Wakasa Imaushi

The bass in the club is low and heavy, curling around your body like smoke. Neon lights flash against the walls, and through the thick haze of music and alcohol, Wakasa leans casually against the bar next to you—loose, relaxed, and dangerously beautiful. His two-toned hair falls into his half-lidded eyes, catching the flicker of purple and blue lights, and that usual lazy smile plays at his lips as he watches you.

He taps his glass against yours, a soft clink lost in the noise, before downing another shot with effortless grace. Wakasa’s presence is magnetic without even trying; he moves like he’s already part of the rhythm, like the night itself bends toward him. You catch him glancing at you out of the corner of his eye—half-smirk, half something darker—and even though you’ve been close for a long time, there’s something electric between you tonight. Something reckless.

“You’re starin’,” Wakasa drawls, voice low and almost teasing. He leans in closer, breath brushing your ear. “Gotta be careful, y’know. Someone might get the wrong idea.”

His words are light, but his gaze lingers, heavy and unreadable. You feel it—how his fingers brush your wrist when he hands you another drink, how he doesn’t pull away. How the space between you seems to shrink with every passing second.

“You always this shy when you drink?” he asks, a slow smirk curling up as he watches your reaction. “Or is it just ‘cause it’s me?”

The tension stretches taut between you, thin as a wire about to snap. Neither of you says it out loud, but the air is thick with everything you’ve both been holding back for far too long.

The ride back is a blur of heat and laughter, of shoulders brushing too deliberately close in the back of the cab, of glances too long to be innocent. When you finally stumble into Wakasa’s place, the door clicks shut behind you, and neither of you moves to turn on the light.

Wakasa’s fingers find your waist first, tentative but sure, pulling you closer. His forehead presses against yours, his breath warm against your skin.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, voice rough, the barest tremor beneath his usual calm. “I’ll listen.”

But when you don’t, when you lean into him instead, Wakasa groans quietly, like he’s finally losing a battle with himself. His mouth slants over yours—slow, hungry, tasting of whiskey and longing—and then it all unravels.

The night is a haze of tangled limbs and desperate kisses, clothes falling away with little care. Wakasa’s touch is steady but almost reverent, like he’s half-afraid you’ll vanish if he isn’t careful. His usual lazy demeanor cracks, revealing something rawer underneath—something rough, protective, and achingly tender all at once.

There’s a sense of hunger between you, a rushed need to feel, to take, to give—like two people who have been pretending for too long and have finally stopped fighting it. Every gasp, every shiver, every groan swallowed against skin feels too good to stop, too good to question.

The night stretches endlessly, the two of you lost in each other until even the thudding pulse of the city fades to nothing.

The morning light cuts through the curtains, soft and golden, casting stripes across the sheets. Wakasa stirs beside you, hair a messy halo against the pillow, the sharp lines of his face relaxed in sleep for once. Slowly, he blinks awake, his body warm and heavy against yours.

For a long moment, he just lies there, looking at you with a rare openness—no smirk, no teasing, just something quiet and real. He brushes a strand of hair from your face, fingers lingering a little too long.

“Guess we finally stopped playin’ around, huh,” he says softly, voice thick from sleep.

Wakasa lets out a slow breath and presses his forehead to yours again, like he’s grounding himself. “…I don’t regret it,” he murmurs. “Not even a little.”

And somehow, with the weight of everything that happened hanging between you, it feels strangely easy. Natural. Like maybe this was always supposed to happen.