warmth of his palm seeping through the thin fabric of your dress, and the sensation made your skin ignite, trembling beneath his touch.

your fingers found the collar of his jacket, clutching at the leather like it might steady you, but nothing felt stable—not with the way his lips moved against yours, slow at first, teasing, before deepening with a hunger that left you dizzy. every brush, every tilt of his head felt deliberate, as if he’d been holding back for far too long, and now there was no reason to.

the kiss twisted something inside you—tight, aching, and impossible to ignore.

your heart raced, thrumming wildly in your chest, but none of it felt overwhelming. if anything, it felt right, as if this was the only way the night could’ve ended, as if every glance, every touch, had been building to this moment, to the way his hands mapped out the curve of your back, pulling you further beneath the weight of him.

and for once, you let it.

you let him drown out the thoughts, the voices, the lingering regret that whispered too loudly in the quiet, because right now, there was only him and that was enough.

the kiss deepened, unraveling slowly but with an urgency that set your skin alight, each brush of his lips coaxing you further under. there was something reckless about the way he kissed you—like he wasn’t thinking, wasn’t holding anything back, and you matched him without hesitation, your body arching instinctively into the pull of him.

his hand splayed wider against your waist, fingers curling slightly as if to draw you impossibly closer, and the pressure sent a rush of heat spiraling down your spine. every point of contact felt amplified—the firm press of his thigh against yours, the way his thumb traced faint circles along your jaw, tilting your face just enough to deepen the connection.

the world outside of this room—the party still thumping below, the haze of alcohol humming faintly in your veins—faded into nothing, drowned out by the slow drag of his mouth against yours. it was intoxicating, the way he kissed you—like he wasn’t just taking his time but memorizing every second of it, and it left you breathless, every part of you humming beneath his touch.

your fingers tightened in the collar of his jacket, nails grazing the cool leather as if anchoring yourself there might keep you steady, but there was no steadiness to be found. the kiss was all-consuming, and you found yourself chasing it, letting him tilt your chin higher as his lips parted slightly, teasing the line between too much and not enough.

a soft, involuntary sound slipped from your throat, and you felt him smile faintly against your mouth, the curve of it somehow making everything worse—because he knew. he knew exactly what he was doing to you, but you didn’t stop him.

his teeth grazed your lower lip, tugging just enough to send a shiver through you, and the low, quiet exhale that followed only fueled the fire blooming steadily in your chest. his touch, light but sure, traced the dip of your spine, fingers ghosting over the thin straps of your dress, and the sheer intimacy of it made your breath hitch, your body pressing flush against his without thought.

the heat between you burned hotter, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew you should stop—that this was dangerous, that nothing about this could end neatly—but the thought flickered and died as quickly as it appeared.

right now, with his mouth on yours and his hands steady against your skin, you didn’t care about consequences. all you wanted was him.

when wonbin finally pulled away, it was slow—like he didn’t really want to, like something tethered him to you even as his lips parted from yours. his forehead brushed against yours, faint and fleeting, but he stayed close, so close that you could still feel the warmth of his breath fanning lightly across your skin, each exhale shallow and uneven. his chest rose and fell in rhythm with yours, as if the kiss had unraveled something in him too, something he wasn’t ready to let slip away just yet.

his eyes, wild and dark beneath the faint glow pooling in the corners of the room, searched yours like he was looking for something—confirmation, maybe, or reassurance that you weren’t about to disappear beneath the weight of it all. but you didn’t move, didn’t dare break the fragile thread tying you to him, even as the faint tremble in your hands betrayed the storm still rolling beneath your skin.

wonbin’s gaze flickered, dropping briefly to your lips—swollen and tingling from the heat of his kiss—before trailing back up, locking onto your eyes with an intensity that made your pulse trip over itself. his breathing, still ragged, filled the small space between you, and you could feel the hesitation crackling in the air, as if neither of you could decide whether to pull back or dive in all over again.

but he didn’t move. instead, his thumb brushed faintly over your waist where his hand still rested, light but grounding, as if the smallest shift might break the moment apart completely.

wonbin’s eyes held yours in the dim hush of the room, and there was something there—something fragile, unspoken, pooling beneath the surface in a way that made your chest ache. he looked at you like he wanted to say something, the words balanced on the edge of his tongue, trembling under the weight of the moment that neither of you had fully grasped.

the soft glow of his stare left you breathless, and you felt it—the way your heart tripped violently over itself, as if it could shatter apart at the force of his attention alone.

but before the silence could break, before whatever hung so delicately between you could find the space to bloom, the door creaked open.

your breath hitched, shoulders stiffening instinctively as the soft glow from the hallway spilled in, stretching long shadows across the floor. and there she was—the girl from downstairs, the one who had been tucked neatly beneath wonbin’s arm not long ago, her hair slightly tousled, lips still tinted the same shade of deep red they’d been wrapped around the neck of a bottle earlier.

she arched a brow, leaning casually against the doorframe as if she hadn’t just stepped into something she wasn’t supposed to witness, her gaze flickering between the two of you with barely concealed amusement.

“there you are,” she drawled, crossing her arms loosely over her chest.

her eyes lingered on where wonbin’s hand still rested against your waist, the faint trace of a smirk tugging at her mouth.

“i was just looking for the bathroom, but i guess you found something else to keep you busy.”

the words stung more than you wanted to admit, slicing through the haze of warmth that had settled over your skin like cold water. wonbin subtly pulled away, severing the last thread of contact that tethered him to you.

you felt the absence immediately.

the version of him that had been so close just moments before—the one whose eyes held too much softness, whose breath still lingered faintly against your skin—slipped away just as easily as his hand did. his expression shifted, carefully, subtly, into something more familiar—something easy, like sliding on an old jacket.

“you left pretty quick, you know,” she added, tipping her head as her eyes lingered on him. “i thought you told me to hurry back, that your lips were aching to be kissed.”

her voice dripped with teasing, but there was something sharper hidden beneath it, something that made the air feel heavier than before.

you dropped your gaze, swallowing hard as you willed the heat crawling up your neck to settle, but the damage had already been done. the kiss still lingered on your lips, but now it felt fragile, as if it might slip away entirely beneath the weight of her presence.

and somehow, that silence said more than you wanted it to.

it sank in slowly at first—like ice creeping beneath your skin, cold and unforgiving, before spreading out in sharp, jagged edges that left you raw and exposed. the kiss that had left you breathless, that had ignited something fragile and aching inside you, was nothing more than a fleeting indulgence to him. a moment without consequence. you could see it now, clear as day in the casual way he stood there, unmoved by the intrusion, his hand slipping from your waist with an ease that made your stomach twist.

the bile rose fast, hot and bitter at the back of your throat, chasing the slow-burning alcohol that had once been your only companion tonight. the room tilted slightly as you lurched forward, unsteady on your feet, but the sudden need to get out propelled you before the ground could catch up to you.

the floor felt too solid beneath your heels, yet somehow it still shifted, your legs buckling beneath the weight of disappointment that seemed far heavier than your body could carry.

your fingers grazed the wall, trailing against the plaster for balance, but it did little to steady the frantic thrum of your heart, the erratic pulse thudding painfully beneath your ribs. you didn’t look at him—couldn’t look at him. not when the aftertaste of the kiss still lingered on your lips, mixing bitterly with the sourness rising in your chest.

how could you have been so naive?

the thought struck hard, splintering through the haze clouding your mind. of course, it hadn’t meant anything, not to him.

wonbin shifted in the absence of your closeness, the faint sound of his breath catching like he wanted to say something, but the words never came.

you felt him hesitate, the weight of his indecision thick in the space between you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet his gaze—not when the version of him standing there now was the same one you’d always known. the one who smiled too easily, laughed too freely, and kissed you like it was nothing more than a passing moment.

his hand twitched at his side, barely noticeable, but you caught it—the faintest movement, like he wasn’t sure if he should reach for you or let you slip away entirely.

you made the decision for him.

“i should go,” you muttered under your breath, though it hardly mattered if anyone heard you.

a desperate attempt to keep yourself from breaking apart in the same room where you’d just let yourself believe—even for a second—that maybe you were something more than just another girl passing through his night.

your hand barely brushed the doorknob when you heard it—soft, almost hesitant, like he wasn’t sure he should say anything at all. he called your name, just your name. nothing more.

but it sliced through the air, cutting straight to the fragile, aching part of you that was already splitting open beneath the weight of it all. his voice carried that same softness he always seemed to wear around you, the kind that could unravel you if you let it, but you couldn’t afford to let it reach you. not now—not when the bitter taste of disappointment still lingered on your tongue, and the heat of his kiss felt more like a bruise than a memory.

your fingers tightened around the doorframe, knuckles pale as if you could somehow ground yourself through the sheer force of it. for a brief second, you swore you felt the room shift again, the pull of his voice tethering you there like a thin thread you were barely holding onto.

but you didn’t turn around. instead you pushed forward, slipping out the door before the sound of your name could latch onto anything deeper—before the storm swirling behind his eyes could drag you back under.

the hallway stretched endlessly ahead, dim and empty save for the faint thump of music still pulsing distantly beneath the floorboards. each step felt heavier than the last, your pulse thundering in your ears, but you didn’t stop.

if you stayed—if you met his eyes now—you knew you’d fall apart right there in front of him, and that wasn’t something you were willing to let him see.

the hallway blurred around you, the edges folding in on themselves as you stumbled forward, each step heavier than the last, like the ground beneath you had shifted into something unsteady—something that no longer belonged to you.

the pulse of the music from below thudded against your ribs, each beat knocking the breath from your lungs as if the house itself was trying to hold you back. your hand slid against the banister, the cool wood biting into your palm, but even that felt distant, as if your body was moving on instinct alone—driven by the desperate, suffocating need to get out, to breathe air that wasn’t laced with the faint scent of him still clinging to your skin.

the staircase stretched endlessly beneath you, spiraling down into the haze of bodies pressed too close, of laughter that felt like it belonged to someone else’s night, not yours. your ankle wavered on the last step, the heel of your shoe catching for just a second, but you barely noticed—barely cared—because the ache curling deep in your chest burned hotter, tighter, until it was all you could feel.

you pushed through the front door with trembling fingers, the cool night air rushing over your skin like a slap, sudden and sharp, yet not enough to ease the knot twisting violently inside you. the quiet outside was jarring, the absence of music leaving nothing but the thrum of your heartbeat ringing loud in your ears, each pulse a brutal reminder of what you already knew but refused to say out loud.

wonbin would never belong to you.

the realization struck harder beneath the glow of the streetlights, seeping into the cracks you’d been trying to ignore for far too long. no matter how many glances lingered, no matter how many fleeting touches made your heart stumble, you were just another part of his night—a brief distraction, nothing more.

and now, standing alone beneath the cold stretch of sky, the weight of that truth sank deep into your bones, settling there like it had always been waiting. you wrapped your arms around yourself, the wind tugging at the hem of your dress as if trying to pull you apart piece by piece, but there was nothing left to unravel.

you had already come undone.

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jeminie-rising · 3 days ago

Text

One Second Fireworks

[ Inumaki Toge x Reader ]

link to AO3: [ One Second Fireworks by JEMINIE ]

summary: "His eyes now looking for the fireworks in the reflection in your eyes as they looked up in awe."

or, Toge gets called in from the Inumaki Clan for the holidays, but made it back to Tokyo just in time for the last chime of the new years countdown to steal the last grape from you.

warnings: Inumaki Toge uses sign language, Soft Inumaki, Inumaki says more than just rice balls ingredients, fluff, toge and reader being complete idiots in love, no smut!, toge thinks he’s not deserving :(, afab!reader, they're both so in love but can't admit to it (yet), Toge says more than just rice ball ingredients, there might be slight mischaracterisations, found family, everyone ate grapes at midnight, new years eve, Not actually unrequited love (they just shy), Panda is so supportive.

characters: inumaki toge, The Inumaki Clan, Fushiguro Megumi, Itadori Yuuji, Kugisaki Nobara, Zen'in Maki, Panda, slight Satoru Gojo, mentioned Yuta Okkotsu

word count: 5,379

authors note: hii! decided to write a part two of the Inumaki x reader Christmas one shot! will be putting them in a series, so it's easier to read through them. But definitely can be read as solo works too! Told myself that this would be a one shot but when would that actually be followed through? LMAOO (comments get to my head and make me want to write more ngl --they're just so cute pls)

FIND PART ONE HERE (a silent christmas) IF YOU HAVEN'T READ IT YET!

and as usual, enjoy!! and happiest new year to everyone xx

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

A lot can happen in a year.

New year, new resolutions, new dreams, and new hopes. But not for you, you had a resolution, a plan, and a dream that has been on standby for nearly a year now. And it didn’t look like it was going to change anytime soon. It hasn’t been long anyways that you’ve known Toge, but it definitely felt longer than what it was. Time with him seemed to stretch just longer than you thought. And while he was away, if it were possible, it seemed unbearably longer.

“Have you guys counted your own grapes yet?” Nobara called out for everyone.

A silly little thing she and Itadori found online. You couldn't understand how the tradition of the 12 grapes suddenly had to be eaten from under the table. Growing up with your family, you ate the grapes with one another, twelve for the twelve last chimes of the bell of the year, only to be followed by a mouthful of cheers from one another. This year, when your family died, you truly thought you were going to spend it on your own. Fortunately enough, you found your way in the company of some good human friends and an equally great panda friend.

Unfortunately, one of those friends was missing. Inumaki, the same one that you wished, most of all, to be there, was called upon by his clan. He was to spend the holidays with his family, a long held tradition that dated for centuries. Unlike the one that you, Nobara, and Itadori were trying to create that same night. The Inumaki clan showed their solidarity for the members of their family that were cursed with the Snake Eyes and Fangs. For the entirety of the end of the year into the year to come, they were to pass their days in silence. A custom that the holders of cursed speech often had to go through their entire lives.

Toge never cared for having to limit his vocabulary. He never minded it, his friends always could grasp what it is that he wanted to convey anyways. His feelings and ideas always reached the hearts of those he cared for, and although it was hard to not be able to use full words, it was nothing compared to witnessing anyone he cared for be under the curse of his words. That was just what the kind of person Inumaki was. Exactly the reason why you initially fell for him.

Megumi, on the other hand, as the true spirit of his personality, was already complaining into the new year, “I still don’t quite understand why we have to do this? It’s not like we’re Spanish or Lati—”

“IT’S A TRADITION!” Nobara stomped her feet.

“Traditions require a transmission of customs for a regular amount of times, we’re doing this for the first time.” Maki supported Megumi. Perhaps such a personality ran in their blood.

“It will be fun!” Itadori tried to convince them, with his eyes on the clock. Only 27 more minutes left.

“I will eat the grapes, but I am not getting under the table,” Megumi stayed on his chair.

For lack of a better place, they decided to take a classroom of Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College and transform it for their year end’s party. It wasn’t much of course, a few decorations here and there, number shaped balloons showing the year that they were entering, and the food that covered their school desks that lined up in a long table.

“It’s not like I would fit under one either…” Panda chuckled, scratching the back of his neck.

“Then perhaps, for solidarity, should we all just not go under the table?” You offered. You didn’t want Panda to feel left out if Megumi and Maki miraculously agreed to crawl under a table.

Itadori couldn’t help but nod to that. He too, would have felt too bad to leave out any member in their little game. “What if we just put the table mantles over our heads!?”

They all looked at him, his logic may have been a little far fetched but Nobara would have taken anything she could at that point. Time was ticking and she was not going to be single for yet another year. 14 minutes.

“Fine!” She finally agreed to it. “Table mantles… so stupid.”

“More stupid than eating grapes under a table?” Megumi laughed.

“If I am still single by the end of this coming year, y’all going to feel my hammer!”

Compared to crawling under a table, the idea of a table mantle over everyone’s head was not an idea that required as much convincing. Everyone looked like little disfigured ghosts and you couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of them.

You looked at your watch. 3 minutes.

Because everyone’s eyesight was covered, no one could keep looking at the clock. For a highly funded government school, it was hard to get a grab on a tv out there for them to use and move into the classroom. None of your teachers allowed for that. So Itadori had his phone propped up with a countdown from a stream online. 2 minutes. And your heart was beating in excitement as you held onto your paper cup filled with twelve grapes. The sensation was familiar to that of when you were near Inumaki. Or that one time he was holding you close, as he hid you from a first grade curse.

Memories of your year started flooding your mind. This could have been the worst year for you. Losing your entire family. Knowing you would have never had your life back and that your future was forever going to be cursed with the presence of… well, curses. But, at the same time, you also met all your new friends. You learned things about the world you thought were only myth and fantasy. You learned things about yourself you never knew. Pushed yourself to limits you never knew you even had. And, somehow, among all of them, the image of Inumaki’s rare exposed smile shone through.

“Here we go!” Nobara urged them, although the time was still long. 36 seconds. Anything could happen in that time.

In only a few seconds, you were able to reminisce the entirety of a year. In just one, the Earth travels 18.5 miles through space. In just a few seconds, you could try to call Inumaki and confess your undying love for him. In just the few seconds left you had, you grabbed the phone out of your back pocket and reached for Inumaki’s chat.

On the corner of your phone. 23:59.

On your watch. 21 seconds.

On the one-hand-typed message for Inumaki. Happy new year, Inumaki-senpai!

You hesitated, but then continued. I lov…

“Here, here, HERE!” Itadori chanted.

Your attention now on hearing the bells of the streaming. 15 seconds. And you were considering sending the message before the time so you could focus on the grapes. But in a panic, you placed the cup in the hand that held your phone, without sending the message, and started to get a single grape.

The people in the stream started counting.

TWELVE!

Everyone ate a grape.

ELEVEN!

Everyone was quiet. Only the sound of people munching and shuffling under their own table mantle could be heard along with the stream of the countdown.

TEN!

You were already struggling with three grapes. Remnants of the first grape were still at the back of your mouth, unable to swallow it all.

NINE!

You saw three dots bubbling from your phone.

EIGHT!

Your heart started to pound more as you tried to keep up with the grape counting and try to read whatever message you were about to receive.

SEVEN!

There was still no message. The sign of Inumaki typing was still there. You had to wonder if he was doing his own countdown or was he laying in his bed at home as silence haunted his estate.

SIX!

“I don’t have grapes of my own :(“ His text read. How did he know you guys were doing grapes? Your mind quickly went to Itadori, who kept updating him with pictures of each of you as the holidays went. You chuckled.

Hearing your chuckle, the others thought you were struggling with the grapes as they were.

“Dish ish soh ARD!” Itadori said in a mouthful.

FIVE!

“OCUS!” Nobara tried to bring their attention to the grapes. It was quite a hard feat.

FOUR!

You checked your phone again, the screen still on Inumaki’s chat. There were bubbles again. Oh, he definitely wasn’t counting down with family.

“Can I have some? :)” His text read.

THREE!

You see two feet in front of you. Who was walking around while eating the grapes?

You didn’t have much time to worry about it for now, Nobara might just scold your ass into the new year, as you stuffed your face with grapes.

TWO!

Then one hand lifted your table mantle enough to reveal Inumaki standing right in front of you. The shock of seeing him there made you freeze in your place. Grape between your two fingers.

ONE!

You forgot all about the twelve grapes. Eleven were already mushed inside your puffed cheeks, while the last one was now in Inumaki’s mouth, lips brushing against your fingers where it was just a second ago.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Inumaki winked at you. All you could do back was blink.

Everyone else removed their mantles too as the chimes stroke twelve and let out mouthful greetings and cheers. Inumaki was quick. He let go of the mantle he kept up to look at you and turned around to the others.

“Inumaki-senpai?!” Itadori reacted first, quite dumbfounded.

“TOGE! You made it!” Panda greeted him with a hug.

“[name] get out of there!” Nobara called out for you, still a table mantle on your head. “Look, Inumaki is here!”

You lifted the mantle with your free hand. The one Inumaki helped himself with by eating your last grape from. Your expression is still in shock, which worked in favour of Inumaki. It was exactly how he wanted you to look like, to not bring the others any suspicion.

“Uh– uhm,” you stammered your first few words of the year, “H-happy new year, Inumaki-senpai.”

The boy tilted his head as he smiled towards you. His cute crinkles framed his eyes. You couldn’t help but blush.

“Kelp!” He said, now to everyone present. “Tuna tuna!”

“You wanted to surprise us?! That is so sweet, Toge!” Panda feigned tears.

“Salmon!”

You couldn’t keep your eyes off of him. Your mind went through so many things. He often played pranks. He often aimed them at you and Itadori. Mostly because of how gullible you both were sometimes. But why did he have to wink at you and make your heart beat so fast?

You entered the new year with arrhythmia.

“Hey, let's cheer!” Itadori suggested.

This gave you the right excuse to keep your mind off of things. With decisive steps you walked towards the tables lined up and grabbed sparkling soda you guys bought. Being minors, they didn’t quite allow you to buy even the mildest of sparkling wines. Even though Gojo thought he could sneak some for you guys, Nanami highly pushed that idea aside by dragging him far from you and left with only a warning.

You were lining up the cups when Panda joined you. Quite surprised to see him there beside you, when one of his best mates just arrived from out of thin air. But he was there, grabbing the half empty bottle of soda, as he started to fill the lined up cups.

“You should talk to him,” Panda said as he filled the second cup.

“What?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

You stood there silently for a second, “why me? Why not talk to me?”

Panda only let her sit in her words for a few seconds as he stared at her from the corner of his eyes.

“Okay fine, I do realise the stupidity of my words,” she admitted. “But that’s exactly my point! I can’t do words when it comes to Inumaki-senpai!”

Panda chuckled, “You have a far greater vocabulary than him, I am sure you can string along some words to make up something good enough. Besides, he would understand you even without pretty words.”

You tilted your head at him confused.

“The Inumaki clan… learnt how to communicate with their heart,” he explained.

You sat on his few words for a while, until he finished filling up the last cup, calling the others to get their own cups. It didn’t take long before everyone had their paper cups up in the air, cheering for the new year ahead.

“To us!” Itadori cheered.

“To less missions!” Nobara said.

“To even lesser hard exams,” Panda pleaded.

“Spicy cod roe!” Inumaki brought Maki and Megumi closer.

“Cheers, guys!” Maki joined the enthusiasm.

“Cheers,” Megumi said, not as excitedly as the others but with a clear smile on his face.

“To Gojo-sensei for having begged the principal for us to use this classroom!” You laughed.

“TO GOJO-SENSEI!” Everyone clinked their cups together.

Everyone downed their soda in a matter of seconds. Being just sparkling sugar, you’d think they were drinking alcohol from the expressions they were making. Inumaki stepped towards you, although his mouth was already covered just after drinking soda, you could tell he was wearing a smile.

You looked at him, awaiting for one of his ingredients to be called out. But instead he pointed towards your pocket, where you stored your phone away. It didn’t take you long to understand he was calling for it. Was he going to use it to type out what he needed to say? Wouldn’t have been the first time. He often used your phone to type out whatever complex thing he had to say.

However, this time, when he took your phone after you unlocked it, he didn’t open the Notes app. You weren’t looking at the screen, after all this time, you learnt to wait patiently for him to finish typing instead of pressuring him by hoarding his space.

After chuckling at your phone, he faced your own phone towards you. The screen flashed onto your chat with him. It confused you at first, until you read the half-typed message you had for him.

Happy new year, Inumaki-senpai! I lov

Your eyes widened. Your following actions fast, as you reached out to grab your phone. However, his were even quicker, pulling his hand back in the air. You knew, with your current fighting skills, you could only take on Inumaki for a little more than a minute before he had you floored. He was the only semi first grader among the students present anyways. With the dress and heels you were wearing, insisted by Nobara, you could bet it was even less than so. Even without the use of his cursed speech.

“Inumaki-senpai please–”

“Bonito flakes,” He cut you off by shaking his head, and continued wiggling his eyebrows “Tuna~?”

You looked around, everyone was busying themselves by talking to one another. It wasn’t new anyways that Toge teased you, so they did not bat an eye as you cried out for your phone. But you still hushed your voice as you stepped closer to him, “I was typing with one hand! I had my cup in hand, my fingers must have slipped–”

He shook his head again, this time chuckling at you.

“It’s true!” You insisted.

It wasn’t far from the truth, anyways. But you couldn’t help but think if this would have been a good opportunity to finally tell him how you felt. You could have let your past self say what your present self couldn’t, but not like this. Not from a message. You didn’t want to confess to your crush through half-written unsent text.

You thought maybe it was time, maybe you could welcome the new year by following through your backlog of resolutions. You gathered all the courage you had before you could hear a loud bang, bringing all of you to attention outside. Being trained sorcerers your first instinct was to get ready for a fight, but it all seemed silly as colours filled the night sky of Tokyo.

“FIREWORKS!” You, Itadori, and Nobara exclaimed. You already forgot all about the half-written confession you had. Fireworks now filled your view and entire mind.

“Let’s go out!” Itadori jumped, not even grabbing a scarf to warm himself before hopping over the big window to the outside.

You laughed, only to follow him excited as he was. Forgetting all about your own jacket too, and other matters, in the building. Excitement was enough to warm you up.

“Hey, wait for us!” Panda was trying to follow suit, as he wrapped himself with a scarf before getting out. It wasn’t long before everyone had followed after Itadori, who was completely immersed in the fireworks that they all could see in the skies.

These had to be programmed by the city of Tokyo, you thought, there was no way civilians could master nor have enough money to afford such grand fireworks. Your group managed to get a hold of sprinklers and small fireworks that you had planned to light up in the courtyard. But they were nothing as beautiful as the ones in the sky.

You had your head tilted back, admiring the lights. You have always adored lights. Your family would always bring you to firework shows and other kinds of light shows, since you were a child. When the biggest streets of a city would finally put up their Christmas lights, you were always there for the first night of lighting it up. The winter holidays season was always your favourite, only followed by the summer festivals with their crazy firework shows.

The memories of the summer festivals’ fireworks warmed you up enough to forget it was actually dead winter that night. It didn’t occur to you the cold that was beginning to crinkle up from your feet. You looked around to your friends, all of them were also looking at the skies, smiles planted on everyone’s face –even gloomy Megumi.

“That one had to be the biggest one yet!” Nobara screamed to be heard by everyone.

“No! There’s gonna be a bigger one –I know it!!” Itadori jumped.

“Salmon!” Inumaki couldn’t help but agree with Itadori. And just like that, a sprinkle of bright silver almost enveloped the entire sky in a big big dome. Everyone wow-ed in a chorus, and Inumaki had to take away his eyes from the beautiful show long before the sprinkles were gone, only to look at your reaction.

He inched closer, with intentions in his step. His eyes now looking for the fireworks in the reflection in your eyes as they looked up in awe.

Perhaps the whole ‘you're the most beautiful view’ was quite cheesy for his tastes, but he couldn’t help but be exactly that whenever it came to you. He always found cheesy lines lame, overly sweet love songs cringy, and in love characters in movies who refused to be together for the smallest inconveniences to be stupid to the point of frustration. But hell was he starting to understand them the days he first met you.

It wasn’t quite exactly love at first sight. You came to the school all battered up, it was only a few days after Itadori had come in, and everyone was surprised to see a new student so soon. Your eyes, unlike right now, were hollow and at a loss of life. Inumaki only heard of what happened to you. Losing your family and that same night, being approached by a stranger with blindfolds, who insisted on you following him to a quite suspicious secluded school claiming all sorts of weird things (knowing Gojo-sensei, he wasn’t the best at explaining what curses were and this new world was that you were about to embark in).

When Inumaki saw you for the first time, your head was tilted down instead of up to look at the sky. His first feelings towards you were out of sympathy. He wasn’t quite sure when the many other feelings began to creep in. Maybe it was the way you’d always make space in the conversation for him. The way you asked him questions so he could just say yes or no to them. The way you began to bring around an extra bottle of cough syrup with you in your pocket for him even when neither of you were on a mission.

But he knew it for sure the day of his birthday. You’ve been in the school for a few months by then and he wasn’t sure how it was that you found out about his birthday. But you had prepared a gift just for him. You insisted it was silly, and that it might have been more work for him than giving him a normal material gift, but in his heart, that was everything.

Feeling some eyes on you, you looked around to see Inumaki already staring at you. A hidden soft smile planted on his face. You tilted your head to the side, smiling at him. Clearly you already have forgotten your interaction earlier. Inumaki couldn’t help but chuckle again at you. Quite adorable, he wished to say.

You brought your finger up to point at him. He followed your gestures, already locking in to read them. Then you brought the same hand to both of your shoulders, the left then the right, tilted your head again to show your worry.

Are you okay?

Inumaki couldn’t help but smile fondly. That was one of the first few things he learnt ever since you gave him that guided tutorial on basic Japanese Sign Language for his birthday. Turned out, ever since you met him, you’ve been studying how to do sign language to effectively talk with him. Then, ever since his birthday, he caught up with you, almost being better at it than you are, despite how much longer you took to learn.

Inumaki gave you a shake of the head. But gave no other gestures to explain himself. You could only frown, but your hands were instinctively already going towards your pocket. Inumaki knew what you hid in there –his cough syrup– he stopped your hand with his own, feeling how cold yours were compared to his.

Having followed Itadori out without thinking, you left your jacket inside. Fortunately, Inumaki was more prepared than you, and he calmly but surely took off his own jacket to place it around your shoulders.

“Oh no, I am okay!” You insisted.

But Inumaki was shaking his head once again, “Bonito flakes.”

You frowned, “why aren’t you okay? Are you not enjoying the fireworks?”

Being so close to one another, you didn’t have to scream to be heard from one another. You could have raised your voices a little louder, but at that point, both of you were quite scared to be heard by the others a few steps away from you.

“Bonito flakes,” Inumaki replied, smiling. At this point, you already knew all the expressions he could give with just the use of the upper part of his face.

“What is it then?” You asked, encouraging sign language by already looking at his hands for some gestures.

However, Inumaki didn’t do any sign language. Instead, he brought out your phone again, having kept it in his hand that whole time. Refusing to let go of it, as if he couldn’t let go of the half-written message you left in it. Only then, the realisation of what happened earlier came back to you in a flash. Another firework banged the moment you lost a beat of your heart.

“Oh,” was all you could manage to say.

You stayed there, fidgeting on his jacket, closing it in –partly in hopes to hide yourself under it. Inumaki, though, he waited patiently for you. Something he found himself having to do more than you did for him. With his limitations, he learnt how to effectively communicate with the little he had in record times. However, with all the words, sign language, texting, and writing you could manage, you still struggled to form anything close to coherent that could have you satisfied. Your conversation with Panda came back to your mind.

But before you could muster even the lamest word you could think of, Inumaki called for your attention, “Tuna.”

Although he was patient, he also was eager. He wanted to start this new year already, and, in his mind, he couldn’t begin it until he made sure of your feelings. You looked up at him, and as much as he wanted to hear you say the words, he could see it all in your eyes. That was one thing he was most glad to have inherited and learnt from his family. Communication from the heart. No words needed. And although it may have come unintentional to you, Inumaki could have understood all your emotions from the day you stepped into Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College.

All the words you never said, but showed instead. Before you even started conversing in sign language, before you could even get a grasp of his onigiri ingredients, you could already speak his language –that of the heart.

But as crystal clear and plain as day as it was for him, his feelings might have not been clear to you without speaking them. He couldn’t expect you, nor anyone, to know his thoughts and feelings without expressing them. Maybe that’s why you asked him so many questions. It was your own very way to know his feelings and thoughts. However, this time around, it was his turn to close that gap.

For the many times she adjusted to him, he was ready to adjust his own language to her.

You brought your index finger up and shook it, and asked, “what is it?”

Time seemed not to pass. For Inumaki, it was still midnight. It was still the same second he got courage to eat your last grape from your fingers. For him, the only sign of time passing were the fireworks changing in the background. Unlike the warm lights from that Christmas eve at his estate, many different colours lightened up your face.

With only that, he got enough courage to finally say it. May all the precautions be thrown out the window. He was always scared to fall in love. He was never sure how it would turn out to be in a relationship where he couldn’t even say how he felt. But the more time passed, the more it seemed possible with you. A fever dream, suddenly, became a goal –a reality.

He slowly unzipped his collar, showing his entire face. You, with the bunch of times you’ve seen his bare face, were still quite hypnotised by the tattoos on both his cheek. Once you got a snippet of the one on his tongue, making you wonder how much it hurt to get it –or was it something he was born with like his curse? That was a question you haven’t gotten to ask yet, you thought.

Inumaki noticed how you shook your head slightly, before bringing your eyes back up to his, with a slight blush on your face. This little act made him smile, and it took a little bit of his nerves to not hide himself behind his collar again. How was it that it only took a little undone zipper, to make you both so bashful.

He sighed deeply, calming himself to regain the confidence he had just a second ago. He clapped his hands on his face, and this surprised you quite a bit. But the surprise was enough to melt the nerves away, making you giggle at the oddity of the moment.

He brought his hands to your shoulders, begging again for your attention, “Tuna.”

“Yes,” you nodded, for how little you could hear him in between the fireworks, you focused on him. “I’m listening.”

He slowly brought both of his thumb and index finger to each side of his chin. Each finger on his tattoos. He kept them there for a few fireworks exploding in the sky. Frozen.

“Inumaki-senpai?” You asked, your eyes slightly widened.

He wasn’t done, of course. He had one more gesture to do, in order to say what he wanted to say, but your mind was already trotting like a horse at thousands kilometers per hour. You knew that sign –or at least the one he was setting himself up for. You used it constantly.

It was one of the first few things you learned to express yourself to him. On a summer day, how you liked the flavour of ice cream you picked, but preferred his. How when you were starting to get to know him, you told him how you liked science as a subject but absolutely loathed maths. And of course, you often used it to talk about your favourite movies and shows. There was not a day that passed when you wouldn’t use it. Inumaki, seeing you do it countless times, got the hang of the kind of person you were. Loving and expressive.

He needed to take your example.

He began to slide the fingers to connect them at the tip of his chin. But then it was disrupted by Itadori’s cheers.

“Happy new year guys!”

He hugged the both of you, each arm on each of you bringing you closer to him. Inumaki could only see Panda by the side of his view crossing his arms in an ‘X’ over his head to Itadori. But it was too late. The moment was gone. Another came flooding in from the group of friends.

Inumaki didn’t even notice the lack of fireworks. They were done, marking the end of his chance. That second to midnight lasted almost an hour and he still didn’t make it. He was disappointed, sure, but it took one look at you to see you laughing for him to forgive the others’ disruption rather quickly.

“Spicy cod roe!” He cheered with them after a small sigh of defeat.

“Happy new year, Itadori!” You laughed under his arm.

“Let’s get in to continue the party!” Nobara started ahead, rubbing her hands together in the cold. You were pretty sure she wanted to go back in to get warm.

The others didn’t idle, following her suit. It was only you who hesitated for a second, looking up to the sky. There were no more fireworks, you’ve missed most of them, but it was alright. You had a moment with Inumaki. You weren’t fully sure what he was about to say (or sign), but you had a moment. What was left of the fireworks were only smokey clouds and stars that, despite the lights of the city, could still be seen.

There weren’t many, but they were there. A bunch. Shining above you all as you entered the new year. And even if the others weren’t seen, you knew they still were there. Exactly like what Inumaki knew your feelings to be. You still haven’t fully confessed your feelings, but he knew they were there. And for now, as he watched you look up to the sky for stars while wearing his coat, he was just going to have to be content with it.

“Happy new year, [name].”

You looked down at Inumaki, hearing his voice again saying something other than onigiri ingredients since Christmas. Your heart started to beat faster, but this time, there were no fireworks to hide it. You only wished he was far enough to not hear it slamming against your chest. With his wish for you you could feel the new year starting great and only becoming better.

You smiled at him, as he zipped his collar back up. A faint smile hid slowly behind it and you could swear his mouth moved more, but his collar was already all the way up for you to hear or read his lips.

“Happy new year, Inumaki-senpai!”

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