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magnagaruzenmon · 24 days ago

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Son of Melody III

After a few days under Django’s roof, Hanni had barely said more than ten words.

Chaewon had already returned to Korea, diving headfirst into comeback rehearsals with her group, and Wonyoung and Yujin were too tangled up in their own will-they-won’t-they mess to be of any help. That left Django—battle-scarred bard, accidental mentor, part-time soul-crafter—alone with a thunder daughter curled in on herself like a fuse that had burned out too soon.

He tried everything. Her favorite snacks. Comfort K-dramas. Throwback playlists. Even a fuzzy blanket he imbued with minor mood magic. Nothing worked. She stayed holed up in the guest room, lights off, curtains drawn. Occasionally, a soft sob would leak through the silence.

It made Django’s chest ache. Not because he didn’t understand—he did, too well—but because he hated watching someone so young carry grief that heavy without a fight left in her.

So finally, the morning before his first day at Umbra Farms, he changed tactics.

No more coaxing. No more dancing around it.

He knocked once, didn’t wait for an answer, then pushed the door open. The room was dim and stuffy, the faint smell of sadness clinging to the air. Hanni was curled up on the bed, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, face blotchy from crying.

“Okay,” Django said, bluntly. “That’s enough.”

She blinked up at him, dazed.

“Enough drowning in sorrow. It’s time to drag the chaos gremlin back into the light. C’mon. I know a surefire way to reawaken the little monster inside you.”

She just stared at him.

He offered a crooked grin. “Trust me.”

To his surprise, she followed him without argument. Maybe it was shock. Maybe it was boredom. Maybe it was hope, dressed as defiance.

He sat her down in front of his custom PC setup, already powered on. “Alright. Boot up League. Two games. No questions.”

Hanni rolled her tear-streaked eyes, but her fingers moved anyway. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly,” Django replied. “Doctor’s orders.”

She sighed as she logged in, then glanced at his champion pool. Her brow furrowed. “What… are these builds?”

She clicked through his rune pages. Confusion deepened. “You run Smite on Naafiri?” she asked, incredulous. “This is an atrocity.”

“She’s my emotional support pack leader,” Django said smoothly. “Judge me all you want.”

That earned him a snort. Her first real laugh since she arrived.

“Fair,” she muttered. “Alright then, coach. What’s the build? Clear path?”

Django perked up. “You’re gonna start blue, then gromp, wolves, raptors—skip Krugs, they suck. Rush Eclipse, but trust me—second item is Warmog’s.”

“Warmog’s?” Hanni choked, but her smile was spreading. “You’re clinically insane.”

“I play for vibes,” Django shrugged. “But my builds slap.”

She didn’t believe him. Until she tried it.

With Django talking her through rotations—sometimes wrong, sometimes inspired—she cleared with ease, snowballed her lane, and carried team fights hard enough the enemy FF’d at 15.

As victory flashed across the screen, Hanni leaned back in the chair, genuinely smiling for the first time in what felt like forever.

She glanced at Django. “Okay… what’s your deal?”

He raised an eyebrow. “My deal?”

“Hestia said you are like living legend.”

The living room of the Django’s apartment was dimly lit, strewn with game controllers, an empty bag of popcorn, and the faint hum of background music coming from Django’s speaker. It was the kind of mess that meant someone had finally let themselves relax.

Django chuckled, slouched on the floor with his arms draped over the beanbag behind him. “More like I lived in the shadow of legends,” he said, eyes distant with memory. “When I first got to Camp Jupiter, I was seven. No real direction. Just this loud, scrawny kid who didn’t know when to shut up.”

Hanni tilted her head, cross-legged on the couch. “You? Loud? Never.”

He snorted. “Jason helped me figure things out. He was already a golden boy by then—natural leader, good heart. Made room for me. Later, during the Titan War, I went questing with Max and David. We were a trio for years. Then they died, and Jason died not long after.”

There was a beat of quiet. Not mournful silence—just a soft pause in the rhythm of two people who didn’t need to fill the air.

“I’ve been on my own ever since,” Django added quietly.

Hanni smirked, trying for lightness. “Not entirely true. You’ve got Chaewon now.”

Django cracked a grin. “Sure, but that’s a recent development.”

“Well then I guess I count too,” she said, trying to mirror his tone, but it faltered halfway out. The smirk didn’t quite reach her eyes.

He noticed—but didn’t push. “I guess so.”

Hanni hugged her knees to her chest, fingers tugging slightly at her sleeves. “I heard you talking to Chaewon the other night,” she said after a while, quieter now. “About how bad things were. I don’t think I ever really… got it before. How hard the case must’ve been. On her. On Yunjin.”

Django’s expression softened. He didn’t say anything at first, just gave her space.

Hanni’s voice wavered. “I mean, I knew it was rough. But I didn’t feel it until now. Not really. And it’s eating at me.” She glanced away. “I used to tell myself it was just business. That I didn’t have a choice. But I did.”

“You can always apologize,” Django said gently.

She barked a bitter laugh. “Apologize for what, exactly? ‘Sorry I helped expose every ugly narrative they could craft about you? Sorry my boss—who I fought for a year—hates your guts and still won’t shut up about you?’” Her voice cracked a little. “It won’t change anything.”

Django leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Maybe not. But you can start by saying why you did it. And then apologize for how ugly it got. It’s not about fixing the past. It’s about owning it.”

Hanni looked down at her hands. For a second, she didn’t move.

Then she nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

The tension faded just a little, and Django reached for the console remote, casually flipping through his library. “Wanna beat me at something?”

Hanni wiped at her eyes, recovering fast. “Depends what you got.”

“A lot of fighting games,” he said.

“Do you have Project 2KKO?”

Django gave her a sideways grin. “Always.”

Hanni smiled, just a little. “Okay then. Let’s play that.”

She shifted on the couch and took the controller he handed her, the warmth returning to her fingers. Outside, the wind rattled through the fig tree, but in here—for the first time in days—it felt a little more like home.

The game screen faded into the credits, Hanni’s victory declared in bold red letters. She leaned back on the couch, smug. “That’s two out of three.”

Django groaned dramatically, tossing his controller onto the rug. “I’m starting to think you’ve been training in secret.”

“Maybe I have,” she said, but the smile faded faster than it should’ve.

Django noticed the shift right away. “Hey,” he said, voice gentler. “What’s up?”

Hanni hesitated, chewing the inside of her cheek before speaking. “I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder if it even matters. If I’ll ever get to do music again. Real music.”

She turned to him, arms wrapped around her knees again. “I mean… Hybe still technically owns my likeness, my stage name, the whole package. They made sure of that. Even after everything fell apart, the contracts didn’t.”

There was bitterness there—quiet, exhausted bitterness, not angry. “It’s like they still own a piece of me.”

Django was quiet for a moment, then leaned forward, thoughtful.

“Then make a version they don’t own,” he said simply. “Make music under a new name. New voice. New rules. Start with who you are now, not who they tried to copyright.”

Hanni blinked, startled by how simple it sounded. Then she let out a short laugh, dry but real. “That’s poetic and all, but do you know any good producers?”

Django raised his hand with a smirk, fingers wiggling in the air like a magic trick. “You’re looking at one.”

Her eyes widened. “Wait, you produce?”

“I don’t just shred bass for therapy,” he said, mock offended. “I’ve done post-quest EPs, indie collabs, even scored a couple magical dramas for fun. If you’ve got a sound in mind—I’ve got gear, time, and a weird compulsion to help sad girls scream into microphones.”

Hanni burst out laughing, and it felt genuine this time. “Okay. Okay, then. Let’s make something dumb and loud. Something they’d hate.”

They spent the next week holed up in Django’s studio when Django wasn’t working at the Umbral zoo.—an enchanted garage wired with amps, spell-dampeners, sound barriers, and enough cables to trip a hydra. Hanni wrote lyrics by hand in a spiral notebook. Django built riffs and loops on his old, scarred laptop. The result wasn’t polished—but it was real. Raw guitars, layered vocals, fury and freedom in every distorted track.

When they finally uploaded it to SoundCloud under the name Bad Tokki, Hanni hovered over the “publish” button for a long time.

“You sure?” Django asked.

She exhaled slowly. “No. But I’m doing it anyway.”

She clicked.

The page refreshed. The single was live.

And for the first time in months, Hanni looked like herself again—not a ghost of an idol, not a girl in limbo. Just her.

Django leaned back and handed her a soda. “You just made your first bootleg anthem.”

She toasted the can against his. “Here’s to being illegally cathartic.”

As Yunjin and The rest of Le Sserafim were neck deep in their latest comeback they were pushing themselves to the brink and it was starting to show the cracks. The van hummed down the highway, windows fogged slightly from the leftover chill of the night show. The girls were sprawled across the seats—Chaewon half-asleep, Kazuha scrolling silently, and Yunjin at the wheel with her playlist running dry.

They were between comeback shows—riding adrenaline and exhaustion in equal measure. The kind of in-between where the road stretched too long and the silence started to settle in everyone’s bones.

Yunjin sighed, flicking through SoundCloud on her phone, looking for something raw, something new.

She paused at a recent upload, the title bold and chaotic:

BAD TOKKI — “Revenge Fantasy ”

There was no artist photo. Just a scribbled pink rabbit with devil horns and broken hearts for eyes. Five tracks. One listener. She tapped the first song out of idle curiosity.

And the van changed.

A low, gritty bassline ripped through the speakers, followed by sharp drums and a voice—frustrated, jagged, vulnerable—cutting through the track like someone carving open their own chest.

It was a scream turned into poetry.

Kazuha looked up first. “What is this?”

Yunjin didn’t answer. Her hands tightened slightly on the wheel.

The second track hit harder—more melodic, but aching. The vocals didn’t waver, even when they cracked. There was fire behind them, a story too big for the song. Pain made art.

Chaewon stirred, blinking. “Is this… someone we know?”

They all went quiet, listening more intently. The phrasing, the inflection, the quiet hum that slipped into certain lines—it was all strangely familiar. Not just the voice. The feeling.

Yunjin’s stomach twisted. She knew that voice. Or maybe she used to know it.

Kazuha sat up. “She sounds like…” she trailed off.

“No,” Chaewon said softly. “It can’t be.”

But none of them turned it off.

They listened to the whole single in silence, track after track, until the final distorted note faded and left them staring out the windshield at nothing but stars and asphalt.

Finally, Yunjin spoke.

“Pull up the artist.”

The screen only showed a username: @badtokki666

No links. No socials. Just the music.

Chaewon sat forward, resting her chin on the back of Yunjin’s seat. “If it’s her…”

“Then she’s finally screaming,” Yunjin finished.

No one said Hanni’s name.

But they didn’t have to.

The road stretched on. And the next track in the queue couldn’t compare.

The morning sun hadn’t even climbed past the studio rooftops when Django’s phone started vibrating nonstop.

Ping.

“Bro is this you?”

Ping.

“That bassist tone is filthy.”

Ping.

“Who’s the vocalist?? I need to collab.”

Ping. Ping. Ping.

He blinked awake on the couch, half-buried in guitar cables and an open bag of chips. Django reached for his phone, squinting.

At the top of his notifications:

@jenaissante posted a story.

He opened Instagram.

It was a video of Yunjin, staring straight into the camera from a moving van. Hair pulled back, no makeup, hood up. The track playing in the background was unmistakable—“Burning in Bunny Slippers,” the third song from Bad Tokki’s EP.

Text overlaid in bold white font:

“I know the bassist and drummer anywhere. @CornfedCowboy.”

Then, under that:

“Whoever this vocalist is—thank you. You said what half the industry’s too scared to.”

Django exhaled through his teeth.

It was out.

He switched to Twitter—chaos.

TikTok—worse.

SoundCloud—trending.

The EP had jumped from one listener to ten thousand in less than an hour.

His DMs were exploding.

“You know her? Who is she?”

“Tell Bad Tokki I’ll mix her next single for free.”

“This is the rawest shit I’ve heard since underground punk Seoul.”

Somewhere in the middle of it all, Hanni messaged him.

hanni: dj. what. did. u. do.

dj: yunjin posted it. she recognized my playing.

hanni: she what

hanni: are ppl asking who I am?

dj: like sharks in a bloody pool

hanni: ohmygodohmygod

hanni: I’m not ready

hanni: but also

hanni: this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me

There was a long pause.

Then another message.

hanni: what if I ruin it? what if hybe sees?

Django replied without hesitation.

dj: then we burn their contracts in your next song

dj: no one owns you

dj: not anymore

dj: they just don’t know it yet

She didn’t respond for a minute. Then a shaky audio note came through. It was her laughing. Crying a little, too.

He smiled. Then strapped his bass on. If the world was gonna come knocking—they were gonna make noise that shook heaven.

It was late—too late for coffee, too early for bed.

The makeshift studio at the ranch buzzed with quiet life. A pair of lava lamps pulsed on a shelf beside stacks of demo tapes, and Django was thumbing through pedals when he heard the door creak behind him.

Hanni stepped in, hoodie draped over pajama shorts, her hair loose for the first time in days. She clutched a chipped mug between her hands like it was armor.

“Hey,” she said softly.

“Hey,” Django replied, not looking up. “Couldn’t sleep?”

She shook her head. “Kept thinking about… them.”

Django finally glanced over, eyes soft but wary. “The girls?”

“Yeah,” Hanni said. “Yunjin, Sakura, Chaewon. Kazuha, too. Even Eunchae.”

He set the pedal down.

She sat on the floor, back against the wall, tucking her knees up under her chin. The steam from the mug curled around her face like breath in cold air.

“I dragged them through hell,” she whispered. “Said things I didn’t mean. Did things I didn’t understand. I helped build the case that tried to break them.”

Django didn’t say anything. He just watched her. Listened.

Hanni’s voice wavered. “So how can you even look at me, let alone help me? I thought you’d hate me most of all.”

Django sighed and sat down across from her, folding his legs like they were back at campfire lessons.

“You couldn’t know,” he said quietly. “How far it would go. What it would turn into.”

She looked up, eyes glassy. “But I still did it.”

“You did what you thought would protect you,” Django said. “You were in survival mode, Hanni. So was everyone. That doesn’t mean you’re blameless—but it also doesn’t mean you’re a villain.”

She was silent.

“The industry makes artists just to kill them,” he continued. “It feeds on us. Polishes us like mirrors until we stop recognizing our own reflections—and then blames us when we shatter.”

His voice stayed calm, firm.

“I don’t hate you. And neither will they, not forever. Especially not once they hear your heart in the music.”

Hanni gave a tiny laugh through her nose, wiped her face with her sleeve. “You sound like some weird bard-poet philosopher.”

“I’ve been called worse,” Django smiled faintly. “Besides… if we only helped the perfect ones, no one would get saved.”

She blinked at him.

“Thanks,” she whispered. “I don’t know if I deserve it, but… thanks.”

“You’re not done growing,” Django said. “None of us are. But you’ve started telling the truth—and that’s more than most people in this industry ever do.”

She leaned her head back against the wall. “You think they’ll forgive me?”

He smiled gently. “Make another EP. Keep being Bad Tokki. Let the music ask the question.”

And for the first time that night, Hanni smiled, too.

The studio was quiet again. The kind of quiet that only happened after 2 a.m., when the world outside went still and all that remained were ghosts and melodies.

Hanni sat cross-legged on the floor with a notebook propped against her thigh. The mic was live but idle, her last take still looping softly through the headphones. It was a stripped-down track this time—just a slow piano progression Django had made earlier that week, underscored by the faint hiss of analog tape and the ambient hum of distant wind chimes.

She mouthed lyrics to herself, scrawling then scratching them out. Something about shame. Something about forgiveness. Something raw and terrifying, because it wasn’t masked by distortion or reverb.

In the control room, Django sat behind the mixing board, resting his cheek on his hand, watching her through the glass. He wasn’t smiling, but his gaze was steady. Encouraging. Protective.

His phone buzzed beside the soundboard.

Chaewon:

Are you awake?

He thumbed a reply.

Django:

Yeah. Helping Hanni track something.

A few seconds passed. Then her reply came:

Chaewon:

How are you really doing?

He stared at the screen. The question hit him harder than expected.

He typed slowly.

Django:

Busy. Tired. Making good noise. Missing you.

There was no immediate reply, so he leaned back, closed his eyes for a moment, letting the looping chords in the studio wash over him. The gentle ache in his chest settled into something familiar.

Then—another buzz.

Chaewon:

I miss you too. Your voice. Your chaos. Even your bad coffee. Can we talk soon, just us?

He smiled, then sent a single word.

Django:

Always.

Across the glass, Hanni lifted her head and made eye contact with him, as if sensing the shift in energy. Her expression softened, the tension bleeding from her shoulders.

“I think I’ve got it,” she said quietly into the mic.

Django gave her a nod. “Let’s hear it.”

She took a breath. No filter. No effects. Just her voice—trembling but true.

I tore the stars from your name

Just to feel in control

But you never stopped shining

Even when I tried to dim your soul

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…

For not knowing how to be whole.

Django leaned forward, watching her like he was watching a fragile sunrise.

And somewhere in the distance, in a dorm room lit by fairy lights, Chaewon turned her phone face-down and held it to her chest—feeling his words, even from miles away.

The sun hadn’t risen yet. Just the pale gray of approaching dawn slipping through the blinds. The track was done. Mastered. Labeled.

Hanni sat on the studio couch, knees drawn up, her phone in both hands. She stared at the SoundCloud upload screen like it might bite her.

“Is this stupid?” she murmured. “Should I wait? Maybe rewrite the bridge again?”

Django glanced up from his laptop. “You’ve rewritten it four times already. It’s perfect.”

She groaned, tossing her head back. “I just… I don’t know. What if it’s too honest?”

“Then it’s real.”

Hanni looked at him. “But real doesn’t always go over well in this industry.”

Django leaned against the console, arms crossed. “That’s why we’re doing this your way. No marketing, no names. Just the music. Let it speak for itself.”

She hesitated. Her thumb hovered over the “Post” button.

Then she whispered, “Okay.”

Click.

It was live.

There was no explosion. No fanfare. Just a quiet notification and the sudden feeling that her chest was going to cave in.

She looked at Django, wide-eyed. “It’s out there.”

He nodded, smiling faintly. “It’s a good piece, Tokki. It deserves to be heard.”

Her heart was pounding. “What if someone recognizes me? What if—what if they recognize me?”

“Then let them. Let them hear you, not what they made of you.”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she leaned her head against his shoulder, hiding her face. “You’re weirdly good at this, you know that?”

“I’ve been in enough fires to know when it’s time to stop running and start singing.”

They sat like that for a while. No alarms. Just the low hum of speakers and the faint wind outside.

And far away, in rooms they didn’t know, someone clicked play on “Wholeness by Bad Tokki.”

And listened.

Yunjin sat in the back seat of the van, phone in hand, earbuds in. The others were half-asleep, Chaewon nodding off against a window, Eunchae curled up with a blanket.

The single had been floating around for days now—Bad Tokki: Wholeness—haunting vocals and bass-heavy instrumentals tearing up SoundCloud, making rounds on stan Twitter, even a couple of idols posting about it.

She finally pressed play.

And when the chorus hit, something in her stilled.

She knew that voice.

Not just the sound—but the cracks, the way it held grief like a knife, how it buried joy in rhythm and regret. A voice she once harmonized with.

Her eyes widened. “Oh my god.”

She ripped the earbuds out, switched to the van’s speaker system.

“You guys—listen to this. Right now.”

The others stirred groggily, annoyed—until the song kicked in.

Chaewon blinked, confused. “That’s… that voice—”

“It’s her,” Yunjin whispered. “It’s Hanni.”

Dead silence.

The song roared into a bridge—guttural vocals, grinding guitar, a line that sounded like someone drowning their apologies in distortion.

Eunchae sat up, eyes wide. “Holy crap.”

By the time the track faded, no one said anything. The van just… sat in it.

Yunjin grabbed her phone, heart thudding, and called.

Hanni was sitting on the floor, laptop open, scrolling through comments. Her hands trembled. Everything was blowing up. RM just reposted it. Someone from Itzy had tagged her.

Her phone rang.

Yunjin.

Her throat closed. She looked at Django—he nodded silently.

She answered.

“Hello?”

A pause.

Then Yunjin’s voice: “I know it’s you.”

Hanni closed her eyes. “Yunjin—”

“No. Listen,” Yunjin cut in. Her voice shook, not with anger, but something deeper—hurt barely contained by strength. “I don’t care what lawyers or PR people made you say. I don’t care how twisted things got. But you wrote that song. That was real. That was you.”

“I’m sorry,” Hanni whispered. “For all of it. For staying quiet. For hurting you. I thought I was protecting what we had, but I just—”

“You can’t undo it,” Yunjin said. “But you can scream back.”

Hanni blinked.

“You said what hurt,” Yunjin continued. “Now I want the next one. I want rage. I want teeth. I want a song that tears into the execs who tried to bury us like we were disposable.”

Hanni’s mouth opened. Closed. She could feel tears slipping down.

Yunjin added, softer now, “I miss you, Hanni. I really do. But if we’re gonna heal, we have to burn something down together.”

“I think I can do that,” Hanni croaked.

“I know you can,” Yunjin said, fierce again. “Now go plug that mic back in. And tell Django I want a feature.”

Click.

Hanni just stared at the screen.

Then turned to Django, wiping her face. “You heard her.”

Django grinned. “Guess I’m producing Revenge Era: Bad Tokki and Her Bad Sisters.”

They high-fived.

And somewhere in the night, a revolution began—in rhythm and fury.

After another week of late-night studio sessions and caffeine-fueled guitar tweaks, Hanni quietly launched a social media page for Bad Tokki.

The logo was cryptic—just a glitchy rabbit silhouette against static—but it didn’t need to be more than that. The music was speaking louder than any face ever could. She posted cryptic updates, blurry photos of drumkits, and teaser clips drowned in grainy filters. No selfies. No voice notes. Nothing that could be traced back to her. She even typed differently.

Still, as the singles started climbing, getting reposted by indie curators, idols with burner accounts, and even a couple of western producers, anxiety curled deeper into her ribs.

“Django,” she murmured one night, eyes flickering over the rising play count on Ashes Like Us, “what if Hybe finds out?”

Django, reclining in the studio chair, barely looked up from tuning his bass. “They won’t. You’re not using your name, your face, or anything tied to NewJeans. And honestly?” He gave her a casual glance. “They’ve got bigger fires to put out.”

“But what if someone leaks it? What if they start connecting dots?”

He shrugged. “Then you say it’s a fan project by someone with a good mimic skill and an axe to grind. Unless you start selling it or performing with your actual face, they’ve got no real ground to stand on.”

Hanni nodded, but the pit in her stomach remained. It didn’t stop her—but it never quite left.

They grew closer over the weeks, a rhythm forming between them that was less student and teacher and more co-conspirators. Django was steady in a way she didn’t realize she needed—not coddling, just always present. He knew when to push her on a take and when to back off so she could breathe. Eventually, after they built out a full five tracks, she slid a rough beat and melody across the desk.

“I want you to write the lyrics for this one,” she said.

Django blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah.”

He leaned back, arms folded. “I think that’s a bad idea. I’m kind of… metal-as-hell. You’ve been running alt-rock with a bit of grunge pop. My lyrics usually sound like they came from a haunted war journal.”

Hanni smirked. “Exactly. I want some of that. You’ve helped me so much. I want one song on this where your voice gets to rip through everything.”

He hesitated.

“C’mon,” she added. “You can write it. I’ll do the verses. But the chorus—it has to be you. Unfiltered.”

Reluctantly, Django agreed.

The result was their most furious track yet—a seething anthem wrapped in distortion and fire. Hanni’s verses were bitter and sharp, soaked in metaphor and venom. But it was the chorus that needed the weight of fury Django carried in his chest.

When they recorded it, the lights were low and the air smelled like soldered wires and too many sleepless nights.

She turned to him, nodding.

“Alright. Time to let it rip.”

Django stood at the mic, cracked his neck, and stepped into the storm.

He let the silence throb for a beat—

Then screamed, voice raw and cutting:

“God in the cross, devil in the nails—

What’ll you buy with your money in Hell?”

“God in the cross, devil in the nails—

You can take all that money and bury yourself.”

The room shook.

Hanni played along, strumming like she was trying to light the strings on fire, her grin wild, eyes glinting with adrenaline. The speakers threatened to blow, the layers of sound thrashing together into something that felt like a riot and a requiem.

When the final note faded, they were both sweating, breathless.

She looked up at him and said, almost reverently: “That’s the one.”

They didn’t need a label’s approval.

They didn’t need permission.

They just needed each other—and rage loud enough to fill the void.

The night of the release was quiet. Too quiet, Hanni thought, as she sat cross-legged on the studio floor, the faint glow of her laptop illuminating the half-eaten takeout between her and Django. The file was uploaded, the SoundCloud post was live, and the cover—an oil-slick rabbit with red streaks across its ears—was shared to the Bad Tokki page.

They didn’t say much. Just watched.

Within an hour, the numbers started ticking.

First 300 plays. Then 500. Then 1,000 in ten minutes. Hanni’s palms were sweaty. The track was heavy, angrier than anything she’d ever been part of before. The sound wasn’t “idol-approved”—it was ragged, defiant, alive. And people were loving it.

Comments poured in:

“WHO is the vocalist?? I need her entire discography NOW.”

“Did Bad Tokki just invent church metal?”

“That chorus—bro who is SCREAMING? That went harder than expected!”

“This is the anthem for anyone who got screwed over by a label.”

And then the reposts started.

One burner account after another—some suspiciously similar to idol alts. Mentions of the track flooded timelines. K-pop fans, punk fans, indie heads, all converging under one post: “This is the most honest thing I’ve heard all year.”

Across town, in the backseat of a dark van after another brutal comeback stage, Yunjin sat scrolling SoundCloud while the rest of Le Sserafim dozed.

She clicked on the new Bad Tokki upload, drawn in by the cryptic cover art—and as the track opened with gritty guitars and an unrelenting bassline, her eyes shot wide open.

By the time the chorus hit, she was sitting bolt upright.

“God in the cross, devil in the nails—

What’ll you buy with your money in Hell?”

Her jaw slackened.

That voice. That scream. She knew that scream.

“Oh my god.”

Chaewon stirred in the seat beside her. “What?”

Yunjin shoved one earbud toward her. “Just listen.”

The van was silent, save for the muffled growl of the track. Chaewon’s eyes widened too. Eunchae leaned forward, and Kazuha stirred awake.

By the end of the song, the whole group sat in stunned silence.

Kazuha blinked. “That… that voice sounds familiar.”

Yunjin exhaled hard and opened Instagram.

She pulled up her story, selected the album cover, and typed:

“I know the bassist and the drummer anywhere.”

@django.wav

She hit post.

Within five minutes, the SoundCloud link was trending in idol circles. DMs flooded Django’s inbox: indie singers, idols, even an underground rapper asking, “yo who’s the vocalist on this?”

And in the studio, Hanni stared at her phone as the reposts snowballed—and her alias, her voice, her truth—was finally seen.

“Django?” she whispered, breath catching.

“Yeah?”

Her eyes were wide. “What do we do now.”

He nodded, slow and calm. “I don’t know. What do you want to do?”

Le Sserafim’s van hummed along the highway, late-night city lights streaking across the tinted windows. Yunjin was already dialing Hanni’s number, heart pounding. Beside her, Chaewon still had one earbud in, the echo of Django’s scream lingering in her bones.

“…God in the cross, devil in the nails,” Chaewon murmured, shaking her head with a crooked smile. “Django really went full battle-priest mode, huh?”

Kazuha laughed softly from the back. “I didn’t even know he could scream like that.”

“Oh, he can,” Chaewon said, grinning as she tapped her phone. “He once kicked a Hellhound in the throat while quoting The Cure. Man’s got layers.”

Eunchae blinked. “Like an ogre?”

“Exactly.” Chaewon leaned her head back, mock-sighing. “Of course the first time he features on a song it sounds like the end credits of a biblical apocalypse.”

They laughed, and then Chaewon added under her breath, “Can’t wait to roast him about this later.”

Absolutely—here’s a refined and expanded version of that scene that brings in more emotion, tension, and character voice while keeping the playful undertone:

⸻

The afternoon sun spilled through Django’s window, catching the edges of Hanni’s phone as she shoved it into his hands.

“Tell me I’m hallucinating,” she muttered, pacing like a cat too aware of the storm outside.

Django squinted at the screen. A crisp PDF from HYBE Legal. An exclusive contract. High pay, full control of the “Bad Tokki” project, glossy tour promises—everything an artist was supposed to dream of.

Except it wasn’t a dream. It was a cage.

“…Huh,” Django said flatly. Then looked up. “Don’t do it.”

Hanni snorted, arms crossed. “What, and miss out on the privilege of being owned twice by the same system?”

She snatched her phone back, holding it like it was radioactive. “Naur.”

Django burst out laughing, proud and a little relieved. “Fantastic.”

Hanni flopped onto the couch beside him, exhaling hard. “Like they really thought they could buy my voice just because it’s trending now.”

“You are trending,” Django said, pulling up the latest stats on his laptop. “Fourth on the alt rock charts. Second on the indie metal playlist in Japan. Someone made fan art of Bad Tokki as a magical girl.”

“That part I liked,” Hanni mumbled.

He glanced over, softer now. “You said you didn’t know if you’d ever do music again. But look at you.”

She smiled, but there was a bitter edge to it. “Yeah. And now the people who tried to silence me want to give me a mic.”

“Let ‘em watch,” Django said, nudging her shoulder. “You don’t need their stage. Youll build your own.”

The rain had let up by the time Chaewon finally arrived at Django’s place, her hoodie clinging to her hair from the damp air. The door swung open before she even knocked—he’d felt her presence, as always. She grinned at him, tired but glowing.

“Comeback cycle’s over,” she said, stepping into his arms with a long, relieved sigh. “I’m yours again.”

Django chuckled as he wrapped her in a hug that lingered. “I missed you.”

“I missed this,” she murmured into his chest. “Missed you. Missed not feeling like a walking advertisement.”

They stood like that for a moment longer before another presence stirred behind him.

Hanni was curled up in the corner of the living room with her laptop open and headphones hanging around her neck. When she looked up and saw Chaewon, she sat up a little straighter, lips pressing into a line.

“…Hey,” she said quietly.

Chaewon glanced at her, eyes curious but calm. “Hey.”

“I know this is your time with Django, and I won’t take long, I just—” Hanni stood up, the words coming out faster than she’d rehearsed. “I wanted to say I’m sorry. For dragging Le Sserafim through the mess. I didn’t understand how deep it all ran until it was too late. I wasn’t trying to hurt you. But I did. And I’m really, really sorry.”

There was a beat of silence. Django kept his arm around Chaewon but let her go gently when she stepped forward.

Chaewon studied Hanni for a long moment before her expression softened.

“…I believe you,” she said. “And it did hurt. But I’ve also seen what you’ve done since. You’re not who you were when everything fell apart.”

Hanni blinked, then nodded slowly, like she couldn’t quite believe she’d been heard.

“So,” Chaewon continued, smirking a little, “I’ll forgive you on one condition.”

Hanni tensed. “What?”

“You let me be in the next Bad Tokki video. I want to wear something ridiculous and smash a car window.”

Hanni stared at her—and then laughed. A real, unguarded laugh. “Deal.”

The door creaked open with a gentle thunk, the smell of city smog and exhaust curling in behind it.

Chaewon trudged inside Django’s apartment, dragging her suitcase like it had personally offended her. Her hoodie was oversized, her eyeliner smudged from the flight, and her hair was tied in a half-bun that had lost the will to live.

“Django,” she groaned, kicking off her sneakers, “I swear if you don’t have food I might start gnawing on the wall.”

A beat passed. Then his voice floated from the kitchen: “I have a peace offering.”

She perked up like a cartoon character smelling pie on a windowsill.

“Meatball subs?” she called out.

“I know your soul,” he replied.

Ten minutes later, they were up on the roof, the city buzzing below them in fractured neon. They lay side by side on an old quilt Django had enchanted for warmth, holding greasy sandwiches that dripped marinara onto napkins crumpled in their laps.

Chaewon took a huge bite, then sighed like it physically healed her. “I’m going to marry this sandwich.”

“I’d officiate,” Django said, mouth half-full. “But I think I’d be jealous.”

She nudged him with her knee but didn’t say anything.

A few moments passed in silence, the kind that felt like home.

Then Chaewon set her half-eaten sub down and exhaled through her nose.

“…I hate this part,” she said quietly.

Django glanced over. “What part?”

“Coming back to myself,” she said, picking at a corner of the bread. “Comeback prep always breaks me a little. I stop sleeping, I stop thinking, and I just… grind. And now I’m bloated and sore and I’ve been stress-eating like a raccoon and I’m supposed to look camera-ready in a week.”

Her voice cracked a little near the end, but she laughed to cover it. “I feel like a human meatball sub. With eyeliner.”

Django was quiet for a second. Then he said, “Okay, first of all—those stress carbs powered some killer vocals and a terrifying bridge dance break, so let’s put some respect on the meatball sub phase.”

Chaewon gave a soft, breathy chuckle.

“Second,” he added, “you always look like you’ve descended from a moonlit temple to whisper ancient truths into our ears.”

She snorted. “That was poetic and a lie.”

“It was poetic and true.” He turned onto his side to face her. “Chaewon, you’re not a concept photo. You’re a person. People eat when they’re stressed. People get tired. You’ve earned every bite of that sandwich. And honestly? You still glow.”

She blushed and shoved a napkin at his face. “Stop being sweet. I’m trying to have a moment.”

“You can have your moment,” he said softly. “I just want you to have it without shame.”

That stilled her.

Her eyes welled slightly, but she blinked the tears away. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” He tapped her sandwich. “Now eat the rest of that or I’ll be forced to eat it and tell Hanni you cried at the meatball part.”

Chaewon laughed for real this time, wiping at her face. “You’re a menace.”

He smirked. “I’m your menace.”

They lay back down side by side, the sandwich warm in her hands and Django even warmer beside her.

Down below, the city never stopped buzzing. But up here — for just a moment — everything was soft, slow, and safe. They lay in silence for a while, content, chewing, the wind teasing strands of Chaewon’s hair across her cheek.

Then she nudged Django with her elbow. “So,” she said, “how did you get through to her? Hanni. When I left, she was still a shut-in thundercloud.”

Django chuckled, taking a swig from his soda. “Zeus kids come in two flavors: ‘Little Shit’ and ‘Hero Extraordinaire.’ She’s the first one.”

Chaewon laughed, covering her mouth. “That’s so mean.”

“It’s not wrong,” he said, grinning. “She’s got that chaos gremlin energy, just buried under too much pressure and disappointment. So I didn’t coddle her. I bullied her into booting up League and ran her through a scuffed jungle Naafiri build.”

“You… gamed her into healing?”

“Exactly. Spoke her native language: petty, competitive, and mildly unhinged.” He smiled, looking a little proud. “After one game of her flaming my rune setup, she was talking again. Teasing. Laughing. I just had to give her permission to be a little shit again.”

Chaewon’s smile softened. “You’re good at this.”

“At what?”

“This. People. Holding space for them without trying to fix everything. Letting them figure it out beside you.”

Django didn’t answer right away. Then, quietly, he said, “So are you.”

Another silence.

But this one felt heavier. Heavier because Django turned, just slightly, to really look at her.

“Chaewon,” he said. “When your contract’s up… if you don’t want to renew — don’t.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I’m serious,” he said. “Every comeback breaks a piece off you. Every time you leave, you come back with less sleep, less color in your face. I get it — you love your members, your fans — but it’s hurting you.”

She bit her lip, the wind suddenly colder against her bare skin.

“I can’t stand watching it chew you up,” Django continued, his voice rougher now. “You deserve more than glitter-covered burnout. You’re not meant to grind yourself down to shine.”

Her eyes were glossy again, but this time she didn’t hide it.

“Do you think I’d be anything outside of this?” she asked, voice small.

“I think you’d be everything,” he said, without hesitation. “Artist. Teacher. Gremlin. Moon priestess. Whatever the hell you want.”

Chaewon leaned her head on his shoulder. “…What if I miss it?”

“Then you miss it,” Django said gently. “Missing something doesn’t mean you were supposed to stay. It just means it mattered.”

She let that settle, chest rising and falling with steadier breath.

Then, after a pause, she muttered, “I’ve been stress eating so much. I feel like I’m ballooning.”

Django looked over at her, unamused. “Chaewon.”

“What?”

“First of all, no. Second of all — and I say this with full respect and zero shame — it all goes to your ass.”

She looked scandalized. “Django!”

“It’s a compliment! I’m being supportive!” he grinned, nudging her. “Your stress eating is actively improving your silhouette. You think I’m mad about that?”

Chaewon dissolved into laughter, hiding her face in the crook of his arm. “You’re such an idiot.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, smug.

After a beat, she whispered, “Thanks, though. For not making me feel like I have to be small to be loved.”

Django reached over and squeezed her hand. “I’ve only ever wanted you to be free.”

By now, the meatball subs were long gone, the wrappers crinkled beside them. The sky above stretched wide and hazy, streaked with twilight purples and distant city glow. Django and Chaewon lay curled together on a blanket, her head tucked beneath his chin, one leg draped over his.

They were half asleep, the kind of drowsy that comes after full bellies and emotional honesty. Django’s arm rested around her waist… and then slowly migrated lower.

It happened once — a gentle squeeze. Chaewon didn’t react.

Then again, fingers drifting just slightly. Another squeeze.

A beat later, her voice, soft and dry: “Naughty boy.”

Django froze like a kid caught raiding the cookie jar. “Sorry,” he mumbled, already moving his hand away. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I didn’t say stop, did I?”

Django blinked.

Chaewon cracked one eye open and smirked against his chest, her voice smoky with mischief. “Just pointing out that you’re bold when you think I’m asleep.”

A slow grin spread across Django’s face. “You know, for someone who’s worried about gaining weight, you’re awfully proud of what you’ve got.”

“I contain multitudes,” she said, yawning as she adjusted herself against him. “Anxious idol. Feral goblin. Sleepy goddess. And right now? Very cozy girl being groped by her himbo mage boyfriend.”

“That’s a sacred title.”

“And one you’ve earned.”

They slipped back into that gentle rhythm of near-sleep, Django’s hand resting comfortably where it was no longer in danger of being swatted. The city hummed below them, a lullaby of neon dreams and distant thunder.

Eventually, Chaewon murmured, “Don’t let me renew just because I’m scared.”

Django kissed the top of her head. “You won’t. I’ll be here. Every step.”

And above them, the stars blinked — as if eavesdropping on something very human, very soft, and very real.

It was late afternoon, a few days after the peace summit at Django’s place. The sky outside was tinted amber, soft light slanting through the blinds and casting long shadows across the wooden floor. Django was tuning his guitar while Chaewon stretched across his futon in a loose hoodie and bike shorts, one socked foot slowly kicking in the air as she scrolled through her phone.

“Still trending,” she murmured, grinning. “Bad Tokki’s got the world eating out of her hands.”

“Not bad for an underground project,” Django replied, strumming a chord. “You sound proud.”

“I am,” she said. “Of her. Of you. Of us.”

She tossed her phone aside and rolled onto her stomach, chin propped in her hands as she watched him. “But you know… we haven’t really had time alone since I got back.”

Django looked up from his guitar. “We’re alone now.”

Chaewon grinned slowly. “I meant quality alone time. You and me. No Hanni hiding in the studio. No late-night mixing. No mystical sword quests or apocalyptic subtext.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And what exactly does ‘quality’ mean to you?”

She slid off the futon and padded toward him, slow and deliberate, until she was straddling his lap with her arms draped over his shoulders. “I want you,” she said softly, brushing her nose against his. “Not just the producer, or the hero, or the guy who keeps everyone together.”

Django’s hands settled on her hips instinctively. “So what do you want?”

Chaewon tilted her head. “I want the version of you who kisses me until I forget my name and then makes me ramen because he knows I’m always hungry afterward.”

He laughed under his breath, the sound low and fond. “You’re always hungry but I love that about you. If I could feed you and kiss you every day I would,”

Chaewon blushed at Django’s words as she felt need pool in her lower abdomen she loved when he embraced that “papa bear” side of him that would take care and pamper her but also ripped the throat out of anyone who’d hurt her. “God I’m gonna ride you till you bring him out,” she said sultry

Django smiled and said “well That version of me does make a mean bowl of ramen.”

“Then summon him,” she whispered, pressing her lips to his jaw, her breath warm against his skin. “Or I will.”

He leaned into her, forehead against hers, voice dropping. “You’re dangerous.”

“You like dangerous,” she said, hands sliding beneath the hem of his shirt. “You keep dating witches and daughters of war gods.”

“I keep dating you,” Django said, his voice rougher now. “You make me like dangerous.”

Their kiss deepens as Chaewon takes her time tracing the runes of protection that ran all over Django’s body the intimacy and closeness riled her up a bit as she slips her hand under his waistband lightly grabbing his cock and feeling him shiver under her before he got up to make the ramen. At first she pouted at the loss of closeness but followed him into the kitchen.

Chaewon smiled against his lips, kissed him slow and deep—and somewhere in the kitchen, the ramen water began to boil.

Later, the apartment smelled faintly of garlic broth and sesame oil. An empty ramen bowl sat on the coffee table, forgotten in favor of the tangled warmth on the futon, where Django lay on his back and Chaewon sprawled across his chest. His fingers traced idle shapes along the bare skin of her thigh, the edge of her hoodie hitched up just enough to tempt but not scandalize.

Chaewon sighed contentedly, her fingers playing with the chain around Django’s neck. “This,” she murmured. “This is what I missed.”

Django turned his head, brushing a kiss against her temple. “Being wrapped around me like a very demanding, beautiful cat?”

“No,” she smirked. “Being with you and not needing to fight for it. Not sharing you with danger, with grief, with someone else’s apocalypse.”

His hand stilled. “There’s always going to be something trying to take that from us.”

“I know,” she whispered, tilting her head to meet his gaze. “But tonight it didn’t win. And tomorrow it won’t either.”

He nodded, fingers tightening slightly against her skin. “You’re getting prophetic again.”

“You like me prophetic.”

“I like you clingy, sexy, confident, terrifying, and in charge of the aux cord,” he said. “I like you every way you come.”

Chaewon smiled and lifted herself enough to press a kiss to his lips—slow, heated, and languid with no rush to escape. Her thighs bracketed his hips now, and Django’s hands slid up her sides, beneath her hoodie, resting reverently just under her ribs.

“Is this okay?” he asked, voice soft but unshakable.

She nodded, breath warm against his cheek. “I’m not trying to make this a big thing,” she whispered. “But I need to feel close to you. Not chaotic. Just us.”

They moved like music—unhurried, familiar, deeply attuned. No rush, no high stakes. Just shared breath and gentle fire. Django held her like something sacred, and Chaewon let herself trust him fully in a way she rarely allowed anyone.

His hands found their way to her breasts as she straddled him. His cock more than ready for her. Chaewon sank on it relaxed.

Django enraptured by her lost control of himself in Chaewon’s surrender. Her walls coiled around him like a boa as she bounced on his cock up and down

“Fuck you fit so perfectly inside of me,” Chaewon moaned. Django’s eyes rolled into the back of his head as pussy sucked him in as if it never wanted to let him go. He moaned her name like a prayer as took more of his sanity with each grind of her hips and sway of her body.

“Fuck fuck,” they alternated as their moans reached fever pitch. As the lust and love consumed them they moaned as they came together.

In the afterglow Django stared at Chaewon and said, “I need you more than anything,” Chaewon smiled and said,

“Oh you’re really down bad for me,”

Django nodded smiling happy that the little cheetah had chosen him.

Later, she fell asleep tangled in his hoodie, one hand splayed across his chest, listening to the steady drumbeat of his heart. Django stayed awake for a while longer, watching her with a look of quiet awe, as if he were the one dreaming.

The air was thick with heat, the scent of skin and trust mixing as Chaewon straddled Django on the couch, the low hum of music barely audible beneath the sound of their breathing. Her hoodie was somewhere on the floor, forgotten. His shirt was bunched in her fists as they kissed like they were trying to memorize each other.

Chaewon gasped as Django’s hands gripped her waist, grounding her against him. His mouth trailed down her jaw, then back to her lips, where the kiss deepened—hungrier now, edged with something primal. A hum rumbled in his chest, low and possessive, like a storm warning before lightning.

She felt it—felt him—shifting into that deeper, darker part of himself. The part that wanted to keep her, guard her, mark her.

And it set something off in her.

She broke the kiss just long enough to whisper, dazed and breathless, “Then claim me… make me yours.”

Django froze, lips hovering just above hers, his grip tightening. He swallowed hard, and the breath he let out trembled.

“You make me feel so safe, Django,” she went on, her voice shaking with need and truth. “Like I’m finally allowed to be loved without conditions. So claim me. Just… hold me so close I can’t forget it.”

That was all it took.

Django kissed her again—deeper now, reverent and fierce—and when he whispered her name, it sounded like worship. His hands slid over her like he was learning every inch, not with lust but purpose. He didn’t rush. He anchored her.

In that moment, Chaewon was his. And he was hers.

But just as the fevered haze began to crest, she pressed her forehead to his and whispered, breath hitching, “I have to be careful… my body wants you to make me a mother, and I’m not ready yet.”

Django paused, lips barely brushing hers, eyes hooded and wild. Still lost in the claiming high, he said low and deep, “You’d love it. You’d love having my kids.”

The words hit her like a lightning strike—hot, dizzying, undeniable.

A small, uncontrollable shiver rolled through her spine. Her lips parted but no words came at first. The idea shook her—part fear, part craving.

She closed her eyes and took a shaky breath, grounding herself.

“Django…” she whispered, gently placing her hand on his cheek.

He blinked slowly, the haze starting to lift as he saw her clearly again. Her soft smile steadied him.

“Not yet,” she said.

He nodded, forehead pressed to hers. “Not yet.”

But the fire between them remained—slow-burning now. A promise, not a demand. And though they pulled back, curled into each other, that whispered line between them had shifted. And they both felt it. The night had quieted, and the adrenaline had faded into something softer—warm limbs tangled under the light throw blanket, Django stretched out on the couch with Chaewon tucked against his chest. The room was dim, filled only with the low buzz of the TV playing something neither of them were watching.

Chaewon lay with her head on his shoulder, fingers tracing lazy patterns along his forearm. She’d been quiet for a while. Content, but thoughtful.

Django noticed. He always noticed.

“You’re thinking,” he murmured, voice low and gravelly from earlier intensity.

She smiled into his neck. “You always say it like it’s a crime.”

“Depends what kind of thoughts,” he teased, brushing his thumb along the curve of her spine.

There was a pause. Then: “That thing you said… about me loving it if I had your kids.”

Django stiffened slightly. Just slightly. “Yeah,” he said, quiet now. “I… got carried away. I didn’t mean to—”

“I didn’t hate it,” Chaewon cut in, barely above a whisper.

Django blinked, turning his head just enough to see her eyes—open, raw with truth.

“I just… it felt too real. Too easy to want,” she admitted, pulling the blanket a little tighter around them. “And that scared me.”

He held her a little closer, his voice gentling. “You never have to rush with me. You know that, right?”

She nodded slowly. “I know. I just… I used to think I’d never even want that kind of life. Not with the industry. Not with everything I am. But with you… it’s different.”

Django didn’t say anything at first. Just kissed her temple.

Then, quietly: “Someday, if you ever did want it—kids, home, whatever us looks like long-term—I’d want it too. But right now? I just want you.”

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, tension melting.

“You’re stupidly good at saying the exact thing I need,” she mumbled.

“Don’t let that get out. I’ve got a reputation as a chaotic menace to maintain.”

She laughed—real and small—and kissed his collarbone.

“I’ll keep your secret,” she said.

The studio apartment was unusually quiet for once, save for the soft hum of the A/C and the distant tapping of Django’s foot as he flipped through synth patches on his laptop. Chaewon was curled into his side on the couch, her head tucked against his chest, fingers lazily tracing circles beneath the hem of his shirt—completely innocent in theory, but with the kind of lazy intimacy that said they’d long since crossed the threshold of restraint.

Django wasn’t saying anything, but the way his breath hitched now and then betrayed how much he was trying to stay composed.

“You’re evil,” he murmured softly, lips brushing her hair.

Chaewon smiled, just about to reply—when the door burst open.

“Chaewon, your phone is—oh my god,” Yunjin stopped mid-step, blinking hard.

Hanni peeked around her, then grinned wickedly. “Careful, unnie, keep your hands there any longer and you’ll trigger his breeding kink.”

Chaewon’s head shot up, face instantly flushed. “Yah! What the hell does that even mean?!”

Yunjin cackled. “It means we can’t have our fearless leader on vocal rest for nine months because she couldn’t keep her hands off her very accommodating boyfriend.”

Django groaned, head falling back against the couch as Chaewon scrambled to move her hands—but that just made things worse. Her fingers, in trying to escape, dragged lightly across his stomach, and Django visibly twitched.

“Chaewon,” he said under his breath, voice low and frayed, “if you keep touching me like that while trying not to touch me, I’m gonna to fuck you right in front of Hanni and Yunjin.”

Hanni looked between them, mock-offended. “Oh wow. So you do have a kink.”

“I am fine Chaewon is just handsy,” Django muttered, hiding his face with one hand.

Yunjin snorted. “Anyway, we brought ramen and gossip. You two can resume the ‘make a demigod dynasty’ agenda after dinner.”

Chaewon glared half-heartedly, cheeks still pink, but climbed off Django’s lap. He caught her hand briefly before she fully stood, brushing a kiss over her knuckles in silent retaliation.

“Oh my god, I’m getting secondhand pheromones,” Hanni said, waving the air dramatically.

“Shut up,” Chaewon grumbled, burying her face in her hands as she walked toward the kitchen—still smiling.

The ramen boiled furiously in the pot while Hanni threw in the last of the toppings—scallions, soft-boiled eggs, and a frankly ridiculous amount of chili flakes that Django silently judged from across the counter.

“While i do Iike spice I can’t help but think You’re trying to assassinate us,” he said flatly.

“It’s called building spice tolerance,” Hanni replied, proud.

Chaewon plopped down on the couch again, stealing one of Django’s hoodies and tugging it over her head. It was way too big, sleeves dangling over her fingers, and she tucked her knees up as Yunjin slid a bowl into her lap.

“Eat up, leader-nim,” Yunjin said sweetly. “Gotta keep that strength up for all your extracurriculars.”

Chaewon glared at her over the rim of her bowl. “You’re so lucky I’m too hungry to destroy you.”

“Me? I’m just here to support young love,” Yunjin said with faux innocence.

Django, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his own bowl, looked up. “You mean instigate chaos.”

“Potato, potahto.”

As they dug in, the conversation drifted from comeback gossip to the usual banter—Hanni throwing shade at a stylist’s idea of “grunge,” Yunjin venting about rehearsal choreography that made her “feel like a possessed Muppet,” and Django casually chiming in with random rock trivia that only Chaewon seemed to appreciate.

About halfway through the meal, Hanni leaned her chin on her hand and looked at Chaewon.

“I meant what I said earlier,” she said, voice quieter now. “I’m sorry I put you through so much. I know it wasn’t all me, but… it still feels like I made it harder.”

Chaewon paused, then set her bowl aside and reached across the table to nudge Hanni’s wrist.

“You did,” she said bluntly. “But you’re fixing it. That counts more than you think.”

Hanni blinked, then nodded slowly. Yunjin bumped her shoulder, and Django offered her another egg like it was a peace offering.

“Also,” Chaewon added, smirking now, “if you’re gonna keep teasing me, just know—I will find a way to retaliate. I’m patient.”

“Terrifying,” Hanni mumbled around a mouthful of noodles.

“Hot,” Django muttered without thinking.

Everyone turned to stare at him. Chaewon blinked.

He coughed into his bowl. “…I said pot. Like for ramen. You need a bigger one.”

Yunjin wheezed. “Sure, bro.”

Hanni grinned. “You are so in love it’s disgusting.”

Chaewon just smiled, this time slow and genuine, as she leaned into Django’s shoulder again. “I know.”

It was late—well past dinner, well past teasing. The ramen bowls were empty, the playlist had shifted from chaotic rock to mellow lo-fi, and the couch was sinking under the combined weight of exhaustion and comfort.

Django sat cross-legged on the floor, absently tuning the battered acoustic guitar in his lap. Hanni, sprawled out on the loveseat with a blanket half-draped over her, spoke quietly, her voice caught between reflection and frustration.

“Can I ask you something?”

Hanni glanced up. “Always.”

“What’s it like… being a Thai idol,” he said, the words slow and hesitant, “in a space that doesn’t really want Thai idols?”

Yunjin, curled up beside her, looked up. Chaewon—half asleep in Django’s hoodie—opened one eye.

“I mean,” Hanni continued, fiddling with the edge of the blanket, “I’m Aussie, right? Like, that’s what’s on my birth cert. That’s how I sound. But it’s like… the industry doesn’t see that. They see me as this… outsider. Not Korean enough. Not Japanese enough. Too Southeast Asian. And sometimes, it’s like there’s this invisible wall. Like I’m always just one feature off from being someone fans will love completely.”

Her voice dropped a little. “I guess you probably wouldn’t get it.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Django, completely deadpan, said, “I think I have some idea.”

And that was when Yunjin lost it.

She doubled over with laughter, full-body, shoulder-shaking, tear-streaming laughter, slapping her knee like it owed her money.

Hanni blinked. “What? See, I knew—”

“Hanni—” Yunjin wheezed. “You were just about to explain racial discrimination to a Black man in America.”

Hanni froze.

Her face went bright red.

“Oh my god,” she muttered, clutching her forehead. “Oh my god I’m so stupid—”

Django laughed now too, the low, warm sound of someone used to moments like this. He reached over and nudged her foot.

“You’re not stupid. You’re just used to being the only one in the room who has to explain it.”

Hanni didn’t say anything for a second. Then she looked up at him, sheepish. “Okay. But like. Why didn’t you stop me sooner?”

“I was curious where it was going,” Django shrugged. “You’ve got good stage presence.”

Chaewon finally cracked a sleepy grin. “Yeah. You should turn that monologue into a spoken word track for the next EP. ‘Bad Tokki Learns Her Privilege.’”

“Shut up,” Hanni groaned, throwing a pillow at her.

But she was smiling, even as her face burned.

A few days later the rec center was getting ready for the festival to fallen heroes.

It was a memorial to all the heroes who had been lost over the course of time and a way to give them one more honoring after their death

The sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon, casting long, golden rays over the ranch grounds. Django was in the garden near the workshop, kneeling over six neatly wrapped bundles of herbs, flowers, and folded cloth—each one meticulously tied with colored thread that matched the personality or essence of the person it honored.

Chaewon stood nearby, tying her hair back with a dark ribbon. She looked over, watching Django’s careful, reverent movements as he secured the last bundle. She counted silently.

One… two… three… four… five… six?

She frowned slightly and stepped closer.

“Django,” she asked gently, “who’s the sixth one for?”

Django paused. His hands stilled over the crimson thread of the final bundle. It took a moment before he answered.

“Nick,” he said, voice soft. “Nick Gautier.”

Chaewon sat down beside him, folding her legs. She didn’t press, just waited.

“He was a year ahead of me in high school,” Django continued, eyes on the bundle. “Half demon, full smartass. We met through music—he played drums, I played bass. We got in a fight the first day we met, then played together the next week.”

He smiled faintly. “He was the first person who actually saw me. Like—really saw me. Even when I didn’t know who I was. He could’ve judged me, or walked away when the weirdness started. But he didn’t. He just… stayed.”

Chaewon watched his face as the edges of grief and memory pulled at his expression.

“He died during one of the first major hunts I ever went on. Saving me, saving others. I used to hate that he died and I didn’t. I thought—if he had lived, maybe he would’ve handled things better. Maybe all of it wouldn’t have fallen apart.”

Chaewon reached for his hand, squeezing it gently.

“That’s why you carry so much,” she whispered. “It’s not just the missions or the wars or the gods. You’ve lost pieces of yourself with every friend you’ve buried.”

Django didn’t answer right away. Just nodded, once.

“I don’t talk about him much. Or David. Or Max. Or Jason. I think I convinced myself that if I kept moving forward, I’d carry them with me. But sometimes it just feels like weight.”

Chaewon leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. “Then let me help carry it. Even if I can’t know them, I can honor them with you.”

Django exhaled, the kind that trembled on its way out. He tilted his head, resting it lightly against hers.

“Thanks,” he murmured. “I think they’d like you.”

Chaewon smiled, eyes closed. “I think I already do.”

The wind stirred, soft and reverent, as the six bundles lay in the grass—waiting for the firelight of the Festival of Lost Heroes to guide them home.

#k pop smut #kpop fanfic #kpop smut #le sserafim smut #chaewon #chaewon smut

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sl0t4matt · 1 year ago

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omg if u can cld u pls do that one tiktok prank where like u tell ur bf to get out the room so u can change but with marc guiu !!!!! thank uuu love

m. guiu | prank

this is so badd, i didn’t even check grammar so sorry for that 😭

you casually scroll through tiktok stopping at a video of a girl pranking her boyfriend by telling him to leave the room, because she wants to change. you giggle every second through the video since it reminds you a lot of marc and your relationship. you have to do that with him! he usually never leaves the room when you change, since he has quite literally, already seen every inch of your body.

you look at marc sitting in front of his desk, legs spread and controller in between both of his hands. you can’t lie, he looks hot right now. maybe you should cancel the pran-. no. you have a mission. “marc!” you call out of him. you’re not sure if he could hear you since he’s on a call with hector, so you get up tapping his shoulder. he turns around, looking up at you, eyes dumbfound.

“i’m gonna log off.“ he tells hector, before he takes his headset off and pulls you closer by your thigh, making you stand in front of him. his hands move to you butt squeezing it with a knowing smirk on his face.

you slap his hand away, shaking your head. he’s always so horny. there’s times you’re not sure wether that’s a good or a bad thing (also since you’re not exactly better).

“baby can you get out? i’m trying to change.” he furrows his brows. “why would i get out?” he laughs. “because i want my privacy.” you answer, walking up to your closet.

“we’ve been together for four years, i’ve already seen every inch of your body, what are you talking about?” he gets up sitting down on the bed, watching you pick out an outfit. “marc just get out!” you’re starting to roll your eyes.

“did i do something wrong, ma?” you try to contain your laughter, but a smile can’t help but form on your lips, having to hide it since you’re facing the closet.

“no i just want you to leave so i can dress.” you tell him once again. “you’re not even going anywhere! i’m staying i don’t care.” he huffs, staying put in the bed. “you cunt.” you throw your top on him. he chuckles, catching it swiftly. shit you didn’t think he would catch it.

you let yourself also drop on the bed. “ugh, you passed it.” he turns around looking at you weirdly. “passed what?” you roll your eyes, playfully. “the prank. if you wouldn’t have, i could have a reason to break up with your annoying ass.” you sigh, dramatically. he suddenly moves on top of you, pinning you down on the bed. “oh, is that so?” he raises his brows, a smirk forming it’s way in the corner of his lips. you nod, teasingly.

he starts pinching the side of your waist making you giggle and try to push him off. tears build up in the corner of your eyes as he keeps tickling you. the thing is he knows exactly where you’re ticklish and where not, which makes him pulling this move totally not fair! “get off me, you whale!” he furrows his brows. “but you love this position, ma.” you gasp hitting his chest. “that’s when we’re doing something else asshole.”

“i mean if you wanna fuck just say that.” he taunts leaning closer. “shut up.” you chuckle, pushing his face away.

#fc barcelona #barca #pablo gavi #hector fort #marc guiu #pau cubarsi #joao felix #fermin lopez #lamine yamal

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kudiikis · 4 months ago

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Sub!Berlin x Fem!Reader

Warning: Straight sex.

Gift for my bestie that I met seven minutes ago: @sensationallysangwoo

Most time’s Berlin’s trauma led him to crave control as to give it up, but there was of course the rare occasion where he just couldn’t handle thinking anymore. He wanted to give it all up, to shut it all off in a safe place, with a safe person.

“Mommy,” He called, crawling toward his girlfriend as she sat at her desk.

She had a job where she could work from home, so she was always there when he needed her. She glanced down, seeing him sitting there on his knees at her side. That soft look in his eyes, glossy and pleading.

She raised an eyebrow, not expecting to see him like this, but it wasn’t unwelcomed.

“Sweet boy,” she purred, “mommy’s working.”

He moved his head closer to her, silently pleading for her touch and she granted it to him, cupping his cheek with one hand.

“Do you want to sit with me while I work?” She asked and he nodded.

She pushed back in her rolling chair, gesturing for him to get under the desk. He obeyed, sitting there on his knees facing her. She rolled forward, opening her legs so that he could sit comfortably between them. He laid his head on her inner thigh, resting his hands on her outer thighs.

She ran a hand through his hair as she returned to work, occasionally petting him every now and then. Berlin was comfortable there in her lap, her warmth and scent soothing him. He moved his head a little closer to her underwear, feeling the warmth grow.

“What are you doing down there, sweet boy?” She asked, feigning innocence.

“Warm..” He mumbled, trying to get his face closer.

She pulled his head back by his hair, stopping him from going any further.

“Did you ask?”

He looked up at her, eyes locking on her, “Please mommy.. please let me eat your pussy..”

She hummed in approval, sliding her panties off, “Of course, sweet boy.”

She kept a hand on his head as she returned to work, her breath hitching as she felt his mouth wrap around her clit. He licked and sucked, not once stopping or coming up for air.

“Good boy, making mommy feel so good..” She breathed, trying to keep her focus on the computer.

She bucked her hips a bit against his mouth, tightening her grip on his hair. She pulled his head back, looking down at his confused face with her own slick dripping down his chin.

“Go lay on the couch.” She instructed, moving back so he can move from under the desk.

He obeyed, laying there until she logged off, keeping his eyes fixed on her. She moved toward him, sitting on the couch and patting her lap. He laid down in her lap, resting his head against her chest. She ran her hand down his stomach, feeling his hard cock under his pants and the wet spot in them.

“Did you come just from eating mommy’s pussy?” She asked, rubbing the buldge.

He moaned and nodded a bit, trying to hide his face. She chuckled a bit, sliding her hand under his pants and stroking him.

“You didn’t ask for permission.” She hummed and he whined a bit.

“I’m sorry.. I didn’t mean to..”

“You still have to be punished, sweet boy.” She stroked his cock slowly, taunting him.

He moaned and whined, his breathing heavy. He bucked his hips into her hand but that only led to her stopping.

“Ah, behave or you’re punishment will get worse.”

He whimpered and stayed still, letting her edge him. Tears welled in his eyes, softly begging after nearly cumming four times.

“Mommy please..” He begged, “please, I’m sorry.. please mommy let me cum..”

She hummed, petting his hair and removing her hand from his cock. She turned his head out from her chest so that he was looking at her, taking in the pathetic and pleading look in his eyes. She could tell that he had learned his lesson, and anything more would just be cruel.

She moved her hand back down his pants and starting stroking him again, watching him try to hide his face back in her chest.

“Look at me.” She said, “I want to see your face.”

He looked back at her, face flush and moaning, eyes watery and pleading. His lips parted slightly, silently begging for a kiss and she obliged, leaning down to give him a small kiss. It wasn’t as much as he wanted, but he would take what he could. He kept his eyes on her when she broke the kiss, his body shaking slightly as he neared his edge again.

“M-mommy-“ he stuttered, moaning and whimpering.

“Yes, sweet boy?” She hummed.

“Mommy please- c-can I-“

“Cum for me, sweet boy, cum for mommy.” She purred.

He whimpered and moaned, bucking into her hand as he came, it spilling all over her hand. She kept going, not letting up. He threw his head back, moaning louder and more desperately.

“M-mommy-“

She chuckled a bit, watching him squirm and twitch in her arms. She could see his eyes rolling back, lost in the pleasure.

“P.. please..” He choked out, trying to ask for permission through his mind fog.

“Go on, give mommy what she wants.”

He came again, crying out a bit and bucking as she kept going. It was so good but so sensitive, it almost hurt.

“M-mommy- please- s-stop-“ He begged but she kept going.

“Mommy-“ he cried, bucking harder into her slick hand.

She forced him to cum three more times before she finally stopped, watching him twitch and cry. She pet his hair, gently sushing him.

“Such a good boy, you did so well.” She praised, “What do you say?”

“Thank you, mommy..” He whispered, nuzzling himself into her chest.

She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close.

#berlin money heist korea #fanfic #money heist korea #x reader

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katiemay-025 · 1 year ago

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Cabin in the Woods

~~~~~

Summary: After the rebellion you decide to move to District 7 to be with Johanna and help her through her hydrophobia.

wc: 1.7k

warnings: y/n/n = your nickname, mdni, mentions of hydrophobia, swearing, brief nudity, blood. a/n: getting tired of searching tumblr for Johanna Mason fics and not finding any new ones so I wrote one myself.

~~~~~

The train pulled into the station and when the doors open, you’re greeted by the fresh smell of pine and the thick misty clouds. It had been a months since Katniss shot Coin and the victor’s were whisked away back to their district. You were from District 10, and used to live and breathe on the farm where you raised the cattle and horses. After months without a caretaker, some of them hopped the fence but most of them died.

There wasn’t much to rebuild in District 10 so you decided a change of scenery would be nice. More than anything, you wanted to see Johanna in District 7. You wanted to see how she was doing considering she refused any more help from the doctors. So here you were standing at the District 7 platform with a small pack of clothes on your back.

Finnick gave you her address and directions to her house since he’d been there for the victory tour as the mentor for the 72nd Hunger Games. When you had won during the 66th year, Johanna hadn’t had a house yet in Victor’s Village.

Making your way through the town was easy, most people far and wide had gone to The Capitol to see Snow’s execution, they were all still trickling back. The almost ghost town didn’t bother you, but a ghost house did. At first you weren’t sure if you had the right house but then you saw the horse figurine half carved from its stake and the many other figurines. As far as you knew none of the other victors had their talent as woodcarvings.

This was definitely Johanna’s house but it was as barren as when you had came home to your house. Musty and a layer of dust caking everything. Unsure of where she could have gone, you went back to the town where a few people were moving the logs around to help with the rebuilding. Someone must know where she went so you asked around. “Hey have you seen Johanna Mason? She’s a few inches taller than me, with brown spikey hair and brown eyes. She also permanently glares at everything.”

“Oh yeah the victor, she comes into town twice a week for food supplies.”

“She’s not at her house?”

“No she’s out west past the tree farms doing god knows what.”

“Okay thank you.”

All you had to go off of was Johanna was past the tree farms. The farms looked bad, the ground was uneven, the trees were uprooted and some of them had a chunk of the trunk blasted out, District 7 must’ve rebelled here, mirroring District 10 and the main work places.

At the end of the grid of trees, there was a trail between the bushes, at the start you found tracks that led further into the forest. It took another 30 minutes before you heard wooden logs tapping against each other.

Johanna was 10 feet in the air hanging with her legs wrapped around the tree and using the back end of her axe to hammer in the final frame log for her… whatever she’s building.

“So this is where Johanna goes after the war.” You say grabbing her attention.

“You know damn well why, I fucking hate that mansion.” she said swinging down to the roof of the cabin she built below the platform. “How did you find me?”

“Oh you know, I asked for directions and the guy sent me this way to follow angry gremlin tracks.”

Johanna rolled her eyes. “I have an axe in my hand right now.”

“You’re not a threat to me Mason. I can spit on you and you’d go into shock.”

“Shut the fuck up.” She scoffed. It was mean yes, using her fears against her but Johanna needs the reality check and from experience, she takes you more seriously when you don’t coddle her.

“No. You can’t sweep it under the rug Johanna. Not this time, I won’t let you. It starts just like this, not showering, avoiding the rain. Soon it’ll turn to you not staying hydrated and I’m not letting you die.”

“So what? You’re going to stay here until I get better?”

“If that’s what it takes.” You felt it first, the cold drop of water on your hand. “Let’s go inside, you can give me a tour.” You offer your hand towards Johanna and she pushes it out of the way as she walks around the cabin to the front door. You see the hair on her neck stand followed by heavy breathing. Without a second thought, she sprinted towards the door tripping on the steps of her porch and ramming into the door.

You winced watching her in pain so you moved to help her. As soon as you touched her shoulder she knocked it away again. “I’m fine!” She shouted. You could hear the pitter patter as the rain hit the leaves above you. You felt more drops on your head and looked up to feel them on your face. You loved the rain and if Johanna wasn’t going to accept your help, you’d at least enjoy it.

You reached your arm towards the sky smiling at the cool misty air. You hopped from the porch and ran circles around the tree spinning through the forest like a fairy. In the floor, you collected the pine needles and threw them into the air with a giggle, but you quickly turned your head to Johanna who sat with her back towards the door and her knees pressed to her chest.

The rain wasn’t getting to her because of the overhang but you saw the glistening under her eyes. Blood ran down her nose as well and watching her was like that 17 year old girl who cried through her reaping and her interview. Only this time it was real. You quickly stopped your dance and walked over to her, ignoring the squelching in your shoes. You crouched down out of arms reach from her. You wanted to hold her but you knew it would send her into a deeper madness because of your wet clothes.

“Are you okay?”

“It’s not fair! It’s not fair that you get to go out and dance in the rain and I can’t.” She whined. “District 7 is a rain forest, it rains majority of the days here and I can’t even step off my porch.”

“You’re right it’s not fair, but like I said, I’ll be here and I’ll help you every step of the way. One day we’ll be able to dance together in the rain.”

“It’s stupid. I know you’re fine but I-“

You waited for her to continue but her voice died out. “It’s not stupid Johanna. It’s completely understandable.” You reached your hand out to catch the rain and held it out towards Johanna. “Baby steps. If you wanna poke the water, go ahead. If not I’ll just sit here.”

This was a tactic to get the horses to trust you with a brush, holding the item in your hand and letting them feel the bristles of the brush for themselves before you grooming their hair. Johanna crawled to sit next to you. You heard her sniffling and saw her fingers shake when she brought it up. You never moved letting her dip her finger in the pool of your palms. “I can do this. It can’t hurt me.” She said to herself before plunging her finger in the water.

Johanna looked up at you like a child looking for approval and you returned a beaming smile. Your cheekbones rose high to turn your eyes into crescent moons. In all honesty you were proud she at least retained some things the doctor in District 13 taught her, like positive self motivation.

It seemed to click for Johanna that she actually touched water from the first time since The Block. “It’s a start. I’m proud of you.” You said.

Johanna let out a sigh she didn’t know she was holding as she looked into your eyes. If you weren’t here, she’d have hid under her bed until who knows when, but in your presence, it was like a protection. Through everything you had gone through, you were still the same caring and patient y/n she knew.

“I’m going to change before I start catching a cold.” You stood up stripping off your jacket. The cold water seeping down your back and you left it next to the door.

“If I see any water inside I’m strangling you.”

You shook your head as you stripped off the rest of your clothes turning to an all too smug Johanna. “Happy?”

“Very.” She said checking you up and down. “It’s like your horses and the apples you give them when they do a good job. I touch water and you get naked as a reward.

You laugh at her comparison. You couldn’t even be mad at her, after all, you did treat her like a horse a couple minutes ago. If this was going to help her then you wouldn’t mind.

“Okay. I can do that only in private though. I am not getting naked at the market, when you run your hand through the produce sprinklers.”

“That’s better for me then. I get you to myself.” She opened the door and let you go in. As you stepped into her cabin in the woods, you felt a hand squeeze the skin on your butt and snapped your head towards her, her name on the tip of your tongue. Johanna threw her head back laughing at your reaction before walking past you and bumping her hip with yours. "Make yourself some tea, I've got tea bags and pine needles. Collect your own water though. I'll get you some towels and clothes to dry off."

What a day, from being on a train to getting naked in the middle of the forest. No matter what though, you were glad that the day was ending in the presence of Johanna Mason. After putting on her clothes, because you stupidly left your pack in the rain, the two of you cuddled under a blanket and enjoyed the warmth of the crackling fire.

#the hunger games #johanna mason x reader #Johanna Mason x gender neutral!reader #johanna mason fluff #johanna mason #johanna mason oneshot #johanna mason x you

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raffaelamusiker · 2 months ago

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I was tagged by @the-oracle-of-the-lost to share a favourite scene I’ve written and boy, that’s a hard choice. For a short scene, I think it has to be a part of In the Woods Somewhere.

A fic about how much Seven pines after Raffi, surrounded by pine trees and bioluminescent moss. The scene before this one I love too, but this specific scene is just so calming and visceral.

Seven wakes up first just as dawn begins to break. It takes her a few seconds to realise why she feels so content and cosy. She’s only partly in her sleeping bag, one leg hooked over Raffi, hand under her ridden up tank top, fingers brushing the underside of her breast whilst her head lays directly over her heart. Raffi’s hand is settled on the back of her neck, the other on her knee.

She lays there, soaking in the warmth that Raffi radiates, at how her head and her heart feel lighter to be in such a position. But she knows she can’t stay like this as much as she wants to. Seven doesn’t want Raffi to be uncomfortable if she wakes up now. (It feels good though. So good and so, so right). Still, she quietly slips from Raffi’s hold, and sits up, putting on her clothes with hopes that she can disappear outside whilst she sleeps.

It's foggy outside as Seven emerges from the tent. The grass is damp with dew, the treeline hazy and mysterious as it disappears in and out of view. The temperature has dropped and the hairs on her arms stand up as she makes her way to the campfire to light it and boil some water for coffee. She can see her breath in the air as she sits on one of the logs, watching as the low clouds pulse and move in ways that are beyond comprehension.

The forest has a completely different energy this morning, one that draws in travellers with ghostly, beckoning hands never to be seen from again. Raffi had said the day before that every forest is magical in its own way. Seven hadn’t believed her then because magic was a myth, a fantasy, but now, she can feel the power pouring from the trees and ground. Everything is so still, so peaceful. Seven decides it’s her favourite way the forest looks.

It makes her want to live somewhere like this one day. A cabin surrounded by trees (pine, for sure - she loves the smell) with a view of mountains or a river where the fog rolls in come the morning and is burnt off by the sun before the afternoon. Somewhere that holds more power and secrets than she ever thought could exist, but is kind, patient and protective to those who respect it.

If Raffi was a place.

The water boils and Seven makes her coffee. She takes the first, hot sip and lets the seeping sensation trickle through her. The steam spirals into the air and Seven watches the sun rise through the trees and how the sky changes from blue, to purple, to pink, to red and yellow. She sees a flock of birds soar from distant trees, swooping and dancing around one another in a spectacular show.

At ease, Seven sits.

The other scene, which is far too long to post here is in Roots Before Branches. For so long I’d wanted to write a story where Raffi and Michael met. I wanted to create a world where the many coincidences between them made sense. They were part of the same family.

The whole fic is very special to me. It took four months to write and is so far my longest single chapter work.

But in the scene Michael helps Raffi realise that her memory and legacy are carried into the future, that so many people admire her and think she’s important. And Raffi helped Michael know that they were never forgotten in the past. That Discovery lived on, that everything they lost wasn’t for nothing. They find family in each other. Connection they never knew they were missing.

It also holds my favourite line about Raffi and Seven at the end.

I’ll share a small snippet:

And as if Michael was reading her mind, ‘’Do you believe in coincidences Raffi?’’

Raffi shook her head quickly. ‘’No, I don’t. Not very often anyway. If coincidences like this existed, I think I’d go a little insane. I had an experience a long time ago which I only came to understand years later and if that showed me anything, it’s that the universe has created a well-crafted trail for me to end up in the most unlikely of places.’’

‘’You think you being here and us having this conversation was destined?’’

��’No, I don’t exactly believe in destiny, I wouldn’t even call myself spiritual to a point, but there’s been too much…I don’t know, too many signs for me to say that all of this was a coincidence. Similar family names, how everything feels oddly familiar with you, the fact that over a year ago while I was undercover I came across the phrase The Red Lady , searched multiple results and what happened to come up? A wormhole by the name of The Red Lady . A wormhole we so happened to come across that sent us into the future directly into your path. And adding onto how the angel suit matches a red lady description too…’’

Michael laughed and nodded, leaning back against the table. ‘’When you put it like that, I’d say you’re probably right. Too many variables in this to be considered a coincidence.’’

‘’Exactly! It’s nice to know someone gets it. Most people would say I’m crazy.’’

‘’We’re not exactly most people around here.’’

‘’No, no, I guess not.’’ Raffi hummed, eyes shifting to the brass telescope as it peered out at the great expanse of space. ‘’I’m grateful though, that I’ve been able to have this experience. That all of you have been so welcoming and accepting. Last time I time travelled…it changed me, carved me out into something hollow. But this seems to have balanced it out a little. That is if we can get back home.’’

Michael placed her hand on Raffi’s shoulder in a supportive grasp. ‘’Don’t worry, we’ll get you back to your time. You and Seven have many more adventures to go on.’’

‘’Oh really?’’ Raffi smiled. ‘’For how long?’’ She asked, teasing, not so much expecting an answer to it.

‘’Indefinitely.’’

Raffi felt something settle inside her, an old anxiety that had reared its head ever since she had met Seven. The fear that they could never match each other's momentum for too long. One of them would be going too fast or too slow. She would never be good enough for Seven of Nine, even if the universe had been plotting their paths to converge since the dawn of time. But that had dissipated now. Raffi trusted Michael’s word inexplicably.

They were indefinite. Just like her love. Just like time.

Thank you for the tag! I’m going to tag @sevenofninehouseofmusiker, @pilcrowtudinous, @falltonadir and @happenstobehere if they want to do it

#raines tag game #raines ramblings

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madameaug · 3 months ago

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First Verse

Pairing: Erik x Lola (OC)

A/N: This is a little short, but I wanted to post something :)

Read the beginning Good Kisser

Two weeks had passed since Lola performed at the Grammys, and the clicks and views were still rolling in. Clips of her performance flooded TikTok, reaction videos were popping up, and fans were tagging her nonstop. Her skin-tight outfit in the performance started a fashion trend. Her team was thrilled, and now it was time to keep the momentum running. Her management had called a meeting to strategize her next moves and keep the momentum going.

Luckily, her management team was flexible and could hold the meeting anytime. Unfortunately, it was right in the middle of her studio time.

One of the many perks of signing to EMPIRE Records was that Lola had a private studio that she didn't have to share with any artist or DJ. There were no booking conflicts or rotating schedules; it was hers to claim and decorate. The freshly painted walls were a soft plum, purple just seemed to foster creativity. A massive corkboard hung above her desk, filled with lyrics scribbled, old Polaroids, and sticky notes with inspirational quotes. Her couch sat under the window and Lola relaxed on the flattened pillows.

When her management team opened the door, they found her exactly where she was folded on the couch in an oversized hoodie, lazily scrolling through Pinterest boards.

"I'm not hearing any songs." Logan, Lola's manager, sang sarcastically. Her pencil-thin eyebrows looked over at the music board.

"Where is Trey?" Logan questioned, already knowing the answer would irritate her.

"He stepped out. He went to the bathroom, I think." Lola repositioned herself, closing the laptop. Logan wouldn't allow her to decorate in peace- of course not.

"You already know what I am getting ready to ask. So let's be proactive and start."

Logan made herself comfortable and sipped on her fire-red Stanley cup. Her matching lipstick left an imprint on the straw. Logan was a stubborn bump on a log and proud of it. She claims that's the only way to survive in the entertainment industry, but Lola had a suspicious Logan was just built that way from birth. The woman could sniff out BS from a mile away and had no issue calling it out.

It took Lola a while to get used to how abrasive Logan could be when hearing her songs, but ultimately, this is how Logan showed her support. If you looked crazy is public, you didn't just embarrass yourself-you embarrassed the whole team. Logan wouldn't allow anyone to make her look like a fool.

Lola pulled up the studio laptop, and clicked through folders of old demos.

"I will preface that alot of these songs I wrote a long time ago, but I decided to clean them up."

"Oh goody, another love song from a sappy high school girl." Logan waved her hands dramatically.

Letting her music speak for itself, Lola clicked on the first song. The intro was gritty and dark. The instrumental was slow with a consistent vibrato that was catchy, like something you'd hear playing in an indie film. Lola hadn't written lyrics yet but had layered hums over the beat like ghostly echoes.

Logan stayed silent. Her legs crossed at the ankle, fingers flying across her phone. The asymmetrical bob she rocked partially covered one eye. No head bob, no foot tap. No reaction.

Taking her cue Lola played the next song.

"This is my personal favorite." Lola was a bit hesitant to play, but clicked the song nonetheless. The song had an unmistakable sample of Beyonce's Haunted, slowed with an eerie bassline. Unlike her airy singing, her voice was deeper and almost cracked in certain places. The lyrics were clear with vivid imagery- teenage hallways, the smell of gasoline, the sound of sirens.

“This was about… someone I lost,” she began, eyes fixed on the screen. “When I was sixteen, my boyfriend was killed. It was some retaliatory thing—wrong place, wrong time. I had to drive past the gas station where it happened every single day to get to school. That song, Haunted, played on the radio the day after he died. I couldn’t listen to it for years. But it… stuck.”

The lyrics she wrote told the story of being frozen in time. The way love became grief, the way silence became a second skin. It was raw, it was haunting—it was haunted.

Logan finally paused her typing and inhaled deeply, loud in the otherwise quiet room.

"I like the other better. The second one is too emotional."

"Well excuse the fuck outta me." Lola blinked, scoffing.

Logan slowed down her typing, looking up at Lola.

"Do you disagree?"

"No, but the song is supposed to be emotional. It's about a loss."

Pausing to find her words, Logan put her phone down.

“The song is not bad. So I’m not saying scrap it. But think from the listener’s perspective. You just blew up singing ‘Good Kisser’ on stage. That’s your first impression. If your next release is this… heavy, it might confuse people. That’s not your intro to the public—it’s your therapy. And that’s okay. Just… not yet.”

Lola nodded, lips pursed. She hated to admit it, but Logan had a point. College was the first time she finally talked to someone—an actual therapist—about what happened. About how she stopped celebrating her birthday because it was too close to his funeral date. About how she had memorized the crack in the sidewalk near the crime scene. She had done the work to heal. Maybe this song was just the last stitch in the wound.

As the first track started playing again, Trey finally re-entered the room.

The first track started playing again, and Trey re-entered the room.

"You were in the bathroom for a long time Trey, It might be time to get that checked out."

"Logan, let me piss in peace." Trey playfully dismissed her snide remark. Sitting in the chair, reclining a bit Trey launched himself forward.

"I know this dude who would be a fire collab for this track."

"Who?" Logan and Lola spoke at the same time.

Like he was prepared, Trey pulled out his phone. Typing into the search key, he showed his phone. The artist stood before a mic, his locs covering his eyes. He bounced left to right as he freestyled into the mic.

Covering his mouth with his fist, Trey was totally enamored by the heavy drill rap lyrics. Looking to Logan, Logan remained stoic and unimpressed.

"Turn that shit off." She waved her manicured nails.

"He sounds like every drill rapper. Why would we collab with him?" Folding her arms, she popped out her hip, waiting for a response.

"Well, this is the new Jay-Z protegee, Rico." That statement caught Logan's attention. She motioned for Trey to continue.

“I think he’s connected to a few of Jay’s old circle. Word is, he’s the little brother of a NY legend. But he’s not just hype—he’s collabed with Durk, Keef, and 21 Savage. Got bars and delivery. He’s down for the collab already.”

"He's already down for the collab." Trey stuffed his phone in his pocket.

"Okay, perfect." Logan seemed content sitting back on the couch.

"Huh?" Lola interjected. "When were you gonna tell me?"

"I was gonna bring it up... eventually." Spinning back in his chair to avoid Lola's harsh glare. He fidgeted with the music board.

"If the song flops, I will never reach out to an artist for a collab again. Scouts honor." Trey joked, raising his hand.

"Yeah, and you might be out of a job too." Logan pitched in, sipping on her cup.

#madameaug #black oc #black writers #micheal b jordan #erik stevens x black oc #erik stevens #killmonger x black oc #black readers

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annaphoenix1994 · 7 months ago

Text

The Devil Wears a Suit and Tie

Previous Chapter - Masterlist - Next Chapter

»»-------¤-------««

The following morning, Simon refused to let Kiera up early as he viewed five a.m. to be too early for anyone to get up to work, in his opinion. "Babe, I need to get up." She sighed, showing no sign of getting up herself, pressing her head against his chest as she turned over, Simon embracing her gesture and rubbing her bare arm.

"You've been up early all week. You need rest and haven't slown down since we got back."

"I need to find out who killed our cattle."

"And you will, but you can't keep searching unless you don't rest first."

She sighed against his chest, rolling her eyes as she did as she was told, Simon's face holding a smirk with victory as he got up when she did.

Every day.

A few hours later, Simon awoke to peppered kisses against his bare chest. His favorite way to wake up if he were to be honest. He rubbed his eyes with his free hand, the other gripping her arm as a way to tell her he was awake. "We overslept." She whispered, a giggle following suit.

"Worth it." He mumbled, moving his body to where he was between her legs, his warm skin colliding with her cold stomach, goosebumps erecting on his arms. He nestled his head under her breasts, hearing her heartbeat increase as she giggled, his arms forcing themselves between her body and the bed seeking warmth.

Her fingers splayed through his dirty-blonde hair, her fingernails scratching his scalp comfortingly as they both enjoyed the position. He promised himself he wouldn't stay in the position long due to the worry of crushing her with his weight, but she kept insisting he stay where he was every time he tried to get up, both dozing back off once relaxed.

Kiera's eyes fluttered open to the sound of her phone ringing. Looking to her right, she noticed it was a familiar caller responding to her voicemail. She kept combing her fingers through Simon's hair, unaware that he had woken up the minute he heard her phone vibrating, his position concealing her view to his face. "Hello?" She sighed, putting the phone on speaker and setting it beside her.

"Kiera, I'm sorry I'm just now hearing your voicemail. Have a good Christmas?"

"Oh, yeah, aside from an entire pasture of cattle being killed, it's been good." She scoffed.

Laswell sighed over the other end of the phone, "I'm sorry. How can I help?"

"I need you to run a name through the FAA database."

"I'm in front of my computer now," Laswell replied. "Shoot."

"Look up Hershel Shepherd."

Simon's gaze peered up at her, his eyes connecting to hers as they could distinctly hear Laswell typing on her keyboard on the other end of the phone.

"Seems like he owns a plane," Laswell replied. "He's not a licensed pilot, though."

"He had someone else fly it." Kiera mumbled under her breath.

"Hm?"

"Nothing," She replied, sighing. "Where's it being kept at?"

"Looks like it's being held in a private facility just outside of Powell, Wyoming. I'm not seeing any recent flight logs."

"That's only about an hour from here," Kiera said, Simon noticing that her heart rate was increasing. "Are you saying this motherfucker had the balls to "relocate"?"

"It's hard to say. Many people with judicial power have locations all over the map for privately-owned equipment."

"Yeah? Well, this is too much of a coincidence," She raised a brow. "Who's the pilot on the flight logs?"

"Hold on," Laswell replied, intense typing muffling the silence through the phone. "Looks like the most recent flight was performed by a Malcolm Childress. Does that name ring a bell?"

Kiera sighed heavily, "It sure as shit does. How recent was the last flight?"

"I'm seeing a test flight and inspection done on December fourteenth. Nothing after that."

"How many logs is he on?"

"He's on all of them so far."

"Run his name through the FAA, too. Get me current address."

"Sure, give me a few minutes. I'll call you back and let you know."

"Text it to me. I'm going to get ready."

"Okay. Let me know if you need anything else."

Simon watched as Kiera hung up, a sharp glare in her eye - a glare he only recognized when she was on the battlefield.

She was on a warpath.

Kiera pat Simon's bare shoulder, assuming that he was still asleep when he looked up at her, his tired eyes begging her to stay in bed longer instead of conquering the brutal Wyoming weather, but he knew better than to beg her.

She yawned as she forced herself to sit up in the bed, the chilled air kissing her shoulders and causing her to shiver. Simon watched her dress, admiring her battle scars that littered her feminine skin.

She was incredible.

"Care to join me for breakfast?" He asked, coming up behind her to stare at her through the mirror, watching her study the insecurities he saw as beauty.

She nodded, "Always, babe."

He kissed her neck at the nickname he grew to love as much as her. "Just wish you'd led me cook breakfast for once." She continued.

He shook his head against her neck, "Gotta get up early to cook me breakfast, love."

She scoffed, "I do! You just don't let me get up!"

"I know." He smirked, pressing another kiss to her neck, feeling her sigh.

"You up for a drive today?"

"If you want me to," He replied, looking at her through the mirror, seeing the worry on her face. "What about the guys?"

"Hell they can come too if they want," She snickered. "I shouldn't need another gun today."

"I'll always be by your side, love. Don't ever think I won't. I'll go get Johnny and we'll come with you."

"Okay," She nodded, glancing at him through the mirror before turning to face him. "This is my life, babe. You sure you want to stick around for it?"

"Like I've said before, I don't care what life throws at me. As long as I'm with you."

"I can say the same, baby."

"Was hoping you'd say that." He chuckled, looking down at her to watch her lips get closer to his.

She hummed against his lips, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and her fingers toying with the chain of his dog tags.

»»-------¤-------««

"You ready?" Simon asked Johnny as he slipped on his coat.

"You know it, L.T." He nodded.

"Where's everybody else?"

"Down at the ranch. They're dying to help out and live the lifestyle," He replied. "Can't blame them. There's not anything like this where we're from."

"I know."

The pair walked from the house, meeting Kiera at the truck, seeing both Lawson and Frankie approaching her on horseback, each carrying a rifle in their scabbard. "How many?" She asked, walking up to them.

Lawson pulled a notepad from his vest pocket, "Two hundred and eighty." He sighed.

"Goddammit," She grumbled, moving a mound of gravel with her boot. "Go up to the lodge and tell dad. I'm making a trip to Powell."

"Okay. Those boys you brought over here are down at the barn helping us today. That boy of Alejandro's is dying to tag a calf."

She chuckled, "Well, let him learn. Run 'em through a chute and let him have at it."

Lawson nodded, "Yes ma'am."

"I'm taking Simon and Johnny with me today. If you see Price, just let him know."

"Sure. They have badges?"

"They don't need one. Just me."

"Then why are they going with you?" Frankie questioned, furrowing his brows.

"Insurance."

»»-------¤-------««

The drive to Powell was quiet, aside from the sound of Soap eating on his breakfast after he had begged Kiera to stop at the local McDonald's, claiming that their hash browns were "too good to pass up."

"What're we doing here?" Johnny asked, oblivious to the point of the trip.

"Looking for someone."

His face held a confused look, "I-I thought we were looking for a plane?"

"Change of plans, Johnny." Simon grumbled, looking to his right out the window, admiring the landscape along the road.

Simon watched as Kiera fumbled with her phone, looking at the caller ID before hitting 'accept.' "Yeah?"

"Okay, I have an address for Malcom Childress," Laswell said. "He has an office on Main Street in Powell."

"Figured he'd stay in the military." She scoffed.

"Well, there's something you should know about that."

"And what's that?"

"Graves used to be his superior. He was on Shadow Team with him for the last two tours performed."

"Fucking figures."

"He's a real estate broker in Powell. He got home after Thanksgiving. And Kiera," Laswell sighed. "He survived the raid of Alejandro's HQ."

"That's impossible. We swept the whole thing!"

"Unless he escaped. We don't know for sure, but I confirmed he was there. He was awarded with a Purple Heart recently."

"Shit," Kiera scoffed. "Guess they award the ones who don't need it, huh?"

"I guess so. Be considerate about this, Kiera." Laswell advised.

"Oh, I'm as considerate as the next person." She scoffed, ending her call with Laswell as her grip on the steering wheel tightened.

Simon watched her gaze on the road, her pupils dilating as her anger changed her complexion as she took the exit to Powell.

Once at the location, Kiera parked the truck on the side of the road, informing both Simon and Johnny to stay in the vehicle as she approached the gate, a guard stopping her immediately. She removed her badge from behind the confines of her vest before the gate opened. Simon watched with his stark gaze, watching as she disappeared from his line of sight. His palm rested on the pistol that was wedged between the console and the seat.

His leg shook impatiently as twenty minutes passed by, the diesel idling under his weight before the door opened. "Everything okay?" He asked her.

"Looked at everything I could. Need to go into town and pay a visit."

"Where to?" Johnny asked.

"That motherfucker's office." She replied, looking at him through the rear-view mirror of the truck before putting it in gear.

Oh, shit, Simon huffed to himself, knowing what was to come next.

»»-------¤-------««

"You two can come with if you want." She said, parking the truck and removing her vest, tossing it into the backseat before they all exited the truck, both Simon and Johnny walking closely behind her as she entered the office.

"Hello," The receptionist smiled at her, her brows furrowing as she recognized the anger on Kiera's face. "How can I help you?"

"Is Malcom Childress here?"

"Um, did you have an appointment?" She asked, looking at her computer.

Kiera looked at her before looking to her right, seeing the man in question dressed in a suit and tie, entering his glass-enclosed office as if he had no problem in the world.

But he was about to.

She glared at him, knowing he was unaware of her presence, "That's not what I asked."

Johnny and Simon glanced at each other, following Kiera as she stormed towards Malcom's office, grabbing a bottle of fine wine from the side table that was offered for the representatives working overtime as well as dinners at the office. A guard standing point next to his office, grasped his pistol, removing it from its holster, Kiera beating him to the carnage by using the bottle and disarming him first by slamming the bottle into his armed wrist before bringing it to meet his jaw, causing him to fall to the floor before she stormed into Malcom's office, throwing the bottle at him without any hesitation.

He gasped, ducking down to the floor to avoid the shards of glass, yelling "what the fuck!" before recognizing who was in his office.

She walked around his desk, pointing her finger, "Why in the fuck are you here?"

"I have every right to be here?!" He shouted.

"Awful weird coincidence you're here all of a sudden? What happened to staying in Texas? Got tired of laying pipe to your ole lady? Or did she catch you cheating with your military card?"

He stepped closer to her, narrowing his eyes, unaware that Simon had stepped closer after seeing Malcom try to intimidate her. Not on my watch.

"You don't know what you're talking about." He growled.

"If I didn't know what I was talking about, I wouldn't have said it," She hissed. "How much is Shepherd paying you, huh? How much did he pay you to kill our cattle?"

"I plead the fifth."

She pursed her lips, grasping Malcom by the collar and forcing him against the wall. He tried to fight back with his strength, easily overpowering her until Simon stepped in, asserting dominance immediately by keeping Malcom pinned against the wall. "You touch her and that's the last thing you'll ever do." He warned.

"I didn't kill your cows!" He shouted at her. "But I wish I did. I'd kill every head of livestock you had."

"But you flew the plane, huh?" She grumbled, watching his bodyguard stumble into the office. "A little late." She snarked at him, watching Malcom nod his head at him to stand down.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Malcom grumbled at her.

"Bullshit. If you didn't do it, I wouldn't be here, but yet Shepherd has you running his goddamn plane all over the area of our ranch, huh?"

"I haven't flown since the military."

"I'm not going to say this again," She warned, grabbing a shard of broken bottle and holding it to his neck. "Your name is all over the fucking flight logs. All recent flights are within a hundred mile radius of our ranch and I know you're not flying for shits and giggles."

"Then why are you here? Why are you doing this, huh? If you know whose plane it is then why aren't you going after him?"

"Because you're first on my list. I'm going for him after I take out the trash."

"Then you should walk out that door before you play the wrong game."

"Is that a threat, mate?" Simon hissed.

"Maybe."

"You know, Malcom, you know as well as I do that's a dance with the devil if you fuck with me." She warned.

"Then let's dance if that's what you want," He grumbled, the vein in his temple tapping at the thin skin of his forehead. "Fucking coming in here thinking you own the place and threatening me for flying a fucking plane."

"By the time I'm done, I'll have the trash taken out and own this place. I'll have your PPL hanging above my fucking toilet."

"It'd look nice, wouldn't it?" He smirked. "So what if I can fly a plane?"

"It's not that you can fly a plane, it's where you've been flying it. Especially considering that it doesn't belong to you."

She nodded for Simon to let him go, watching Malcom hunch over to catch his breath. "Don't make me come back." She warned.

"What happens if you do?" He scoffed.

"If I do, you won't walk out."

Simon and Johnny followed behind her, watching the guard glance over her with a sarcastic comment playing at his lips. "Nice move." He said, referring to her technique of disarming him.

"It wasn't a move. I'm just meaner than you."

#simonghostriley #simonriley #simon riley #simon ghost riley #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty modern warfare 2 #callofduty #cod #ghost cod mw2 #cod mw2 ghost #ghost mw2 #cod mwii #cod mw2 #cod ghost #ghost call of duty #ghost cod

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zacharybosch · 2 years ago

Text

Tell Me if You Feel It

Through the fire, Stede’s eyes and the pearly snaps of his neat shirt glint in the flickering light. “Something about me, like what?”

Fresh, is the word that immediately springs to mind, along with soft and bouncy and unspoiled, and Ed doesn’t say any of them. “Just something. Not a bad thing. Nice to have someone I can show the ropes to.”

-------

hello and welcome to my ed/stede brokeback mountain AU! E-rated, 7k one-shot, nobody dies but it is bittersweet ❤

title is from Supermoon by case/lang/veirs, please also check out my spotify playlist for some additional sad cowboy vibes

🤠

read Tell Me if You Feel It below or on ao3!

🤠

The great flock of sheep rolls across the high pasture like clouds on a stormy afternoon. It’s a cooler summer than most he’s had in his so-far short life, colder still up here on the face of the mountain, and Ed tucks his jacket a little tighter about his body. He twists his mouth to curtail his smile as he watches Stede, this shiny well turned-out boy, trotting circles around the herd and standing in the saddle to show off and wave his pretty little hat, high peals of laughter carrying away on the wind. Ed’s not been up here since the start of the season, his role as camp tender requiring him to stay further down the mountain, but the sheep needed fresh grazing and moving a flock this size takes more than one man. Nice to have some company for the day besides, and Stede seems happy enough to have him there.

Ed chews on the cheroot sticking out of his mouth. He won’t light it yet; only got a few left and the man from the ranch isn’t due to meet them with supplies for a couple more days, but he savours the taste, bitter tobacco and something leathery and old. His horse, a sweet-tempered mare with a ruddy chestnut coat, whickers softly and shifts her hooves against the earth. Impatient to be off, tired of the saddle and the man on her back, but Ed rubs a soothing hand on her neck and she’ll stop and wait for as long as she’s told.

Stede comes trotting over, pink cheeks puffing out beneath the wide brim of his hat, and his own piebald mare flicks her eyes at Ed. “Beans for supper?” he asks, even though he doesn’t have to, since they’ve been up here a month now and consistently eat through the good stuff days before the next scheduled supply run.

Ed plucks the cheroot from between his lips and tucks it behind his ear. “Beans for supper,” he agrees, then clicks his tongue and presses in with his legs and points his horse on the trail back to camp, knowing Stede will follow behind.

At camp, Stede brushes down the horses while Ed gets the fire going. Some of the firewood’s a little damp and Ed mutters idle curses as he tries to encourage the struggling flame, but soon enough it starts to catch and he slowly adds logs until it’s burning strong and bright.

The beans aren’t so bad. They cook them in the cans and eat from them too, spoons clacking against the cheap metal, no point dirtying pots and bowls for this. Stede always looks thoughtful when he eats, and Ed supposes it’s because this is all a novel experience for him; it’s clear Stede comes from money, with his jeans still dark and stiff at the seams, boots that have only just now started to crease after a month of wear, gold and teal stitching bright on the shaft. Begs the question why Stede is even here, what a well-heeled boy like him could possibly be looking for up in the wild mountains.

They’ve talked some in the month they’ve been up here, although not much and never for long. Practical concerns mostly, what the weather’s doing and which horse has a stone in its shoe and how soon should they move the sheep on to the next pasture, never going too personal save for one time Ed caught sight of a coyote prowling the camp, big son of a bitch that had already taken several of their lambs, grabbed his .30-30 Winchester and got it clean between the eyes first try, and Stede whooped and hollered and breathlessly asked where he learned to shoot like that. Only one other time he’s taken a shot that clean and Stede wouldn’t like it if he knew about it, so he just shrugged the question away and kept his talk superficial, tended the camp and minded his business while Stede rode in and out each morning and evening.

Stede’s not the kind of company Ed would normally choose to keep; always difficult to know where you are with white boys, not to mention rich ones, even if they smile and shake your hand with a litany of pleasantries, and it’s oftentimes too much work to stay on their good side with no reward to show for it so Ed just doesn’t bother. But it’s been lonely up here too, and the solitude can eat a man up from the inside out if he’s not careful about it. Ed needs company more than he cares to admit, and over the metal scrape of spoons in cans and the jumping crackle of the fire, he starts to think maybe that need could be met.

He kicks the conversation off with the blandest thing he can say, safe and cautious and still more personal than anything he’s allowed in the past month. “Did this last summer, the herding. Thinking I might go for next year too, if they’ll have me back again.”

Stede immediately perks up, sitting to get a better look at Ed across the fire, pushing his hat back with an excited, thoughtless gesture. “An old hand then, are you? It’s my first time here.”

Ed looks down at his can and smiles as he scoops up the dregs of food. “I can tell,” he says, and maybe it’s the wrong thing to say, because that’s just the kind of inoffensive and gentle poking that gets boys like Stede so wound up, so he qualifies it with, “Not that I mean anything by that. Just something about you.”

Through the fire, Stede’s eyes and the pearly snaps of his neat shirt glint in the flickering light. “Something about me, like what?”

“You are good with the sheep. They’ll be pleased when it’s your turn up the mountain, I think.”

“I spent my whole damn life sleeping with sheep, been nice to get away from them for a while to be honest,” which isn’t all that honest, because Ed finds a good deal of comfort in the dumb beasts with their serene yellow eyes and distant, soft bleating. Growing up on a lonely, windswept ranch, earth blown flat in every direction as far as the eye could see, no children about and no safe place to be other than wandering with the sheep, far from the house and the darkness that lived inside.

“My daddy owns ranches, but we never lived on one,” Stede says, as though plucking Ed’s memory from his head and placing his own alongside it. “A whole lot of them, all across the state. He worked hard to make a good life for our family and now he hates me for enjoying that life, hates me for not working hard like he did. Thought he might like it if I put some work in here, lighten up his dim view of me.”

“Is that so,” Ed says, face neutral and heart beating at Stede’s honest, ready admission.

“I hope I’m doing a good job.”

If a man can hate his own son for the simple fact of his existence, then there’s no job in the world that can be done good enough to gain his favour back. Stede is still trying to shut that barn door, but Ed knows the horse has already bolted. “You are.”

Stede smiles at him across the fire, a forlorn thing that doesn’t reach his eyes. “That’s kind of you to say, Ed. I know I could do better.” Quiet settles between them for a minute, just the crackle of the wood and the rush of sparks as the pile of logs collapses in on itself a little more. “To tell you the truth, Ed, I’m dreading going back home at the end of the summer. I don’t think he’s waiting for my return. Pleased to be rid of me, most likely.”

Nothing Ed can say to that, nothing real that will make a lick of difference. What platitudes can he give when his own father hated him just as much? “Do just fine on your own, I reckon. A man’s gotta leave home some time, anyway. Better to do it now, strike out when you’re young.”

“Is that what you’re doing?”

“In a way. Choice was made for me, really.” Normally Ed wouldn’t go into it, or he’d spin some fanciful yarn about seeking his fortune, answering the call of the big wide world. But Stede told him something true, and Ed wants to give a truth back. “My folks aren’t around. Old man kicked it some years ago. Mama went last year, bank tried to take the ranch to pay off all the debts we got left with, stress of trying to fight it sent her to the grave earlier than she should’ve gone and then the bank just took the ranch anyway. I put some work in at a few places since then and they’ve usually been willing enough to give me a space to lay my head at night.” Ed pushes the long tail of his braided hair away over his shoulder, taps his spoon against the side of his empty can, anything to do that isn’t looking at Stede’s open, interested face. “Do just fine on my own.”

“It’s lonely, I suppose.”

“Yeah. Can be.”

Ed isn’t quite twenty; Stede only just. Little more than boys really, too young still to be carrying this kind of weight with no idea yet how to ease their burdens, but it’s good to have a friend where they hadn’t thought to find one.

Spoons rinsed in the stream, blue shadows stretching long over the packed earth of their camp, Stede wheels his horse about in the muted dusk light and canters off up the trail to spend the night with the sheep. A week or so more and they’ll switch, and Ed will be the one to sleep up on that lonely mountain slope, while Stede stays and tends the hearth with a tent big enough for two. He wonders if Stede will ever glance up to watch Ed riding about on the slopes, a little dark spot in the steep meadows, the same way Ed has been watching Stede.

He sits up a while and smokes his cheroot in the gathering gloom. It eats through the stock of firewood, and he’ll have to spend most of tomorrow replenishing it, but he keeps the campfire going until long after night has fallen, a pinprick beacon for Stede to look down at and know someone is waiting for his return.

Stede comes in to camp mid-morning, just as the chill starts to yield to the heat of the day. Ed is down in the stream at the camp’s edge, freezing naked in the shallows as he crouches to wash his only shirt and the rest of his body, and he hears the sound of hooves but doesn’t look up at it. Stede will grab some food and refill his canteen, take a few minutes to go into the tent under the pretence of putting on a clean shirt but Ed knows it’s so Stede can fix his hair with a fresh helping of pomade, and then he’ll head back on up the trail to spend another day with the sheep.

But this time Stede lingers, comes out of the tent with his new shirt and neat hair and circles ponderously round the campsite. He glances repeatedly at Ed, fusses with his gloves and the horse’s bridle, and then decides he needs to freshen up at the stream as well and Ed wonders, dangerously, why.

Ed scrubs the hard bar of soap under his arms, splashes at them with the icy mountain water, then pulls his hair from its tight braid and wraps the red cord tie around his wrist for safekeeping. The color is vivid against his skin as he combs wet fingers through his hair, shaking out the grit and dust of the trails. Upstream, gaze drawn by the bright slash of color or maybe something else altogether, Stede watches, and turns away when he’s caught.

“See if I can’t shoot us a couple of cottontails, have us a nice supper tonight,” Stede says, as he pats water from his face with the sleeve of his jacket and goes to haul himself back up into the saddle. “Maybe the good whiskey, too. Still a few drops left.”

They won’t be eating rabbit tonight, Ed knows for a certainty. Stede can hit a big slow target and not much more than that, but there’s no good reason to snuff out his optimism and besides, the whiskey is good. “I’ll skin ‘em,” Ed says, as Stede’s already cantering away, and only when the sound of hoofbeats has melted into the forest does he rise from the stream and lay his wet shirt out on the banks to dry.

He spends the day replenishing the stock of firewood, shivering at first with no shirt to wear and then sweating as the sun beats hot on his back and the exertion of the axe takes its toll. He chops, and thinks about the little travel case filled with Stede’s shirts and stowed in the corner of the big tent, how he could just go in there and take one and wear it. He chops, and wonders what Stede was thinking when he packed it, if he could’ve known how anyone else out here with him besides Ed would’ve sneered and judged him for it. He chops, and thinks about fine blue cotton, white piping, pearly snap buttons.

Early evening, with the sky just beginning to drain pale and his own threadbare check shirt dry and back on his shoulders, Ed is half-heartedly wondering if it isn’t too late to ride down to the river to try and catch a fish or two when Stede comes trotting into camp with a brace of rabbits hanging from his saddle. He holds them aloft triumphantly, grinning at Ed, and Ed laughs, short and loud and full of delight. “You got ‘em!” he says, and slaps Stede’s thigh because that’s what’s in reach.

“I got them,” Stede replies, pride in his voice, and his leg is solid, flexing briefly under Ed’s touch before the mare walks on towards the hitching post.

The campfire catches easily and builds to a strong blaze in no time at all. Ed skins and dresses the rabbits with the quick, thoughtless efficiency of muscle memory, and soon enough they’re enjoying the richest meal they’ve had all month, washed down with the whiskey passing liberally back and forth. Stede pulls out a harmonica, this ridiculous and luridly-painted thing that Ed had inwardly rolled his eyes at first time he saw it, but Stede’s good humour for it is infectious and Ed husks out a few bars of some silly country song, voice stumbling a little over the words and inventing those he can’t remember.

Night rolls in without them even noticing, too caught up in the simple pleasure of good food, good whiskey, and a good companion to share it with. Stede is sparking like a fire and wobbly on his feet, and insists for at least a minute that he’ll still go and ride up to the sheep, but then he looks at the dark line of trees and the charcoal shadow of the mountain against the sky and decides a blanket down here by the fire will do him just fine.

“I’ll just curl up here by the fire, grab a little shut-eye and be right as rain before you know it. I’ll go up to the sheep at first light.”

“You’ll freeze your fuckin’ balls off out here,” Ed says, head buzzing and handing over a blanket anyway. “Just come sleep in the tent.”

“No, it’s your tent, Ed, I couldn’t impose. Besides, nothing like forty winks under the stars. Invigorating!”

Ed sighs, drops a couple more logs onto the campfire, and bids Stede goodnight. A brief hour or two later, awoken by the wild yipping howl of a coyote and then kept awake by the incessant chattering of Stede’s teeth, Ed sticks his head out of the tent flap and demands Stede quit his shivering and get inside. The campfire’s burnt down to softly glowing embers, and Stede rises quickly, as though already poised and ready and simply waiting for the invitation. He stumbles towards Ed through the messy remains of their supper, and once inside he sighs relief into the blankets. Ed shifts to make a little more room, and they both settle back into sleep.

The stars wheel across the sky, chased by a moon that’s one day from full. The horses, pleased to be spending the night together, nuzzle and lean into each other at the hitching post. Partially-burnt logs crumble and sink a little deeper into the ashy remains of the campfire, as the last of the embers slowly dim and wink out of existence.

Unthinking in the dark of the tent, blurry with sleep and moving on instinct, Ed reaches behind himself to find Stede’s arm and curl it around his torso. It’s good for a few moments, nestling back as he’s pulled closer, warm and comfortable with Stede’s breath puffing softly against the nape of his neck, and then it’s not; Stede stiffens and bolts upright, panicked. Ed, quick to wake and reckless, sits up and reaches for him, and reaches again when Stede reflexively pushes his hand away.

They hang for a moment perfectly still, eyes locked across a short distance that stretches for miles. Then Ed pulls hard at the sheepskin jacket he’s been sleeping in, yanks it off his shoulders and he thinks Stede gets it now, can see understanding in the shadow of his eyes as Stede grabs and holds him tight at arm’s length, taught on a string ready to snap. Moving carefully, like he does with skittish horses and barking dogs, Ed wraps his fingers around Stede’s wrist and drags his thumb over the thin skin, pressing into his hammering pulse.

It’s all Stede needs. He pulls Ed towards him, and breathing hard in each other’s space, they fall quick into the steps of a dance that Ed knows well and Stede is learning as he goes. Ed’s already unbuckling and unbuttoning, jeans loose and open as he gets to his hands and knees. Stede fights with his own belt, lets the hiss of his zip fly say the words that his mouth can’t form yet, but he’s moving no less fast or urgent, pulling at clothing to clear the way, and then he’s right there pressing hot and hard against Ed’s body.

It’s rough, easing the way on nothing but spit and a prayer, but Ed can take it, he’s done it before. Likes it like this sometimes, feeling it the day after and knowing it happened. Stede’s breath is on his neck again, short and sharp and hot like the hand that yanked his jeans down to his thigh.

This is the only way it could’ve happened. Maybe they’ll do it again and take their time to roll in the blankets all soft and sweet, but it had to start with this; rough handling in the dark, driving forwards eyes shut, taking the most direct route to the other side where possibility lay waiting for them.

Ed’s never come so quick or untouched before, the immediacy of the encounter overloading his brain and sending him straight there when he barely has his wits about him. Above, pressed tight along his back, Stede grabs Ed’s waist to steady himself as his own hips grind and stutter and still.

For a few breaths neither of them move, and then Ed’s shaky arms give out beneath him and he sinks to the blanket. Stede says nothing as he slips abruptly from Ed’s body, but he lays down too and curls in towards Ed with a careful few inches between them. The tent is hot from their exertion and Ed can feel every single part of his body fevered and glowing and alive, but he doesn’t move, just keeps his eyes shut and breathes in and out, deep and slow. In the humid air, beneath the weathered canvas and above the musty blankets, Stede smells like horse, dry grass, and the good whiskey.

Rain came and went at some point in the night, and Stede rides out early the next morning with hardly a word, disappearing into the dripping trees. Ed takes his chestnut mare and two of the pack mules down to the road at the river crossing, picking their way carefully down the mountainside over the steaming, fecund earth, meets the man from the ranch and loads up their supplies for the next week. Ed wonders if the man can tell, if he can look at Ed and see the mark of Stede’s hands on his hips, the scalding red burn of his breath on the back of his neck, sore to the touch and wanting it.

The man from the ranch sniffs as he reads over Ed’s request list for the next delivery, mutters just like he always does that he’ll have a hard time getting it, but he’ll be back next week with most everything they’re asking for. He sniffs again, nods to himself, dismissing Ed with no parting look or word and gets in his dusty pick-up to drive off. Ed climbs back into his saddle and begins the long trek back to camp, the river rushing loud in his ears.

Back at camp, Ed busies himself stowing the provisions and brushing down his horse and the braying mules, and more times than he cares to admit looking up the mountain to catch a glimpse of Stede, a tiny speck in the great swathes of green and white and grey.

The golden hour before sunset is just beginning to spread its burnished light across the clearing and Stede still hasn’t arrived back to camp yet, but Ed knows he’ll come and knows why he’s leaving it late. He gets the fire going, puts yesterday’s rabbit bones in a pot with water from the stream, peels and slices a few potatoes with his sharp little knife, opens one can each of some over-processed, under-colored meat and vegetables. It all goes into the pot, perched precariously on the grill stand above the fire. There was a block of lard and some flour with the new supplies, coarse stuff that the ranch owner’s wife likely didn’t want, and Ed thinks he can probably cobble together a fair enough dough for biscuits to cook on the hot stones at his feet. He doesn’t know exactly what it is that he’s preparing for supper, but he’s thinking harder about it than he’s probably thought about anything in his life and he wants Stede to like it.

When the hoofbeats come the sky is pink and orange, grey-lavender clouds gilded copper at the edges. Normally one for a perky little trot or canter, Stede enters camp at a slow walk, reins in one hand and something small and curious bundled in the other. He slides from the saddle, ties his horse to the hitching post and pats her briefly on the neck, leaning in when she presses against him.

At the fire, Stede looks at the two logs that serve as their benches, and sits on the one where Ed isn’t. It’s not a statement, just nerves, and Ed looks at what Stede’s got in his hand: a few scrubby little wildflowers, small bursts of petals in yellow, purple, white.

“From up on the mountain,” Stede says, even though there’s nowhere else he’s been today. He reels off their names and starts to go into the Latin too, then seems to think better of it and says instead, “Not much to look at but they smell sweet as anything.”

Ed puffs on his cheroot, flips his lighter end over end between thumb and fingers while he considers the stew bubbling over the fire, then takes the can that held the processed vegetables and holds it out silently to Stede. The flowers go into the can, Ed stands the can on the log bench, and he can see Stede’s smile from the corner of his eye.

They talk little while they eat around the fire, mopping up stew with Ed’s middling attempt at stone biscuits, sharing a can of peaches in syrup for dessert with no small amount of skittering glances and almost-touches, not drinking the whiskey despite having a new bottle and waiting patiently for it to be too dark for Stede to ride out to the sheep. Speech comes in stops and starts, shying at intimacies, until Stede says, “I have a gal back home. You know.”

“Yeah,” Ed says, knowing the script, “so do I,” even though he doesn’t have a gal and doesn’t want a gal, but knows that he should and knows that one day he’ll have to.

“We’re just— passing the time.”

“Yeah,” Ed says again. “Scratching an itch.” But if Stede gets the itch the way Ed does then it takes a damn lot of scratching and ends up worse than when you started. All you wanna do is scratch and can’t think of nothing else.

They don’t discuss it any further than that, and why would they, what need is there? They both know what they’re doing and no-one else is up here to demand an explanation of them. It’s nobody’s business but theirs.

Night is fully upon them, the sky deep and black and fathomless with no trace of the lingering sun; just the blazing spray of stars and the huge, glowing moon, bathing everything silver and blue. It’s their permission to look at each other, look away, look again and hold it this time. Ed goes first, takes the little kerosene lamp and lays himself down in the golden tent with his bare back on the scratchy wool blanket, and knows Stede will follow.

When Stede comes he pauses at the tent flap, hat in his hands, shy as a gentleman asking a sweetheart if he may have this dance. Ed sits up and reaches for him like he did last night, but this time Stede doesn’t push away, just lets Ed guide him in, touch his cheek and bump their noses together, rasping stubble as their mouths move haltingly in something that wants to be a kiss but isn’t quite there yet. Stede clings to Ed like he can’t stand the fact that eventually he’ll have to let go, and Ed whispers “it’s alright, it’s alright,” just a breath in the still air around them, no louder than the campfire that crackles beyond the tent.

They ease down to the blanket, propped on their elbows, face to face and a scant inch between their bodies, legs tentatively brushing and beginning to entwine. Ed rests his palm softly against Stede’s chest, circles a finger around the pearly snaps on his shirt, and pops them one by one at Stede’s slow nod. Stede still has his boots on; Ed’s toes curl and stretch in his bunched woollen socks.

The tail of Ed’s braid hangs over his shoulder and trails against his chest, endlessly pushed aside during the day but somehow always finding its way back, and when Stede puts his fingers to it Ed thinks he’ll just push it aside again; but instead Stede takes one end of the red tie cord between his fingertips, and pulls slowly, gently, until it slips from Ed’s hair. Ed holds so still, a faintly disbelieving puff of breath escaping his lips as Stede puts the cord aside and strokes tentative fingers through the already unravelling braid.

“Look at that,” Stede murmurs, the fluffy wave of Ed’s hair now completely loose and tumbling over his bare shoulder, the scent of woodsmoke mingled in the strands. “Lovely.”

“Don’t need to charm me,” Ed says shakily, wanting all of Stede’s charm and more besides.

“I know,” Stede says, soft and a little bashful, like he hopes Ed will allow him the indulgence anyway. “Have you done this before?”

There’s already a tacit agreement between them that this summer up here on the mountain exists outside of time and the real world, different rules and different lives and a different way to think of things. But asking about real life is dangerous, and even knowing this the desire to answer still claws raggedly in Ed’s throat, desperate to be given voice. Instead, he kisses Stede properly, hard and insistent. He’ll figure it out in his own time, whether the realization comes tomorrow morning or ten years down the road, Stede will think back on this and he’ll know that Ed has done it before.

Ed slips a hand beneath the fabric of Stede’s shirt and peels him out of it, his warm fingertips chasing away the last of the nighttime chill that still lingers on Stede’s skin. They lie down and pull their bodies flush and begin to move on instinct, thighs slotted together, a slow exploratory grind of hands and hips while they kiss and kiss and kiss. Stede makes noises, tiny breathless things, and he does what they both did the night before and wordlessly pulls open the button of his waistband, sends the zip fly hissing down.

Another breath, another moment of stillness to stop and look at each other; Ed drags his eyes from Stede’s face to his open jeans and back again, and Stede blinks and licks his lips and nods.

Ed curls his hand inside the denim, sliding over the soft, furry skin of Stede’s backside, and he squeezes and Stede cries out and then they kiss, again, wet and hungry. Ed grabs and pulls and Stede goes where Ed hauls him, sliding a leg up and over to straddle Ed’s hips. He’s sweet and excited about it, nervous beyond hope but so eager to learn what Ed has to teach.

Hardly any instruction manual required for what they’re doing. The body knows even if the mind is unsure, and they press together in a slow grind. Ed pulls his own jeans open, heavy buttons of his fly popping one by one and they’re maddeningly close, just a flap of fabric to fold this way instead of that and then they’d be touching, really touching, but neither of them makes the move. It’s a barrier they didn’t have to think about the night before, when everything was dark and happened so quickly and they touched themselves but hardly each other. Here now, the kerosene lamp bathes them in a light they can’t hide from, throws warm shadows between them at the final frontier. For a while they just stay as they are, teetering in the moment, not pushing forward nor pulling back. But soon enough practicality forces them over that line they were both too wary to be the first one to cross; Ed’s button fly is little worry, but Stede’s zip has sharp little teeth and with the insistent force of their grinding hips, it’s an accident begging to happen.

“We’re taking these off,” Ed says into the press of Stede’s mouth, tugging at one waistband and then the other, and this way they’re crossing the line together, no-one to go first and risk the other not following. It’s a tangle of hands and legs and Ed has a couple inches in height over Stede, but Stede is still long and wiry in that way young men often are, like they’ve been stretched too much one way and not the other. Slim legs, Ed notes, pale against his own, less hair.

Stede’s dick, pink and full mast, is heavy alongside Ed’s, nestled and warm. Ed puts a careful hand at the back of Stede’s knee, slides it up his thigh and digs a thumb into his hip, then across the hard plane of his stomach and down. Like their first meeting outside the dingy trailer that served as the ranch office, firm handshake in the hot afternoon sun while dust from the road whipped about their feet, Ed takes Stede in hand and holds him tight.

“That’s—” Stede tries, but the rest of the sentence isn’t forthcoming. Bracketed above Ed haunch and elbow, his back ripples as he finds the rhythm of Ed’s touch and pushes into it. Between the slide of their lips Stede admits, “Never kissed anyone like this before.”

Truth be told Ed hasn’t either, not really. Kissing is for romance, and romance is in short supply at the places he’s been. “Feels good?”

“Feels good,” slips sweetly from Stede’s mouth, as they rock and rub and moan together. “I, can we—”

“Yeah?” Can’t even let Stede get all his words out, feels like it doesn’t even matter what he might be asking for because the fact he’s asking is more than enough and Ed will say yes to any and all of it.

“Like last night, I want it.”

“Yeah, yes, I can take it again—”

“No, I want it,” and Stede presses himself harder into Ed’s hips.

“Oh shit, fuck, okay, have you—” can’t ask, shouldn’t ask, of course he hasn’t. “There’s things we should do. We need to prep.”

“It didn’t seem so difficult last night,” Stede says with this coy little smile, and Ed could ride a thousand good-tempered horses across a thousand summer mountain ranges with bluebirds singing and whiskey flowing from the springs, and none of it would make him feel like this.

“Think about— how it is with a woman. They have their own way of keeping things moving easy down there. We gotta improvise.”

At Stede’s uncomprehending look, Ed twists his torso to reach Stede’s travel case and the little grooming kit that he knows is stashed inside. Stede doesn’t get off of him or rise up even one inch to allow space to move, and Ed likes being pinned under him like this, likes Stede heavy and solid in his lap.

“This’ll help,” Ed says pointedly, prying the lid off of Stede’s tin of hair pomade and swiping a finger through the slippery oil.

“Oh,” Stede breathes, a little worried crease fluttering between his eyebrows. “Last night, I only—”

“Don’t worry about it,” and he can’t say ‘I’m used to it’ and definitely not ‘I like it like that’, but he can say again, “This will help you.”

“Oh,” Stede repeats, and Ed can see his brain ticking over as he figures out the answer to ‘Have you done this before?’ “Okay. Alright.”

They sink into another kiss, Ed trailing slick fingers down Stede’s flank and around to stroke against the tight furl of his entrance. Ed shakes as he goes, possessing all of the experience and so all of the fear too; fear that this is the point where it will end, that Stede will come to his senses, pull back, accuse Ed of seduction, perversion and worse. But Stede simply melts against him, takes Ed inside his body like he’s spent the last month waiting for it, and Ed shakes a little less and moves a little more.

It’s Stede who eventually reaches between them, when they’re overly hot and slick with sweat and about ready to shoot off like summer fireworks, pulls his palm up and down Ed’s cock a few indulgent times and then pushes it behind him and up where he wants it.

Like a lock and key they fit together, shaped for each other and sliding easily into position, but it’s a moment more before they try to move in this new configuration. Just looking and breathing, a sweaty palm to a hot cheek, a barely-there whisper of, “You’re here, this is happening, I’ve got you.”

Stilted at first but gaining confidence, Stede begins to move above Ed, following his body’s instinct up and down, back and forth, still trying to kiss even as their mouths bump and jolt and miss their mark. He sits up in Ed’s lap, chasing a better angle, brow furrowed above closed eyes and open mouth, and Ed thinks he’s never seen something so beautiful. Pink skin in the warm lamp glow, coppery curls tangled and bouncing, strain in his thighs as he tries to build momentum and can’t quite manage it.

“Come on, cowboy,” Ed says, with that wild runaway mouth of his. “I’ve been watching you ride this past month, I know your seat’s better than that.” But Stede’s uncoordinated in his movements, doubting the way his body goes, and Ed gets it, he does; it’s hard to be up there in the driver’s seat, being looked at like this with nowhere to hide. So Ed pushes up on one hand, presses his forehead to Stede’s and holds his hip to guide the lift and roll. “That’s it,” he breathes, words soft in the space between their lips. “Ride a horse, you can ride me.”

“Nothing like this,” Stede sighs into Ed’s mouth, cradling his head, hair spilling over his fingers. “There’s nothing like this.”

“Not a damn thing in the world that feels like this,” Ed agrees, kiss to shuddering kiss.

Stede is an accomplished horse rider; he has a straight back and fluid hips and long, strong legs, and he uses them well. He meets Ed push for push, grind for aching grind, peppering kisses over his jaw and down his neck, but he still can’t quite keep the pace they need to get where they want to go. Rough hand splayed against Stede’s sweaty back, Ed begins to tip and roll and Stede clings to him as they go.

Landing with a small puff of breath and a sweet little laugh, Stede is relaxed and easy on his back, pulling Ed against him, taking him back inside his body with nothing shy or hesitant about it. Ed grins against his mouth, kisses him hard and picks up the pace full-throttle, pulling Stede’s leg up to curl around his waist and driving into him, the jut of his hip bones against the creamy, freckled skin of Stede’s inner thighs.

Beneath him Stede moans, a sheen of sweat on his chest, hands gripping hard at Ed’s shoulders, his neck, whatever he can reach. Their kisses are barely kisses, just hot, gasping slides of lips and tongues.

Ed’s body is lit up, fire-bright and coiled tight, brain and mouth not working in sync as he babbles, “I’ve never— It’s never felt like— God, Stede, do you—” and then white-hot, breaking through, his orgasm comes crashing in like a summer storm, deep and thundering, rolling through his body, and he holds himself tight against Stede as he pulses inside, filling and marking him.

His head is thick, fizzing with electricity, only Stede’s wrecked voice cutting through, “Ed, Ed, please—”

He murmurs into the crook of Stede’s neck, “Hold on, I’ll get you there,” holding himself up on shakily-planted elbows, still pressed in heavily between Stede’s thighs. Ed grips Stede’s cock, slippery between his fingers, and strokes him firm and quick.

“Not far to go,” Stede says, breathless, the rapid rise and fall of his chest in time with the thrust of his hips as he moves to meet the rhythm of Ed’s rapid strokes. Hands at Ed’s back, nails digging in, he drags a matching set of long welts over Ed’s shoulder blades as he comes, arching up against Ed’s chest, clenching around him with his trembling thighs. Stede holds him hard enough to bruise, and Ed wants it, and when eventually they peel apart and lie flat on their backs, side by side and panting, Stede tangles their fingers together and Ed wants that too.

The tent is hot, the air syrup-heavy against their naked skin, and before long Stede crawls on wobbly knees to the opening and ties back the flap. He sits for a moment to enjoy the cool air, framed against the triangular slice of their shadowy camp, the black trees, and the brilliant night sky, and he looks back at Ed.

They don’t need to say it; they both know that they feel it.

After the rough efficiency of their first time, after the sweetness of the second, they fall into an easy pattern, initially only inside the tent but then outside it too. Up in the high meadows above the treeline, no work down at camp that can’t wait until tomorrow, rolling in the grass in the hot afternoon sun; suppertime around the campfire, potatoes sizzling in the dented pan, a little smoke and a little whiskey and an easy, familiar slide into unhurried intimacy; in the chill dawn, pale ghost-light and mist, back up in the saddle after another night spent leaving the sheep to fend for themselves and leaning down to steal a parting kiss. A hundred domestic scenes played out in miniature, more than just a warm body to press against at night, all fueled by the knowledge that none of it will last and the foolish hope that maybe it could.

And all the while Ed can’t grab the reins on his thoughts, galloping away a mile a minute to places he absolutely should not go: what if Stede came back next summer and they got to do this again? What if he found where Stede lived, paid him a visit, and they went away for a while, just the two of them in some remote cabin, no work to be done and all the time they wanted to hunt and fish and fuck? What if they got a ranch, built up a little cow and calf operation together down in the valley, or maybe out on the plains? A herd of their own, a bed of their own, a life of their own.

It’s staggering, how much Ed wants it. No way to unthink any of the things he’s thought, not now he’s looked them in the eye and allowed them to make him ache. And that’s just the problem, isn’t it? Once you acknowledge it you really start to feel it, and then you have to deal with the fact that you’re never going to get it, and there’s no way it won’t hurt now. They’ve not been merely passing the time, they both know that. They’ve been trying to live a whole life in one short summer, taking what they can because it’s all they’re allowed to have.

It’ll end because it has to end; no two ways about it, the color and heat of summer will drain from the land as the sheep are brought down off the mountain, and life with its relentless march onwards will demand that they act in roles that allow no space for the tender thing growing between them. The day will come, soon, and it’ll hurt, and maybe it’s best to end it like they started, pushing through it rough and quick; easier to watch a bruise fade, a raw scrape heal over, skin knit back together. Because how can you know when something’s done and healed if you could never even see the mark of it to begin with, if all you had and all you’ve got is a shift beneath the skin, a terrifying feeling that something has irrevocably changed and no clue how to fix it?

The day will come. But for now there’s sheep to watch and the camp to tend, and so long as they remain on the mountain life will wait a little while for them yet.

#ofmd fanfic #edward teach #stede bonnet #ofmd #our flag means death #my fic

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lyciadreamm18 · 8 months ago

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Not Sneaky Enough

Rain showers pouring from the crack of the bathroom door while Trevor washed the day off after his long shift at work.

Leah over on the bed, eager. Patiently waiting for him to shut the door, locking the steam inside with him for pleasure. But that action never happened, so she swung her legs off the bed, sliding her feet into her open toe crocs. With an intentional soft foot, she walked over to the bathroom door, and creeped the door shut herself.

Quickly exiting the room, unlocking her phone in the process of walking down the hallway. Feeling in the clear, she retails a number on her call log, pausing in her footsteps infant of the window., peeping out of the blinds on lookout.

He’d finally picked up the phone

“Daaamn, that nigga don’t wanna freshen up after a long day of construction work-IMMEDIATELY?!!” He snapped playfully, joking on Leahs boyfriend. Leah smacked her lips, releasing the blinds from her finger grip, muggin the phone for a couple of seconds.

“Are you here yet?” She asked

“Yess , lil baby. Been here, bring yo ass on! Aint like you aint never did this before”

“Fuck you..” Leah responded softly, maintaining an almost whisper.

“That’s what you bouta do.. hurry up” he says, you could hear the sarcastic smirk stretch across his face over the phone.

“Im cominggg” Leah assures, hanging the phone up on him.

Quickly, she shuffled to the back, crashing the bathroom space on Trevor. He was still deep in cleaning his body from the day.

“Trev.. Abbies outside, im heading out” Leah lies.

He pokes his head out the shower briefly.

“Okay baby, be safe. Call me if you need me”

Leah nods in agreement, trying to slide out instantly after. Before she could get the door shut, he interfered.

“Dang, no kiss?” He whined, adding an offended laugh at the end.

“Ugh” Leah thought, before forcing a vibe that gave ‘genuinly sorry for almost forgetting your kiss’. She walked in, meeting him at the curtain for him to plant his lips on top of hers. Him not even noticing the disconnect in the kiss, responds

“thank you! See you later”

“Later , babe” Leah forced before exiting the sauna of a bathroom. She quickly swooped ups her intentionally large overnight bag, swinging it over her shoulders as she let herself out.. very prissy like, she clutches her bag tight, hitting a light jog across the street, plopping down in the passenger seat of a car that appeared to be engine off, parked and vacant.

The car quaked quickly behind Leah shutting the door behind her. Exhaling one single breath, she caught eye contact with KEL. He dropped his phone from scrolling. Gripping her bag in her lap, he snatched it up and placed it in the backseat.

“Yeeah, I don’t wanna hear shit, just get my bags.. as you should” Leah teased, completely staying in character, while buckling her seatbelt.

After all of that moving and settling in the seat, when she turned around back forward, she noticed Kel STILL eyeballing her. This caused her to cock her neck, with a hint of eye rolling. She decided to lean forward, bracing her elbow on the center console, using the pal of her hand to prop up her face. Where she still playfully mean mugged Ken.

He wasn’t having it, quickly placing his hand around her neck.

“As I should??” He questions, looking down into her thirsty eyes.

He knew she liked this, and that her pussy was probably throbbing right now. She softly bit down on her lip, eyes going day.

“As you shouldd..” She states, grinning. Folding Key, slowly but surely with her eyes.

Kel couldn’t help it, and obviously goes soft, unable to resist kissing her lips. She puckered up back. Trying to suck the bottom lip off of Kels face. He was taken aback by her sudden aggressiveness, hiking an eyebrow up with his amusement.

“Mmm, im ready for dick daddy” she announces to Ken in secret. He rubs his thumb on her lips once.

“Lets go..” He says, gently unhanding Leahs neck.

The engine cranks, powering on the radio and AC.

ALL WE DO x TREY SONGZ spilled out the speakers. He tossed his phone in the up holder down below between them. Shortly after taking hold of the steering wheel and getting them off that street and to the house expeditiously.

The apartment was blue’d out with LED lights, while the music continued to play low in the background. Sounds of Ken and Leahs lips making love were the only noises loud enough to draw everything else out. Kel was back against the couch, on the floor, while Leahs almost naked body straddled him in the front face to face. Dick print pressed perfectly against her clit as she rocked back and forth while they kissed.

“Mm” Leah exhales, pausing the kiss. Unlatching her arms from around his neck, she grabs the bottle on the ottoman directly next to them.

“Let’s take a shot…a couple shots actually. You know I need liquid courage tryna stuff all that dick in my mouth” Leah blurted. Flicking her tongue.

“Its shell a lot of dick” he amps up, already gone grabbed the bottle from Leah, pouring it into her mouth for her. Leah tilts her head back, throating the waterfall he poured into her. At her limit she curled her neck, cupping the bottom of her mouth for the intended extra spilling.

Kel matched energy, pouring up hisself, lips super wet when he removed them from the bottle.

“Take this shit off” he demanded, getting a feel of her titties on top of her shirt, quicky going a step further to feel them underneath the shirt. Leah being braless, making it that much easier to him to cuff the left one, also giving her nipple a teasing flick with his index finger. She didn’t hesitate to grab her shirt at the bottom, pulling it over her head and off her body. Ken now had both titties in his hands, leaning forward to take turns sucking both the left and right nipple.

Enjoying and feeling her liquor, Leah arches up to embrace his lips and tongue on her titties.

“Fuuuuck,.. you know that shit makes me wet as hell” she softly mumbled, eyes closed, head slightly tilt.

Kels big muscular body doesn’t buckle a bit as he rises them up off the floor, Leah still straddling his waist when he came to his feet. Peeping the lack of effort it took Kel to do that, Leah giggles, being turnt on.

“Soo strong daddy!” She hyped up, loosely throwing hr body on him, locking her arms around his neck again. He proceeded to cuff her legs underneath her thighs, picking her up and bouncing her on his dick for sport. Leah smiles in “yes, yes, yes”

He placed Leah on her feet, stepping back a bit before ordering Leah..

“Take them panties off…right now”

She does as told, pushing them down her legs, then they fell to her ankles.

“Bend over.” He says

She bends.

As he walks up behind her, she’s looking back at him, biting her acrylic nail at the tip.

“Put it innnnnnn daddy” she gave with her facial expression

He palms her pussy from the back, testing the temperature. Then he gently slides 2 fingers in her. Finger fucking her from the back now. She tossed it back, just barely while he curved his fingers perfectly, triggering “mmm”s from Leah.

“Im so sweet baby”

“Yes you aree” Ken says, eyeballing her pussy while his fingers went in and out.

“Why you this wet, hmm?” He mumbles

Pulling his fingers out to taste her pussy, dragging them across his tongue. Leah, looking back, curved to the side, watched, getting more turnt on and ready for him to slide the dick in next. Fuck the head. BUT, against her unspoken thoughts, Kel; with love, pushed her. Knocking her off balance on all 4s. She was now on her back, legs curled on her stomach. He stepped up closer and separated her legs by the knees.

They eyes each other.

Kel reached down to thumb rub her clit.

Leah began to caress her own boobs.

“Enough of this” Kel thought to himself.

Pulling off his shirt, he lowered to his knees, eye level with her pussy now. With her clit poked out, screaming at him, he kissed it once. Then he went all for it. Flicking it with his tongue, before he full-blown started sucking her shit. Leah was into it, moaning and melting away in his mouth. Then her phone began to ring. INCOMING CALL: TREVOR.

Kel pauses on the head.

Leah reaches over to grab her phone.

Kel smacks his lips.

“Don’t do that daddy, hold on.”

“Ian holding on shittt” he states, continuing to eat her pussy.

“Ssss, hold onn” Leah begs. Instead of stopping, Kel just looks up, making eye contact while sucking her clit. Leah exhales, stressed! Then answering the phone.

“Hello?” She answers as normal as possible with Ken still attached to her.

“Babe?!, where the charger to the speaker? The boys bouta come over and this bitch dead” he ask and elaborates instantly.

Training her voice again before answering

“Its..” She got out before pausing abruptly, almost gasping on the phone from Ken playing a dangerous game and inching his dick inside of her. Ken tightened his teeth, then mouths

“You better shut up and take this dick”.. biting down on his lip afterward, inching more of his dick in her.

“It’s by …it’s in the drawer next to the pantry” she finally releases.

“Aite aite bet….you good? It’s hella quiet, that’s not like you or Abbie” he notices.

“Yeah, she’s getting ready. Im on the aux and you called” Leah lies. Immediately biting down on her lip with aggression, wanting to release a moan and catch her breath so bad. Ken was now slowly in and out, in and out, balls deep.

“Oh shit! My bad, aite babe, talk to you later” he ends

“Okay babe, byee” Leah faked before hanging up the phone and carelessly dropping the phone in the crack of the couch somewhere. Now she finally caught up.

“FUUUUuuuckk..” She releases

“Did you just call that nigga baby with my dick in you?” He questioned her. Pulling her by her thighs to the edge of the bed.

“Im sorryy, daddyy” she sang, already prepping to brace his hips.

“Mm-mm” Kel hummed, shaking his head no. taking her wrists and pinning them above her head.

“You finna be sorry” he teased, swaying his hips side to side, digging in her pussy.

“I AM sorryyy” she whined.

Kel starts to drive in her shit.

“Sorry for what?” He questioned, looking down at her. She looks up, giving “im in trouble, punish me daddy”

“Im sorry for calling him baby” she answers

With a good rhythm going, Ken releases her arms.

“Keep your arms up there and you BET not move them, or that’s your ass. You hear me ?” He scolded gently, turning Leah on some more.

“Yesssss” she answers submitting.

He takes it up a notch, pounding her shit a little. She carries out a pretty groan.

“Ah!-ah!-ah!-aahsss!”

“Okayydaddyyyy, I won’t call him baby nomoreee”

He pauses his stroke, deep in her guts. Forcing her to gasp and squirm.

“Yeaa, I know. Ima make sure of it” Ken comeback, pulling out slightly and doing it again.

Leah whined out loud, gripping the couch pillows above her head.

“ssFUCK” Kel grunts, before snatching his dick out of her walls. She exhaled, with a sense of relief. She “mm” in the mist of catching her breath.

“Turn around” Kel ordered, while stepping out of his pants after he dropped them to his ankle. Leah turns around on all 4s, prepping her arch stance, waiting for him to put it back in. She feels the hand of Kel smack her ass. Then softens it over with some rubs. Right after easing the tip in, watching as Leah sat back on it, gently. She found her flow, and started throwing it back. Kel fake pinched her hips, feeding her dick.

“Mm, daddy” she moans, reaching underneath to rub her own clit.

He gives her ass a smack.

“Throw that ass back, mama”. Leah turns up, starting to pussy grip in a circular motion on his dick.

“Yeaaaa, like that”

“Daddy likes that” he moves his hands up to his hips, bracing a stance to throw dick forward nonstop. Hitting the right spots, Leah gets dazed and goes quiet. All you could hear was the swishing of juiciness as he stroked her so intentionally.

She grunts in a whine, “uhhhshit” she whispers to herself. Kel starts to pound her shit.

“mm! mm!! mm!!! mm!!!! Mm!!!!!” Leah moaned getting louder and louder.

“Uh-huh,.. I hear you now baby…..whos your daddy?”

“You daddyy” she answered as her ass and his hips collide.

“Im your what?”

“YOURE MY DADDY!” She projected

“Say fuck that nigga”

“Fuck himmmm”

“Who dick better?”

“YOURSSSS”

“Who eat it better?”

“You dadd, youu..ahhss, im bouta cummm”

After hearing that , Kel crosses his arms, smirking, still giving her all the dick he had.

“Who got you cumming ?? Got that pussy leaking right now?!” He boasted

“You daddy! You daddy!” She moaned loudly as she started to cum. Hard. Kel smiled with his top teeth piercing his bottom lip.

“UHHHHH!!…Fuuuuuhk!” She releases

“Mmmm shit”

Kels hands rose up some more, now fingers interlocked on the back of his head. Feeling the grip of her pussy on his dick was getting things where they needed to be. His head slightly tilted back, followed by the dimming then closing of his eyes. He starts to grunt, flustered in his movements, now redirecting his hands to her ass cheeks again…using them to assure every inch of his dick was wrapped with her pussy.

“Uhhh-uhhh-fuuuuuuck baby” Ken moans a little under his breath. The two moaned together, finishing together.

Kel finally slips out to Leah going limp on the couch. They were both breathless. Breathing heavy trying to catch their breath. Leah quickly tuns on her back, legs again curled on her stomach. They stared at each other. Leah thinking “he really be fucking the shit outta meeee”

“I know you’re hungry….lets go shower, then order some food” he insist, still gripping his hard dick.

“Then ima tear it up again later” he smirks, before reaching for the bottle to get another shot. Leah sucks her bottom lip, then blushes.

“Okay” she responds, leaning up to start heading to the back with him.

But before, skimming the couch for her phone. Not seeing it, so obviously checking the cracks. She felt it and pulled it out.

Then her stomach sank to her ass……..

Noticing her phone counting up. 25:03….25:04…25:05,…. On Trevors number…, had her mouth dropped. She froze in her movements. Slowly bringing the phone up to her face.

“I…I think they’re done bro” was muffled, sounding like on of Trevors friends. INSTANTLY Leah just hung up! Now tap dancing, jumping up and down where she stood!

“Ohmygod,ohmygod,ohmygod,ohmygod” she repeated over and over very fast

“What’s going on?? You straight ?” Ken wondered, making his appearance back in the living room. Leah took a seat on the couch, still butt naked.

“……….we were fucking butt sailing him….for like the last 25 minutes, Kel” Leah explains, words almost stuck in her throat. Kel pauses, gripping his lips, wrinkling them up.

“You’re lying…” he insist. Leah nods no. Lips curled in.

The room was quiet for a whole minute.

“3 months it was a secret…we just weren’t as careful as we thought …..we were not sneaky enough” Ken states.#

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