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mysteria157 · 9 months ago

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Pairing: Sheriff!Nanami Kento x Black Fem Reader

Summary: A terrifying close call catapults your festering guilt, your secrets slowly consuming you.

Rating/CW: slow burn romance, mild intoxication, brief violence and mentions of blood, smut, vaginal fingering, angst. MDNI!

WC: listen buddy..

Author notes: Hello! Apologies for the wait but here is part two! Only one more part to finish up the story. Thank you all so much for your patience, support, and kind words. It truly means the world. I used this part to focus more on emotion and simmering conflict that will finally shatter in part 3.

As always, likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated.

Happy reading!

Header: myself (image from pinterest) | Divider: @anitalenia @saradika network tag: @pixelcafe-network

Masterlist | Ao3 | Twitter | Part Three

The universe, it seems, has a cruel and unforgiving sense of humor. Since that night of the cattle drive, when you let yourself believe in the possibility of more, when you basked in the warm desire of Nanami’s gaze and the electricity of his touch—it was the beginning of the end.

Since that night, every step has been in error, every word a potential betrayal, every shared moment tainted by the secrets you keep—

“I’m not one to put my hands on a lady. But you’ve been slippin' past me for too long. This ends tonight.”

His words echo a haunting melody in your head as you sag against your bedroom door, sweaty and lungs burning with every desperate gasp for air. Your heart is beating so fast it feels as if it will burst from your chest, pounding at your sternum like a snare drum—

The deafening pop of your pistol. The bullet that was meant to be a distraction so you could escape the Phillips’ house had hit the wall and then flesh. Horror flooding your veins in an icy wave as Nanami grunted in pain, a hand flying to the now torn upper arm of his navy long sleeve—

You choke on a floundering breath, fingers trembling and wet with blood as they press against your throat. The coal on your skin feels suffocating, a physical manifestation of your sin—

His weight pinning you to the floor, the heat at the apex of his thighs forbidden and delicious against yours as you struggled beneath him, twisting your bandana-covered face from his prying fingers. Your desperate fingers acting on impulse—anything to get you away—pressing hard enough into his wound that he spat out a curse, giving you enough leverage to buck him off you and disappear into the night, your spoils from Mr. Phillips sashaying against your hip—

You snap back into focus, eyes stinging from a fresh wall of tears. You’ve crossed a line tonight, one you prayed and prayed to never even get close to. As you try to catch your breath, you acknowledge that, yes, this is the beginning of the end. The moment you realize that you can no longer keep up this double life. That you can no longer help in a way you find worthy.

You trudge across your bedroom to the dresser that holds your porcelain basin of cold water. You keep it full on nights like these, ready for you to wash the coal off your face before you collapse into bed. Panting, you dip a washcloth in the cold water, wiping the disguise and Nanami’s dried blood from your skin, pulling your fear from tonight along with it.

You look up into the mirror above your dresser, taking in your haggard form. Eyes no longer filled with determination, a tear in your shirt at the shoulder that exposes the faint scar from an injury sustained years ago, your braid frazzled and coming loose at the ends. You don’t look like the fearsome bandit that you’ve made of yourself.

You look tired. Afraid.

As your pulse begins to steady, a wave of exhaustion washes over you, taking the ordeal of tonight and carrying it into the abyss. You set your coal-soaked washcloth on the dresser, ready to shed your bandit persona and collapse into bed, when—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound makes you freeze, your heart seizing in your chest with halted breath as you leave your room and quietly tip-toe to the front door. The darkness of your living room gives you enough cover to peek through the curtains, but you know who it is. Of course, it’s Nanami. Heaving with high raised shoulders as he presses his forehead to your door.

You exhale a shaky breath as you stagger back, walking backward to your room as you think of what to do and—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

You jump, your back bumping into your door frame as you gape at the open air.

“J-just a minute!” you call out, your voice higher than usual. With trembling hands, you begin to strip, fingers shaking as you unbutton your shirt and slip out of your leather pants. You toss your clothes under the bed.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

“I’ll be right there!” you shout again, slipping into one of your long off-white nightgowns. Your hands fumble with your braid, snagging knots against your fingernails as you unfurl your curls to hang free. One glance in the mirror makes you curse, and you throw on a thick flannel to hide the view of your nipples from behind the near-transparent linen.

POUND! POUND! POUND!

“I said one second!” you yell, frustration and fear curling the edges of your words as you balance the nearly full porcelain basin in your hands. You quietly slide open your bedroom window, throwing the coal mixture out into the night and shucking the blackened washcloth into a dresser drawer.

You rush back to the front door, taking a deep breath as you smooth down your hair and pray he’s not as sharp as usual when he looks at your frazzled form. You pray he hasn’t figured it out. You hope and plead to whoever is listening that your fears about the world falling apart do not come to fruition right now.

You know the sight to expect, but seeing it is still a horrifying shock. He takes up your entire door frame, all muscle and authority, sweaty with pinched eyebrows as he clutches at his bleeding arm. Your stomach coils tight, nausea brewing like a bubbling pot. He’s panting heavily, no doubt from the adrenaline of mounting Flint and racing through town to get here, his Stetson resting on his back, blonde locks sweaty on his forehead.

He swallows, his throat bobbing beneath a sheen of sweat.

“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice strained and urgent. “I saw her—the bandit come this way.”

Nanami’s too kind, too caring, too willing to put himself on the line for someone else. Because the irony of his concern about you, the fact that he’s injured and came this way instead of getting first aid…it’s almost too much to bear.

You shake your head harshly, slipping into a regrettable mask and pushing away the festering guilt that bubbles to life along with the action.

“I’m fine, but you’re hurt! Why didn’t you go to Shoko?”

“I don’t want to wake her. Besides, there’s no time,” Nanami grunts as he squeezes his upper arm. As much as you internally beg your body not to look, your eyes flicker to the crimson blood that oozes between his fingers. Guilt, unbridled and disparaging guilt, threatens to undo you.

“I need to check the house,” he insists, stumbling past you without waiting for an invitation, his spurs clanging against your floorboards. He yanks his pistol from its holster, fingers shaking as he loads the bullets from his sling into the chamber with precision.

Your Nanami would wait to come in, removing his hat at your threshold with kind eyes. So the blood that trails behind him with every step, marking his path like breadcrumbs, the desperation in his gait, the quiver in every exhale from his chest as he fingers bullets from his gun sling and loads them into his pistol, it’s a glaring reminder of just how bad you’ve made things.

Any other moment, you would freely let him roam.

“Nanami, please,” you plead softly, following his aimless form as he wanders without a purpose, his gun raised at no one as he starts for your hallway. “You need to sit down. You’re hurt—”

“It’s just a graze,” he snaps, dismissive even as a fresh gush of blood seeps his darkened shirt and drips crimson onto the floor. “She could be here. Could’ve followed you, could be waiting.” His words tumble faster, more disjointed as he sweeps your kitchen with barely contained panic.

You fight to keep your voice steady. “Well, she’s not here. I would have heard somethin'.”

Nanami turns to face you, gun still raised, a flicker of it trained on you as the bandit just an hour ago making you flinch. Blood has soaked most of his sleeve now, dripping steadily onto your floor.

“You can’t possibly know that. She’s dangerous, clever—”

“I’m fine,” you insist, stepping closer, flinching as he opens and slams your cabinets. Blood smears on the wood from his hands. “Please, you’re bleeding. Let me help.”

Nanami scoffs, it’s a foreign sound from deep in his chest that echoes into the air. Even with a slight hunch from the pain, he towers over your home from his place in the kitchen, that imposing but welcoming frame casting shadows onto your floor as he takes a step back, regarding you as if you’ve grown a second head.

“Why aren’t you taking this seriously?”

The accusation stings, even though you’re the source of it. The source of his frustration and the wound on his arm. If only he knew how seriously you took this.

“I am,” you press, desperately trying to quell his erratic movements now that he’s gone back to searching the pantry for a second time. “But you’re hurt, and I—”

“For God’s sake!” You jump from the boom of his voice, flinching as his gun clatters to the floor and crosses the space in two strides. His hands grip your shoulders with bruising strength, blood from his fingers seeping through your flannel. “You could be in danger!” he snaps, acidic anger spitting from split lips, his face inches from yours with breath hot on your skin. You’ve never seen him like this.

“Nana—” you try to speak through your shock, your whisper drowning in his desperation.

“Why can’t you understand?!” His grip on your shoulders tightens, your skin pinching beneath fingernails. But you can’t register the pain as you take in the fire in his eyes, burning bright and tinged with a vulnerability that makes you want to disappear entirely. “Do you even know what it’s like to lose someone that you—that—”

He struggles, words catching in his throat as his mouth fights silently with indecision.

You watch as he battles with himself, trying to force out words that seem too big in his throat, too consequential to voice as if he’s held them in from the moment they were lodged there. You pick up on the implication quickly. The weight of it, of his unspoken feelings and the pain of his past, somehow connected to that bullet-sized dent on his badge.

“I can’t—” Nanami tries again, voice hoarse. “If anything happened to you, I—”

“Okay,” you whisper, a hand laying softly on his heaving chest. His eyes search yours, frustration giving way to desperation and pleading. It’s rare with Nanami, but when you see the man behind the badge, that raw and exposed cowboy with a hidden past that he will never divulge, you cherish every second it’s presented to you.

He has never told you about that person who changed the course of his life, about the dark side of his work, the death and cruelty that he refuses to talk about. But you won’t ever ask for more, because every minute with him, even if you’re the cause of his misery, is precious and fleeting.

“If that’s what you need to feel safe—to know I’m safe—then check the house.”

The vice grip on your shoulders vanishes immediately, blood rushing back to fill in the gaps of his harsh fingers as he steps away and sweeps through your home with a practiced eye.

You watch, nerves frayed and heart pounding like a hummingbird in your chest as he moves from room to room. The back of your neck breaks into a sweat when he crosses the threshold of your bedroom, lungs seizing as he disappears from your view. But when he finally returns to the living room seemingly more relaxed, you hide the sag in your shoulders from relief.

Gone is the furious and demanding sheriff, duty-bound and crazed with the urge to protect. Now, regret fills his features, brown eyes sweeping over your form and furrowed brows taking in the sight of his bloody hand prints on your flannel. He’s ashamed, remorseful of his sharp words and fierce touch.

“Sit,” you demand as a means to distract him from his inner turmoil, pointing to your sofa. “Let me look at that arm.”

“Ma’am, you don’t need to do that. I should get on,” he tries to fit back into a professional shell, refusing as best he can even though he shuffles closer to you, lingering in front of your sofa with indecision in his eyes.

“Stop calling me that,” you can’t help but snap, glaring at him. “Sit down, Nanami,” you soften your tone, to show just how worried and unwilling you are to entertain his embarrassment. How sorry you are that you’ve caused all of this.

He hesitates, opening his mouth to argue with you, but the glare on your face must be enough. He unbuckles his gun sling and sets it carefully on your coffee table before plopping on your sofa, knees tucked together as if sitting on fine china, afraid to break anything.

You return to lay a medical kit, two basins—one empty to flush his wound, the other filled with water—and a bottle of whiskey on the small coffee table in front of you both, sinking onto the sofa and turning to him expectantly. He eyes the whiskey only for a second before he registers the meaning. You’re not an expert like Shoko, so alcohol may be the only cleaning and numbing agent that will help Nanami with whatever you need to do.

“You’ll need to take off your vest.”

“Right,” he sluggishly moves out of the leather garment, grimacing and biting his lip as he pulls his injured arm free. His upper arm is soaked red, the navy fabric sliced through where the bullet pierced its surface.

“And your…your shirt.”

“What?” he fumbles, eyes slightly wide as he looks down at you.

You clear your throat, blood boiling from his hesitant gaze. “I’ll need to see the entire wound. To clean it and—well…”

“Right, of course.”

Nanami pauses for a second too long, squeezing his fists against dirty denim pants as if to steel himself before his bloody fingers move to the buttons of his navy button-up. But the pain makes him clumsy, the adrenaline finally giving way to the present, and he can barely bend his injured arm. You can tell from the look on his face and swallowed groans that he’s struggling.

Without thinking, you reach out to help, your fingers brushing against his to knock them out of the way. The touch buzzes against your fingertips.

“Let me,” you offer, your voice barely above a whisper.

You take his silence as a cue to continue, and you work the buttons open, hyper-aware of Nanami’s steady breathing and the warmth that heats your fingertips from his skin. Slowly, the lapels of his long sleeve part to reveal sun-kissed skin.

It’s hard to look away from the planes of thick muscle that make up his torso, a firm chest, and chunky bands of abs that bunch together with his haggard breaths. There’s a dusting of honey-brown hair on his chest, littering the skin so faintly that you long to card your fingers through. Saliva pools in your mouth at the sight, scratching an itch deep in your mind that only rears its head in the middle of the night.

You help him guide the fabric off his shoulders, your fingertips kissing his skin in a forbidden dance as you slide his shirt out of the way. The billow of his clothes wafts his scent up your nose—leather, gunpowder, a hint of a cigarette. So uniquely Nanami that it makes your head spin and you have to take a second, swallowing against a thick ball of desire in your throat so that you can focus on the task at hand.

“It’s a graze,” you mutter as you bring the empty basin to rest under his elbow. “But it’s gonna need stitches.”

Nanami simply nods, tersely following your hand that snatches and uncorks the whiskey, body tensing as you pour the amber liquid over his wound.

“God damn—” he snarls, the curse cutting off into a harsh groan as his head falls back against the sofa. His free hand grips the armrest, knuckles turning white, the dried blood between his fingers more prominent with his squeeze. The whiskey runs dark down his arm, a muddy brown collecting in the basin.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, hoping he can taste the sincerity and double meaning. He answers with a noise in the back of his throat, snatching the bottle from your hands, pulling deeply from it as you wipe his wound dry and prepare your needle and thread.

By the time you’re ready to start stitching, he’s three gulps in, his eyes locked on your unlit fireplace, body heaving with pained and frustrated breaths.

You hesitate, hand hovering over his bulging bicep before you wrap your hands around his arm. He’s soft to the touch and so incredibly warm; you want to melt into him—curl against his chest and bury your face in his skin so you can forget about the world.

But the moment the needle pierces his skin, Nanami lets out a sharp bark of pain.

“Jesus, are you sure you know what you’re doing?!” he hisses, grimacing with discomfort as he tries to pull his arm away from you. You tighten your hand on his bicep, fingertips collecting the blood that leaks from his wound at the action. “Are you stitching me up or trying to kill me?”

“Oh, hush up, you big baby!” you snap, angry at his misplaced discomfort. It’s already daunting that you have to do this—that you’ve caused this. While you deserve to be barked at, you’re not one to go down without a fight. “I’ve seen children take stitches with less complaint!”

There’s a moment of stunned silence, your eyes locked with each other as you process what’s happened. His eyes are wide with shock, a tinge of red coloring his cheeks.

Then, suddenly, his lips twitch. A chuckle escapes him, eyes widening at the uncontrolled expression before he breaks into full-blown laughter.

It’s rich and guttural, a cacophony of deep rumbles that traverse across your sofa and caress your body, just like that night as you both rode back into town. It’s such a rare sound to hear from him, such a treasured piece that you and few others have. But your urge to laugh, to join in this rare glimpse of Nanami with his guard down isn’t deserved, so you swallow it down.

“I’m sorry. I was rude.” Nanami’s eyes are soft as he regards you, strands of honey wheat kissing his forehead and upper lids. “I shouldn’t have doubted your medical expertise. I’m more thin-skinned than I realize.”

You roll your eyes playfully as you press the needle to his skin again.

“Don’t bark at me this time,” you warn, absentmindedly rubbing his large bicep with your free hand to soothe him before you guide the needle through jagged skin.

He hisses, teeth bared like a dog, jaw clenching from biting down, the muscles of his stomach twitching as a grunt rumbles from within.

As you continue stitching, that tension he always carries in his shoulders fades away. With every pierce of the needle on his skin, he takes a generous swig of the whiskey, body relaxing inch by inch. It’s a shame how quickly he turns to whiskey, even if you both weren’t in this predicament now, you hate how much you’ve made him turn to something that is slowly killing him.

The motion of the needle is almost hypnotic, compelling your mind to wander to the danger of tonight, of your hand in all of this, of your desire for some sort of redemption without having to say anything.

“Nanami,” you start, ignoring the weight of his gaze that turns to you, “have you ever thought about…why the bandit does what she does?”

He grunts, tensing slightly under your hands, the next needle prick more difficult against taut skin. “Can’t say I’ve spent much time wonderin' about the motivations of someone who’s made my life hell.”

The revelation stings. Oh, does it sting.

You want to press on, to ask him if he would ever forgive the actions of someone like the bandit if it meant helping those less fortunate.

You want his opinion, his validation, his reassurance that if you were to show him your coal-soaked washcloth hidden in your dresser and the torn black shirt, he would still hold you close and say what you are doing is noble. That he doesn’t think any differently of you. Oh, how you long for that.

But there’s a large part of you that knows your definition of reality is faded and unobtainable. So you change the subject, asking him to talk about his frustrations of tonight even though it pains you to listen.

As you work, Nanami’s usually clipped cadence relaxes, the alcohol loosening his tongue. That Western drawl he usually keeps in check now flows without a barrier at the end of his words.

You listen, heart heavy with guilt, pounding thick regret through your veins as he describes the encounter from his perspective. Each word is more agonizing than the last.

“I was so close,” he mutters, chagrin coloring his voice before he takes another swig. “But lately, everythin’ has fallen from my grasp. No matter what I do, it feels like I’m fightin' against somethin' that should be left alone. And I hate it.”

You tie off the last stitch, fighting back the fuzziness at the corners of your eyes.

“There,” you whisper, throat tight. “All done.” You run your fingertips along the protruding edges of his stitches, admiring your work and the warmth of his muscled skin. It’s a piss-poor attempt to atone for your mistakes.

He looks down at your handy work, then back to you. There’s a fogginess in his gaze, a slightly unfocused demeanor in his irises from the alcohol, dark brown warm with gratitude.

“What would I do without you?”

It’s such a simple statement, something that would have made you smile so bright that it could brighten the room. But now…after everything, hearing the earnest trust in his voice—

You throw him a small smile, turning away quickly to shuffle through your medical kit so as to hide your trembling hands. Your curls create a curtain between your misery and his relaxed form on your sofa.

“Oh, I’m sure you’d manage just fine without me,” you offer truthfully. You know, deep down…if you weren’t in this town making his life miserable, he would be happier.

You turn back to him, not meeting his eyes as you procure a small container of salve.

“Calendula?” Nanami hums, watching as you glide a sticky finger along his wound.

“I got it from Shoko,” you lie, despising the taste of it in your mouth. You stole this salve from a doctor’s office years ago when you began this troublesome life. It’s yet another reminder of how unclean you really are.

“You’re a good sheriff,” you admit softly, tracing a particular spot of reddening skin while your mind clambers away from the darkness that is ever-present. “Stop bein' so hard on yourself.”

Each ridge of his stitches feels mocking—reflecting your deception and a physical manifestation of everything you’ve done. He is so good, the best protector a town could ever have, and you’ve made him miserable. Pushing him further into the bottle and deeper into a pit of self-loathing.

The urge to confess roils like bile up your throat, burning your esophagus and tinging the back of your tongue sour. Nanami’s eyes are on you, heavy and searching, his naked chest rising and falling slowly, veins no doubt pumping with the calming effects of whiskey.

You can feel the weight of his gaze, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to meet it. You’re afraid of what he might see—the pain and fear, the guilt and longing, the desperate need for forgiveness.

It’s too much—you can’t do it.

Those tears you’ve been fighting back all night—every month, week, hour, minute—well up, fogging your vision until the sight of his stitches is a sea of black and red. You blink rapidly, trying to clear them away before they make things worse, but it’s too late.

He’s already moving the second a tear drips from your lashes, reaching for you before you can turn away.

“Hey now,” Nanami murmurs, voice soft and comforting as you feel the warmth of thick fingers caress beneath your chin before tilting it up so you’re looking at him. “What have I done?”

A scoff bubbles wet from your lips, disbelief at his words that only make your lips quiver with an onslaught of more tears. He’s done nothing. He’s never done a thing to hurt you or steer you wrong or cause you pain. Nanami has only given you protection, a gentle gaze, and mannerisms laced with so much affection that you want to hope that it’s love.

You shake your head, unable to speak past the dry lump in your throat. How can you tell him that every injury whether mental, emotional, or physical, is one you’ve inflicted? That you want nothing more than to wish he was like every other sheriff you’ve come across in this life—willing to turn a blind eye to anything that is not serving themselves. He should be like them, not kind and determined to a degree that’s self-sacrificial.

“I just—” you manage to choke out, lips trembling until his thumb glides along your bottom lip to settle the quivering muscle.

‘I want you to tell me it’s okay. That I’m not a terrible person. That you’ll forgive me.’

“I hate seeing you hurt,” you sigh instead on a shaky exhale, blinking away a fresh wall of tears that leaks from your bottom lids. “I worry about you.”

His expression softens, and you hate the way his presence pulls at you, silently beckoning you to fall into him. He brushes away your tears with his thumb, the touch so gentle it nearly makes more fall.

“This is why I don’t like to trouble you with what I do,” he mutters, downtrodden in his admission. “I hate worryin' you.”

“No,” you grip the open lapels of his shirt, yanking at the fabric as a means to make him understand. “I want to know. I want to worry. We’ve been…friends for years, Nanami. I don’t care if it’ll make me sad, make me cry, or make me angry at you. When will you understand that?” You parrot his words back to him, laying the irony of it all at his feet.

His eyes search yours, a mix of surprise and something deeper, more intense, and overwhelming that makes the air between you both thin.

“You want to know everything?” he asks, a whisper that’s barely audible in your quiet living room.

“Everything,” you breathe, twisting your fingers more in the fabric of his open shirt.

It’s true. You want to know his fears, wants, and desires. You want to know what he thinks about in the morning and at night before he goes to sleep. You want everything, even though you are the last person who should wish for it.

His thumb slides across your cheekbone, his large hand cupping your face. You resist the urge to lean into the warmth of his touch.

He’s always so warm. When it brushes against yours on your walks. When he hovers too close at the bar on Wednesday nights when you see Kilmer for moonshine. When you close your eyes at night, and dream of every line of him pressed against you, branding your skin in his touch so you’ll never know anyone else but him.

Nanami leans in closer, his breath hot against your face, the faint scent of whiskey and tobacco rushing up your nostrils to wrap around your brain.

“Even if I come to you in the dead of night, bloodied and beaten?” Your heart races at his words, at the implication. “Would you—”

“Patch you up,” you finish, not bothering to hide the shiver that runs down your spine with equal parts desire and dread. “Yes,” you whisper, “Especially then.”

It has to be the whiskey, because the feel of Nanami’s injured arm sliding behind your back, pulling you more into him, would be against everything he holds moral.

But there’s no chance in the world that you’ll pull away now. You soak in his touch while you have it, beneath a tipsy gaze and the heady scent of his breath on your skin.

“And if I tell you about my failures?” he’s rough, wrapped around a pearl of vulnerability that you want to cradle and store away like it’s precious. “The times I’m not the sheriff this town deserves?”

You can’t ever tell him that most of his failures are because of your very existence. But you still meet his gaze without flinching, hoping to convey how much you mean to him. How much you yearn for him even when he’s broken and disappointed in himself.

“I could never think less of you, Nanami. Never.”

He hums as he strokes your cheek, the sound crawling hot and molten down your body, seeping into the thick fabric of your flannel and the threadbare linen of your nearly translucent nightgown. It’s scalding and should make you turn away, but you pitch closer to him, inhaling a deep breath of alcohol that clings to his lips.

There’s a question in his eyes, something he wants to ask but can’t find the words for. You think you know what it is; you hope so because the air is thick again. Only now, it’s leaden with tension and desire, of promise and a line that’s been danced on without care for far too long.

Even as you inch to close that gap, the shame is persistent. You don’t deserve his curiosity and his want. You’ve twisted his kindness, his affection and laughter, and even his frustrations into a warped justification of your own actions. Your selfishness has cast him into a Hell of your own making, and that realization burns just as hot as your desire.

You should pull away and brush the hair from his forehead with a teasing smile. You should roll your eyes and usher him out of your home with the complaint of having to rise early in the morning to prepare for the kids.

But you’re both close—so so close—and the logic of what you should do dissolves into nothing with every breath you take.

The whiskey has left a slight flush on his cheeks, slightly sweaty from the pain of your stitching. You can’t help but flick your gaze to his lips, slightly parted and split down the middle from dryness, and so tempting.

When your eyes catch his, you swallow a gasp at the intensity, at an emotion you dare not name. You can’t. Every fiber of your being screams to close the distance between you, to finally see how his lips feel and taste—even as your mind equally screams with all the reasons you should turn away.

“Promise me you’ll be more careful,” you breathe, the words a prayer and a plea whispered into the dwindled space between you.

His response is wordless, visceral. The scalding hand on your back presses firmly, pulling you even closer with a strength that makes your stomach twist, your knees knocking against thick thighs.

Your fingers twist into the lapels of his open shirt, the fabric groaning in protest, buttons digging into your skin. You’re both tiptoeing on a thinning line of something profound, fighting against an invisible force that screams the implications of what this could mean—a warning for you to step back and not make this worse.

That rope unravels with the weight of you both, strands splintering open and threatening to snap. And oh, how you want to fall with him.

It feels like an eternity, but finally, his lips brush against yours. It’s a ghost of a kiss—feather light and achingly tender as chapped skin teases your lips. But it’s enough. For a second too long, you’re suspended in time, searching each other’s eyes for permission, for absolution. Then, as if pulled by that same inviting force, you come together again.

It’s deliberate this time, awakening and filled with intention. His lips move against yours, warm and insistent and heavy with whiskey and want, and you respond in kind, hoping the way you bite down on his bottom lip that he can taste the years of want.

One of your hands slips from a lapel, smacking onto his bare chest, palm flat against skin feathered with tawny hair. His heartbeat is rapid, matching the frantic pace of your own, and you gasp into his lips, pulling harder for him to fall into you.

In this kiss, you taste possibility. You see a future where you have no secrets, where the guilt in your insides is replaced with the butterflies he consistently makes you feel, where it’s you and Nanami happy in this dusty town. For one beautiful moment, you let yourself believe.

But reality comes crashing down like a bucket of cold water on your body. Nanami pulls away slightly, but enough for the air between you to grow stale, molten desire cooling rapidly.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours. The alcohol on his breath is like a siren to you, pulling you further under with each whiff. His nose brushes against yours, gentle and exploratory, as he inhales the smell of your skin.

“We shouldn’t—I shouldn’t—” His lips trail down the side of your cheek as he speaks, each word a caress that contradicts his attempted withdrawal.

You shake your head to dispel the cloudiness in your mind and also to convey that he did nothing wrong and that it just might be better this way. That he’s right to regret touching you, kissing you, letting you into his life. It’s better for you both.

You can see the conflict slicing through the fogginess in his gaze, a mirror of the turmoil in your own heart. Your fingers are still twisted in his shirt, still pulling inch by inch, unwilling to be the first to let go.

“I should go,” is what escapes his mouth even as he makes no move to leave, his thumb still stroking your cheek. “It’s late, and I’ve forgotten my manners—I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

The words shouldn’t hurt, shouldn’t smack you with such force, but they do. What he hopes to sound humble, only reveals as insulting.

You offer a wobbly smile, fighting against a stinging sensation of tears that threaten to bubble from his rejection.

“Was it that bad, Sheriff? I know I’m not the best kisser in town but—”

“No. It was perfect,” he interrupts, the hand on your cheek caressing the skin, his thumb stroking in reverence as he offers a regretful chuckle. “You just deserve someone else. Not a man like myself.”

His words fall like heavy weights in your stomach, plummeting into acid that bubbles with guilt and fear. You pull yourself from his embrace before you can stop, his warmth evaporating into the cold air.

“And just what kind of a man are you?” you ask, incredulous, as you regard him with slightly widened eyes.

Nanami sighs heavily, his uninjured arm coming up to card a hand through his unruly strands.

“The kind that spends most of his time with outlaws and criminals instead of decent folk. The kind that smokes with no regard for his health. The kind that drinks far too much whiskey than what is good for him.” He shakes his head, frustration twisting around his fingers as he fumbles for the buttons of his open shirt. “I won’t subject a woman to my carelessness.”

Your mouth hangs ajar, fighting to form words to dispel his worries even as the opportunity to distance yourself presents like a meal on a silver platter.

“Why would you say that about yourself?” you whisper, incredulous as you watch his fingers slip on his buttons, the pain in his arm flaring from the angle with which his arm is bent.

“Because it’s true.”

You smack his hands away from his lapels with far too much force, your anger permeating from your fingertips as you snatch up the fabric in your hands and fasten each button.

“No. It’s not true. You’re a good man. You spend your days and nights convincin' yourself that you’re not good for what? For happiness?” Your fingers falter on the last button that hovers over his collarbone, the words at the tip of your tongue.

For love?

His hands draw themselves up to wrap around yours, cocooning in their warmth even as they burn with the reminder of what you can’t have. What you shouldn’t have.

“I’ve done a poor job of conductin' myself around you. I’m sorry…”

The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating. At that moment, something snaps inside of you. It feels like a dam breaking, flooding you with a combination of sadness, frustration, and a desperate need to stop this torturous dance.

“Okay.”

It’s clipped and sharp, cutting through his apology like a knife. It leaves a lingering bitterness on your tongue. A single syllable but loaded with so much resignation and unspoken pain.

For a second, you wish you could take it back, to smile up at him, wrap your arms around his neck, pull him close, whisper in his ear that he deserves more than he gives himself credit for.

When you finally drag your eyes from his collarbone to meet his gaze, the regret in his eyes is so heavy you almost drown in them. It etches onto his features, pulls at the edges of his lips as he frowns, and pushes at the top of his nose to make his brows furrow. Your fingers twitch beneath his, an involuntary urge coming to life as you swallow the need to smooth the worry lines from his skin.

“Please understand that I never want to hurt you. You’re precious—I need you to understand how much you mean to me,” he presses; he sounds insistent, begging, wishing that you could understand his inner turmoil.

It’s ironic just how much you do. Every day you spend with him is another day that you have to live with feeling inadequate. He deserves a woman who is honest and forthcoming, who would never lie to him and hide a secret so heinous it might kill you before you’re half a century old.

So just like he yearns to put distance so that you can find someone more worthy, you do the same.

“You better get on,” you mutter, the words like sand in your mouth, eyes downcast to your floor as you stand and tuck your flannel around your body. It’s a poor substitute for his embrace, but it’s all you will have of him for the foreseeable future.

From your peripheral, you faintly see Nanami’s hands curl into tight fists on his denim-clad knees, knuckles pressed white like sun-bleached bone before he relaxes, blood filling the skin again.

As he stands to leave, you’re struck by the duality of the moment—the warmth of his touch that lingers on your skin, the silent admission from both sides of this conversation—of the kiss that was not enough, and the cold weight of much-needed denial settling in your stomach.

It’s enough to make you nauseous as you watch him shrug on his vest, the rustle of fabric unnaturally loud in the loaded silence of your home. Your eyes take him in a while his gaze is turned away, tracing every curve of muscle, every worry line from work and the harsh sunlight.

“Thank you,” he finally speaks, voice low as he clicks his gun sling in place. Your eyes finally meet, uncertainty and hesitant desire from both sides.

You dig your fingernails into your flannel, tightening its hug around you to desperately hide every inch of yourself and the emotions that are threatening to seep through your pores.

You nod at him softly, offering a gentle but dishonest smile that feels so brittle it could crack at any moment. The door creaks open, the late-night air rushing in cool and with memories of your haste to get home, guilt in your hand at the stitched bicep beneath his coat.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he offers, hopeful. And oh does that nasty side of you, the one that Mama always chastised with a smack to your hands, coils like a rattlesnake—ready to strike.

You could slap him for even thinking you would entertain his presence after giving you so much for months, years, tonight—and stripping it away in a matter of seconds because of misplaced self-righteousness.

But that other side, the side that longs for every inch of him, understands that while your feelings are tumultuous, you know he wants you close, even if it means hurting you both.

“I’ll be working later than usual for the next few days,” you lie blatantly for the second time tonight, your stomach churning. “So maybe next week sometime.”

There’s a hitch in his breath, quick and staggered as it catches in his throat. He lingers, mouth opening as if to speak, shoulders hitching with stolen breath before he sags in defeat, exhaling whiskey-tinged breath across your face.

“Have a good night.”

You don’t offer anything else, not trusting your voice to speak, eyes stinging with more unshed tears as you watch him disappear from your view. You don’t watch to see him mount his stallion. You don’t strain your ears to pick up the rustle of leather as he mounts his saddle. You don’t even peek through your curtains to watch the dust kick from Flint’s hooves as they make their way home.

Instead you press your back to the door, bottom lip trembling before you let your body give in to the mess you’ve made of everything.

“Storm might be the worst one this year.”

Against the backdrop of a clap of thunder, Nanami hums noncommittally, calloused fingers idly twirling his badge, sliding it between each knuckle with practiced ease.

His office isn’t much, just a little room in the jailhouse. His walls hold no relics of his life and are littered with wanted posters and photographs of his form stock still next to outlaws and bandits he’s caught over the years.

But on his desk, there is one photo of him with the schoolchildren, Yuji perched on his shoulders, peach hair spilling beneath the brim of Nanami’s stolen Stetson. There’s a freshness that began to brew on Nanami’s face from that moment, still stone-faced and aloof, but with a soft look in his eyes because of the woman holding the camera.

You’d been new to town then, eager but uncertain, insisting on capturing the moment rather than being in it. Nanami was adamant you be in the frame, to commiserate your first day, but you’d stood firm, that familiar fire in your eyes that’s always drawn him in.

He likes to look at it every day, reminding him of why he protects the town and fights so hard to keep everyone safe. It makes him feel wanted and anchors him when doubt creeps in, and the weight of his duty threatens to overwhelm him.

But Nanami really should be paying attention.

Across from him sits the town’s new lawyer, Higuruma Hiromi, overworked but effervescent as he describes a case that he’s working on. He’s only been in town for almost a week, already capturing the hearts of the town’s citizens, who like to linger in the shiny new law office a few streets over.

While Nanami has never been one to work with others if they will only slow him down, the conviction that radiates from Higruma as he gestures wildly with lightly tanned hands, running them through dark brown hair that’s styled back over and over, Nanami can tell that they will get along. He’s strong-willed with a fierce belief in justice that this town needs.

But Nanami’s mind is, regrettably, miles away. Back to that night when he’s gotten the closest he’s ever come to the bandit with her thrashing underneath him, his arm pulsing with white-hot pain from her attempt at distraction.

She had gotten away again.

And when the bandit had jumped from the window at the Phillips’ house and disappeared into the night towards town, his sole thought was you.

Find you. Make sure you’re safe.

His mind shamefully recalls his raised voice and the shock on your face as he dug his hands into your shoulders. He replays the feel of his limbs loosening with every drag of whiskey, canting toward your body as if you’re a magnet that he spends every waking moment trying to pull away from so he doesn’t stick to you forever.

He can still feel the ghost of your lips, smooth and hot, passionate and tasting faintly of the love he wishes he could have from a woman. Your hands were soft even with the dryness from chalk. Your voice alluring even when tinged with frustration as you chastised him, reeling from his rejection.

“You’re a good man,” you had said, fiery and exasperated. “You spend your days and nights convincin' yourself that you’re not good for what? For happiness?”

He’d pushed you away, insistent in his belief that it was for your own good. But the memory haunts him—your always illuminating melanin-kissed skin twisted with hurt, that brittle smile, the small pearls of tears bubbling at the corners of your lids that you thought he couldn’t see. The consequences of his choice now cut deeper than ever.

He hasn’t seen you since that night—not properly. He finds himself at the saloon more often than usual and can no longer blame the bandit for seeking solace in whiskey.

In the past, his days had been measured by moments with you—walking you home, watching Yuji drag you to the general store as he trailed behind with a somber gait, treasuring that smile you’d shoot his way from over your shoulder.

It’s barely been a week, and to put it simply, Nanami is unbearably lonely.

Fleeting glimpses through saloon windows or watching you with the schoolchildren aren’t enough. Every night since that bullet grazed his arm, when he can’t sleep because all he can think about is you, fingers tracing idly along his healing stitches, he wonders what kind of man pushes away the one woman who only wants him.

A fool of a man, apparently.

His mother always told him that self-righteousness is more foolish than denying your own heart. She’d be clicking her tongue in disappointment at him right now.

His mind is so lost, so caught in its own web of self-destruction, that he doesn’t register Higuruma's question. “I’m sorry,” Nanami says, one hand still twirling his badge while he sits up in his chair. “Could you repeat that?”

The lawyer chuckles, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from his suit as he fixes Nanami with keen brown eyes.

“I was just rambling about the town festival and asked if you’re taking a pretty lady? I’ve finally worked up the courage to ask a beautiful sweetheart to accompany me.”

Nanami’s expression never changes when faced with anything that a situation out of his control. Too many tells in the eyes of the enemy could cost him his life. He’s calm and collected, even with a gun pointed between his eyes.

So he exercises the most restraint he’s ever needed to keep his eyes from twitching, to keep from shifting in his seat under the painful squeeze in his chest.

“Anyone I know?” The question brims to life of its own volition.

Higuruma's tired eyes flash with warm admiration so genuine that it turns Nanami’s stomach. For the first time in many years, he finds himself comparing his adequacy to the lawyer. He looks too refined in his suit, aquiline features too handsome for the rustic surroundings of the sheriff’s office.

“I should think so. It’s the schoolteacher.” Nanami’s heart seizes in his chest, painful and lurching in a desperate act to beat again. “Surely you know her? Radiant as the sun, always wears the nicest skirts, beautiful curls, and smells like lavender—a man could lose himself.”

The physical description of you hits him like a physical blow, punching his gut hard enough to make his lunch gurgle up his throat. The memories of that cool night after the cattle drive flickering like a time reel in his mind.

“…pick someone else. I imagine you have a line of suitors with far more promise than Gojo hoping to escort you to the festival.”

You’ve taken his advice and chosen a man to accompany you. He should be happy that you’re doing the right thing. Shouldn’t he?

“She has the most beautiful smile,” Higuruma continues, seemingly unaware of the badge that’s stopped twirling between Nanami’s knuckles, to the subtle groan of tin as his fingers clench around it.

Nanami knows how to navigate most situations. He has a backup plan for every single unexpected situation in his life.

But not right now. Not while he’s trapped under the guise of propriety with a lawyer he suddenly can’t stand.

Now, Nanami imagines if he punches him in the face, he might smooth the curve in his nose. Now, Nanami hopes that every case Higuruma takes will keep him awake for days, never to know relaxation or peace. Now, he hopes he wakes up each day to more of those silky strands on his pillow until he’s bald for daring to breathe in your direction.

Now, now, now Nanami hates.

The badge protests in his grip, jagged edges breaking thin skin. Anger flares hot and sudden in his chest, irrational and consuming him to the point where he barely recognizes himself. Vitriol burns his mouth, bubbling past his teeth before he can stop it.

“You don’t know a thing about her.”

The words permeate in the air, sharp and accusatory. Higuruma blinks, taken aback by the sudden vehemence in Nanami’s tone. Surprised that the stern sheriff, who usually moves in silence, carries a bark that hangs in his belly, locked in a cage, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice.

The office is silent save for the storm that rages outside and the faint trickle of laughter from the schoolchildren across the street. No doubt you’ve let them out early so they can get home safe.

Another clap of thunder booms through the office, rattling the windows as if the storm is trying to force its way inside. The white-hot anger that boiled in Nanami’s gut is doused immediately with humiliation. It drips over him like a cold sweat, sliding down his leather vest and beneath his clothes.

“I apologize,” the lawyer starts, clearing his throat. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

But he did offend. By coming into this town, by breathing your air, by having the mitigated gall to ask for your hand to an asinine town festival that Nanami should have stepped up for. That Nanami should have swallowed his pride and let his heart guide him for once. Not Higuruma. Not this lawyer who would probably treat you well.

He’s offended Nanami to the highest degree.

Yet, his humiliation runs rampant enough to quell his fury.

“No, I apologize. That was uncalled for.”

“If she’s spoken for, I’m not a man to make matters complicated. I can—”

“No,” Nanami insists, eyes flickering to the rain-stained window. Water droplets cascade as if racing against each other, the landscape a torrent of wild wind and dusty dirt turned muddy. “She’s not spoken for. I’m simply…protective of her.”

The words taste like ash in his mouth, but Nanami swallows down the acrid flavor. He has no right to be jealous, no right to lash out, no claim on your affections. If anything, the very thought him claiming any part of you under the guise of protection would have earned him a rightful scowl on your face.

He made his choice that night on your couch, his lips still tasting of you, his body singing for more. Duty over desire. Now, he has to live with the consequences.

“I’ll be sure to do right by her,” Higuruma insists, earnest and sincere. Nanami wishes at this very moment that his father had taught him to be a violent man. The kind of man that wouldn’t hesitate to reach across this desk and show men like Higuruma what happens when they speak about a woman that Nanami wants. Deeply, viscerally, from a jagged pit in his belly.

Because you’re his—not really. But you are, you are, you are—

Another clap of thunder, his office flashing white. The sound closing the door to his internal rambling.

“If that’s all,” Nanami presses as politely as an impatient man can manage, hand still a vice around his badge as he stands from his seat.

“Right,” Higuruma picks up on the moment turned sour, ready to leave the tense atmosphere, and Nanami wouldn’t mind shucking him out the window if the lawyer wanted a boost. He claps his hands on his suit-clad knees and rises from his chair. There’s a small seed of triumph that blooms in Nanami’s belly as he takes in the two inches he has over the lawyer.

“I’ll bring everything by tomorrow morning and we can discuss further.”

Nanami doesn’t offer any further words, simply extending his hand for the lawyer to shake, unconsciously squeezing a little tighter before they part. He watches in silence, narrowed eyes trained on his back, as the lawyer throws a hat on his head and ducks out into the rain.

The open door carries hot and humid air into his small office, the roar of the storm rising with every passing second before the door closes, and he’s cast back into silence and regret.

Nanami quickly strides across his office to the window that gives him a view of the schoolhouse. He watches as the last of the school children disappear down the street, his eyes catching Yuji as he stumbles in the thick expanse of mud in front of the schoolhouse door, smiling bashfully as he turns back to listen to whatever is being spoken to him.

He seems jovial and careless at his young age as he tries to trudge through the mud before his foot is caught, and he falls to his knees. He yanks at his ankle, tiny fingers slipping over wet skin as he fruitlessly tugs at his foot.

Nanami’s eyes catch the movement of you before he can think, fixating on the flash of dark green calico of your skirts as you race out of the schoolhouse and into the torrential downpour.

He admires the flash of your shins as you hike your skirts up, clambering heavy-footed across the schoolyard before you wrap your arms around little Yuji and heave with the strength of ten men, his feet shucking from nature’s grip.

You fall backward, your skirts fluttering to a thick smack onto the ground, soaked beyond comprehension. You pat Yuji's hair gently, your affection for him clear even from the distance before letting him scurry off, uncaring of the rain that drenches you as you remain firmly planted in the mud, a small smile on your face as you watch him go.

Nanami longs to run outside, to race across the street, pull you up into his arms, and get you to safety. He longs to draw you a hot bath, stoke the fireplace in his home that he built with his two hands, and allow you to curl on his prized fur that he keeps in front of it.

But he can’t have that now.

And as Higuruma comes into view, running across the street to your drenched and relaxed form, Nanami realizes that he’s not only a fool—he’s unequivocally, painfully stupid.

Your curls kiss your cheeks in wild abandon, unfurling along the break of your smile as Higuruma approaches. Something dark and possessive twists in Nanami’s gut as he watches the lawyer reach for you, seemingly uncaring that the downpour ruins his pristine suit.

The casual way his hands find your waist, pulling you easily onto your feet, makes Nanami’s fingers tighten around the badge in his hand until the metal bites into his now raw flesh. The lawyer guides you up the steps to the schoolhouse, work-worn eyes bright with affection that he wants to strangle out of him.

Then, as if to twist the knife further that Nanami has willingly lodged in his own chest, Higuruma takes your hand in his and brings it to his lips for a chaste kiss. The gesture is kind, nothing untoward, especially for a man who’s trying to court a woman.

But for Nanami, it may as well be the most scandalous sight because his blood boils, the sight of another man’s mouth anywhere near your skin makes him so angry it nearly blinds him.

Before he realizes what he’s doing, Nanami slams his badge on the windowsill, cursing beneath his breath as he storms from his office. He barely registers the rain that soaks him as soon as he steps outside to stride across the street. His eyes are locked on Higuruma's retreating form as he runs away from the schoolhouse and to his home, hardly paying Nanami any mind.

The red-hot and foreign jealousy whispers like a cat in his ears, beckoning for Nanami to follow the lawyer home and give him a piece of his mind. But he won’t, not this time, his sight only on the fluttering schoolhouse door.

The familiar scent of chalk dust envelops him when he steps into the schoolhouse, lingering with the lavender that always radiates from your skin. His hot fury splinters from the sight of you, your back to him, wringing water from your curls.

Each strand wraps around your wrist like a tendril, water droplets scattering across the floorboards. Nanami watches, transfixed, as rivulets trace thick lines down the rich brown column of your neck. He wants to trace those trails of water with his tongue, to feel the warmth of sun-blessed skin in stark contrast with the coolness of the rain. He wants to gather your curls in his hands, to know how silky they would feel in his calloused palms, to turn you around and—

“Did you need something, Sheriff?”

Your voice, coolly formal, cuts through the silence. You don’t turn to face him, continuing to wring out your hair as if his presence means nothing at all. Even though it means everything. The scent of him—leather and tobacco wrapped around rain—fills the schoolhouse, permeating the air so quickly that you’re dizzy with it.

You hear the shuffle of his boots against the wood behind you and feel the weight of his gaze on your back like a physical caress. Your spine shouldn’t itch to shudder under those invisible hands.

“I hear you’re going to the festival with the lawyer,” he blurts out, the words rough against your wet back, piercing through the drenched calico of your dress like a pin needle pushing through the thickest of fabric.

Your scoff is bitter as you turn to face him, so unlike your usual melodious laugh that he flinches.

“Is that what you stormed in here to say? After almost a week of silence that you asked for?” Your voice trembles—with festering rage or the slow trickle of hurt in the hollow of your chest, you’re not sure anymore.

“You didn’t speak to me either,” he counters weakly, trying to sound firm even though the words paint him like an idiot. As if he’s a young boy again, trading blows with a classmate that means nothing but is more destructive than the last.

Immediately, you’re angry as you soak in his words, wide-eyed and seething. Your hands curl into fists at your sides, shaking against your skirts as you drip wet onto the floor.

“Do you take me for a fool, Nanami Kento?”

It’s the first time in months that you’ve said his full name. You brandish it like a weapon, deliberately sharp. He has that look on his face again—a mischievous schoolboy caught in mischief, all that stern authority crumbling under your gaze with no Stetson to anchor him.

“No ma’am, of course not—”

“Then let me spell it out for you,” you begin, your voice trembling slightly with barely suppressed emotion. “I like you. You like me. A few days ago, we shared somethin'…” your voice cracks traitorously. “Somethin'…intimate. After so many years of dancin' around each other. And then you decided to pull away, to make decisions about how I should live my life, to tell me what I deserve, as if I’m incapable of takin' care of myself!”

Thunder rumbles like a hovering figure, matching the storm brewing in your chest. Lightning flashes through the windows, catching in the water that falls from his locks, illuminating the conflict in his brown eyes.

“Hiromi is a nice man. He asked me on a friendly date, and I said yes. That’s all there is to it.”

“You said yes to a man who’s only been in town for a few days,” Nanami growls, jealousy coloring his words that strike your chest like a dagger. “Already calling him by his first name?”

The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees as your gaze turns icy. You’ve never known Nanami to have a scornful bone in his body. So while you know his actions now stem from some deep-rooted insecurity in his choices, the words still sting.

You stalk towards him slowly, purposefully, your leather boots squelching as they leave wet prints with each step.

“What exactly are you tryin' to imply, Sheriff?”

“A few pretty, albeit stuffy, words from a stranger in his pressed suit, and you forget yourself entirely,” he hisses, the words so painful as they stab at your cheeks that you can’t help the tears that spring to your eyes.

It’s hurtful because these words come from someone who knows you so well, how carefully you’ve built your reputation, and how hard you’ve worked to earn a place in this town. It’s a feeling you never thought would be directed at you.

“How dare you,” you snarl, raising your hand to smack, punch, do anything to hurt him like he’s hurting you.

But Nanami is faster, catching your wrist mid-swing and yanking you against him. The impact against his chest steals your breath—or maybe it’s the feel of him, towering and burning hot despite the rain-soaked clothes between you. Your free hand flies up to twist in his shirt, fingers catching on the fabric in a dance of pushing him away and pulling him closer.

You struggle against his grip, grunting with futile effort that meets iron strength. His fingers don’t dig enough to hurt you, but to remind you of his brutal strength, of all the times you’ve dreamt of how that strength would feel when channeled into his hands on your body. The thought only fuels your anger.

You wrench your hand from his grip with a sound that croaks from your chest like a raging dragon, turning to storm to your desk. Papers scatter in your wake like startled birds, floating to the slick floor beneath your sodden boots.

You have no right,” you spit, fingers trembling as you bend down to gather the papers. “No right to act like I belong to you when you pushed me away!”

You need to push him away. God the hypocrisy is overwhelming, but not enough to grasp the logic you need right now.

“You don’t know Higuruma—” Nanami starts, and you whirl to face him, wet skirts slapping against your legs, eyes flashing with a storm of your own that claps with the next ring of thunder and lightning outside.

“And you do? He’s a good man, a respected lawyer—”

“He’s not good enough,” Nanami cuts in, voice rough like gravel. You watch his jaw clench, the muscles jumping beneath sun-weathered skin moist from the rain that slides down his throat.

“Oh?” You bare your teeth in a mockery of a smile. “Let’s play this game then, Nanami. Put the shoe on the other foot. I guess Thomas from the general store won’t do it for you?!”

“The man can’t keep his hands to himself even in the saloon,” he growls, the corner of his lip twisting into a snarl.

Something in his tone makes your skin prickle with heat despite your anger. You’ve never seen him this furious, not with you, and it shouldn’t make your stomach churn with arousal, shouldn’t make your stomach twist with want, shouldn’t make heat bloom between your thighs.

“Mr. Foster.”

“Unfaithful to every woman who’s given him the time of day!” Nanami’s words crack through the air like a whip, furious at your suggestion.

“Deputy Gojo then,” you challenge, lifting your chin in defiance.

It’s a low blow, a harmful punch to the intimacy of the conversation and closeness that brewed from Gojo's presence that night after the cattle drive. But you don’t care. Your heart pounds against your ribs like a war drum, each beat echoing the pain and anger that pushes through your veins and thrums in your ears.

His warm brown eyes widen with fury, menacing as they liquefy into a glare so dangerous that your core pulses with a need you should be ashamed of.

“Don’t,” he says simply, low and deep, unwilling to entertain it any longer. The very thought of Gojo's name in association with you is enough to make him crazed.

Something inside you snaps, fraying like an old rope, finally giving way to the push and pull of you both. You slam your hands on the desk, the sharp smack of your palm echoing through the schoolhouse.

“Well, then, enlighten me, Sheriff!” Your voice rises with each word. “Since apparently no man in this town meets your precious standards, what exactly do you want from me?!”

He’s silent. So dreadfully silent, broad shoulders heaving with each ragged breath, eyes locked on yours, conflicted but unwilling to back down.

You storm up to him until you can smell the tobacco on his clothes, and you have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. Dark blonde eyebrows are pitched down in barely contained rage, sharp cheekbones beckoning your hand to slap him. You’re so unfortunately attracted to this cowboy, but so angry that your head spins.

You jab a finger into his chest. His shirt clings to every muscle like a second skin, reminding you of how his chest felt under your fingers that night, how his skin burned against yours as you stitched him up.

“You don’t get to push me away and then dictate who I spend my time with,” you whisper with deadly intent. “You don’t get to act like some—some jealous husband when you made it clear that I wasn’t—that we weren’t—”

The words stick in your throat like thorns, choking you from speaking any further. Nanami’s eyes darken, black nearly eclipsing brown, something dangerous and wild flickering in their depths. The air between you crackles with electricity, every breath shared between you charged with the energy that seeps through the walls from the storm.

But despite the quiver of want in your bones, the close proximity, you can’t do this anymore—you can’t stand here in this now suffocating schoolhouse and lay your emotions at your feet that need to be locked away.

You have to leave.

Without thinking, you shoulder past him, flinging open the school door and stepping out into the rain. The harsh pellets are a jolt on your feverish skin, quickly soaking through your barely dry clothes.

The thud of Nanami’s boots and the jingle of his spurs behind you spur you on, your legs trudging through the mud to Buttercup’s stable and away from him. You only make it halfway through the schoolyard before a large hand catches your wrist, firm and calloused but somehow still gentle as he spins you to face him.

“I’m done talkin' Nanami!” you yell over the storm, glaring at his handsome face soaked in rain. You yank free from his grip, gait heavy and sticky as you stagger away until you’re several feet from each other. “I’m done arguing with a man who doesn’t know what he wants!”

Through the veil of rain, you see his eyes widen in disbelief before they narrow into heinous slits. “You think I don’t want you?” Thunder punctuates his words, your heart fluttering against its cocoon of rage. “That I don’t think about you every waking moment?!”

“Then why—” you holler, throwing your hands up to the sky in exasperation before he interrupts.

“Because I can’t have you!” The confession rips through him like tearing open a wound, his words cracking along the next lightning strike in the mountains. “I’m supposed to be dedicated to this town. To my citizens. To my career. If you weren’t so—” he stops short, growling beneath the howl of the wind. “If you hadn’t shown up that day all those years ago, if you didn’t bake me those pies, if you weren’t so goddamn beautiful and—”

“This is my fault!” you screech, taking a step towards him only for your leather boots to sink into a particularly deep patch of mud. The wet soil seeps into the spaces, coating your socks and toes. The rain continues its onslaught, your curls heavy as they sway and stick to your face. You wipe them from your cheeks in a fury, sputtering through dirt and water.

“You’re blamin' me because you’re too much of a coward—”

“Yes!” he shouts, shoulders shaking in a wave of vulnerable anger as he glares at you. “Because every time I see you smile, every time Yuji comes to me happy that you taught him something new, every time you look at me like I’m worth something—” His voice catches Adam’s apple bobbing and lips gaping for words. “I forget why I need to stay away.”

You flop your hands against your thighs in defeat, huffing a humorless laugh. “Just tell me what you want,” you whisper, half challenge, half plea. You should run, turn around, and make your way home before you fall deeper into a web of lies you’ve spun. “For once in your goddamn life, Nanami, just tell me.”

“I want you to tell him no,” Nanami growls. “I want you to turn down every. damn. man. in this town who thinks they deserve you.”

The whiplash of his want and need is enough to make your neck hurt. That simmering rage boils to the surface, churning like melted butter in your limps as you yank your feet from the mud to storm toward him.

“You stubborn—” you start, boot immediately sinking in mud. You yank it free with a wet squelch. “Just wait until I get my hands on you, you self-righteous—” another step, another struggle against the soaked earth. Your deep green skirts are heavy with water and mud, tangling around your legs as you fight tooth and nail to get closer. “Insufferable—” Yank. Step. “Maddenin' excuse for a man—”

Your last step is interrupted by him, stomping and angry and biting as he navigates the schoolyard like it’s nothing, his hands digging into your wet waist before he yanks you to him, crashing his mouth to yours. The kiss is so brutal, so possessive, and everything you’ve been fighting and craving all at once that your eyes roll into the back of your skull from the force.

Your boots slip against the ground as his mouth claims yours, teetering backward to fall, but his hands are there instantly—one tangling in your soppy curls while the other digs further into your waist, steadying you as he angles your mouth without having to ask.

How can you be so hypocritical right now? Why have you made such a mess of things? The wall that you need to erect between you is crumbling beneath weak weight, freely giving up any resistance as his lips slide against yours. You chastise yourself even as you twist your fingers into his transparent shirt, pulling him closer as thunder cracks overhead.

“They don’t know you,” Nanami hisses into your mouth when you break for air, rain streaming between the gaps of where you don’t touch. His grip at the base of your neck tightens, arousing licking to life as your core tingles in betrayal at the twinge of pain. You bite into his bottom lip, swallowing his groan that vibrates down your throat and into the muscles of your pelvis.

Nanami spins you—you stumble in the mud, flailing even though his strong arms reach under your thighs to yank you up. Your skirts stretch uncomfortably, legs begging for more room so you can wrap your thighs around his waist. But he has other plans, swallowing another whine as his lips take yours, the sound of his spurs rattling the jumbled space in your mind as he climbs the schoolhouse steps.

Your back crashes into your desk, more papers scattering and floating to the water-slicked floor. You’re both dripping everywhere—creating puddles beneath your feet, water running from his shirt to collect on the wood between you. His hands squeeze your waist, the strength permeating a thick pulse between your thighs as he lifts you onto your desk.

“Those men could learn about me,” you gasp, involuntarily bunching your skirts around your waist as Nanami crowds into the space between your legs.

His fingers reacquaint themselves with their hair at your nape, twisting and yanking your head back to expose your throat.

“He doesn’t get to learn a thing about you,” Nanami growls into your pulse point, dragging sharp teeth along the skin. You can’t help the whimper that breaks free, leaking past your lips. “Not how you sound.” A tongue to your neck that makes you arch, eyes shut tight as your cunt thrums in your panties. “Not how you taste.”

Your hands fly up to find purchase on the wet fabric of his shoulders, grabbing the muscles of his trapezius as he growls into your neck.

You have to stop, you have to. But when his hips press forward, the metal of his belt buckle grinding against you through sodden layers of fabric, all coherent thought vanishes.

You gasp at the feel of his hot hand trailing along your leg, up the canvas of your thighs, that part even more for him without thought. Calloused fingertips tease the edge of your panties, the touch electric enough to make your hips buck for more, a whine dying in your throat as you nod to his silent ask for permission.

“Tell me,” he demands, a seductively low timber against your mouth as he pulls your panties to the side, the cool air yanking a wanton moan from your throat. The touch of two fingers to your clit is enough to make you faint, your fingers digging into his shoulders to keep yourself from screaming. The hand in your hair squeezes, rewarding you for your sounds. “Tell me you don’t think about this.”

You do. You do. God, you do. You think about him exactly like this, skin to skin, reverent words of desire in your ear as he takes you higher and higher.

You bite his lip instead of answering, and the fingers on your clit begin to move in torturous circles that make you moan into the cool air. You were wet the minute he raised his voice, the minute you could taste his jealousy, the minute you smelled that leather and gunpowder from his skin. So your essence pools to the bottom of your panties now, embarrassingly wet and dripping as he circles your clit with a precision that makes you wary.

His fingers slide down your wet folds, teasing your entrance that clenches around nothing. The callous of one fingertip press inside, barely enough to do anything, and you pull against his resistant shoulders, whining desperately for more. A broken sound creaks from your lungs as he sinks in one finger and then the next inside of your pussy.

“Oh god,” you cry out in what feels like relief, your boots hitching on his hips, mud streaking the denim.

“No one else,” Nanami demands, setting a pace just shy of too slow within you. Water drips from his hair and catches on your collarbone before sliding down between the hint of cleavage of your bodice. His eyes are dark, mahogany depths gone as they take in every flicker of pleasure on your face. “No one else gets to see you like this.”

“I—” you gasp, swallowing around a dry throat parched from your guilt and building pleasure that tingles in your cunt against his fingers. You’re still shivering from the rain, but his touch burns, each stroke of his fingers devastating. Your head falls back as his fingers curl inside of you perfectly, brushing against the spongy wall of your pussy like he’s studied you for centuries and knows just how to pull you apart.

“Look at me,” he demands again, his grip tightening in your hair. When your eyes meet him, you flinch at the intensity of his gaze. There’s an unspoken danger there, a hint of untethered lust that barely overshadows the flickers of guilt he’s trying to keep at bay.

It’s the perfect opportunity for you to take charge of the situation, to pull away and agree that this needs to end now. To grab his wrist and tell him that you don’t need anymore. But—

“Tell me he’s not worthy of this.” His thumb finds your clit, stroking with fervor, fingers sinking deeper inside of you. “Tell me.”

“He’s not—” you choke, your orgasm rounding the corner sharp and fast. “He’s not worthy—oh please, please.”

You have no idea where the words are coming from—surely some deep cavern in your chest where you keep all your desires for him in the dark. But they rise freely now with every curl of his fingers and every desperate sound.

But even as ecstasy threatens to consume you, anguish claws at your heart. The reality of what you’ve done crashes over you in waves, each crest of pleasure tinged with the bitterness of your dishonesty. Nanami worships you with abandon, hypocritical in his touch, his lips whispering possession against yours while you hold back the very essence of who you are.

Another flash of lightning illuminates the room, a rivulet of water sliding down your lower back, a reminder of the storm that drove you to this moment.

“That’s it,” he growls against your mouth, watching as your orgasm begins to shake your body on your desk. “Show me what no one else gets to see.”

You’re so close—so, so close, tumbling on the edge of something that feels like falling and flying. The furrow of concentration between his brows, the raw hunger in his gaze as he watches you come undone—it’s too much. Tears prick at your eyes, blurring your vision as your orgasm builds to a devastating crescendo.

“Let go for me, Dove,” he whispers against your mouth, and that endearment, that tenderness when you’ve been so aggressive with each other—it’s what you finally need to vault over the edge. Your orgasm rips through you, blissful pleasure obliterating everything in its path. You cry out his name, whimpering into his mouth that he takes for a kiss, your body arching into him as release crashes over you in burning waves of fire.

As you slowly come down, you’re left gasping, trembling, utterly wrecked with your gaze locked on his. The magnitude of what’s transpired settles over you like a murky shroud, beautiful and terrible. You’ve never raised your voice at Nanami, just like he never has with you, but these fading moments were overwhelming, with hidden desires being shoved to the front without a barrier to guide them.

You use the feel of his wet shirt as a beacon to keep you rooted in the moment, doing whatever you can to push those guilty thoughts away that waste no time teasing you wickedly. Even now, dripping wet and breathing deeply against you, he’s devastating to look at.

You want to touch him, to make him feel what you just felt, to have the memory of the weight of him in your hands one time before you leave this town forever.

So you slide one hand from his shoulder to reach for his belt, but his fingers catch yours, impossibly gentle, as he stops you from going further. The softness of his touch hurts more than if he had smacked your hand away. It hurts because you see it clearly, so clearly that it makes your chest ache.

Even if you didn’t have another persona, even if you were just the schoolteacher in this town who bakes him pies and makes him smile, his want for you palpable in the air, he would never let himself have this. He would never let himself be completely yours.

The realization smacks you in the face, the flames of your rage that had been put out with his touch now roaring back to life. You’ve been handed yet another opportunity to right your wrongs, and this time you don’t hesitate to snatch it up.

You push him away, sliding off the desk on shaky legs as you yank your hand from his grip.

“This is never going to change, is it?” you ask, voice steady even as your heart stutters out of rhythm. “You’ll always push me away in the name of duty or nobility or whatever excuse helps you sleep at night.”

“I—“ he starts, reaching for you, but you push him away further, savoring the muscles of his chest one last time.

“Save it.” You swallow, squaring your shoulders for what feels like an impossible task. “After today…nothin' needs to happen between us. No more walks home, no more pies or acting like we know somethin' the other doesn’t.” You wrap your arms around yourself, cold and wet now that the heat of his skin is gone. “Because we both know we can’t be friends without wantin' more….and I won’t let you string me along any longer.”

He stands there, dripping, with hands hanging at his sides in defeat. He can’t argue with you, he has no right. And you use his dejection as fuel.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” your words cut like glass in your throat. “I don’t want to see you. You had every opportunity to take me as yours…splayed me on this desk until I had nothing left, and still you…I’ll find someone who isn’t afraid to want me completely. Like you said, it’s what I deserve.”

The muscle in his jaw jumps, but he stays silent. You hate how well you know him—how he’s retreating behind duty been now. That this pain is noble somehow. And you couldn’t agree more.

“I should go,” you whisper, deliberately formal, deliberately final.

The silence stretches between you like a chasm, punctuated only by the sound of rain and thunder outside and the water dripping from your clothes. You wait a moment longer—some foolish part of you hoping that he will fight for this, for you. But Nanami remains silent, his leather vest striking on his wet frame as he stands with rigid shoulders.

“Goodbye, Sheriff,” you mutter, turning away first and gathering what’s left of your dignity.

Your skirts are still heavy, clinging on cold legs that still tremble slightly from your orgasm. Each step feels like you’re traversing through the mud in front of your schoolhouse all over again.

Let him keep his duty. Let him wrap himself in nobility and righteousness while you finish up what’s left of your path in this dusty town.

The storm greets you again when you step outside, immediately soaking you as you make your way to Buttercup’s makeshift stable. The physical discomfort you feel as you gather her reins is nothing compared to the ache in your chest, the knowledge that even without your secrets, the outcome would have been the same.

He doesn’t come out of the schoolhouse. He doesn’t chase after you and drop to his knees for forgiveness. And the reality of it all makes your eyes blur with a fresh wave of tears.

As you race home on Buttercup’s saddle, the rain is harsh on your skin, and the clarity cuts through your emotional haze.

You know what you have to do.

The treasure.

You’ll gather it up, just as you’ve planned all along. But now, it’s not just about helping the town. That thought of freedom no longer seems wary. You’ll get the treasure, yes. You’ll distribute it to the town, giving them the help they need. One final good for the people you’ve grown fond of. And then… then you’ll leave. You’ll disappear, never to return to this place that’s become both heaven and hell to you.

The thought sends a fresh wave of pain through you, but you embrace it. Pain means you’re alive and that what you’ve experienced here matters. You’ll carry it with you, a bittersweet reminder of the life you’re choosing to leave behind.

As your house comes into view and you take it all in, soaked to the skin and shivering, the distant sound of Buttercup whinnying beneath you, you make a vow to yourself.

No more hesitation. No more torn loyalties.

The storm rages on when you finally close your front door, but inside your heart, a strange calm settles over you. You have a plan now. And soon, you’ll have your freedom. Even if it comes at the cost of everything – and everyone – you’ve grown to love.

Thanks for reading! Finale coming soon!

199 notes · View notes

kenzdolls · 2 months ago

Text

MOONLIGHT WATCH . 5.2k

⌗ pairing: tomura shigaraki x villain! reader

⌗ tags: tomura shigaraki x reader, shigaraki x reader, mha x reader, bnha x reader, fluff

⌗ side note: this is based off the song, ‘moonlight’, by ariana grande (I got re-obsessed with it after playing the quarry again)

the stolen sedan's engine ticked as it cooled in the abandoned lot, hidden beneath the shadow of a crumbling overpass. neon signs from a distant convenience store cast intermittent red and blue light through the windshield, painting strange patterns across the dashboard. you shifted in the passenger seat, adjusting your position for what would likely be a long night of surveillance.

the heist had gone to hell in a handbasket. what should have been a simple grab-and-go from a corrupt hero agency's slush fund had turned into a three-hour cat-and-mouse game through the industrial district when the number one hero endeavor's sidekicks had shown up twenty minutes early. the league had scattered like roaches when the lights came on, each taking predetermined escape routes to avoid capture.

now here you were, stuck in a beat-up toyota that tomura had hotwired outside a pachinko parlor, watching for any sign that the heroes were still actively searching the area. the cash from the heist was secured—kurogiri had managed to warp it to safety before the chaos really began—but the heat was still on.

"remind me again why we're the ones stuck on watch duty?" you muttered, wiping condensation from the window with your sleeve.

tomura's pale fingers drummed against the steering wheel, careful to keep his pinky raised. the rhythm was erratic, betraying his lingering adrenaline from the evening's events. "because dabi's too recognizable after that last job—half the city's seen his face on the news. toga's too unpredictable to sit still for more than ten minutes, and twice…" he paused, glancing at you with those distinctive red eyes. "well, you know how twice gets in confined spaces."

you couldn't argue with that logic. jin would probably have multiple conversations with himself, potentially giving away their position to anyone within a three-block radius. "and spinner?"

"keeping watch on the other side of the district with compress." tomura's voice carried that familiar edge of irritation mixed with exhaustion. "we drew the short straws."

"at least we got away with the cash," you said, trying to find a silver lining in the night's chaos.

"barely." his voice was sharp, self-recriminating. "if that number one hero hadn't shown up when he did, if i hadn't miscalculated the patrol schedules…" his grip tightened on the wheel, and you could see the tension radiating through his shoulders like a live wire.

you'd seen this before—tomura's tendency to shoulder the blame for anything that went wrong during league operations. it was a leadership burden he carried with the same intensity he brought to everything else, grinding himself down with responsibility and self-criticism.

"the intel was bad," you pointed out reasonably. "even giran's sources can't account for every variable. heroes change their patterns, schedules get moved around. it happens."

"it shouldn't happen." his voice was quiet but intense. "people depend on me to plan these operations correctly. to keep everyone safe. when i fuck up—"

"when you fuck up, we adapt and overcome," you interrupted. "that's what we did tonight. everyone made it out. no one got captured. mission accomplished."

he turned to look at you, surprise flickering across his features. the intermittent neon light caught the sharp angles of his face, highlighting the scars that mapped his skin like a constellation of old pain. "since when do you give me pep talks?"

"since you look like you're about to decay the steering wheel and leave us stranded in this lovely parking lot until sunrise." you reached over, carefully placing your hand over his on the gear shift, mindful of his quirk. the contact was deliberate, grounding. "you don't have to carry everything alone, you know."

for a moment, neither of you spoke. the distant hum of late-night traffic provided white noise, punctuated by the occasional siren in the distance—probably unrelated to your evening's activities, but still enough to keep you both alert. tomura's hand relaxed under yours, and you felt some of the tension leave his frame.

"i used to think i wanted to destroy everything," he said quietly, his voice barely audible over the ambient city sounds. "every person, every building, every system that propped up this false society. complete annihilation. turn it all to dust and start over."

"used to?"

his thumb traced across your knuckles—a gesture so gentle it seemed impossible coming from hands that could turn anything to ash with a thought. "things change. people change what you want to preserve instead of destroy."

your heart did something complicated in your chest, a flutter of warmth that had nothing to do with the car's heating system. these moments of vulnerability from tomura were rare, precious things that he guarded more closely than any league secret. the fact that he was sharing this with you, here in the liminal space between crisis and safety, felt monumentally significant.

"the league's become more than just a means to an end," you said, understanding flooding through you. "it's become home."

"yeah." he paused, his red eyes reflecting the neon light as he looked out at the empty lot. "you've become more than that."

the admission hung in the air between you like a bridge neither of you was sure how to cross. you'd been dancing around whatever this was for months—the lingering glances during strategy meetings, the way he always positioned himself between you and danger during missions, the careful way he touched you when he thought no one was looking. the stolen moments of connection that felt too significant to be mere camaraderie but too fragile to examine too closely.

"tomura—"

"i know it's complicated," he interrupted, his voice gaining that defensive edge again. "i know i'm not exactly ‘partner’ material. i mean, look at me." he gestured vaguely at himself with his free hand. "i'm a walking disaster with a body count that'd make serial killers jealous and abandonment issues that'd keep a therapist busy for decades."

"and i'm a criminal with a rap sheet longer than most people's grocery lists and a quirk that most of society considers villainous by default," you pointed out. "we're both disasters. that's what makes us compatible."

that earned you a small smile—a real one, not the manic grin he wore when planning destruction or the cold smirk he reserved for heroes. this was softer, more genuine, and it transformed his entire face. "compatible disasters?"

"the best kind." you shifted closer, the center console the only thing separating you in the cramped front seat. "besides, i've never been interested in normal. normal is boring. normal doesn't understand what it's like to be unwanted by the world, to have your very existence labeled as wrong."

his free hand came up to cup your face, thumb tracing along your cheekbone with infinite care. the gentleness was a stark contrast to the destructive power contained in those fingers, a reminder of the control he maintained around the people he cared about. "how do you always know what to say?"

"years of practice dealing with your dramatic ass."

he laughed—actually laughed—and the sound was warm and genuine in the confined space of the car. it was a sound you'd heard maybe a handful of times, and each occurrence felt like a small victory. "dramatic? me?"

"you literally gave a speech about heroes being false symbols of peace last week while standing on a burning building."

"that was for effect! the visual impact was important for—"

"it was dramatic," you interrupted, grinning. "you had your coat billowing in the wind and everything. very villain-chic."

"villain-chic isn't a thing."

"it is now. i'm making it a thing."

the easy banter felt natural, comfortable in a way that few things did in your chaotic life. this was what you'd been building toward without realizing it—not just the physical attraction or the partnership in crime, but this deeper understanding. you saw him clearly: the rage and pain and desperate need for acceptance that drove him, but also the loyalty, the fierce protectiveness of those he cared about, the brilliant strategic mind that made him a formidable leader despite his youth.

"what are you thinking about?" he asked, noting your contemplative expression.

"just… this. us. how we ended up here."

"in a stolen car on a stakeout?"

"together," you clarified. "despite everything trying to keep us apart. the hero society that labeled us villains, the chaos of our lives, your tendency to overthink everything…"

"i don't overthink—"

"you absolutely overthink. remember the convenience store job two months ago? you planned seventeen different contingencies for buying energy drinks."

"preparation is key to success," he said defensively, but there was amusement in his voice.

"tomura, it was a 7-eleven at two in the morning. the biggest threat was the cashier judging your choice in energy drinks."

"monster energy is a perfectly valid choice."

"it tastes like battery acid mixed with regret."

"you say that like it's a bad thing."

you shook your head, marveling at how easily the conversation flowed between you. with tomura, you could be yourself—not the villain persona you wore for the world, not the carefully constructed mask of competence and control, just… you. sarcastic, opinionated, occasionally ridiculous you.

his expression softened as he watched you, and he leaned closer, resting his forehead against yours. the gesture was intimate, grounding, and you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. "you know what i see when i look at you?"

"what?"

"light," he said simply. "in all this darkness and chaos and destruction, you're like… moonlight. soft and steady and beautiful. something worth protecting instead of destroying."

the nickname sent warmth spreading through your chest, a feeling more intoxicating than any drug. "moonlight?"

"too cheesy?" he pulled back slightly, suddenly self-conscious. "i know it's not very villain-like to be poetic about—"

"no." you caught his hand, intertwining your fingers carefully, always mindful of his quirk. "i like it. though i think you might be the first person to associate me with light instead of darkness."

"their loss," he said firmly. "you've been the light in my darkness since the day you joined the league. i just… i've never been good at saying things like that. emotional stuff. sensei always said sentiment was weakness."

"all for one was wrong about a lot of things," you said gently. "caring about people isn't weakness. it's what makes you human."

"sometimes i wonder if i still am. human, i mean." his voice was quiet, introspective. "after everything i've done, everything i've destroyed… sometimes i feel more like a force of nature than a person."

"you're human," you assured him. "you're sitting here worrying about your team, planning ways to keep them safe, feeling guilty about things beyond your control. that's profoundly human."

"even with these?" he raised his free hand, wiggling his fingers slightly.

"especially with those. your quirk doesn't define you, tomura. how you choose to use it does."

he was quiet for a long moment, processing your words. outside, a cat yowled somewhere in the distance, and a police siren wailed past on a parallel street, but neither of you moved to check if it was related to your activities. this moment felt too important to interrupt.

"i love you," he said suddenly, the words tumbling out like he'd been holding them back for too long. "i know that's fucked up, considering who we are and what we do, but i love your sarcasm and your competence and the way you see through all my bullshit. i love that you're not afraid of me, not afraid of what i can do. i love that you chose to stay with the league even when things got dangerous, that you chose to stay with me even though i'm a mess."

your breath caught in your throat. you'd hoped, suspected, but hearing him say it out loud was something else entirely. "tomura…"

"you don't have to say it back," he rushed to add. "i know it's complicated, and i know i'm not exactly—"

you silenced him by leaning in and pressing your lips to his, a kiss that was gentle and careful and full of unspoken promises. he froze for a moment, surprised, then melted into it, his free hand coming up to tangle in your hair. when you broke apart, he rested his forehead against yours again, breathing you in like you were oxygen.

"i love you too," you whispered against his lips. "even when you're overthinking, even when you're being dramatic, even when you're carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders like some kind of martyred villain."

"martyred villain?"

"it's a thing you do. very brooding and tragic."

"i don't brood."

"you absolutely brood. right now you're brooding about whether you deserve to be loved."

he opened his mouth to protest, then closed it, realizing you were right. "how do you do that?"

"do what?"

"see right through me like that. it's unsettling."

"it's a gift," you said solemnly. "i see through everyone's bullshit. it's why i'm so good at what we do."

"and what we do is…?"

"being disasters together, apparently."

he laughed again, and you felt a surge of pride at drawing the sound from him. "after this is all over," he said quietly, "after we've achieved what we set out to do, after we've torn down this rotten system and built something better… i want to try. to be better. for you."

"you don't have to change for me," you assured him. "i chose you as you are—scars, rage, dramatic speeches and all."

"even if i'm a walking disaster?"

"especially because you're a walking disaster. you're my disaster." you squeezed his hand gently. "besides, what would i do with a well-adjusted boyfriend? i'd be bored out of my mind."

"boyfriend?" the word seemed to surprise him.

"is that… not what this is? because if you're looking for something casual, i should probably mention i'm not really built for casual. i'm more of an all-in, ride-or-die, partners-in-crime-and-life kind of person."

"no, that's… that's exactly what we are," he said quickly. "i just wasn't sure if you'd want to put a label on it. given our circumstances."

"our circumstances being that we're both wanted criminals?"

"among other things, yeah."

"tomura, i've been wanted by the law since i was sixteen. if i was going to let that stop me from living my life, i'd have given up a long time ago." you shifted to face him more fully. "i want this. i want you. all of it—the good, the bad, the completely insane parts of our lives."

the radio crackled to life, interrupting the moment: "status report, lovebirds. everything quiet on the western front?"

tomura groaned, reaching for the radio with obvious reluctance. "we're fine, dabi. no activity to report. all quiet."

"good. try not to fog up the windows too much. we need you to actually watch for cops, not just make out like teenagers."

"how did he—" you started.

"i'm going to kill him," tomura muttered.

"get in line," you said. "right behind me."

"aw, you two are so cute when you're plotting murder together," dabi's voice crackled through the radio. "really brings a tear to my eye. anyway, spinner says the patrol cars have moved to the east side of the district. should be clear for another few hours at least."

"copy that," tomura replied. "we'll maintain position."

"try to keep the pda to a minimum. some of us are trying to work here."

"dabi, i swear to god—"

but the radio had gone silent, leaving you both sitting in the sudden quiet of the car. you looked at each other and burst into laughter.

"i really am going to kill him," tomura said, but there was no real heat in it.

"he's got a point though," you said. "we should probably actually do some watching. you know, the thing we're supposed to be doing."

"right. watching. for cops." but his eyes were still on you, and you could see the reluctance to return to the mundane task of surveillance.

"tell you what," you said, settling back into your seat but keeping your hand in his. "we'll do our job, but we can keep talking. we've got all night, and there's a lot more i want to know about you."

"like what?"

"like what you were like before all this. before the league, before… everything."

something complicated passed across his face. "that's not exactly a happy story, moonlight."

the nickname sent warmth through you again. "i'm not looking for happy. i'm looking for real."

he was quiet for a moment, considering. "i was angry," he said finally. "even as a kid, i was so angry all the time. at my father, at the world, at myself. i felt like i was suffocating, like everything around me was fake and wrong and i was the only one who could see it."

"what changed?"

"i learned i was right," he said simply. "the world is fake and wrong. heroes are just celebrities with good pr. the system is designed to keep people like us down while propping up the privileged few. i wasn't crazy or wrong—i was just seeing clearly."

you squeezed his hand. "that must have been lonely."

"it was. until i found the league. until i found you."

"you found a family," you said. "weird, dysfunctional, murderous family, but family nonetheless."

"yeah." he smiled slightly. "even if they do have terrible timing."

as if summoned by his words, the radio crackled again: "just spotted a patrol car heading your way. might want to look less suspicious."

you both immediately straightened, falling into the roles of a couple on a late-night drive. tomura started the engine, and you pulled out your phone, pretending to look at directions.

"how far out?" tomura asked into the radio.

"two minutes, maybe three. just act natural."

the patrol car appeared at the end of the street, moving slowly, searchlight sweeping across parked cars and alleyways. you held your breath as it approached, but it passed by without stopping, the officers apparently satisfied that you were just another young couple finding privacy in a secluded spot.

"clear," dabi's voice confirmed. "they're moving on to the next sector."

you both exhaled in relief. "well, that was fun," you said.

"define fun."

"adrenaline-inducing terror that didn't end in arrest or death."

"ah yes, my favorite kind of fun."

you settled back into your previous position, the moment of danger having passed but leaving you both more alert. the conversation resumed, but now it was interspersed with periodic checks of the surrounding area, maintaining the pretense of actually doing your job.

"so what about you?" tomura asked after a few minutes of comfortable silence. "what's your origin story?"

"less dramatic than yours, probably. i was just a kid who didn't fit in anywhere. my quirk manifested early, and it wasn't… socially acceptable. other kids were afraid of me, adults looked at me like i was dangerous. i got labeled as a potential villain before i even understood what that meant."

"self-fulfilling prophecy?"

"something like that. if everyone's going to treat you like a monster anyway, why not embrace it?" you shrugged. "i tried the hero thing for a while, actually. applied to ua and everything."

"what happened?"

"didn't make it past the interview. they took one look at my psychological profile and my quirk assessment and decided i was 'too high-risk for hero work.' guess they were right."

"their loss," tomura said firmly. "you're brilliant at what you do. you see angles other people miss, you adapt faster than anyone i know, and you keep the rest of us grounded when we start getting too caught up in our own chaos."

"is that your way of saying i'm the responsible one?"

"god, no. you're just as chaotic as the rest of us. you're just better at channeling it productively."

"i think that might be the nicest thing anyone's ever said about me."

"really?"

"really. most people focus on the 'dangerous criminal' part and skip over the 'competent professional' part."

"their loss," he repeated. "you're incredible, moonlight. i mean that."

the sincerity in his voice made your chest tight with emotion. you'd spent so much of your life being seen as a threat, a problem to be managed or eliminated, that having someone see your skills as assets rather than dangers was almost overwhelming.

"thank you," you said quietly. "for seeing me. really seeing me."

"thank you for letting me."

the night stretched on around you, the city settling into its quieter rhythm. occasionally, you'd spot a patrol car or hear sirens in the distance, but none came close enough to be a real concern. mostly, you talked—about the league, about your plans for the future, about small, insignificant things that felt monumentally important in the intimate space of the stolen car.

"can i ask you something?" you said as the digital clock on the dashboard ticked past 3 am.

"anything."

"do you ever regret it? this life, i mean. the choices we've made."

he was quiet for a long moment, considering the question seriously. "i regret some of the collateral damage," he said finally. "innocent people who got caught in the crossfire. but the core of it? fighting against a system that labeled us as villains before we even had a chance to prove otherwise? no. i don't regret that."

"even if we never see the world we're trying to create?"

"even then. at least we tried. at least we stood up and said this isn't acceptable." he looked at you in the dim light. "do you? regret it?"

"no," you said without hesitation. "this life led me to you, to the league. to having a family and a purpose and someone who sees me as more than just my quirk or my criminal record. i can't regret that."

"even if it means we'll never have a normal life? white picket fence, two kids, a dog?"

"tomura, i've never wanted normal. normal is overrated. besides," you grinned, "can you imagine either of us trying to be suburban parents? we'd traumatize the other parents at pta meetings."

"i'd probably accidentally decay the bake sale table."

"i'd definitely get into fights with teachers who tried to tell me our hypothetical kids were 'problematic.'"

"our kids would be problematic. they'd be our kids."

the casual way he said 'our kids' made something flutter in your chest. it was such a normal thing to discuss, so domestic and ordinary, and yet it felt revolutionary coming from him.

"you think about that?" you asked. "having kids someday?"

"sometimes," he admitted. "i never thought i'd want that, but lately… i don't know. the idea of having something to build instead of just things to destroy. someone to teach and protect and love who isn't already damaged by the world."

"you'd be a good father," you said, and meant it. "overprotective as hell, but good."

"you think so?"

"i know so. you take care of all of us, even when we're being idiots. you'd move mountains for your kids."

"we'd move mountains," he corrected. "if we're talking hypothetical future children, we're talking about a partnership."

"partnership," you repeated, liking the sound of it. "i like that better than just boyfriend and girlfriend anyway."

"partners in crime, partners in life?"

"partners in everything."

the radio crackled one more time: "shift change in thirty minutes. you two can wrap up the romantic vigil soon."

"copy that," tomura replied. "any word from the others?"

"all clear across the board. looks like the heat's dying down. we should be good to return to base by morning."

"understood."

you both fell into comfortable silence, knowing your time alone was coming to an end. the night had been revelatory in ways you hadn't expected, stripping away the usual chaos and urgency of your lives to reveal something deeper underneath.

"hey, moonlight?"

"yeah?"

"thanks for tonight. for talking, for listening, for just… being here."

"thanks for letting me in," you replied. "for trusting me with the real you."

"you're the only one who's ever seen the real me and decided to stay."

"i'm not going anywhere," you promised. "we're partners, remember? you're stuck with me."

"good," he said, squeezing your hand. "i wouldn't want it any other way."

as dawn approached and your shift neared its end, you found yourself reluctant to return to the base, to the chaos and noise and constant activity of league life. this quiet intimacy felt precious, worth protecting.

"we should do this again," you said. "not the stakeout necessarily, but… this. just us, talking."

"like a date?"

"like a date. a very unconventional, probably illegal date, but a date nonetheless."

"i'd like that," he said. "though maybe next time we can steal a car with better seats."

"deal. but i'm picking the radio station."

"as long as it's not pop music."

"i make no promises."

he groaned dramatically, but there was fondness in it. "you're going to be the death of me."

"probably," you agreed cheerfully. "but what a way to go."

the radio crackled with spinner's voice: "alright, kids, time to pack it up. compress is sending a portal in five minutes."

"copy that," tomura replied, then turned to you. "ready to go back to reality?"

"with you? i'm ready for anything."

he leaned over and kissed you again, soft and lingering, before starting the car. as you drove toward the rendezvous point, you felt something settle into place inside you—a sense of rightness, of belonging, of having found your person in the most unlikely of circumstances.

whatever came next, whatever challenges the league would face, whatever battles lay ahead, you'd face them together. two disasters, perfectly matched, ready to take on the world.

and if that wasn't love, it was close enough for villains like you.

⌗ taglist: @idexmids @siriuslyginnychase @eleteo125

⌗ mutuals: @haikyuubby @va-3 @tulippanes @luvseraphh @miss-indigen0us @https-bakugo @cupkiki

#my hero academia #boku no hero academia #mha #bnha #x reader #mha x reader #bnha x reader #shigaraki x reader #shigaraki tomura #bnha shigaraki #shigaraki tomura x reader #shigaraki x reader fluff #tomura shigaraki x you #tomura shigaraki x reader #shigaraki tomura x you

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kathaelipwse · 4 months ago

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Guarded By You | C.Seungcheol

Chapter 5 — “Still Watching”

Word Count: 2,508 words

<< previous chapter | next chapter >> M.LIST OF THE SERIES {Guarded By You}

Warnings: sleepwalking, mild sexual tension, suggestive physical closeness (non-explicit), reference to past sexual encounters (kind of-), stalking behavior, anonymous threatening, emotional vulnerability, unspoken romantic tension, protective!cheol, NO PROOF READING WAS DONE.

Warm light, the color of melted butter, seeped through the expensive hotel curtains, painting a soft, inviting glow across the unfamiliar room. You blinked awake slowly, a languid stretch rippling through your limbs, only to be abruptly halted by a startling realization.

This definitely wasn't your ridiculously comfortable, slightly lopsided mattress. These weren't yours. And the warm, solid weight pressing against your side? Absolutely, unequivocally, not your stuffed animal you sleep with.

Your eyes snapped open, widening with a jolt of pure, unadulterated panic. Slowly, cautiously, like defusing a very delicate, very attractive bomb, you turned your head.

Seungcheol.

Asleep beside you, his usually sharp features softened in slumber. His lips were parted just so, a delicate puff of air escaping with each breath, and his face held a peaceful serenity you’d never witnessed in his waking hours. It was… surprisingly endearing. But the truly alarming detail? His hand, large and undeniably warm, was resting possessively on your waist, his fingers gently curved against your skin as if they belonged there, as if you belonged there.

Your heart decided to stage a frantic drum solo against your ribs. This was… a situation. A deeply, profoundly awkward situation.

With the stealth of a highly trained ninja (or at least, what you imagined a highly trained ninja’s movements to be, probably involving a lot less internal screaming), you gently, painstakingly, tried to lift his hand. Each millimeter felt like a monumental effort, your breath held captive in your lungs. Just as you were about to wiggle free, to extract yourself from this bizarre, potentially dream-altering predicament—

He shifted.

A low groan rumbled in his chest, and then, with a speed that belied his sleepy demeanor, his body reacted. In one swift, almost predatory motion, he grabbed your wrist, his grip firm and undeniable, and hovered over you. His eyes were still heavy-lidded, but a spark of alertness, a primal readiness to defend, flickered within them. He looked every bit the formidable bodyguard, even half-asleep.

Your breath hitched, caught somewhere between surprise and a sudden, inexplicable thrill. His weight pressed down slightly, caging you in with his arms, the proximity making the air thick and charged. You could feel the warmth radiating off him, the faint scent of his soap clinging to his skin.

Then… his eyes focused, the sleepiness receding as recognition dawned. The taut lines of his body softened, the defensive posture melting away, replaced by a look of utter confusion. He released your wrists as if burned and sat up abruptly, raking a hand through his tousled hair, making it stick up in endearing disarray.

“The hell are you doing in my room?” His voice was rough with sleep, a low, husky rumble that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine.

You scrambled to sit up too, pulling the unfamiliar sheets around you like a shield, completely mortified and yet… a tiny, rebellious part of you couldn’t ignore the lingering warmth where his hand had been. “I— I don’t know!” You sounded as bewildered as you felt.

He stared at you as if you’d sprouted a second head. “You don’t know?”

“I must’ve— I sleepwalk sometimes,” you blurted out, your cheeks burning with mortification. “It’s… a thing. I seriously don’t remember. I swear, Seungcheol, I have absolutely no recollection of how I ended up in your bed.” You punctuated your frantic explanation with wide, innocent eyes, hoping he bought your flimsy excuse.

He blinked, clearly processing the absurdity of the situation, before groaning and muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Stubborn sleepwalking… just my luck.” You jumped out of bed as if the mattress had suddenly burst into flames.

“I’m so incredibly sorry! I’ll—I’m going back to my room—god, this is so unbelievably embarrassing.” And then you practically sprinted out the door, not daring to meet his gaze, the image of his surprised, slightly disheveled face burned into your memory.

Later That Morning

You descended the stairs with a knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach, bracing yourself for awkward silence, maybe even a hint of judgment in Seungcheol’s usually stoic expression. You’d rehearsed a dozen different apologies in your head, ranging from overly dramatic to vaguely nonchalant (you hadn’t quite settled on the best approach).

What you definitely didn’t expect was the tantalizing aroma of sizzling bacon and freshly brewed coffee wafting from the kitchen. Or the sight of Seungcheol himself, standing by the stove, expertly flipping what looked like perfect golden-brown pancakes.

He was wearing a loose black t-shirt that clung to the broad expanse of his shoulders, his hair still slightly damp from a shower, dark strands falling across his forehead. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing the strong, capable lines of his forearms. The whole scene was… domestic. Unexpectedly, domestically appealing.

You blinked, momentarily forgetting your mortification. “Are you… making breakfast?”

He glanced up, a small, almost shy smile gracing his lips. “You’re welcome.”

A grin tugged at your own lips, despite the lingering embarrassment. “Wow. You really are the full package, huh? Stoic, strong, cooks… Your future girlfriend—or boyfriend—is gonna be very lucky.” You couldn’t resist the little jab, a playful attempt to diffuse the remaining tension.

He gave you that look again, the one that could melt glaciers and silence even the most persistent paparazzi. “I’m straight.” The statement was firm, but there was a hint of something else in his eyes, a fleeting intensity that made your heart do a little flutter-kick.

You smirked, grabbing a plate from the counter. “Noted. Though, you know, never say never.” You couldn’t help the sassy little dig.

The two of you settled at the table, the air surprisingly light, considering the morning’s bizarre events. The pancakes were fluffy, the bacon crispy, and the coffee strong. It was almost… normal.

Still, your curiosity, a persistent little gremlin, got the better of you. “So… what’s your type?” You asked casually, swirling the remaining coffee in your mug.

He paused mid-chew, his gaze flickered to yours and then away, a hint of something unreadable in his expression. “That’s personal.”

“Oh,” you mumbled, suddenly feeling a little too forward. “Sorry if that was too much.”

A beat of silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken thoughts.

Then, softly, his gaze meeting yours again, he said, “Someone supportive. Patient. Someone who understands me… and likes me as I am.” There was a vulnerability in his tone that caught you off guard.

You looked up, a little surprised by the unexpected sincerity. “That’s it?”

He nodded, his eyes holding yours. “Shouldn’t that be enough?”

You blinked, a strange warmth spreading through your chest. “Yeah, I guess. Just… you didn’t mention looks or anything.”

He shrugged, dismissing the superficial with a flick of his wrist. “Doesn’t matter to me.”

You smiled to yourself, quietly pleased by his answer, the corners of your lips tilting up in a way you couldn’t quite suppress, until he noticed.

He narrowed his eyes, a hint of suspicion in his gaze. “What?”

“I just didn’t expect that. Most guys are all about the visual.” You couldn’t resist teasing him a little more.

“If you thought I’d say something shallow,” he said, his voice a low, intimate murmur that sent a shiver down your spine, “you clearly don’t know me.” He leaned back in his chair, his gaze lingering on you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken. “All women are beautiful in their own way. We don’t get to mess that up with our bullshit expectations.”

You felt something in your chest shift, a subtle but undeniable pull. It was like a tiny seed had been planted, something unexpected and potentially significant.

You murmured, a genuine warmth in your voice, “Your girl’s gonna be really lucky.”

He lifted his gaze, his eyes dark and intense, and said, almost too softly, “…Or I’d be lucky to have her.”

Your breath caught in your throat. The air between you crackled with a sudden, palpable tension.

There was something undeniably vulnerable in the way he said it, a fleeting glimpse behind the stoic facade. And it stayed with you long after the silence settled again, a lingering echo in the comfortable quiet.

“Have you dated before?” you asked quietly, the question hanging in the air between you. “I mean… seems like a shame if no one ever got to be with you.”

He shrugged, a hint of something guarded flickering in his eyes. “Flings. Nothing serious. Just… no strings. Sex, mostly.”

“Oh.” You just nodded, and focused intently on the last bite of your pancake, trying to ignore the unexpected pang of… something akin to disappointment that settled in your stomach.

It shouldn’t bother you. He was your bodyguard, for crying out loud. But for some reason… it kind of did.

Time Skip: Last Day in Miami

With no shoots or demanding schedules looming, you were finally ready to breathe, to soak in the vibrant energy of Miami without the usual constraints. You practically begged Seungcheol to ditch the car, to lose the ever-present security detail, and just explore the city on foot, like normal people.

He sighed dramatically, muttering something under his breath about your persistent stubbornness and his professional obligations, but eventually, a reluctant smile playing on his lips, he agreed.

You dragged him all over town, your energy levels seemingly inexhaustible.

You insisted on trying every ridiculously flavored ice cream concoction you could find, from avocado-lime to lavender-honey, much to his initial skepticism (he surprisingly ended up enjoying the lavender). You devoured greasy, delicious street food from vendors with colorful carts, laughing until your sides ached at his surprisingly witty, dry commentary. For a few glorious hours, you felt like you were both fifteen again, carefree and unburdened.

You even managed to drag his initially reluctant self to the beach for some decidedly un-stoic water sports. He tried to maintain his usual air of mild annoyance, but you caught him smiling every time you weren’t looking, a genuine, unguarded smile that made your heart do a little skip. Cheol didn’t say much, but he was always right there, a silent, steady presence by your side. A silent shield, watching over you, keeping you safe, but today, there was a different quality to his attentiveness, a subtle intensity in his gaze that made your skin tingle with a strange awareness. It reminded him of the orphanage, those long-ago days when he’d instinctively shielded you from bullies and mishaps, even when your sassy six-year-old self had protested his interference with the most dramatic eye rolls imaginable, completely unfazed by his six-year age advantage. The memory brought a soft smile to his lips, a private smile that held a depth of shared history.

Of course, in this hyper-connected world, your attempts at anonymity were futile. People snapped surreptitious photos, blurry images popping up on social media within minutes.

“Y/N spotted getting cozy with her bodyguard in Miami! Are they finally confirming the rumors? # BodyguardBae # Y/n x Seungcheol # MiamiHeat”

You groaned dramatically when you saw the posts, clutching your forehead in mock despair, secretly finding the speculation amusing.

He? He barely glanced at the headlines, a dismissive shrug his only response. He didn’t care about the gossip anymore. Not when his focus was entirely on you.

Time Skip: 2:00 A.M. — Miami Airport

Your flight was delayed. Two hours into the interminable wait, exhaustion hung heavy in your bones, the vibrant energy of the day completely depleted. You just wanted to be home, to crawl into your own bed and forget the strange intimacy of the morning.

When you were finally herded onto the plane, you were too tired to care about the cramped seats or the stale recycled air. You gratefully slid into your first-class cabin, shrugging off your jacket… and froze.

There, lying innocently on the plush table beside your seat, was a small, cream-colored envelope.

Your fingers trembled as you picked it up, a cold dread seeping into your weary bones. The elegant script on the front sent a shiver of unease down your spine.

“Still watching. Pretty in Bvlgari Sweetheart.”

Your stomach plummeted. You didn’t breathe for a full second, the casual pet name juxtaposed with the chilling reminder that you were still being watched, still being targeted.

Your eyes darted up, scanning the cabin with a frantic urgency—and he was already there. His gaze, sharp and assessing, met yours across the aisle.

“Cheol,” you whispered, your voice small and shaky, the carefree spirit of the day shattering into a million pieces.

He took one look at the note in your trembling hand and everything changed. The relaxed, almost playful demeanor of the past few hours vanished, replaced by the hard, implacable mask of the professional protector. His eyes, usually warm with a hint of something undefinable, were now cold and dangerous.

He flashed his ID to a nearby flight attendant, his movements swift and decisive, and within minutes had the passenger list in his hands, already barking orders into his phone, requesting a discreet but thorough background check on every name.

You sat frozen, watching him work, a strange mix of terror and a sliver of grim reassurance churning within you. He was taking control.

Nothing. Every name on the passenger list came back clean. The chilling realization that this person was a ghost, hidden in plain sight, sent a fresh wave of fear washing over you.

Then a thought, sharp and unsettling, pierced through your panic. You pulled him aside gently, your fingers brushing his arm again, the brief contact sending a jolt of awareness through you both. “Could it be… staff? Someone who works the plane?”

He went quiet, his gaze intense and thoughtful. Then he nodded once, sharp and decisive.

You couldn’t hold it in anymore. The carefully constructed facade of your usual resilience crumbled, and your hands began to shake uncontrollably as you clutched at the sleeves of your sweater.

He noticed the tremor immediately, his gaze softening with a flicker of concern. Without thinking, he reached out and gently patted your head, a surprisingly tender gesture that sent a strange mix of comfort and something akin to longing through you. “Relax. I’ve got it.”

And for once, you let him. You closed your eyes and took a shaky breath, leaning slightly into the comforting weight of his hand. He turned and walked out of the cabin, disappearing into the maze of the airplane, already hunting the unseen enemy who had left that note.

..To be continued.

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victimeyez · 8 days ago

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obv write whatever you want and i get that this would be totally out of character! but i love your professional victim series; it's so incredibly well-written, and just once, even if it's an AU or whatever, i want to see caius like truly feel bad about what he's doing to tommy. like for tommy to react so badly or be hurt so badly that caius is like wait fuck uh o. i just feel like reading that guilt hit him would be soooo satisfying. but ofc live your life write what you want it is all so so excellent

That would be soooo cathartic. I think Caius can't truly feel too bad for him, at least...not for very long...but I think it could be a great moment of gravity to incorporate a realization at some point at just how bad he destroyed Tommy's life. Uhhh drabble here

Michell had compiled it all at the beginning; every text Tommy sent or received, every social media post, even birthday cards he'd confiscated from Tommy's stuff on the sly. Caius had poured over it years ago, when he was still planning, when Tommy was his fresh new obsession and the basement remained cold and empty.

He pulled out the binder from his bookcase and wiped dust from the top of it. Hundreds of pages of pictures and texts telling the story of Tommy's life through the digital footprint he'd left behind.

Caius opened to a random page and started to leaf through, pausing on a picture of Tommy that must have been taken shortly before he became Caius's property. He looked so different, it took a moment for Caius to recognize him.

His mouth was open like he'd been caught mid-laugh. He had rosy cheeks and a full face, his stubble beard trimmed down just enough to tame it. He was soft with a layer of baby fat, though muscle showed on his arms toned from drumming. His eyes sparkled in the sun, light reflecting off towards the camera from where they were hidden behind his cheeks, nearly squeezed closed from his expression of joy.

He looked decades younger. It was still dark under his eyes, but he exuded a radiant energy. Tommy was tan and smiley and sunny, and only seeing him like that this far down the line made Caius realize how little of him was left.

He paced through the pages of Tommy beaming behind his drum set into chats where he comforted friends and was comforted in return. People came to Tommy with their problems, and he never hesitated to offer a shoulder, an ear, a hand. A brief chat between him and a coworker where he called off one job to fill in for them at another so they could stay home and study. Texts he'd sent to a friend worrying about how his roommate's cat seemed lethargic. Emails between him and a retirement home manager where he offered to come play guitar for the elderly when he could carve out a little time.

Tommy seemed bright. Tommy seemed whole, then. Not without his struggles, certainly, but a young man full of potential.

Caius laid back on his bed and held the scrapbook to his chest. He stared at the ceiling and tried to imagine who Tommy might have been. Who he could have been. More shows with the garage band he loved, better jobs if he played his cards right. More days at the zoo, at the park, at the retirement home. More nights out with friends at bars where he sold band tee shirts and finished the night stargazing on the roof of his beat-up old car.

Caius took his phone from his pocket and flipped through his photos until he found the most recent one he took of Tommy. He pulled the photo from the scrapbook and held it up next to it to compare.

Caius's Tommy was gaunt and pale. He did not smile, he did not glow. Old Tommy was a fighter with a spark. Now he bore the world on his shoulders. His skin was smooth but he looked a hundred years older, his eyes full of pain, his face drawn with resignation. He wasn't the Tommy Caius had wanted, but he was the Tommy Caius had made him become.

He looked again at the photo, looked again at his phone, and the realization stole the breath from his lungs.

Tommy was dead. That young, bright boy had died long ago. Caius had killed him in every way that mattered. The Tommy that existed now was dead and hollow inside, and his eyes told him that Tommy knew, too.

Dear God, what have I done.

#professional//victim #anon asks #captive whumpee #pro//vic asks #asks to be grateful for

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thezombieprostitute · 1 year ago

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All Your Lovin'

A/N: This is written for @the-slumberparty's Sundae Bar. I'm using the following prompts:

🍧Cookies and Cream: soulmates – it's a match made in heaven and without one, the other just feels incomplete. Your characters are soulmates, but how their fates align is up to you.

🥄Caramel: drunk/delirious/not in their right mind – one or more of your characters is not thinking straight

A/N2: Character is female. Implied shorter/smaller than Syverson. No physical descriptors used.

Warnings: Drinking, Implied vomiting. Please let me know if I missed any.

Finding your soulmate should be relatively easy. You sing, they're called to your music, and when you look into each other's eyes, as you sing, you know, and both of you get a matching tattoo on your neck, like magic. Simple, right? Well only if you're okay with singing in public places. And not horribly shy. And able to make eye contact with others. And actually have the ability to sing.

People liked to joke that “soulmates are only for the brave or stupid.” Well, apparently they were also for the drunk. Just about every drinking establishment had a karaoke machine these days. Not that karaoke actually helped. Your singing needed to be heard by your soulmate so they would have to be in the same building, if not the same room as you. Otherwise you'd probably be looking at some “public disturbance” charges for singing too loud outdoors. It's been long established that looking for your soulmate is no excuse for bothering random strangers.

This is the line of reasoning you gave your friends that they promptly ignored before dragging you out for a night of karaoke bars. It was an annual tradition you'd started in college, a variation on a pub crawl. And you weren't going to stop until one of you had found your soulmate.

“And you're not getting out of singing this time,” Jenny tells you.

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” you reply, feigning innocence.

“Every time we're the only ones up on stage and singing,” Tina rebuts. “You're going to go on stage at least once tonight, no matter how drunk we have to get you.”

Elena jumps in, “and since I've already met my soulmate, it makes sense that I'm the designated driver tonight.” Everyone giggles at the memory of when Elena's soulmate, Jake, had started singing Journey and Elena literally dropped their drinks to get to him.

“O-okay,” you agree. “But I'm gonna need my phone to look up beginner friendly karaoke songs. I'm gonna need to be at least a little tipsy. And you'll have to help me make sure I only go up after someone who sounds like a beached whale.”

The girls screamed at your acceptance and you let yourself get caught up in their energy.

It's been three bars and you still haven't taken your turn at karaoke. You really don't understand how these people can do it, even if they're drunk. Singing their hearts out, often poorly, and keeping their eyes on the crowd.

Each of your friends, except Elena, have had a go with no luck. You're genuinely rooting for them to meet their soulmates and not entirely because it'll get you out of having to perform. They're keeping their promises and letting you look up potential songs and keeping an ear out for the worst singers.

“Oof, that guy is desperate,” Tina comments on the guy in the suit trying to sing Immigrant Song. Definitely not meant for his vocal range.

“Yeah, you're going up after him,” Jenny informs you. “You'll be a welcome reprieve after that guy.”

You nod and they help you get signed up to follow Mr. Suit. The song selection doesn't have many of the beginner friendly songs you'd seen suggested. Then you spot a song that actually makes you smile: Gimme All Your Lovin' by ZZ Top. The song you loved singing and dancing to when you're in the kitchen. It would be perfect, right? You could just pretend you're in the kitchen singing along, right? You select the song and get ready.

The drums start up, you close your eyes and bob your head to the music, just like at home. Your singing starts and the audience is, thankfully, into it. You do your best to ignore them as you sing. But then the guitar solo hits and you realize you're just on stage with nothing to do. You open your eyes and see all those people staring at you. The panic hits and the alcohol sours in your stomach, forcing you to run off stage, straight to the bathroom.

It doesn't take long for your friends to join you in the bathroom. They're telling you how proud they are of you for taking that step. How you sounded so good. That you're going to be okay.

Elena suggests heading out for some fresh air and you enthusiastically nod, still not able to talk, mind fuzzy from everything that happened.

The outside air is definitely calming. The girls continue to praise your effort and promise you don't have to do any more singing tonight.

You're getting ready to tell them you're okay to move on to the next bar when a voice behind your group says, “excuse me, ladies?” Everyone turns and you see a very large bear of a man with a buzz-cut and dark beard, wearing a Lynrd Skynyrd t-shirt. He's holding his hands up as a gesture of no ill-intent and maintains a respectful distance.

“Sorry to interrupt, ladies, but, uh, I think one of y'all is my soulmate,” he says as he looks directly at you. “Your singing called to me but ya didn't open your eyes until the guitar solo, then ya ran out.”

Jenny eyes him, suspiciously, “you could just be saying that.”

“That I could, Ma'am,” he nods. “But, um, if'n y'all would oblige me, I could sing some Gimme Three Steps? My company'll tell ya I don't mind making a fool o' myself for a lady.”

You keep your head down but give your friends a small nod and they gave him the go-ahead. Sure enough, just a few words into the song you feel the pull of his rough voice singing about a girl named Linda Lou. You look up, into his eyes and feel a spot on your neck getting warm. Your friends gasp and start cheering, spotting the matching tattoos you now have.

He stops singing as you walk up and take his hand, introducing yourself. “I'm Sy,” he offers, a tinge of pink in his cheeks making him look more like a cuddly teddy bear than the giant of a man he is. You giggle at the thought and he breaks out into a smile, visibly relaxing. “I'm out here with some of the guys from my platoon, if y'all would like to join us? Or if we can join you? I'm sure you're not up for leavin' us alone together just yet.”

“We're actually doing a karaoke bar crawl,” you tell him. You look back at your friends, “is it okay if they join us?”

“So long as I'm not the only non-drinker,” Elena nods. “I can barely handle you girls, let alone you girls and a bunch of military men.”

“No worries, Ma'am,” Sy nods. He points back to where his friends are, “Rogers has us covered. Any one of us gets too much, he pulls rank, doesn't pull punches, and gets us in line.”

The entire time he's talking, you find you can't look away. Your soulmate is large, handsome, polite. Your usual problems with eye contact don't seem to show up with him. Probably because the part of you that knows he's your soulmate also knows he will never hurt you in any way. He makes you feel safe in a way you didn't know you could. The way he smiles at you, with a glint in his eyes, makes you feel very hopeful about all of this.

Tags: @alicedopey; @delicatebarness; @icefrozendeadlyqueen; @ronearoundblindly

#sundae bar #navy and roo's sleepover #sleepover challenge #captain syverson #syverson x reader #captain syverson fluff #soulmate au #captain syverson x female!reader

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hearted-anon · 8 months ago

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Must've been the wind...

Words: 1,201 Note: it's always 2min i write so much for Requested by: @skzdiary T/w: slight pinning Taglist: @reginald-stay09 @itzsana-kiddingmenow @hetashi-takashimaya @soap143 @jungwon-is-the-one @minnielvrr @skzdiary Lee(s): Minho, Seungmin Ler(s): Minho, Seungmin

The shouts and screams of fans drowned out anything that Seungmin could've possibly thought about, drumming his leg against the wooden floors in a steady rhythm to keep himself within the time loop. His eyes were fixated on the huge crowd in front of him, something in him flickering at the realisation he had made it this far into his career, to be surrounded by an endless cheer was something not everyone could achieve. His train of thoughts were crashed when someone's hand tapped his back, only to be faced with the whispering distance that left him wondering what had touched him.

Taking a few steps off his chair that felt like it was stuck to his behind, he was immediately splashed by a bottle of water, glaring daggers at a certain quokka who was already taking flight all the way to the other side of the stage. Gripping a bottle of his own, he took off after Jisung, hot on his heels behind the booming vocals that echoed on the stage, flashing lights that failed to deter him from his pursuit on the elder for committing such a crime.

Seeing that Han had graciously decided to hide behind Minho, who himself was already soaked in a good amount of water, perfectly styled hair down poured into a sticky mess to his neck, seemingly managing to smoothly ignore it with a mic up to his lips. Turning a side glance to the sudden addition of a human to his back, he smirked mischievously when his eyes caught the puppy, lightning bolts flashing between them both as they took wary steps closer and closer to each other. While Lee Know's face had a relaxed, a charismatic smirk on his face that tipped upwards, Seungmin's lips were pursed into a thin line, eyes narrowed as if trying to find a hidden weakness.

"I'm going to kill you- hehehey!" Seungmin lowly growls, almost before he feels fingers skittering up his side, immediately clamping his arm down to his side, nearly spilling his bottle of water all over himself. He glares at the cat in front of him, who nonchalantly shrugs his shoulders as if he had nothing to do with what just occurred.

"What? It must've been the wind; you may be hallucinating…" Minho mocks, waving his hands in the air to imitate a ghost. Of course, the puppy could never find something as sarcastic as that funny, retaliating with a playful scribble to the elder's tummy, who stumbled back with a soft squeal of his own.

"Yea, you see that? Must've been the wind too, right?" Seungmin sneers, a testing grin on his face, the thought of splashing each other long forgotten, bottles capped and tossed to the side for a potential chick to use them as more weapon fuel. Sensing the shift in mood, Minho gave a quiet chuckle, wiggling his fingers in the puppy's direction before capturing him in a head lock, his free hand squeezing up and down the smooth skin of the younger's side.

"How about this for feeling the breeze, huh?" Lee Know questions, tone dripping with a mischievous glint in it, the vocalist struggling to get out of his iron grip.

"Ahaha! Yohohou suck!" Seungmin whined, giggling breathlessly while his arms pushed and pulled at the one wrapped around his chest, tugging him closer each time he even moved a millimeter away. The 'wind' continued to trace along the younger's sides, nails scraping along his stomach that made him squeak and gasp, knees threatening to buckle at any given moment. What was worse? They were on stage, the prospect of millions of fans watching their banter, possibly recording, sent a wave of heat to his cheeks.

"Kim Seungmin blushing at the wind? Are you really that much of a hopeless romantic?" Minho pretends to act shocked, resisting the urge to burst out in happy laughter when he saw how red Seungmin's cheeks, continuing to pester him with a gummy smile on his face. After many pushes and giggles being thrown around, Lee Know let the vocalist rest, only because his lines were coming up; he'd do anything not to let Chan get ahold of him knowing what he was doing in the background.

Unfortunately for him, the puppy almost regained his energy after the previous attack, plotting his own revenge; in which turn almost made him forget to sing his own part of the song. Mere moments later, or with a ton of snooping around the stage, the puppy had found the dancer chasing poor Hyunjin around with a big bottle of water, menacingly running after the ferret while splashing water across the stage, a frozen fox standing still when he got a splash of water to the top of his head for nothing.

"I've almost got you… whahahat the?!" Lee Know shrieks when he suddenly feels arms steadily wrap around his waist, bottle of water still managing to topple out of his hand and splashing all over Hyunjin, who simply runs around to try and share his soaking wet body with someone else, hearing a loud scream from a bunny in the background when he finally locked onto his target. Springing into action, Seungmin instantly takes the opportunity to scratch his fingers tenderly into the grooves of Minho's ribs, making him double down with loud giggles.

"Yea! The wind's pretty strong up here, I think it's telling you something along the lines of: 'Revenge!'" The vocalist snickers, a striking similarity to how condescending Minho had sounded before, as if they were meant to be the same person. The dancer simply pounds his fist onto the floor with his own bout of sweet giggles, covering his cheeks when he noticed they had turned a beet red from laughing; he knew damn well that STAY were more than happy to take a cute recording of this fight, how embarrassing…

"Stohohop it! I will muhuhurder you!" The elder tries to threaten but ended up not even sounding close to threatening with his laughter interrupting every word that was meant to send a shiver down Seungmin's spine, only sending an endearing arrow through his heart. However, it didn't take long for the tables to be turned back onto the vocalist yet again, Minho chasing down the puppy at the speed of light, somehow managing to sing stably the entire time.

Eventually, the duo settled down into a cuddle pile that the members have created, their noses scrunching at the smell of sweat and fresh water combined together, screaming when a water-covered Hyunjin and Jeongin tried to crawl on top of them to 'share the love', whatever meaning that was meant to imply, they weren't falling for any of it today. Being coated in a ton of water a few moments later, it was all wiped off with Chan nagging after them about the risks of falling sick, despite knowing he himself had also joined in the fun just mere moments ago.

It wasn't till they got back into the hotel that the fatigue hit them, a cat shaped breeze blowing Seungmin to bed before they both snored away, a mysteriously puppy shaped wind tucking the blanket onto Lee Know too.

#..?#skz tickle #stray kids tickle #kpop tickle #lee!minho #lee!know #ler know #ler minho #ler lee know #lee seungmin #ler seungmin #ler minnie #lee minnie

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lunoval · 4 months ago

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Overwatch... oh Overwatch.

Overwatch lore was good. Overwatch lore is bad. These are unfortunate truths, but what caused this change?

In the OW1 era, the lore was part of the reason the game gained its popularity. Putting aside the gooner aspects that (massively) boosted the game's numbers, most fans interacted with the lore via YT cinematics. I don't have to beat the drum on this point, it has been said many, many times before. They were good. Same with; we don't get cinematics anymore, and what we do get, never moves the story /forward./

But, I think it would be too easy to blame the lack of lore on the downfall of the company, or perhaps even whatever is left of the development team.

It's because they kept adding Heroes. Even before OW1 fully fell off, the issue began when Wrecking Ball was added to the game, with a completely missed opportunity for a compelling narrative. (Wrecking Ball’s DISLIKE for humans, opposed to Winston’s fondness for them.)

The lore of Overwatch has stagnated with our growing roster. The number of characters is now bloated to the point that telling a compelling narrative, providing entertaining content, having good storytelling, becomes highly difficult, if not impossible.

Set aside the understandable economic reasons that the company running the game needed to keep releasing characters, to keep players numbers up while they still can. Those reasons are valid, and not what I want to focus on.

Overwatch lore can't move forward until the developers either A, Split up the group, scatter them across the globe into teams (so scenes have fewer characters present) or B, Decide who the main character, or at least main cast, of the franchise is.

A - Splitting Everyone Up - The Overwatch 2 Announcement Cinematic was fun as heck to witness. The other 3D cinematics suck. Where half of the time, half of the characters visible on screen just stand awkwardly like extras, occasionally piping up with voice lines that resemble all previous dialogue. Splitting people up, sending characters on missions, would give opportunity for NEW interactions between these characters. It feels like each one of them only exists in a ‘cluster’ of adjacent Heroes, without meeting any new ones. Has D.VA met Junkrat? What does Bastion think of Genji? What does Zenyatta think about Zarya? What does Lucio think about working with Symmetra? Seeing these characters stand in a room, with confirmed issues with each other, without getting to witness any of their personality is boring, and the porn had better writing.

B - So many characters. So, so many plot threads. I'm not going to try and list them all, I'm just going to tell you the questions I have. Off the dome.

Are we going to get any in-universe explanation for the more magic-ky stuff, or are we just taking the actual magic ghost dragons at face value?

Will DVa choose to prioritize protecting her country, or dedicating herself to Overwatch?

Will Reaper and Soldier ever kis-

What did Moira do to Widowmaker exactly/any hope for saving her?

How are Sigma’s powers and the Iris connected?

Anymore information on that mystery group Sombra is after?

Why/How is Bastion sentient/thinking?

Will the rest of the world ever clean up the radioactive Australia?

This is all just to name a FEW of the potential directions this story could go.. It's a dense world, with a lot I enjoy. That's the sad part for me. Overwatch is, honestly, an IP truly possible for many shades of quality production, that blends a lot of genre’s… decently enough. The robot sci-fi gritty narrative with the Omnics and the humans. Hints of fantasy, or incomprehensible science, with the more powerful/harder to believe abilities or powers. The existence of ‘old gods’ being functionally confirmed with the release of Illari. All of Australia; the entire continent was left radioactive, and could easily fit Mad Max-style escapades. A good old fashioned shootout. Actual ninjas. Rescue missions. The changing of the guard, old Overwatch handing the reins over to the new, younger members.

Good things, cool things, we will likely never see from any company that ever gets their hands on the IP. The personal narratives for each Hero are either completely stagnant(Sorry, but Winston) or barely existed (Baptiste,Sojourn,Junker Queen, Life Weaver), or are only relevant because of ties to another character that’s more relevant. (Wrecking Ball-Winston, Ashe-Cassidy, Echo, Kiriko-Hanzo/Gengi, Illari, Mauga). Venture, Juno, and Freyja are newer characters that I don’t want to hold to the same standard, but I doubt it’s going to change.

I understand that because it’s an FPS, how can they ‘move the plot forward’(with any real stakes of death) if they don’t want to change the main game, but then they never should’ve brought up any sort of story mode. OW was always building up a compelling narrative, if you try to tell me they bailed on what could’ve been an absolute beast of interwoven modern story telling because they felt scared to bend the rules, I call chicken shit. Kill Reinhardt off in the lore, and keep him in the game.

But, such is the way this stuff goes. Anyways, imma go search up sojourn thighs on twitter. If this gets even 5 notes, I’ll put out all my thoughts on potential plot threads for all the characters we have, all the fun ways this plot COULD move forward. Hell, maybe I’ll write the story I want to see myself.

#overwatch #overwatch 2 #ow2 #writing #plot problems #lore

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1343401 · 7 months ago

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echos of the sea - chapter one

pairing: bts x reader

status: ongoing

word count: 5.3 k

warnings: depictions of violence, death, family trauma, insecurities, mentions of blood

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noh jiah sat hunched in the corner of her room, a tattered novel gripped tightly in her hands. the pages of whispers of the sea had been dog-eared from repeated readings, the ink fading slightly from the countless hours she'd spent lost within its world. she always found herself coming back to the book, unable to resist its allure, even if the ending made her want to scream. today, though, she was reaching the final chapter, the part where everything fell apart.

the pages were damp with her frustration, the soft flicker of a candle beside her casting jagged shadows across the room as she turned the page. the characters she had grown attached to, loved and hated in equal measure, were about to meet their doom. she could already feel the bitterness rising in her throat. her heart pounded in her chest, knowing the culmination of everything, the love, the betrayals, the power struggles, was about to unravel.

she read the lines with a growing sense of disbelief.

yiseo, against all reason, had chosen him. not seokjin, the prince she'd shared so many quiet moments with, but namjoon, the pirate captain. the kingdom burned as the pirates ravaged the shores, and seokjin, broken and betrayed, fought alongside his soldiers to stop them. the once peaceful land of gukseon was now a warzone, its fields soaked in the blood of both its soldiers and its people.

jiah's brow furrowed deeper as she continued, the events unfolding before her like some sick, tragic play. she had always known that yiseo's relationship with seokjin was doomed. there had been too many signs, too many things unsaid. but this? this was ridiculous. she had watched as yiseo's heart wavered, torn between the kingdom she had been born to rule and the pirate captain who had stolen her away with promises of freedom and rebellion. she had hoped, in the deepest recesses of her heart, that yiseo would come to her senses and choose the right side.

but here it was. the moment where all of that hope shattered. namjoon had won, and yiseo had chosen him. it wasn't just a betrayal of seokjin; it was a betrayal of everything she had known, everything she had believed in.

the battle raged on, and the skies themselves seemed to mourn the chaos below. yiseo stood by namjoon's side, her eyes fierce with defiance, even as everything she had built—everything she could have had—fell apart around her. the prince's forces clashed against the pirates, and the air was thick with the cries of the fallen. and yet, in that moment, as namjoon took her hand in his, yiseo felt no regret. she had made her choice. the world would burn for it, but she would stand beside him, no matter the cost.

"god, why?" jiah muttered under her breath, tossing the book aside with a small gasp. "this is such a mess."

her heart was racing as she stared at the ceiling, willing her thoughts to settle. her fingers drummed on the armrest, eyes flicking back to the book as it lay on the floor, taunting her with its ridiculousness. how could the author think this was a satisfying ending? it didn't make sense. yiseo, a character who had been so full of potential, was now reduced to a shadow of her former self, standing beside namjoon as the world crumbled.

the world bled, kingdoms torn apart. yiseo watched as her friends fell—yoongi, taehyung, and even seokjin. the prince, who had once held her in his arms, had now become nothing more than a casualty of her decisions. and yet, as namjoon pulled her into his arms, she felt no remorse, no sorrow for the bloodshed. she had made her choice, and the world would burn for it.

the words burned in jiah's chest. it felt as if the author had completely missed the point of the entire story. how could yiseo, a character who had seemed so full of empathy and strength, become so callous? she had been given everything, seokjin's loyalty, the future of her kingdom, and she threw it all away for namjoon, a man whose obsession with power would only lead to destruction. it was the worst kind of betrayal, not just to seokjin, but to everything that could have been.

jiah closed the book with a soft, resigned sigh, and tossed it onto her bed. her eyes narrowed as she stared at it, the words printed on the pages mocking her. "this ending is so stupid," she muttered. "how could anyone choose this path?"

yiseo had everything, seokjin's loyalty, the kingdom's future, a life of peace and stability. and yet she chose to destroy it all, to stand with a pirate who didn't care about the kingdom, the people, or even her. namjoon's arrogance, his desire for power, had led them all to ruin. he had brought chaos to their shores, and yiseo had joined him willingly. the whole situation was infuriating. the choices, the characters, everything about it felt wrong.

jiah wasn't even sure which side to root for anymore. she hadn't liked yiseo to begin with. her naivety, her misplaced sense of loyalty to a kingdom that had failed her, but this? this was unbearable. seokjin had been nothing but patient with her, caring for her when no one else did. he had built a future for them, a future that now lay in ruins. and yiseo had chosen namjoon instead.

she rubbed her eyes, her frustration boiling over. if she had been in their place, she would've done things differently. a hundred times differently. maybe she could've saved seokjin, stopped the war before it started, or hell, even just avoided the catastrophe that had unfolded in the story. she would have made different choices, choices that would have spared the world from this destruction.

"stupid," she muttered again, her voice bitter. "so stupid."

how could someone be so blinded by their own emotions, by their own desires, that they would let everything fall apart? yiseo had lost everything, her friends, her kingdom, her future, and for what? for namjoon, a man who had never cared for her beyond the power she could bring him. it was all a mess, a sick joke. and jiah, having read this story over and over, still couldn't understand how it had ended like this.

but even as she fumed over the stupidity of it all, there was a hollow feeling in her chest. something nagging at her, telling her that the story wasn't finished yet. that there was more to this tale than she realized. she had read it countless times, but each time, it felt like there was a new layer to uncover, a new depth to explore. maybe she was wrong, maybe there was something she missed. but at that moment, she didn't care. she just wanted to throw the book out the window and forget it all.

she stared at the book once more, its pages mocking her with their smug little paragraphs, the ink stubbornly refusing to fade with her anger. she took a deep breath, her hands trembling slightly as she reached for it again, determined to finish it once and for all.

but her thoughts kept racing, looping back to yiseo's choices, to the destruction that followed. the more she thought about it, the more angry she became. what was the point of all this? why make a character go through all this turmoil, only to choose the wrong path?

"this is so dumb," jiah muttered, her voice a mixture of frustration and disbelief. "so dumb."

picking the book back up, fingers tightening around the worn pages of the novel, her nails dug into into the paper as she felt a surge of frustration. she stared at the words, seeing them but not really comprehending them, her mind too busy spiraling into her thoughts. every time she read the story, it was always the same. yiseo, the heroine who had the world at her feet, choosing namjoon over seokjin. it didn't matter how many times jiah read it; the decision was just as infuriating as the first time.

namjoon. captain of the hwa yang yeon hwa, the pirate crew that wreaked havoc on everything. the man who had taken everything from seokjin, from the kingdom, from yiseo herself. it was maddening. jiah could feel her heart rate pick up as she thought about him. there was something about namjoon that irked her more than anything. it wasn't just his arrogance, though that was certainly a part of it. it wasn't even his desire for power, his ability to manipulate, or his ruthless nature. it was the fact that he had his men kidnap yiseo to get at seokjin, only to lure yiseo with his false charm, his promises of freedom and adventure, and the sheer force of his will and she fell for it.

"ugh, i can't believe she chose him," jiah muttered, her voice tinged with bitterness. her eyes narrowed at the words on the page, the scene playing out before her in vivid detail. yiseo, standing beside namjoon, her eyes fierce with defiance, as the world around them crumbled. jiah couldn't understand it. seokjin had been everything yiseo could have asked for, loyal, compassionate, strong. he had cared for her, protected her, and loved her without question. but yiseo had turned her back on him for someone like namjoon. the pirate. the destroyer.

jiah clenched her teeth, glaring at the page, as though she could somehow will the words to change. but they wouldn't. they never did.

"how could she?" jiah whispered to herself, shaking her head. "seokjin was her everything, and yet she threw it all away for him?"

namjoon, standing tall with his dark, calculating eyes, his commanding presence, it was almost as though he was built for destruction. he had led a life that was nothing but chaos, yet yiseo chose him. it was the worst decision jiah could imagine. namjoon didn't even deserve her. the kingdom, the people who had followed seokjin, they were all collateral damage in namjoon's quest for power. jiah could barely tolerate the way the story romanticized his every action, painting him as some tragic hero who had chosen a difficult path for the greater good. but it was all a lie. he wasn't a hero, not in jiah's eyes.

"seokjin deserved better," jiah muttered darkly. "he deserved someone who would fight for him, not someone who would betray him in the name of freedom."

she stood up abruptly, pacing across her room as the anger surged within her. she wanted to shout, to scream at the book, to demand answers. how could the author paint namjoon in such a light, when he was nothing but a villain? the man had destroyed everything, seokjin's trust, yiseo's future, the kingdom's peace. and yet, there he was, standing tall, victorious, as if he had won some noble war.

it was infuriating.

as jiah paced back and forth, her eyes fell on the the name of yiseo's maid, the one who had been her childhood friend. she had been introduced in the early chapters, quiet, unnoticed, always in the background, never fully acknowledged. jiah's heart twisted as she remembered the maid's fate. she had been discarded, forgotten as soon as yiseo was kidnapped and the "real story" began. the maid's name—noh jiah—was a strange coincidence that never sat well with her. the similarities between the maid's life and jiah's own were uncanny. both had lived in the shadows, both had been overlooked, but jiah couldn't understand why the author had chosen to give the maid her name.

it made her uneasy, thinking about it. had the author known something? had they seen something in her? jiah couldn't shake the thought that there was a deeper meaning behind it, something she was missing. she felt a chill run down her spine every time she thought about the parallels between their lives. jiah wasn't some invisible maid in the background of a story. she wasn't someone whose existence could be brushed aside so easily.

and yet, she couldn't help but wonder, was this her fate? to be forgotten? discarded? she shuddered at the thought, unwilling to entertain the idea for too long. no, she wasn't like the maid. she would never let herself be forgotten like that.

but the similarities between their lives were hard to ignore. the maid's mother had died giving birth to her, a tragic fate that left the girl to fend for herself, never knowing true love or warmth. and here jiah was, reading her name in the pages of a book, watching as the maid's life was discarded, nothing more than a footnote in the story of yiseo and namjoon's tragic romance.

it was almost as if jiah's existence was being erased, replaced by someone who had never truly mattered in the grand scheme of things. she couldn't stand it. she tossed the book aside again, letting it fall to the floor with a soft thud. the weight of the novel felt heavier now, the characters more real and more frustrating than ever before.

"i don't understand it," she muttered, pacing again. "why would yiseo throw everything away? why would she choose namjoon? why would she ignore seokjin?"

the questions swirled in her mind, unanswered and impossible to reconcile. jiah had never liked yiseo—she had always thought the heroine was naive, stubborn, and foolish. but this? this was beyond stupid. it was senseless. she couldn't wrap her mind around it. she wanted to scream, to throw the book into the fire and watch it burn. but no matter how much she hated it, she kept coming back to it. because it wasn't just a story. it was something more.

she needed to understand why things happened this way. why yiseo had chosen namjoon. why the maid had been cast aside. why her name was in the book. maybe if she understood, she could make sense of the mess. she could find a way to fix it. a way to make everything right.

but the questions kept coming. and the answers never came.

"this is so dumb," jiah muttered, sinking back down onto the floor, the frustration bubbling up again. "why can't someone just fix it?"

for a moment, she sat there in silence, the weight of the book still pressing down on her chest. she didn't know what to do with it, or with herself. she felt stuck, trapped in a story that didn't make sense. all she wanted was for someone to change the ending. to make it better. to make it so that seokjin didn't have to lose everything, so that yiseo didn't have to choose namjoon. so that the maid's name, noh jiah, wasn't just some forgotten detail in a book she couldn't escape.

but that wasn't how stories worked, was it?

she tossed the book onto her bed, the weight of the final chapter still pressing down on her. the room around her felt smaller now, the flickering candlelight casting distorted shadows on the walls. she stared at the ceiling, her mind slowly wandering away from the book and toward her own life.

it wasn't much to think about, really. her life wasn't exactly exciting. no grand adventures, no royal balls or pirate ships or life-changing decisions to make. just the mundane cycle of college classes, late-night study sessions, and weekends spent in her cramped apartment, alone. no boyfriend, no real friends beyond acquaintances in her classes, no one who really understood her.

her parents had died when she was young, a car accident that had left her with nothing but the ghost of a memory. she couldn't even remember their faces clearly anymore, just vague images that blurred together with time. she hated that feeling. the way their absence felt like a hole that couldn't ever quite be filled, no matter how much she tried to move on. people told her she was strong, that she was fine on her own, but it didn't feel like strength. it felt like loneliness.

jiah sighed deeply, pushing herself off the floor and walking over to her small bathroom. she flicked on the light, squinting at the harsh brightness. a glance at the mirror showed the usual: tired eyes, messy hair, no real effort put into her appearance. she wasn't ugly, not by any means, but there was nothing about her that screamed attention either. she was just...there.

she quickly removed her clothes and slid into her old, faded pajamas, the soft cotton fabric clinging to her body as she ran a hand through her hair. she didn't bother trying to make it look perfect; it never did anyway. her hair always fell flat or frizzed out, no matter how much she tried to tame it. instead, she focused on the reflection in front of her. a girl who looked like she could disappear into the crowd and no one would notice.

there were moments when she felt like she was a character in someone else's story. not in the fun, adventure filled way like the characters in whispers of the sea, but in the quiet, forgotten way. like the maid who was barely a footnote, whose existence only mattered when it was convenient for the plot. jiah hated that feeling. she hated how her life felt like it was on autopilot, like there was no real direction, no one pulling her forward.

she rinsed her face with cold water, splashing it onto her skin as though she could wash away the weight of the thoughts creeping in. she was grateful for the little things, the small comforts. the fact that she could afford to live on her own, attend college, and have some semblance of stability. but even those things felt fleeting. nothing ever lasted. nothing ever changed.

as she brushed her teeth, she couldn't help but think of how whispers of the sea mirrored her life in so many ways. not in the grand battles or romances, of course, but in the small, suffocating moments of being stuck in place, of being unable to break free from a cycle. yiseo, despite her grand choices and power, was still trapped in her own way. just like jiah was trapped in her own.

she set the toothbrush down and stared at her reflection again, her eyes narrowing as she tried to examine herself. what was she waiting for? some big change, some moment of clarity? she had always expected things to just fall into place. friends, a boyfriend, a life she could be proud of, but it never came. maybe it was time to stop waiting for a miracle. maybe she needed to take control of her own story, make her own decisions instead of hoping the plot would magically improve.

but that was easier said than done.

she dried her face with a towel and headed back to her room, settling onto her bed with a sigh. the cool sheets felt comforting against her skin, the familiar weight of the blanket pulling her in as she stared up at the ceiling once again. her thoughts felt heavy now, like the world outside had been reduced to the space around her. she couldn't help but wonder if things would ever change. if she would ever feel like she was truly living, not just existing.

she grabbed her phone from the nightstand and unlocked it, scrolling through social media aimlessly. posts from people she barely knew, people with perfect lives that seemed so far removed from her own. the contrast made her feel even smaller, even more insignificant. she sighed and tossed the phone onto the bed, rolling onto her side.

"maybe things will get better," she muttered to herself, but the words felt hollow. she had no idea how or when that would happen.

in the book, yiseo had made her choice, despite the consequences. she had chosen namjoon and burned everything down in the process. was that really the kind of choice jiah would make, if she were in her shoes? to throw everything away for a fleeting moment of passion, a reckless decision that could ruin everything? no, jiah thought, shaking her head. she would never make that choice. she would never throw everything away.

but then again, she wasn't yiseo. she didn't have a kingdom to save or a pirate crew to lead. she didn't have anyone to fight for.

she closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep, but the thoughts wouldn't let up. she had always been a fighter, in her own quiet way, but now it felt like she was fighting against the walls closing in around her. like there was no way out of the monotony, no way to escape the life she was stuck in.

but what if?

what if she could find a way to break free from all of this? to do something that truly mattered, to find a purpose outside of the textbooks and assignments, outside of the unremarkable routine?

the thought lingered in her mind as she drifted off to sleep, the faintest flicker of something that felt like hope, though it was hard to hold on to.

for now, though, all she could do was dream.

in the middle of the night, jiah was jolted awake. it was a sudden, sharp feeling. a sensation that something had shifted, something was different. the room around her was still, save for the soft rhythm of her breath, but something about the air felt heavier. thicker. as though the world outside had come alive in a way she couldn't quite grasp.

her eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, she just laid there, staring up at the ceiling. everything was so quiet, eerily so, like the world had paused. then, a soft sound reached her ears, as faint as a whisper at first, but unmistakable. a melody.

jiah's heart skipped a beat. she sat up in bed, the sheets falling away from her body as she listened intently. at first, she thought it might have been a dream, something her mind had conjured in her half asleep state. but as the sound grew clearer, richer, she realized it was real.

the voice was impossible to describe. it was the most beautiful sound she had ever heard, and yet, it seemed impossible, unreal. it was like the notes floated through the air, light and haunting, pulling at something deep inside her chest. the sound wrapped around her, weaving through the quiet of the night, and for the first time in what felt like forever, jiah felt truly awake.

she scrambled out of bed, her heart racing, instinctively moving toward the window. she felt the pull of the voice, like it was calling to her, urging her to step into the night.

her fingers trembled as she reached for the window latch. with a soft click, the window creaked open, letting in the cool night air. the melody filled the room, louder now, but still so soft and delicate, like it was coming from somewhere far away. somewhere distant and beautiful, far beyond anything she knew. she leaned her head out of the window, her eyes scanning the sky. the moon hung high above, full and bright, casting its silvery glow over everything below.

the world seemed suspended, caught in the glow of the moonlight, the air thick with the melody that seemed to vibrate through her very soul. jiah took a deep breath, feeling as if the very atmosphere had changed. there was something almost magical about it. something that felt like it wasn't meant for her, yet at the same time, it was impossible for her to ignore.

the song swirled around her, light and airy, like it was flowing through the air itself. it was different from anything she'd ever heard. a haunting beauty, so pure that it made her feel small, insignificant even. but in that moment, she didn't care. she didn't care that it didn't make sense, didn't care that she was standing at her window in the dead of night, her heart racing as she listened to something that felt impossibly otherworldly.

it was just...beautiful.

she closed her eyes, allowing herself to fall into the rhythm of the song, each note sending a shiver down her spine. she felt as if she were being pulled toward the sound, toward something she couldn't see but could feel, like the night itself was calling her to it. she swallowed hard, her throat dry, as she strained her ears to catch every note, every fluttering sound.

the voice was soft, melodic, like the wind itself had a voice, whispering secrets only the night could understand. it wasn't a human voice, not fully. there was something ethereal about it, something not quite real. something that belonged to a different world altogether.

jiah leaned further out of the window, her fingers curling around the edge as she tried to glimpse the source of the voice. the moonlight bathed everything in its silver glow, and yet, there was nothing there. no person. no figure. just the trees swaying gently in the breeze. the sound, though, it was still there, still resonating in the air around her.

the air felt charged now, alive with energy, as if the night had come to life. jiah's heart pounded in her chest, her breath coming in shallow bursts as she searched the night. who was singing? where was it coming from? and why did it feel like this was meant for her?

a chill ran down her spine as she felt something shift, a sense of being watched. her gaze snapped downward, and for the briefest moment, she could have swore she saw movement from the shore followed by the sound of a splash. but when she blinked, it was gone. the melody continued, unwavering, as though the world itself were holding its breath.

she wanted to step outside, to follow the sound, but her legs felt rooted to the floor. there was something about the night, the melody, that felt sacred, as if she were intruding on something ancient. something that wasn't meant for her. yet the pull of it was too strong, too irresistible to ignore.

she reached up, touching her chest, as though she could feel the sound vibrating through her. it was like a part of her had been awakened, something deep within her that she had forgotten or buried long ago. it was like the voice was speaking directly to her soul, pulling at something hidden inside her, something she couldn't quite grasp.

the song was still going, winding its way through the night, but now jiah could feel it in her bones. she closed her eyes again, letting it wash over her, letting it fill every corner of her mind. she could feel her pulse, the blood rushing through her veins, as the melody seemed to take control, like it was playing her heart along with it.

jiah stayed by the window, her hands gripping the sill as if to anchor herself to reality. but the more she listened, the more distant the world around her seemed to become. the moon hung overhead, its pale light casting long shadows across the yard, but it felt...unnatural now. the trees seemed to sway in rhythm with the song, bending in ways that made no sense, as though the earth itself were responding to the melody. the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, the air thick and warm, and her breath felt shallow, like she couldn't fill her lungs.

it was too much.

her heart raced, every muscle in her body frozen, captivated by the sound. but as she listened, she began to feel something else too. a strange pressure in her chest, a weight building steadily like the earth was pressing down on her. she couldn't tell if it was the song itself or if the night had turned against her, but she felt herself becoming lighter, her mind slipping from the grip of her body.

she leaned further out the window, her head spinning, as if the very act of listening was unraveling something inside her. she tried to focus on the sound, tried to ground herself in it, but her vision began to blur at the edges. her hands slipped from the sill, and for a moment, she felt as though she were floating, suspended in the air, carried away by the voice.

it was mesmerizing. so beautiful, so haunting, that it felt like she was being drawn into something beyond her understanding, beyond this world. her eyelids fluttered, heavy with exhaustion, her body yearning to give in, to lose herself completely.

a fleeting thought crossed her mind, something in the back of her head. was this real? was someone out there? where was this voice coming from? but the thought felt distant, fading away as the melody took over. it was like drowning in sound, like falling into an endless ocean of light and darkness, neither cold nor warm but consuming in its intensity.

her knees buckled, and she swayed, her body betraying her as the world around her warped. she tried to catch her breath, tried to steady herself, but it was impossible. the pressure in her chest grew stronger, suffocating, and she reached out to grab the edge of the window again, but her hands trembled, useless, as she slumped against the wall.

the sound was like a lullaby now, soft and soothing but with an underlying pull that made her feel weightless. her eyes were half-closed, her mind hazy, but she couldn't look away from the moon. it gleamed down at her, so bright, so full, as though it held secrets she couldn't comprehend. the voice, oh god, the voice, was so close now. so close, and yet so far away, like a dream she was almost on the verge of understanding but could never quite reach.

and then, just as suddenly as the pull began, it deepened. the song swirled around her like a current, and she felt herself being drawn forward, into the night, into the darkness. her body was no longer hers to command; it was as if the world had taken control of her movements, dragging her along. her legs were weak, unsteady, as she struggled to stay on her feet.

her eyes darted around her room, but nothing looked familiar anymore. the shadows in the corners seemed to stretch unnaturally long, the walls pressing in. the window felt impossibly far away, as though she were sinking deeper into a dream.

"w-what's happening?" she whispered, her voice barely a breath, but it was drowned out by the overwhelming sound that filled her ears, each note wrapping around her like a vine, tightening its grip.

her vision swam, her senses blurring, and she gasped for air, but the more she tried to focus, the more dizzy she became. she reached out again, but everything was spinning, and the room tilted violently. the pressure in her chest reached its peak, and her heartbeat thundered in her ears, drowning out everything else. the song- no, it wasn't just a song now, it was a presence, an essence, was pulling her, dragging her into the darkness.

jiah's eyes fluttered open one last time, a brief flash of clarity in the chaos. she saw the moon, large and impossibly bright, casting its silver light across the room. and then, with a sharp intake of breath, the world tilted and spun, and the melody echoed one final time in her mind before everything went black.

her body collapsed, lifeless on the floor, as the room returned to its eerie silence.

outside, the full moon continued to shine, its glow casting long shadows over the quiet town, untouched by the strange events that had just unfolded within the walls of one small room. and yet, deep within the night, something had changed. something had awakened.

"she's here”

authors note: that’s it for the first chapter !! i promise the next chapters will be more interesting, i just have to get some of the exposition out of the way 🫣

taglist: join taglist!

#btsfanfic #bts fantasy au #bts ot7 #bts x reader #bts au #bts jhope #bts jin #bts jimin #bts jungkook #bts v #bts rm #bts suga #kpop

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florulia · 2 months ago

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A NAME WITHOUT A SOUND

leadguitar/subvocalist!megumi x femleadvocalist!reader

‘ where we blur ‘ takes the sounds of slow washed out guitars with reverb-drenched vocals. Their music places the feeling of yearning and memories into words and rhythms. The lead guitarist and sub vocalist megumi creates the soft sound of what’s in the past while their main vocalist mai focuses on the current time. creating a hazy feeling that is shifting between the fog of the lost , to the brightness of the future. Yuji, their drummer and Nobara, their bassist, create a flowing sound of dreamlike ideas, further fueling the feeling of past memories and need. debuting with their hit ep ‘ the static said your name. ‘ in the start of their sophomore year of college, the group has found themselves coming further into success then they thought they would.

“We speak in static, Some dreams feel like lies. Somewhere in between the lines we blur. Loving you in the past, missing you in the night…”

After getting into a heated fight with her sister and manager maki, mai decides that being in a band isn’t fit for her anymore, therefore separating herself from the group leaving Nobara yuji and megumi behind. With now being left without a lead vocalist, the group is now out to look for a new one putting out posters and posts on social media about needing a new member. A couple auditions later from different people, some well and some not so well, Maki stumbles across your page. filled with covers of similar music to the bands and your own written songs. Seeing your potential, Maki reaches out and decides to ask if you could come and audition to be their lead singer, inviting you over to one of their practices to see if the four of you can mix well together.

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📎 Liner Notes (written by Maki):

“This EP is for the moments that never got to happen. The blurry ones. The things you thought you said, but only dreamed of saying, and starting a new life without you.”

📀 TRACKLIST

Track 1 — “Track_1_corrupted” (6:45)

A mostly instrumental song, Full of strange pauses, bursts of static, and submerged audio. Maki reportedly added a voice recording from a real argument between her and mai — filtered until it’s barely audible.

Last line (barely audible): “You were real, right?” stating the now broken connection between the group as the main piece has now slipped from their hands

Track 2 — “Startup // Goodbye” (2:11)

Opens with dial-up tones, mangled voicemail clips, and a warbly synth motif. Sounds like an old desktop trying to boot up a lost file.

Sampled voice: “Hi... it’s me. I don’t know why I called.”

Track 3 — “Ghost in Reverb” (4:08)

Heavily layered shoegaze textures with buried vocals from megumi and y/n. Feels like a voice trapped in a hallway of delay pedals.

Key lyric: “I still hear you in rooms I’ve never been in.”

Track 4 — “kiss me until the tape warps ” (3:36)

Soft sound of strumming from guitar as-well as y/n and megumi's voices overlapping like cassette tapes. the sound of romance being heard as megumi's voice slowly turns from simple taunts to yearning, the sound of static between them slowly fading away as both their voice grow clearer and louder.

Key lyric: “You remember it better. I remember it louder.”

Track 5 — “404 // I Miss You” (4:20)

A melancholic ambient song, built on a broken-sounding drum loop and swirling guitars. Megumi sings through vocal processing until he sounds almost artificial.

Key lyric: “You’re not gone, just not loading.”

Track 6 — “i fell asleep before the apology” (5:00)

This song is about when you finally get the apology you deserve but miss it. when the person finally says "I'm sorry" but it's too late now. You’ve rehearsed it so many times in your head, imagined it coming, needing to hear it. But now that it's here... you’re tired. You don't even have the strength to stay awake for it. leading to a deleted message when you wake up.

key lyric : “what was the point if you hadn’t realized yet?”

more to be decided !

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#jjk maki #megumi x reader #fushiguro megumi #jjk megumi #jjk nobara #jjk yuji #jjk x fem!reader #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jjk mai #jjk au #megumi fushiguro

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chilling-seavey · 3 days ago

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Belladonic Haze

↳ A/N I couldn't help myself. I needed to write a Roger fic. There will be more, I'm sure. 70s Rog just begs to have stories written about him, have you seen the guy?? All I was watching when writing was this performance x

↳ Summary: Spending your Friday night at a college bar alone, you expected no more company than that of the music. But when the drummer of the band catches your eye under the stage lights, your mundane night turns into one you'll remember for decades.

↳ Pairings: 70s!Roger Taylor x Fem!Reader (NO use of y/n)

↳ Word Count: 8.9k

↳ Warnings: 18+, smut, one night stand, smoking, drinking, public sex, oral sex (m receiving), minor spanking (with drumsticks), fingering, dirty talk, unprotected sex (but he pulls out so like-).

London, 1971

The bar was hazy with cigarette smoke, fracturing the light from the cheap spotlights cast onto the cramped stage. The crowd was dense that night—strangers pressed shoulder to shoulder across the sticky wood floor, pushing and shoving in time with the music thudding through the crackling speakers. It almost felt like if the band got any louder, the sound system might burst.

You were front row, slightly to the right, getting an eyeful of the guitarist’s impressive solo as he took to the edge of the stage for his moment in the spotlight. This band had been pricking the ears of many students in and around Imperial College, rumblings that they had just signed a record deal whispered in the dormitory rooms over shared joints and stardust. They called themselves ‘Queen’—a bit of an improvement from their previous alias, ‘Smile’, you thought—and although they were still trying to find their sound, it was clear to anyone that they had potential.

You didn’t believe the rumours until you heard it for yourself, however, so you turned up that Friday night to one of the college bars where they were playing. Halfway through the show and you were pretty sold.

From their music, of course. The golden angel of a drummer was certainly just a bonus.

As much as you had found yourself a little captivated by him, he seemed to share in the feeling, his gaze constantly drifting to you throughout the show. At first you chalked it down to coincidence; how much could they see of the crowd with the stage lights in their eyes anyway? But after he performed such an impressive minute-long drum solo without a single error and then immediately winked in your direction, your suspicions of the blinding lights wavered.

You couldn’t recall seeing him around campus; you definitely would have remembered him. With blonde hair that was chopped shaggy around his shoulders, messy with sweat and exertion from the show, he looked like he already was perfecting that star-studded rock-and-roll persona from the get go. But his features were so soft, as if he had been carved by God’s most gentle angel with a precise and steady hand. It was as if he tried too hard to look hard rock but he was far too pretty to be genuinely convincing.

They played a forty minute gig in the crowded college bar. It was a show that outright felt like perfection and you were almost reluctant to admit that it might have been one of the best shows you had been to, to date. London felt far too small for them.

You watched with a warmth in your chest as the four band members lined up in the middle of the stage and took a bow to the cheering crowd. Someone towards the back whistled. The band looked ethereal like that, standing under the hazy stage lights, infinite.

And the drummer, taking the end of the lineup closest to you, was bathed in sweat that glistened like gold, dripping down his temple and getting caught in his sideburns and the ends of his frazzled blonde hair. You had never felt the urge to lick someone’s sweat off their brow as much as you did in that moment. God help you.

You were only pulled from your unruly thoughts when he looked at you, dead in the eyes, and for a moment you wondered if he could read your thoughts. He had such entrancing eyes, framed with long lashes as if he had put on mascara, his irises pale in the blinding stage light. You couldn’t look away, hardly even noticing how the guitarist and bassist threw some picks into the crowd as the drummer stepped over to the edge of the stage right in front of you, all without breaking your eye contact.

And then he was holding out his drumsticks to you; an olive branch, an invitation. His chest heaved with his exertion, and when you accepted his gift, his face broke into a handsome grin, a sly little smirk, and something shone in his eyes. The wood was still warm from where he had been holding them, slightly damp from sweat, splinted at the ends, the pair almost buzzing in your hands from the energy of the show.

No sooner did you receive your generous gift did the stage lights switch off and he disappeared into the darkness.

You stood there for a beat, the drumsticks still humming in your hands, unsure if you’d imagined it all—that look, that smirk, the slow-burning, unspoken invitation of it all.

But then, not long after, there he was again. At the bar.

Still glistening with sweat and running a hand through his damp, tangled hair, he leaned on the counter like he hadn’t just given the performance of a lifetime. His black tanktop stuck slightly to his back, toned arms shown off beneath the cut-off sleeves, and when he laughed at something the bartender said, the sound reached you through the crowd as clear as day.

With his drumsticks tucked in the back pocket of your jeans, you approached him. He glanced briefly at you as you leaned forward atop the bar at his immediate left and then almost did a double take as if it took him a second glance to register who you were. You didn’t look at him at first, directing your attention to the bartender instead as you placed your drink order with an addition of:

“...and whatever the man of the hour is having.”

And then you looked at him; the blonde haired drummer who was already staring back at you like you were a drop of heaven. When your eyes met, his surprised expression melted into a friendly grin—slightly bashful around the edges where his confidence gave way to something more humble. He turned towards you a little more, one arm still resting atop the bar, his eyes carding down your figure like he was trying to figure you out with just a look.

“I’ve reached that level of fame now, have I?” he spoke playfully, his voice handsomely raspy and low, warm like firelight, “Where beautiful strangers buy me drinks in bars?”

“Seems so,” you responded easily, “Keep putting on such incredible performances and maybe next it’ll be a car.”

“Do I get to know your name so I can hold you to that?”

You introduced yourself to him simply and he repeated your name as if testing the way it felt on his tongue.

He offered out his hand in return, “Roger.”

“Just Roger?” you played, setting your hand in his for a proper handshake. His palm was still clammy from his time on stage.

“Roger Taylor,” he humoured you with a smile.

“A good name for a rockstar.”

“You reckon?”

“Absolutely.”

The bartender set your drinks down in front of you and you rifled through your purse to find a few coins to pay for them. Your coins were passed into the bartender’s outstretched palm and you dropped your change into the glass labeled TIPS by the register.

Roger lifted his drink from the bartop and said casually, “It feels wrong allowing a woman to pay for me.”

You quirked a brow in his direction, lifting your own glass, “You don’t support feminism, Mister Taylor?”

He smiled at being called out for his misspeak, meeting your gaze over his glass with a cool, “Of course, I do. Suppose I just mean that next time I should make sure I return the favour.”

“Next time?” you echoed, voice filled with interest.

But both of you just sipped your drinks, all without breaking eye contact. The unspoken tension lingered around the two of you like an invisible string, luring you closer with the kind of intrigue that threatened those of the sort to write top-of-the-charts hits. It had been simmering like a soft and steady trill of a drumroll since the start of the show when he had first taken the stage, when he had first spotted you in the crowd.

Despite the way you both had been staring at each other for most of the night, there was still a game to play, a move to make. You knew you had to test the waters. So, you set your drink on the bar before leaning against it, fingers trailing around the rim of your glass as you said to him, “I haven’t seen you around campus. I definitely would have remembered you.”

He cocked his head, “You would have?”

“Oh, definitely,” you lifted your drink to take a sip, feigning an endearing sort of blasé, “I don’t forget such a handsome face easily.”

Roger ducked his head slightly, like he was trying not to grin, his eyes flicking down to his glass. A quiet laugh escaped him—low, soft, amused. Your compliment settled in the air around you and although he didn’t seem quite surprised by your words, he still clearly accepted them genuinely.

“Well,” he said, finally looking back up at you, just a flicker of dry wit nestled under all that bashful charm, “I’m not always this sweaty. Maybe that’s why you missed me.”

You licked away your smile, loving the push back, how he met your banter with such ease. You eyed him up yourself as if judging his statement for yourself before replying calmly, “It’s a good look for you.”

He accepted your comment with an ease of grace and answered your initial remark, “We play at Imperial because our guitarist goes here. I go to East London Polytechnic. But I used to go to London Hospital Medical College if that makes me sound cooler.”

A medical student and a skilled drummer? You were growing more fascinated by this guy by the second.

“What did you study?”

Roger hesitated for a moment, as if he knew whatever cool factor he had going for him was about to be shot down. Then he chuckled dryly at his own expense and said, “Dentistry.”

Your mistake was having gone for a sip of your drink just then. You were so caught off guard you ended up snorting into your glass, nearly sending the cocktail up your nose.

Roger’s laughter came quickly, soft and melodic as he reached for a napkin to offer you. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he watched you recover.

“What?” he asked, feigning innocence.

“I just did not expect the man I saw ravishing that drum kit on that stage settling down to warn people about the risks of gum disease.” you confessed playfully.

Your teasing banter didn’t seem to sway him as he laughed along with you and bit back with an easy reply of his own, “Yeah, exactly, dentistry was fucking boring, that’s why I switched to biology.”

“The fantasy of sticking your fingers in people’s mouths didn’t appeal to you?” you played.

Roger’s tongue swiped along his bottom lip almost painfully slowly and his eyes shut for a moment, long lashes kissing his cheeks, as he shook his head with a low chuckle. When he gazed back at you again, his reply was smooth, “Much rather’d do so off the clock, y’know? On my own terms.”

Your chest burned from more than just the alcohol, “Of course.”

“So, what’s your major then? Must be much more interesting than mine.”

You shared your major with him and he asked all the right questions to keep you talking. All the while, he stared at you like you were the headliner, his light eyed gaze taking in every movement of your lips and words they formed. You weren’t quite sure if you could remember anyone listening to you that intently before. Maybe he was just looking for a shag, or maybe he really did care. Either way, it was a win for you, frankly.

The college bar was so noisy and crowded that you were almost chest to chest with him so you could hear each other over the chatter. Amongst the haze of smoke around you, you could smell him; the obvious but not repulsive scent of sweat from his performance, masked in deodorant and some cheap cologne. It was all so personal. For a moment—blame it on the alcohol—you wanted to dip your nose into the apex of his neck and inhale him. The bar-goers surrounding you were far too drunk and chatty to have paid any mind if you had.

When both of your drinks were emptied and your conversation had momentarily ebbed, you noticed the way Roger’s hand almost habitually reached for his back pocket. He revealed a pack of Marlboro cigarettes and pulled one out to place between his lips.

“Fancy stepping outside for a bit?” he offered over the noise.

The venue was so small and unsuited for a proper show that its idea of backstage was simply a hallway that led to the bathrooms and the delivery exit. Roger’s hand somehow found its way into yours as he guided you past the bathroom lineup towards the back door, unlit cigarette still between his lips and his drumsticks still tucked in your back pocket. You followed him gladly until the pair of you broke out into the cool summer night. The door shut loudly behind you, instantly muting the sounds of the noisy bar left behind inside.

Behind the bar, the back alley was illuminated by only the single flood light above the door and the tail end of street lights leaking in from the main road. The alley seemed empty apart from the dumpster a few paces away and what you assumed was the band’s van parked across the narrow space. The sounds of the city filtered through the buildings that surrounded you and your ears still rang from the noise of the music and the liveliness of the bar.

It was a calm night, comfortably warm with a breeze that took the edge off, and you found yourself stepping closer to Roger as if to share in your body heat. He stopped a few paces away from the back door and turned back to you, shadows dancing across his face in the moonlight. You already had your lighter at the ready.

He smiled through the cigarette between his lips and leaned a little closer as you flicked on the lighter and lifted the flame to the end of it. Roger cupped his hand around the flame to shield it from the breeze. Once the cigarette caught, he drew back, inhaled deeply, and plucked it from his mouth with a satisfied exhale. Smoke tumbled from his lips, wispy against the indigo night.

When you held out your hand—tapping your thumb and index finger together as if to say give here—he smiled warmly at you and passed it over without hesitation. You brought it to your lips and took a drag, letting the strength of the nicotine warm you from the inside out. Roger stared.

You exhaled and offered the cigarette back to him and he accepted it, unfazed by the slight stain of your lipstick that was left behind on the end of it. You watched as he placed it between his lips and slouched back against the brick wall as he took another lengthy drag. He looked straight out of a Marlboro advertisement like that; still dressed in his stage clothes and appearing so effortlessly cool. He could have convinced asthmatics to smoke, looking like that.

You stepped a little closer again, less for warmth now and more because why not? Roger didn’t move. Instead, he just watched you with a calm curiosity, smoke curling past his lips, eyes tracing the shape of you in the moonlight.

When you held out your hand for your turn with the shared cigarette, he passed it over with a casual, “Didn’t take you for a smoker.”

“I’m not,” you replied before pausing long enough to take a slow, deliberate drag. When you plucked it from between your lips, you spoke through the tumble of smoke, “Only on special occasions.”

“This is a special occasion?” Roger inquired, taking the cigarette back from you. When he lifted it to his lips, he didn’t take his eyes off of you.

“Of course. It’s not every day I get the opportunity to smoke with the drummer of the headlining band.” you boasted cheekily.

Roger scoffed through a smile, coughing once on a quiet laugh. “Oh, well—aren’t you a lucky one.”

You smiled at that, letting the words hang between you like the haze of smoke curling in the space you shared, “I think I am.”

Roger flicked the ash from the end of the cigarette, eyes still on you as if he were studying you, trying to figure you out, “You always this bold?”

You shrugged, tilting your head, “Only on special occasions.”

That earned a grin from him—wide and knowing…dazzling—but he didn’t laugh this time. His gaze held yours for a long moment, something slow and serious settling beneath the flirtation. You could feel your heart beating faster now. There was something about the way he was looking at you, like he was weighing something, deciding.

And then he held his free hand out and he linked his finger in the belt loop of your jeans, tugging you closer to him until you were standing chest to chest. You had him sandwiched against the brick wall like that, body against body, standing between his feet that were clad in pink sparkly Converse. Very rock-and-roll.

You could smell the sharpness of the smoke on his skin in such close proximity and that shamefully addicting scent of his sweat and the fading remnants of his cologne. For a beat, you weren’t quite sure where to put your hands, almost as if you wondered if touching him would break the fantasy. But, when his finger gave another inviting tug to your belt loop, you settled your palms against his chest, bodies pressed together.

Your voice was quiet, teasing, barely a whisper, “You don’t go around kissing your fans after gigs, do you?”

Roger’s reply was easy, “Only on special occasions.”

Before you could even so much as properly process his cheeky retort, his lips were on yours.

The simple action shot shivers down your spine and, instinctively, your fingers tightened on the material of his shirt. Roger kept his finger linked in your belt loop, holding your body flush against his, urging you a half step close as if neither of you could stomach even an ounce of distance between you any longer. The kiss was a little clumsy at first as you tried to find your footing with each other, tipsy strangers, slightly off-centered and yet still intensely dizzying.

His cigarette stayed burning away between his fingers of his other hand, the smoke swirling around the both of you in the dimly lit alley as you melted into the moment. You lifted a hand up to grasp the side of his neck, thumb stroking along his jawline, luring him closer still until he was almost leaning into you. Roger’s hand let go of your belt loop to, instead, splay across your back and keep your body pressed right up against him, his lips moving with yours in slow, hungry kisses that almost made your knees give right out from under you.

You gave into him almost too easily; letting him part your lips with his own so his tongue could tease against yours. That unmissable warmth coiled tight in your belly from only the change in pace, the tilt of his head, the way his tangled hair felt between your fingers as you held his mouth on yours. Shamelessly, you couldn’t help the small moan that slipped from your throat, letting him taste the pleasure on your lips like a new melody, something only he could lure out of you.

You burned for him faster than the cigarette in his hand, aching for him in any way you could get him. The fact that you had only laid eyes on each other for the first time not even two hours prior felt obsolete, as if you were meant to find each other, meant to be sharing this moment in the darkened alleyway behind the college bar, meant to be tasting the way his tongue felt against yours.

Meant to be sinking to your knees to the cold, hard concrete ground in front of him.

Roger’s breath shuddered in his chest at your simple action and he rested back against the brick wall of the bar, silently entrusting you completely. You could feel his eyes on you as you popped the button on his tight blue jeans and the zipper gave way almost too easily from the pressure hidden beneath the denim. When you glanced up at him again, he was lifting the cigarette to his lips for another deliberate drag, expression shadowed in the limited light. He didn’t stop you.

The concrete ached your knees but you focused your attention on him instead, on the way his fly fell open all too easily, on the way the waistband of his underwear felt faintly damp with sweat from the performance, on the way he habitually pushed his hips out towards your touch when you grazed your fingers over the tented fabric. It was too dark to get a proper look at him when you pulled his cock out but you didn’t want to waste time anyway.

Instead, you tucked your hair behind your ear and leaned in to drag your tongue right up the underside before wrapping your lips around the swollen head in a greedy suckle. Roger let out a small shaky breath at the introduction of your warm, wet mouth. His eyes stayed locked on yours as you peered up at him and slowly took him deeper, finding a lazy pace as you hollowed your cheeks.

“Fuck…” he groaned.

The cigarette was hurriedly placed between his lips so he could have both hands free to reach down and help pull your hair back and out of your face. You moaned around him as he started to guide you gently with his hands in your hair and you reached up to wrap your fingers around the base of his cock to keep him steady. Sinking deeper around him, you could feel yourself salivating as if this alone was not enough to satisfy your hunger for him.

Roger groaned lowly from above you, cigarette dangling between his lips and hair partially falling in his eyes as he watched you on your knees for him. From that angle, you knew he could still see his drumsticks poking out of the back pocket of your jeans—a quiet reminder of everything that had passed between you tonight, the spark that started the moment the lights dimmed onstage, from that first drumbeat. In that moment, you would have given him anything he wanted.

You wanted to be good for him, to give him a night as unforgettable as yours already was, and so you pushed yourself deeper until you gagged lightly around him, forcing a tight inhale from the man above you. Roger’s hands tightened in your hair, guiding you, keeping your pace, although there was an obvious hesitation in his movements as if he didn’t want to push you too far. You just took over anyway, pushing deeper until tears stung your eyes and you were forced to pull back for air.

When you sat back with a choked gasp, spit dipping down your chin, Roger spoke in a quivering whisper, words muffled through his cigarette, “Jesus Christ, you’re unbelievable…”

All you could do was smile and move back in, swirling your tongue around the swollen tip as your hand stroked his foreskin back some more, giving you direct access to the most sensitive parts of him. Luring such obscene reactions from him made your heart race, desperate to hear more of them, no matter what it would take. So your other hand joined in, tugging down the front of his jeans a little more so you could gently grasp his balls, giving them a gentle squeeze while your mouth tended to his cock.

Except the sudden sound of the back door slamming open startled you back. In a split second, you were on your feet and Roger was turning away to button up his pants, both of you scrambling to look like nothing had happened.

A small group of drunk patrons stumbled out into the alley, not even noticing you and Roger a few meters down in the shadows. They were engaged in their own drunken ramblings and laughter as they made their way in the other direction towards the main street and you watched them as you caught your breath. Just then, Roger’s arm went around your shoulders, drawing you nearer, hiding his smirk against your cheek.

“Well, that was bloody close.”

You chuckled breathily, a hand falling against his chest, “You can say that again.”

Roger lifted his boot, snuffing the cigarette against the heel before flicking it toward the dumpster without a second glance. Then, his arm around you tightened, drawing you in, and he pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth—soft, almost teasing—then another, closer. When you finally turned into him, he caught your lips in a kiss that was slow and deliberate, like he was still tasting the moment you’d been pulled from.

It lingered, lazy and warm, until he pulled back with a low groan.

You followed after him, giggling quietly into his chest, fingers tangling in the back of his hair, “What?”

Roger didn’t answer right away. His mouth brushed yours again in a barely there kiss before his teeth nipped at your bottom lip, smug and unhurried, murmuring, “Think it’s time I got you somewhere less public.”

The van across the alley was unlocked and he slid open the door to usher you inside first. Every horror movie ever would have insisted against getting into the back of a stranger’s van after dark but there was an unspoken trust you held towards Roger. So you climbed in.

The floodlight from above the back door of the bar filtered through the van’s curtain-trimmed windows just enough to offer some illumination into the cramped space. It was what you would expect from a van belonging to a band of young twenty-somethings; messy but somewhat decorated inside, a place to cart instruments doubling as a place to hang out.

The spacious back lounge area was lined with worn auburn carpeting that matched the upholstery of the two front seats, unifying the interior in a soft warmth, tainted with the scent of stale booze and cigarettes. The dashboard held a state-of-the-art radio and sound system and atop it sat a scattered collection of maps, pens, notebooks, and empty cigarette packs. It was clearly a well-loved van that did the most to get them around London for various weekend gigs between classes and mundane life.

It felt like an escape in a way; a shut out corner of the world where they could have started to really feel like they made it. A tour bus, of sorts. Something theirs. Hopefully, an indication of what was to come.

You were halfway into the van, crawling on hands and knees across the carpeted floor, when Roger reached forward and pulled the drumsticks out of your back pocket. Before you could turn around, the pair was hit playfully across your ass with a sharp smack, his grin unmistakable even in the dim light—all mischief, no apology. A silent nudge to get moving.

“Cheeky,” you tutted with a giggle as you settled into the back of the van atop the mismatched blankets and cushions that were strewn atop the carpeted floor.

Roger only smiled and set the drumsticks between his teeth as he followed you inside, giving himself his hands free to crawl in and shut the door behind the pair of you. Perhaps if the circumstances were different you might have made some polite conversation—complimented how cool the van was, made some passing joke about putting too much trust in strangers—but there was no time for that now.

Instead, you were far too distracted by the way he was crawling over to you, situating himself above you as you rested back against the cushions and the opposite wall of the van. He still had those fucking drumsticks between his teeth, his eyes blown wide and almost sparkling even in the subdued light around you, a look like a man on the prowl. It was strange how much the sight of the drumsticks between his teeth turned you on, a taunting reminder of where your night had started and where it ended up now; quite the scandalous turn of events.

You reached up to wrap your hand around one end of the drumsticks and gave them a gentle tug to lure him closer, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you watched the way he followed your silent demands. With one hand on either side of your body, positioned over top of your outstretched legs, Roger opened his mouth and let you take the drumsticks out; the playful moment fading away into something much more serious.

Then, as if by instinct, once the drumsticks were tossed aside, your hand found the back of his neck as he leaned in towards you and you drew him in, capturing each other’s lips in a wet, smiling kiss.

An undeniable heat poured through your veins and you kissed him like it was the only thing in the world that mattered. Your fingers tangled in the back of his hair, right at the nape of his neck, a fistful of messy blonde, as if you needed something to ground yourself to reality, to remind you that he was there. Right there, over top of you.

Roger tilted his head to the side a little more to deepen your kiss and he parted your lips with his own to slip his tongue into your mouth just the smallest amount. Your fingers tugged at his hair at that action—almost as if to pull his mouth harder on yours—and you moaned into his kiss, letting him swallow up your sounds with hungry lips and tongue. The taste of cigarettes lingered in his mouth, bitter and smokey, and for a moment you just wanted to inhale him completely, breathe him right into your bloodstream like nicotine.

In the quiet of the van, there was no sound but that of your sloppy kisses and mirrored breaths—wet, hungry, fueled with passion. Your fingers scratched through the roots of his shaggy hair and you could have sworn he almost purred in reply, absolutely withering at the sensation, lips slack against yours for just a moment.

You took that moment to speak to him, whispering into his mouth, “You’re so fucking sexy.”

Roger groaned right back, “Fuck, say that again.”

“You are so fucking sexy,” you repeated—dreamily, deliberate—letting every word sink in as you mouthed at his jawline in lazy kisses and then nipped at his earlobe, “And hot. And gorgeous.”

He chuckled lazily, and when he replied, his lips grazed the shell of your ear, his voice a low rumble that stirred something deep inside you, “Say it again while I’m inside you.”

The bluntness of his words almost had you choking on air, but before you could even respond, he turned his face toward yours and pressed his lips back onto yours for more steamy kisses. You moaned genuinely against his mouth, both hands framing his face, pouring all your concentration into every second of that moment. He still hadn’t touched you, with his hands still holding himself up on the mess of blankets on either side of your body, letting his lips do all the work.

But it wasn’t long before he was shifting over top of you and nudging up the bottom of your shirt and popping the button on your jeans, all without breaking away from your heated kiss. You let him do as he pleased while you slung your arms around his shoulders and drew him closer, pushing your tongue against his between sloppy kisses and panted breaths. He held himself up on one hand while his other helped itself down the front of your jeans. Your legs parted a little wider to permit him to touch you, spreading the best they could with the way his knees were anchored on either side of your outstretched legs.

Your kiss only broke when his fingers first grazed over your clothed clit and the pressure had your head falling back silently against the blankets and pillows, lips parted in a shaky exhale. Roger stared down at you in the back of the darkened van, your face shadowed out of the light from the alley, the two of you breathing together as one as he touched you greedily. The friction of his callused fingers through your underwear was dizzying and you instinctively offered him a tiny nod in encouragement.

“Yeah?” he echoed, voice rich and warm, almost filthily condescending if you thought about it too hard, “That’s it, yeah?”

“Yeah…fuck,” you withered, fingers grasping onto the back of his tanktop as you writhed against the mess of blankets and cushions. You sunk your teeth into your bottom lip in a feeble attempt to keep yourself composed.

Roger pulled his hand back just long enough to lick his fingers before he was slipping them back down your pants and, this time, down your underwear too. You flinched as his fingertips made direct contact with your clit, finding it with the undeniable ease of a man who truly did study biology. You silently praised the fact that, okay, it seemed he was good at absolutely everything.

“Blimey, you’re soaked,” Roger muttered in near awe from above you, “You been like this all night?”

“Uh huh…” you replied easily, “Since I saw you on that stage…”

“Yeah?”

Roger slid his hand lower, the angle slightly awkward since you were still completely dressed, but you were both far too into it to care. Besides, the moment his slender fingers dragged through the sopping mess of your cunt and made it throb from just a graze, logistics didn’t matter. He slid two fingers inside you with ease just as you pulled him down for another heated kiss.

The feeling of your muscles so tight around only two fingers had him groaning into your mouth between distracted kisses, starting to curl them inside you. Your breath caught for a moment, the heel of his palm pressed right up against your clit while his fingers stroked purposefully, wrist stuffed down the front of your jeans and keeping him close. It felt as though every single nerve ending in your body was standing at attention, sizzling from every touch. God bless the hands of a musician.

After just a moment, Roger pulled back just enough to glance down, breath hot and ragged, muttering, almost to himself, “Fuckin’ hell…”

Your hips instinctively nudged up against his hand as he slowed, a breathless huff slipping from your chest as he removed his hand from your pants.

“Get these off, yeah?” Roger’s fingers hooked at the waistband of your jeans without wasting a second, already tugging them down, “Gotta taste you.”

He leaned down to nudge up the hem of your shirt and mouth kisses over your stomach but he didn’t get much farther than that. You grabbed a fistful of his hair, pulling him up just enough to look him in the eye in the shadowed back of the van. He peered up at you with wide eyes, almost like a deer in headlights, surprised by the fact you were stopping him.

Your voice was rough and earnestly desperate as you told him, “Don’t want your mouth…just want you to fuck me already.”

That pulled a dark, breathless laugh out of him. His surprised expression melted into a grinning smirk and he pushed himself up, away from your body to finish tugging your jeans off your ankles without argument.

“Coulda told me sooner, love. Wouldn’t have kept you waiting. I’d have had you up against a wall in the dressing room.”

Your head tipped back against the blankets, moaning softly at the image, but you found your voice again just long enough to murmur, “Been thinking about it since the first minute I saw you on stage tonight.”

Roger barely batted an eye at your statement, too focused on pulling off your shirt and then reaching for the button of his bursting jeans. You helped him to strip, both of you scrambling to rid your clothes in a hurry until they were strewn across the back of the van and forgotten about, leaving him in only his tank top and you in only your bra. In all your readjustments and undressing, you ended up knelt in front of each other, lips locked in another searing kiss, hands wandering and exploring bare skin.

And then you were setting a hand against his chest and guiding him backwards until he was slouched back against the locked door of the van, draped out over the blankets and propped up on a stray cushion. It wasn’t graceful but it was intensely hot and you could feel your insides burning with lust as he pulled you after him with a hand at the back of your neck to just keep kissing, while you tossed a leg over his lap.

“Gonna give you what you want then,” Roger mumbled against your mouth, “Gonna fuck you proper.”

You sat up straight on his lap and reached down between you to get yourself situated, his eyes watching your every move as you did so. His breath hitched as your hand wrapped around him, guiding him to your entrance with the kind of aching anticipation that had both of you trembling. And when you started to sink down on him, slow and sure, the both of you shared dreamy exhales and tepid moans, plenty satisfied after the nearly unbearable build up.

Your hands fell flat against his chest as you eased down on his cock in lazy rocks of your hips, slicking him up in your plentiful wetness, gliding all too easily. Roger’s hands stroked your thighs as he watched the way you moved on him with his bottom lip between his teeth, his dick disappeared entirely inside of you, swallowed up by your tight, warm body. The look on his face was that of awe, pure ecstasy.

“Yeah…” was all you could breathe in near relief as you bottomed out. With your ass pressed to his thighs, you were subject to every last inch of him and you took a moment to familiarize yourself with the feeling, the way he stretched you out just the right amount to push that dreamy warmth across your abdomen.

“Come on,” Roger said lowly, almost impatiently, hands gliding up your thighs to give your hips a squeeze. You didn’t need much more encouragement than that and without another word, you started to bounce yourself on his lap in short strokes that were just enough to pull a moan from his chest, “That’s it.”

The whole van creaked with every bounce, the old shocks almost groaning beneath you, but it only made the whole thing feel filthier—like you were doing something you weren’t supposed to in some dim-lit corner of the world, hidden away with nothing but the sound of skin on skin and Roger’s low moans filling the space. You could hardly see each other with how dark it was, just able to make out the faint shadowed outline of each other’s features in the faded light leaking in from the alleyway. Out of everything, how much you could see was not at the top of your priority list. Besides, your eyes were screwing shut in seconds anyway.

“Fuck,” you withered breathlessly as you worked to keep your ungraceful pace with your hands anchored on his chest.

You could feel Roger staring at you, even with your eyes shut tightly and your head tipped back in pleasure. Rather, he was not quite staring as much as gawking. His hands on your hips helped to move you, helping to keep your pace of messy bounces that pushed pleasure through your veins like heroin. The carpeted floor of the van felt rough against your knees but it was a far cry from the pavement you had been kneeling on moments earlier. Anything was worth it for this…even if you would certainly have rug burn in the morning.

Roger’s hands let go of your hips to cup over your bra, giving your breasts a two-handed squeeze that pulled a gasp from your chest. His thumbs stroked firmly over your nipples through the thin fabric, eyes all over you even in the shadows, “Fuckin’ perfect…look at you.”

His touch, his voice, his body…everything just spurred you on, making that fiery craving deep within you burn hotter, more unbearable. You bounced harder on his lap with a needy whine, fingers fisting the front of his tank top, dizzy on the alcohol in your veins and the lewd clap of skin on skin. Roger grunted lowly as you rode him harder and his hands tightened on your chest—squeezing, pulling.

“God, you feel better than I thought,” you confessed in a panted breath, voice a little pitchy with pleasure.

Roger’s head tipped back against the door with a breathless laugh, like your words had done something to him, like he could barely believe it, “Yeah?”

He shifted just the slightest bit on the mound of blankets and cushions beneath him, tilting his hips just a little more as he thrusted up to meet your bounce.

“Been thinkin’ about this since the second I saw you, babe—knew you’d take me so fuckin’ good.”

You cried out prettily through his praise as his body nudged up against yours, working with you to chase that pleasure. It was so overwhelming and, yet, almost didn’t quite feel like enough yet. The world felt like something outside of yourself, like reality had fallen away into some dreamlike state, and you wanted to chase every second of it before it fell through your fingers.

With a finger looping through the silver chain Roger wore, you tugged him up towards you to crash your lips against his in a filthy, tongue-led kiss. His arms went around your body entirely, holding you on his lap as your bounces turned into needy, hurried grinds of your hips on his. The two of you shared hungry moans into each other’s mouths, bodies rutting together like animals, hot and sticky and panting for more.

Before you could so much as utter another moan, he was shifting out from underneath you and flipping you over, switching positions so you, instead, were draped back over the pile of blankets and cushions. Propped up just enough against the door of the van, you giggled in surprise at the sudden change, how easily he took control, taking what he wanted, and you peered up at him like he was a god.

Roger reached forward to set a hand on the window edge of the door, his other hand pushing your thigh back to give him room to push deeply into you again. His firm thrust had your head dropping back with a pretty moan, fingers twisting in the blanket you were draped on top of, heavy-lidded eyes blinking up at him. It didn’t take long for him to pick up where you left off, returning to that same needy pace you had set on his lap, now giving it to you in deep, firm thrusts that stole the breath from your lungs.

“Mmm…my God…” you all but sobbed, a hand flying out to fist the front of his shirt again.

Roger leaned over you, his breath hot against your cheek as he grunted, “Yeah, that’s it, baby...take me all the way. Fuckin’ hell.”

You tugged at his tank top, panting out a needy, “Harder…faster…please.”

He didn’t need to be asked twice. His thrusts quickened instantly, driving deep and fierce until your breath was stolen and you were left gaping dumbly up at him. The van rocked beneath the force of his movements, creaking shamelessly—both of you utterly oblivious and uncaring how obvious you must’ve looked to anyone outside. Inside, the cramped quarters of the band van smelt like sweat and cigarettes and the unmissable stench of sex, the walls and worn carpet bearing witness to every gasp and moan from the both of you, a melody of ecstacy.

Your hands scrambled across his shoulders, feeling the way his muscles flexed beneath your fingertips as he fucked you into the floor of the van with reckless abandon. Your moans turned shameless, high and sweet and unrestrained as he drove you higher with every brutal snap of his hips. The tightness coiling within you was unmissable and yet just slightly out of reach, infuriating.

So you dropped a hand down between you, rubbing desperately at your clit as he kept thrusting into you consistently, his panted breaths and pretty groans falling against your cheek. He gave it to you just how you wanted it, hitting all the right spots that had your eyes rolling and your toes curling.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” you shrieked as the tension grew to unbearable heights, your muscles clenching around him like a vice, pulling a low groan from his chest. And you sobbed out his name when you finally came, head arching back against the blankets and the door of the van, your body shuddering through the waves of your orgasm as he fucked you through it.

Roger was barely about to get his wits about him enough to ask gravelly, “Where d’you want it?”

You still had yet to properly catch your breath, chest heaving as you struggled to think of a response for a moment. Then, “Wanna come on my tits?”

“Fuck…yeah,” Roger groaned and then he was pulling out, leaving you horribly empty as his hand took over instead. He sat back from you while he stroked himself off at that same relentless pace, “C’mon then.”

You hurried to shift closer, positioning yourself in front of him so that, only a few seconds later, he was coming across your chest in thick spurts. His moans were angelic, arguably pitch perfect, working himself off with his hand until your bra was splattered in messy white and more was leaking down between your breasts.

You grinned lazily up at him, chest rising and falling as you caught your breath, the both of you slick with sweat and satisfaction. Roger let out a low groan despite his smile and he grabbed a crumpled t-shirt from across the floor to wipe you down, the gesture oddly tender despite the filth of what had just happened.

He collapsed beside you, arm lazily draped across your waist, and the two of you sank into the mess of tangled blankets and flattened cushions. The air was still heavy, humid with sex and summer heat, but it no longer felt suffocating. You were curled into his side, your bare legs tangled with his as he lit a cigarette, the flame from his lighter dancing golden light across his flushed face for a moment before disappearing, leaving behind just the flaring red tip of the cigarette in the dim light. When he pulled you in closer, your head fit perfectly in the crook of his shoulder, the rise and fall of his chest slow and steady beneath your cheek.

His skin was tacky against yours and the blankets were scratchy but neither of you seemed to mind, finding your peace as strangers who didn’t quite feel like strangers any longer. The silence was peaceful as you laid there together and he smoked away the dopamine high, watching the smoke twirl up towards the low wood-paneled ceiling of the van. He offered out the cigarette after a moment and you took it from him graciously between index and middle fingers to bring to your lips for a relaxing drag.

Roger watched you like that, tucked up close at your side, playing idly with the ends of your messy hair and threading it through his fingers. When you leaned your head back into his arm around you to look up at him, he leaned in to steal a kiss from your lips. Blindly, you passed him back the cigarette.

“I’ve heard rumours that you’ve got a record deal,” you stated after a while of bathing in the silence.

Roger chuckled lowly, smoke tumbling from his lips, “Nah, nothing like that yet, I’m afraid. Although, this studio up by Wembley allowed us to record whatever we wanted as a way for them to test some new equipment.”

“Well that’s good then, isn’t it?”

“The producers seemed somewhat chuffed with what we laid down, if I do say so myself,” Roger added with a crooked smile.

He held the cigarette out to you and you took it, responding simply, “They’d be stupid not to be instantly wowed.”

“I’m afraid you might be a bit biased there,” he teased.

“Not at all. I can even put in a good word for you: ‘These guys are so talented, absolutely wonderful. And that drummer of theirs is an incredible lay’.”

Roger’s head fell back with a genuine laugh, his arm tightening around your shoulders. You smiled through your next puff of the cigarette, warm at the sound of his laughter over your ridiculous joke.

You lingered in that quiet moment, sharing the cigarette and whispered talks of the future. He spoke about where he wanted the band to go, how big he wanted to make it, all the songs already swirling in his mind. It was clear this wasn’t just a dream — it was a calling. Any talk of university or backup plans was brushed aside, irrelevant compared to this fire in him. He was so passionate, so certain, it made it easy to believe in him too but who knew what the future would hold.

You were just starting to feel drowsy, tucked warm beneath his arm, comfortable in your hideaway, when a sharp knock landed against the steamed-up window of the van.

“Oi! Roger, you dirty bastard!” came a muffled voice, followed by a chorus of cackles.

Another joked to the others with a, “You owe me five quid, darling! I said he’d be mid-shag!”

Then came a third voice and another firm knock on the window, “Bar’s closed, mate—they kicked everyone out. Time to quit muckin’ about in there, we gotta get going.”

Roger groaned and dragged a hand down his face, but he was grinning despite himself, peeling himself away from you to lean over and stamp out the cigarette in the ashtray on the floor as he called back, “Alright, alright! Give us a second, would you?”

You felt a pang in your heart at the realization that your perfect night was coming to an abrupt ending but you didn’t let your disappointment show. Instead, the two of you moved with haste to redress and then Roger was yanking open the back door of the van, allowing the cool night air to spill inside.

His three bandmates stood against the alley wall a few paces away, one nursing a cigarette of his own, a stack of instrument cases towering beside them, waiting to be loaded into the van you had just tainted. None of them really batted an eye at the situation as you climbed out of the van in some terrible forward walk of shame, Roger’s hand on your arm making sure you didn’t lose your balance.

“You sure we can’t drive you home?” he asked softly, hanging out the back of the van like he knew just how cool he was.

You lingered close for a bit longer, voice quiet, as if trying to hold onto the moment of just the two of you for as long as you could, “I’m sure. I’m not far.”

Accepting your reply, Roger then leaned in to kiss you, once, twice, and then for the third one, you linked your finger in his silver necklace to keep him there for a little longer. When he finally pulled away, he was grinning, sly and handsome, eyes all over your face as if memorizing every inch to memory.

“Oh,” he suddenly dipped back into the van for a second before returning with the drumsticks in hand. He held them out to you, “These are yours.”

You smiled back and accepted them, slipping them into your back pocket once more with a quiet thanks.

“Take care then,” Roger said simply.

You left him with one more kiss and a whispered, “Don’t forget about me when you’re famous.”

When you walked away from the van that night, you didn’t look back, even as you felt his eyes watching you retreat. You never saw him again; not in that way at least. Instead, you followed him and his career through television and the newspapers and their chart-topping albums as his band climbed into fame. Just like how you knew they would.

Sometimes, you thought about that night back in the early half of 1971, the stuffy college bar and the loud music and that blonde drummer who looked at you like you were everything, just for a night. The drinks, the cigarettes, the van, the flirting, the sex.

Sometimes, as you listened to their number one hits on the radio, you wondered if he remembered that night too.

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