Flash Sentry and Twilight Sparkle are on the wavelength as Peter Quill and Gamora
Like Peter and Flash both KNOW that’s not their respective girl oh i’m so sick “That’s not my Twilight” oh hand me the gun, “I bet we were fun” (ik Gamora said this but chill) oh just pull the trigger!!
and that’s coming from someone who’s been playing since like DAY ONE.
I just can’t like sit through this most recent archon quest and bring myself to care. I find columbina just not to be that interesting and i lwk hate that’s she not like strange and creepy anymore…just a bore.
she shows up on my screen and i load up a game on my switch cuz i know the cutscene is gonna be long and BORING. even now, i’m typing this all out while the cutscenes are auto playing themselves.
and this next issue may just be because i picked aether as my traveler so i could have abyss twin be lumine but i think the like aether x columbina campaign is…strange. i do not like, and i actually i don’t really care for ANY “x aether” ships simply because i don’t view genshin as like a “romance” game in any capacity???
i’m just??? not excited about anything?? in the game and i lwk haven’t been since like the FIRST golden apple archipelago (my beloved).
i wish that like columbina was creepy and scary, and not like…docile and aloof(???? idk if that’s the right word) and why are the fatui harbingers like NOT SCARY ANYMORE like i remember when La Signora was genuinely my biggest op WHY are the fatui like lwk our friends??
don’t get me wrong, i love a good “power of friendship” moment but this is not fucking sonic heroes.
maybe i’m like nostalgia blind but i lwk fw that game heavy. like it SUCKS but i think it sucks so much to the point where i lwk love it. like it’s SUPPOSED to suck.
i hate bryce papenbrook (not really) like why is he EVERYWHERE??? playing fucking crosswords and all i hear is FUCKING ADRIEN AGRESTE??? LEAVE ME ALONE no matter what miraculous will ALWAYS find me…pete capella come back bbg
and ykw while we’re at it, let’s let jason come back too for Jet..yes plotting and planning currently
hey guys so i played the crossworlds open beta and WOW okay i just preordered and i will only be using the extreme gear THANKGYA i used wave when i played but TRUST and believe i will be using everyone except those freaks from lost world😒
i have like such a soft spot for sonic and the black knight, it’s not even funny i love that game so much is it a nightmare to play? god, yes it can be! but like stfu if you listened to fight the knight and knight of the wind (i luv u crush 40 vocal tracks) and DIDNT get hype you’re crazy i fear
summary. You came to Dustwell looking for a fresh start. To live a new life in the beat-up house your grandfather left you. Getting involved with the local ranch hand definitely wasn’t on the agenda—and ending up in his bed? Yeah, that wasn’t part of the plan either.
word count. 15k (oh what the hell-)
content. mdni fem!reader, cowboy!choso, slow burnnnn, they want each other but wont do anything about it, he fell first but she fell harder trope, he's lowkey protective, pet names, smut, oral (fem rec.), fingering, FERAL choso, p in v, cowgirl (because save a horse), rough sex, praise, creampie, overstim, aftercare
author's note. WHAT ARE THEY FEEDING THE CHOSO ARTISTS OH MY DAYS
The house looks smaller than you remember. Maybe it’s the dust-soft edges or the way the sun hits it, turning the old wood siding gold like a sepia photograph. You stand at the edge of the gravel driveway, hands on your hips, squinting through the heat shimmer rolling off the hood of your car.
Inherited property. That’s what the letter called it—like it was some gift. But all you see is a sagging front porch, weeds elbowing through the cracks in the steps, and a mailbox hanging on by a single rusted screw. The whole place smells like dry earth, wood rot, and a faint hint of motor oil.
You spend the afternoon sweating through your shirt, dragging boxes inside and swatting at flies that seem personally offended by your presence. The floors creak in protest. One of the cabinet doors falls off when you open it. You curse out loud and immediately apologize to the empty house, like your grandpa might still be listening somewhere.
There’s no air conditioning. The ceiling fan makes a sound like it’s chewing on itself. You prop open the back door and hope the breeze isn’t carrying more hornets.
By the time the sun starts to dip behind the trees, the living room’s half-unpacked, your hair’s sticking to your neck, and you’re dangerously close to throwing a box labeled “KITCHEN — FRAGILE” straight through the window.
You need a drink.
The bar—locals call it The Pit—is tucked between a feed store and a mechanic’s garage on the edge of town. It’s not much to look at from the outside, just sun-bleached siding and a rusted-out neon sign that reads “OPEN” if you squint hard enough. But inside, it’s cool, low-lit, and smells like wood polish and whiskey.
You get exactly three steps in before every head turns. A beat passes. Then the low hum of conversation starts back up, like nothing happened.
The bartender is a woman with blond streaks in her braid and she’s wearing a plain tank top and jeans, no name tag. She raises an eyebrow as you approach.
“New in town?”
You slide onto a stool. “That obvious?”
She pours something golden into a glass. “Around here? Everything is.”
You take a sip. It burns, in a good way.
“Movin’ into the old place a few blocks down?” she asks, already knowing the answer.
You nod, and she hums like that means something. Maybe it does.
She gestures vaguely toward the back of the bar, where a wall’s been plastered with old photos—rodeos, family cookouts, black-and-white shots of horses mid-stride.
“Lotta history out there,” she says. “That land’s got roots deeper than the well.”
You glance at the glass in your hand. “Hopefully no ghosts.”
She smirks. “Nah. Just nosy neighbors, rattlesnakes, and one too many cowboys who think silence is a personality trait.”
You laugh, tired but genuine. You don’t ask for names. Not yet.
The bartender leans back on one hip, wiping down a glass with a rag that’s seen better days. “You’ll meet the whole town soon enough,” she says, voice easy. “Mornings at the diner, Friday nights at the Pit. Someone’ll swing by your place, offer help you didn’t ask for. Happens every time someone new rolls in.”
You raise an eyebrow. “That supposed to be comforting?”
She grins. “That depends. Some of ’em are harmless. Some of ’em don’t know how to mind their own business.”
A photo behind her catches your eye—framed and slightly crooked, tucked between shelves of mismatched liquor bottles. It’s black and white, a bit worn at the edges. A man stands in front of a horse, head bowed just enough that the brim of his hat hides most of his face. He’s wearing gloves, a long coat, boots scuffed to hell. There’s something still about him—something heavy.
“That one?” she says, catching your gaze. “Choso.”
You don’t look away. “He local?”
“Mhm. Works the Dustwell Ranch a few miles out. Sticks to himself. Comes in when the nights get long or the work gets worse.” She pauses, then adds, “Quiet, mostly. But folks around here know better than to mistake that for soft.”
You blink. The photo stays with you longer than it should.
“Lemme guess,” you say, setting your glass down. “He one of those cowboys you mentioned?”
She chuckles, dry. “He’s the reason I mentioned them.”
You nod slowly. “He’s… not bad-looking.”
The bartender smirks. “Yeah, he hears that a lot. Doesn’t do much with it, though.”
You glance back at the photo. “Not the friendly type?”
“Polite,” she says, “but quiet. Keeps to himself. Doesn’t stick around long when folks start talking too much.”
You hum into your drink. “So, not exactly easy to get to know.”
She shrugs. “People’ve tried. Never really seems interested. Doesn’t mean anything’s wrong with him—just one of those men who likes his space.”
You let that sit for a second. Then: “You saying I shouldn’t bother?”
She smiles without looking at you. “I’m saying if you’re the curious type, just don’t expect straight answers.”
-
You head out just before sunset, boots crunching on gravel as the heat finally starts to ease off the land. The air smells like mesquite and dirt, with a hint of something sweet on the wind—wildflowers, maybe. The road that runs past your place stretches long in both directions, flanked by open fields and fences that lean just enough to say no one’s been out here fixing things in a while.
You don’t take a phone. There’s no signal anyway. Just the breeze, the cicadas, and the sound of your own steps as you walk past fences wrapped in rusted wire, thistles pushing up through the cracks in the asphalt.
There’s not much out here—just land. Wide and quiet. Like it’s still waiting to decide what to do with you.
Then, about half a mile out, the trees start to thin, and you catch sight of a gate.
It’s big—old wood and iron, solid in that way that says it wasn’t built for decoration. There’s a sign nailed across the top beam. The paint’s worn, but the lettering’s still clear:
DUSTWELL RANCH
You slow without meaning to.
Beyond the gate, the land stretches open again—miles of pasture rolling out beneath a soft orange sky. You can just make out the edge of a barn in the distance, roof sloped, doors cracked. A couple of horses stand near the fence line, heads down, tails flicking lazily.
You rest your hands on the top of the gate. Not climbing it. Just looking.
You’re about to turn back when you hear it—the low groan of leather, the thud of boots hitting packed earth.
Someone’s moving out there.
And then, farther out—near the barn—you catch sight of a figure. Broad shoulders, long stride, dark hair pulled back under a white hat. He moves like the heat doesn’t bother him. Like the land’s just an extension of his own skin.
You can’t make out his face from this far, but something about the way he adjusts the strap over his shoulder—smooth, practiced—tells you it’s him.
Choso.
You don’t call out. You don’t wave.
You just watch, quiet, until he disappears around the side of the barn.
You stay a moment more before turning back, heading home before the sky goes fully dark.
-
You decide to take a look at the general store the next afternoon.
The little bell above the door jingles as you step inside, and you’re immediately hit with the scent of wood and old paper. The general store’s got everything—canned beans, rope, seed packets, and even a rack of novelty postcards that look older than you.
You wander through the aisles, basket on your arm, grabbing some cleaning rags and a stubborn bottle of wood polish. You’re reaching for a pack of nails on a higher shelf when someone steps into the aisle at the same time you do.
You both stop—almost head to chest.
“Whoa—sorry,” you say, laughing a little.
He steps back without much of a reaction, but his eyes linger. It’s him. Cowboy hat, button-down rolled to the elbows, gloves tucked into his back pocket. He’s taller up close. And quieter, too—like the kind of quiet that says more than most people do out loud.
“Haven’t seen you around before,” he says, voice low and easy. “You new?”
You nod, trying not to stare. “Yeah. Just moved in. My grandfather left me the old place off Hollow Creek.”
He tilts his head. “Big property, that one. Lotta trees.”
“Also a lot of creaky floors and suspicious plumbing,” you joke.
That gets him—just barely. A small huff of a laugh, like it surprised him too.
“I’m Choso.”
“So I’ve heard.” you smile at him before offering your own name.
“Well,” he says, eyes crinkling just a little at the corners, “welcome to Dustwell, darlin’.”
And just like that, he tips his hat and keeps walking, leaving you in the middle of aisle three, staring after him with a half-full basket and a flutter in your chest.
-
The FaceTime connects with a familiar ceiling view and the soft clink of ice in a glass.
“...Are you lying dead in a ditch or just ghosting me now?” Shoko’s voice is dry as ever as she finally appears on screen, sunglasses on, cigarette in one hand, something suspiciously alcoholic in the other—even though it’s barely 3 p.m.
“I’ve been busy,” you whine, slumping onto the couch. “There’s a lot to unpack.”
“Yeah? Unpack the hot cowboy you texted me about at midnight and then never followed up on.”
You groan into your palm. “It wasn’t that serious! He just—he was at the store. I bumped into him. Literally. And he’s tall and—hat, gloves, boots, the whole deal.”
“Cowboy cosplay or actual cowboy?”
“Actual cowboy, Shoko. Like... brawny forearms and slow drawl. Called me darlin’.”
She sips her drink. “Mmm. Cowboys are usually good with their hands. You should test that.”
“Shoko! I don’t even know the guy!”
“Perfect. No expectations. Just vibes.”
You gawk at her, scandalized. She shrugs.
“I'm just saying—man’s probably got calluses in all the right places.”
You grab a pillow and yell into it while she just watches, smug.
You peek out from behind the pillow. “You’re the worst.”
“I’ve been called worse,” she says, exhaling smoke. “Now show me.”
“Show you what?”
“The cowboy, obviously.”
You blink. “Shoko. I’m not a stalker. I didn’t take a picture of him.”
She raises a brow. “Miss ma’am didn’t sneak a pic? I taught you nothing.”
You groan. “It would’ve been weird! I didn’t even know what to say after he walked off. I just stood there like an idiot with my bread and canned soup.”
“That’s hot. Very romance novel of you.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t,” she says, smug. “You’re just mad because your little prairie crush made your brain short-circuit.”
You bury your face again, voice muffled. “He had that whole rugged, fresh-off-the-ranch thing going on, Shoko.”
There’s a pause.
“Okay, yeah. You’re done for.”
You sit back up, defeated. “It was just one interaction. He probably won’t even remember me.”
“Oh, he’ll remember. You’re new in town. He absolutely noticed. And if he’s quiet and broody like you said, that man’s probably thought about you seventeen times since then and doesn’t know what to do about it.”
You blink at her.
“You’re scary.”
“I’m right.”
You sulk into the couch. “What do I even do with that information?”
Shoko grins slowly. “You go to the store again. And you wait.”
You squint at the screen. “That’s your plan? I just... loiter in the soup aisle until he appears?”
“If he’s got work boots and a quiet drawl, yeah. Linger,” Shoko says, entirely unfazed.
You groan. “He probably won’t even show up again. It’s a small town, not a Hallmark movie.”
“Which means he’ll show up everywhere,” she counters, raising a brow. “That’s the rule. First hot man encounter? You will see him again. At least three times. One of them in an inconvenient setting.”
You pause. “Like what?”
She smirks. “Public restroom line. Town fair. Your porch. Shirtless.”
“Okay goodbye,” you say, jabbing the screen to hang up, and her laughter is the last thing you hear before it goes dark.
You drop your phone on your stomach and stare at the ceiling, brain already drifting.
You weren’t even looking for anyone. This move was supposed to be peaceful—slow mornings, quiet skies, maybe a dog. You were going to find yourself or whatever people in dramatic life transitions are supposed to do.
But now there’s a man with sleepy eyes and dust on his jeans, and you can’t stop replaying the way he’d said darlin’, like it wasn’t the first time he’d said it and like he wouldn’t mind saying it again.
You sigh.
And the worst part?
You already need eggs.
-
You need eggs.
That’s what you tell yourself, at least, when you head back to the little general store the next day, pretending it has nothing to do with a six-foot-something man in a cowboy hat.
Nope. It’s all for the eggs.
You meander through the store, making slow, aimless rounds. Produce. Aisles with three different kinds of cereal. Laundry detergent. You’re halfway through the snacks when you realize you’re not shopping anymore. You’re lurking.
You make a show of studying a can of chili you have zero intention of buying.
Still no sign of him.
You check your phone. It's been almost 30 minutes. You’ve looped the store twice, possibly three times. The cashier’s starting to give you that polite, “do you need help with something or are you casing the joint” smile.
You give up and finally head to the register with the single carton of eggs you came for.
No Choso.
No deep voice. No gloves in his back pocket. Not even a damn cowboy hat on the horizon.
You leave the store feeling... not disappointed, exactly. Just... aware of how silly you probably looked loitering in front of a shelf of trail mix like it was hiding romance.
You sigh and clutch the eggs a little tighter.
Guess he won’t be everywhere after all.
You’re not looking for him.
You’re just taking a walk.
That’s what you tell yourself as your feet find the same dusty road that runs past that ranch. The sign’s old but well-kept, carved into smooth wood with curling ends, tucked beside a wide gate.
You think about turning back.
You don’t.
There’s a low sound—rhythmic, heavy. Hooves. And when you glance up, there he is.
Horseback. Broad-shouldered. Hat low over his eyes. A quiet silhouette against the gold-tinted sky, steering a few cattle into a separate pen like it’s second nature. The reins in one hand, the other resting lazily on his thigh.
You freeze. Not even dramatically. You just stop walking.
And when he spots you, he pauses, too. The horse slows under him, and he turns his head just slightly, eyes squinting under the brim.
“You again,” he says, like it’s not surprising at all. “You lost, darlin’?”
Your stomach does a stupid flip.
“No,” you manage. “Just walking.”
He nods like that tracks. “It’s getting late.”
You shrug, trying not to stare at the way the reins rest between his gloved fingers. “Needed air.”
He hums—low and easy. “Air’s better out here anyway.”
You take a breath like you need proof. It is better.
He shifts a bit in the saddle, posture relaxed. “So. You just out sightseeing?”
You huff a laugh before you can stop it. “Just wanted to familiarize myself with the place.”
That gets a tiny smile out of him—small, but there. He tips his hat. “Well. You ever wanna get closer, Dustwell has open trails past the fence. Just mind the mud. And the bulls.”
“Oh,” you say, blinking. “Cool. Thanks.”
“Sure thing,” he says, clicking his tongue once to move the horse forward. He nods at you as he rides past. “See you ‘round.”
You don’t say anything. You’re too busy trying not to grin at nothing like a complete idiot.
Shoko was right.
You’re done for.
-
The bar’s quieter tonight.
Dim, warm lights. A slow, lazy country tune playing on the old jukebox in the corner. You slide onto a stool, nod at the bartender—same one from before, hair up in a messy bun, a dishrag slung over her shoulder like it’s part of the uniform.
“Back already?” she asks with a grin. “Thought you city types got bored easy.”
“I don’t scare that easy,” you say, returning the smile. “And besides… the drinks are good.”
She snorts. “Flattery won’t get you a free round.”
“Damn. Worth a shot.”
She pours you something light, something crisp, and leans against the bar, elbow propped lazily. “So. You settlin’ in okay out at that old house?”
You nod. “Trying to. Place has character.”
“You mean termites?”
You laugh. And then, because maybe the alcohol’s working faster than expected, you say it—
“I met Choso though. Kind of. Ran into him out by the ranch. Real quiet.”
The bartender lifts an eyebrow. “Tall, broody, horse-riding kind of hot?”
You gesture with your glass. “Exactly.”
She hums knowingly. “Sounds like him.”
“Yeah. He was pretty nice though.”
“Mhm. Doesn’t talk much. Just keeps to himself.”
You nod along, about to say something else when the bell over the door rings.
And of course—
Speak of the devil.
There he is.
Choso. Same dark clothes, same quiet presence, the brim of his hat low over his eyes as he steps into the bar like he doesn’t know you were just talking about him.
Your mouth goes a little dry.
The bartender glances at you and smirks.
“Well, well,” she murmurs under her breath. “Looks like fate’s got a good sense of timing.”
You straighten in your seat instinctively, like posture is going to fix the heat crawling up your neck.
The bartender leans in closer, voice pitched low just for you. “You want me to bring him over?”
Your eyes go wide. “Absolutely not.”
She grins like that’s not an answer. “Too late.”
Before you can stop her, she cups a hand to her mouth and calls out across the bar, casual as anything—
“Hey, Choso! You want your usual?”
His head lifts slightly. His gaze shifts, one beat to the bartender, the next—unmistakably—to you.
Then he nods.
The bartender grabs a clean glass, but before she moves to pour, she shoots you a wink. “Be a peach and slide down one seat, would you?”
You blink. “You’re not serious.”
“I’m always serious about good company.”
You hesitate just long enough to regret it, and then Choso’s already making his way over—long strides, quiet steps, the click of his boots drowned out by your internal oh no oh no oh no loop.
He settles beside you without much fanfare, tipping his hat a little as he sits.
“Evenin’,” he says, low and smooth.
Your heart’s doing something ridiculous, but you manage a smile. “Hey. Fancy seeing you again.”
The bartender places his drink down and looks way too pleased with herself. “Y’all have fun,” she says, backing away with her towel slung over her shoulder like a mission accomplished banner.
Choso glances after her, then back at you.
“She always like that?” you ask.
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Only when she senses blood in the water.”
And there’s something playful in his tone this time. Barely there. But it makes your stomach flutter anyway.
You raise a brow. “That so?”
hides a smile behind his glass.
“So,” you say after a beat, “do you always ride in dramatically right after someone talks about you?”
He tilts his head. “You were talkin’ about me?”
You pause, caught.
“…No?”
He hums. “Huh.”
You shoot him a look. “Don’t act like you weren’t eavesdropping.”
“Didn’t have to,” he says, calm as ever. “You’re not exactly subtle.”
You open your mouth to respond, probably with something clever—or at least less humiliating—but he leans an elbow on the bar, eyes on yours.
“Darlin’, I can tell.”
Your jaw drops. “I was not-”
“It’s cute.”
You swat at his arm lightly, but he just chuckles under his breath—barely there, but there.
Somehow, the small talk slips easy after that. Talk of the town. The best place for coffee in the morning (“It’s not the diner,” he warns). At some point, your shoulders stop feeling so tight. And by the time the bartender swings by again with a smug little grin, you're both halfway through your second drinks.
You glance out the window—dark now, and quiet, the kind of still night that makes everything feel slower.
“I should probably head back,” you say, setting your glass down.
Choso finishes his sip and nods. “I’ll walk you.”
You blink. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
Simple as that.
So you agree.
Outside, the night air is cooler than it was when you stepped in. Crisp in a way that feels nice after being inside with too many people and too many thoughts. Choso falls into step beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You glance at him. “You always this quiet?”
He shrugs, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. “Talk when I need to.”
You hum. “That’s fair. I talk even when I don’t need to, so… you balance it out.”
There’s the ghost of a grin at the edge of his mouth. “Yeah, I figured that out.”
You nudge him lightly with your shoulder, and he lets it happen without comment.
It’s quiet again. Not awkward, just… easy.
You don’t live far, and the walk feels shorter with someone next to you. Before long, your porch light’s glowing just up ahead.
“Well,” you say as you stop in front of your door. “Thanks for the company.”
Choso nods. “You gonna be alright out here on your own?”
“I’ve survived worse,” you joke. “Like moving boxes. And small talk with ranch-hands.”
That gets a real smile out of him. Barely-there dimples. Trouble.
He dips his head a little, eyes on you. “You ever need somethin’, you know where the ranch is.”
You raise a brow. “And what exactly would I be needin’?”
He takes a small step back, eyes flicking to your porch light, then back to you.
“Dunno,” he says, and this time his voice is a little rougher. “Thought I’d leave the door open.”
And with that, he tips his hat—just slightly—and turns to walk off.
-
[you]: okay wait
[you]: I get it now.
[you]: the cowboy thing.
She replies in two seconds flat.
[shoko]: took you long enough
[shoko]: you gonna test the hands theory or what
You stare at your screen and groan.
[you]: SHOKO.
[you]: i’ve met him 3 times.
[shoko]: and that’s just the BEGINNING
[shoko]: trust the process
[you]: i’m blocking you.
[shoko]: you say that every time sweetie
You huff, turning your phone off, and get up to get ready for bed.
You huff, turn your phone off, and get up to go to bed.
You lie down, stare at the ceiling. Think about the unpacked boxes still in the hallway. The weird noise the fridge made earlier. And then—like clockwork—your mind drifts.
Choso.
You don’t even know him. Had one conversation, maybe two. But of course that’s enough for your brain to cling to the one decent-looking guy you’ve seen in town so far. Tall, quiet, unfairly attractive. Of course.
You roll over, annoyed at yourself.
He’s probably just...normal. Works with his hands. Doesn’t talk much. Wears the whole rugged cowboy thing like it’s not a big deal, which makes it worse somehow. And okay—fine, the “darlin’” thing did something to you. That’s on him. But it’s also on you for letting it live rent-free in your head all day.
You stare at yourself in the bathroom mirror.
You didn’t come here to get distracted. Definitely not by some man with pretty hands and a nice voice and a face that should be illegal this far out in the middle of nowhere.
No. You’re here to get your life together.
Unfortunately, your life now involves a cowboy you can’t stop thinking about.
You shut your eyes and try to pretend you’re not already in trouble.
-
You’d been at it for over an hour now—sweating under the midday sun, brow furrowed, and jaw clenched tight. The damn wooden plank on your porch just wouldn’t fit right. You’d hammered, yanked, cursed, and even tried sweet-talking it at one point, like that would somehow make it cooperate.
It didn’t.
You sit back on your heels with a frustrated sigh, wiping at your temple with the back of your hand. The rest of the porch is a patchwork of replaced and rotted wood, and the one plank holding everything up just refuses to be tamed.
“Y’look like you’re about five seconds from fightin’ that board.”
You jump a little, glancing up to see Choso standing by the gate—hands in his back pockets, hat pulled low, a half-smirk tugging at his lips.
“Don’t tempt me,” you mutter, rising to your feet. “I’ve about had it with this thing.”
He starts walking toward you, boots crunching softly in the dirt. “Need a hand?”
You shake your head quickly. “No, no, I—I got it. Don’t worry. I know you’ve got your own work to do.”
He slows to a stop at the edge of the porch. “Ain’t in a rush. S’not a burden if I offer.”
You hesitate. He’s not the kind of man you ask favors from lightly—partly because he’s always so quiet, so distant. But he’s looking at you with a kind of patience that softens his usually sharp features.
“…Alright,” you say, stepping aside. “But only because this thing’s winning, and I can’t have that.”
He huffs a quiet laugh and crouches beside the plank, examining the fit. You expect him to just get to work—but instead, he peels off his gloves, sets them aside, and reaches up to tug his hat off his head.
You blink.
Because holy hell.
You’d only ever seen glimpses of his face before—just enough to wonder what he was hiding beneath the brim. And now that it’s gone, it’s like the sun comes out in full.
He’s beautiful. Not the kind of pretty you’d expect from someone who works rough and silent—no, he’s got the kind of beauty that’s sharp. Angular cheekbones. Long lashes. Hair tied back but loose strands frame his face. And that tattoo—dark and striking across the bridge of his nose—only makes it worse.
Your brain short-circuits for a second.
“...What?” he asks, not looking up, already focused on the wood.
“What?” he asks.
You swallow, trying to play it cool. “Just… didn’t know you had a tattoo there.”
He nods once, unfazed. “Had it a long time.”
“It suits you,” you say before you can think better of it.
Choso pauses. His eyes flick to yours—slow, unreadable.
“Thanks,” he murmurs, then goes right back to work.
The two of you work in near silence after that. He makes quick work of the stubborn plank, fitting it with practiced ease, fingers steady and sure. You hold nails when he asks, pass him tools without thinking. It’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel awkward—just natural.
At one point, your hands brush as you hand him the screwdriver. Neither of you say anything. But you feel it. The spark. The stillness.
You glance at him from the corner of your eye. His brow is furrowed, lips parted slightly in concentration, and there’s a bit of sawdust on his shoulder.
He catches you looking.
You snap your gaze away.
And in your chest, something shifts. Something soft. Warm. Familiar in a way that unsettles you.
You like him.
You like him.
It hits you like a whisper—gentle, but impossible to ignore.
When the board’s finally in place, he sits back and nods once, satisfied. “There. Should hold now.”
You clear your throat. “Thanks. Really.”
He glances up at you, hat dangling from his fingers. “Told you I’d help if you needed.”
“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Guess you did.”
The two of you sit there for a minute longer, side by side, watching the wind stir the grass. It’s quiet, but not in a bad way.
Like maybe you don’t need to say everything out loud.
“You want somethin’ to drink?” you ask, brushing your palms on your thighs as you stand. “It’s not much, just some lemonade. Store-bought, not even the fancy kind.”
Choso shifts a little like he’s not used to being offered anything. Like you’ve surprised him.
You catch it, that pause—and suddenly feel a little silly. “You don’t have to, obviously. I just thought, you know… in return for saving me from an early death by splinter.”
He huffs out a laugh, low and amused. “Didn’t know I was savin’ your life.”
“Oh, you absolutely were,” you say, feigning seriousness. “That board had it out for me.”
He looks at you for a second too long. Then: “Alright. I’ll take a glass.”
You try not to grin as you head inside, calling back over your shoulder, “Don’t run off. I’m only sharing if you stay and actually drink it.”
When you return, two slightly sweating glasses in hand, he’s still sitting on the porch step, hat resting beside him, hair a little mussed from the heat and work. He glances up as you hand him his glass.
“Thanks,” he says, fingers brushing yours briefly.
You sit beside him again, both sipping in a quiet that doesn’t feel awkward—just easy.
It’s small. It’s nothing.
But your heart is beating just a little faster anyway.
Choso tips his glass back, slow. “Did a good job, y’know.”
You glance over. “On the porch?”
“On the house. All of it.” He shrugs one shoulder, like it’s no big deal. “Most folks would’ve given up or hired it out. But you stuck with it.”
You blink, surprised by the softness in his voice.
“Thanks,” you say, quieter than you mean to. “I wasn’t sure it’d show.”
He nods once. “It shows.”
Then he stands, stretches a bit, picks up his hat. And just as he steps off the porch, he glances back at you.
“You’re settlin’ in alright,” he says simply. “You should stay. It’d be nice if you do.”
And then he’s gone—hat pulled low again, boots crunching down the gravel path.
You sit there a moment longer, lemonade glass half full in your lap, brain absolutely fried.
You should stay.
Goddamn it.
-
[you]: shoko
[you]: shoko
[you]: SHOKO
[shoko]: it’s literally midnight
[shoko]: did something catch on fire
[you]: NO
[you]: but I’m gonna die anyway
[you]: he said it’d be nice if i stay here
[you]: WHO SAYS THAT
[you]: I HAVEN’T STOPPED THINKING ABOUT IT FOR TWO HOURS
[shoko]: it means he thinks you should stay there
[shoko]: probably with him, in his weird cowboy brain
The Pit is quieter on weeknights. Less rowdy, more murmured conversation and old country music buzzing from the jukebox in the corner. You’re at the bar nursing a whiskey and soda, trying very hard not to think about the way Choso had looked at you like that porch was the only thing standing between you and him.
“You look distracted,” drawls the bartender as she wipes down a glass.
You smile sheepishly. “Long day.”
She hums like she doesn’t believe you, sliding the glass onto the shelf. “Well, you’ll wanna unwind before Saturday anyway. Big weekend comin’.”
You blink. “Saturday?”
“You didn’t hear? Dustwell’s annual Fall Festival.” She leans an elbow on the bar, grinning. “Whole town shows up. Good food, live music, terrible dancing.”
Your brows raise. “That sounds... kind of amazing.”
“Oh, it’s somethin’. Bit of everything—bonfire, market stalls, pie contest, all that small-town charm.” She leans in a little. “You should come. Be a good way to meet folks.”
You sip your drink. “Will there be whiskey?”
“Enough to drown a horse,” she deadpans. “C’mon. You might even have fun.”
You hesitate. Then nod, smiling. “Alright. I’ll check it out.”
She straightens, clearly pleased. “Attagirl.”
You pause. “Is it the kind of thing people go to alone?”
“You won’t be alone long,” she says, smirking as she grabs a bottle from the shelf. “Trust me.”
You smile into your glass and murmur, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
She laughs and moves on to the next customer, leaving you sitting in the low golden glow of the bar lights, your drink slowly warming in your hand.
You swirl the ice once more.
You’re going to that festival. You already know exactly who you hope to see there.
-
You tell yourself it’s just a small-town festival.
No need to overthink it. Just food stalls, some live music, maybe a bonfire if the wind stays down. But somehow, you’ve tried on three outfits already and you’re still standing in front of the mirror, arms crossed, trying to decide if you look like you’re trying.
Your fingers smooth down the hem of the floral babydoll dress you finally settled on—light, flowy, soft against your skin. Not too short. Not too loud. Just enough.
Your boots are worn but clean. A bit of balm on your lips, a brush through your hair. You pause over the mascara.
“Stupid,” you mutter, swiping it on anyway.
You’re not dressing up for him. You’re not.
You grab your bag and give yourself one last look in the mirror. The dress sways with your movement, delicate and easy in the late afternoon light.
You look… nice.
And if a certain broody ranch hand happens to notice?
Well. That’s not why you’re going.
(Probably.)
-
The lights strung up over Dustwell’s main road flicker warm and golden, casting a glow over the small crowd that’s gathered. There’s laughter, music, chatter—a rhythm to the evening that thrums low and pleasant.
You should be enjoying it.
But your eyes are elsewhere.
You move through the crowd slowly, aimless, pretending to admire booths you don’t quite see. A table of carved wooden animals. A local honey stand. Rows of pies, flaky and golden. People pass with plates stacked high, cups of cider sloshing, the scent of cinnamon in the air.
And still, you keep looking.
Your boots crunch softly on gravel as you round the corner near the bonfire pit. A flicker of orange firelight glows against smiling faces. Couples sway to the drawl of a country ballad being played live somewhere off to the left. You scan each cluster of people with careful, almost casual glances.
He’s not here.
You try not to feel stupid about it.
Choso never said he’d come. Hell, you never even asked him. Maybe he’s back at the ranch. Maybe he hates crowds. Or maybe he just didn’t think about you at all.
You sigh through your nose and roll your shoulders like that could shake the disappointment off.
“Pretty dress,” someone says beside you, voice too close, too sticky with alcohol.
You tense.
Some guy, clearly drunk, sways into your space with a grin that’s more grease than charm. He’s got a beer bottle in hand and eyes that crawl. You step back slightly, but he follows, grin widening.
“You look real sweet tonight,” he adds, leaning closer. “You local?”
You step sideways, the movement polite but clear. “Just passing through,” you lie.
He follows. “Nah, I’ve seen you before. Came in not long ago. You’ve been out at the old farmstead, ain’t you? Near the ridge?”
Your mouth tightens. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
He laughs, too loud, too bold. “Well, we’re meetin’ now, ain’t we?”
“You here alone?” he asks, leaning in. “Don’t seem right, someone like you walkin’ around without a man.”
“I’m fine, thanks,” you say, voice firm but polite.
“Aww, c’mon now—don’t be like that,” he drawls, reaching like he’s about to touch your arm.
You stiffen, heart starting to pound—
Then suddenly, there’s someone else.
A wall of quiet tension slots between you and the sleazy stranger, solid and unmoving. The guy stumbles back half a step as the air shifts.
You don’t even need to look up to know who it is.
Low and slow, that familiar gravel-edged voice speaks:
“This guy botherin’ you, darlin’?”
Your heart kicks hard in your chest.
Choso stands between you and the drunk, broad shoulders blocking the man from view, voice calm but carrying a warning beneath it.
You swallow, then nod.
Choso doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t raise his voice. Just says, “Get lost.”
The guy laughs nervously. “Hey, no trouble—just chattin’, that’s all—”
Choso shifts. Barely. But something about the way he straightens, the silence that falls around him—it’s enough.
The drunk mutters something under his breath and stumbles off.
For a beat, it’s quiet.
Then Choso turns, finally, and his eyes rake over you—slowly, like he’s still processing what he’s seeing.
“You alright?” he asks.
You nod, heart fluttering so loud you’re sure he can hear it. “Yeah. Thanks.”
His gaze lingers a second too long before flicking away. “Shouldn’t be lettin’ creeps like that get near you.”
You smile softly. “Wasn’t exactly planning on it.”
He huffs, almost a laugh, then gestures toward the booths. “You eaten yet?”
“…No.”
“C’mon then,” he murmurs. “I’ll buy you somethin’.”
You fall into step beside him.
Maybe you weren’t just looking around after all.
The two of you drift past the bonfire, not saying much at first. There’s an ease to it—like neither of you feels the need to fill the silence. Just the scrape of boots on gravel, the occasional burst of laughter from nearby, and the soft hum of music carried on the wind.
You pause at a food stall where an older woman is selling fried hand pies. Choso buys two without asking—one for you, one for him. You raise an eyebrow as he hands it over.
“Thought I wasn’t hungry,” you say, amused.
“You looked at it twice,” he replies simply.
You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. “You always this observant?”
He shrugs, chewing. “Just when it matters.”
You try not to read too much into that. You fail.
You wander with him toward a quieter part of the festival, where the booths thin out and string lights dangle lower from wooden poles. Kids run past in a blur, chasing each other with glow sticks. There’s a tent set up nearby with hay bales inside for resting.
You slip into the edge of it to take a break, brushing your skirt down as you sit. Choso stands nearby, arms folded loosely, watching the crowd.
You can’t help sneaking a look at him. The way the firelight hits his profile. The way his jaw tightens when he’s lost in thought. He’s wearing that same beat-up hat—but you’ve seen what’s underneath now. The soft waves of his hair. The scar, beautiful in its own way. How gentle his eyes are, even when his face looks like it’s forgotten how to smile.
“You don’t like crowds, do you?” you ask softly.
He glances over, amused. “Figured that obvious?”
You laugh. “You’re standing like a bouncer outside a saloon.”
He huffs. “Just keepin’ an eye out.”
“For trouble?”
He looks at you for a beat. “For you.”
You don’t know what to say to that. Your fingers fidget with the edge of your dress—until you feel his gaze lower.
“That dress,” he says, voice low like he almost hadn’t meant to say it aloud. “You look real pretty in it.”
You blink up at him, caught off guard. “…What?”
He shifts his weight, gaze still on you but softer now. “I mean it. Real damn pretty, darlin’.”
Your heart jumps at the nickname. God, it sounds even better tonight. Heat crawls up the back of your neck as you glance down at the floral fabric bunched around your knees.
“I almost wore jeans,” you murmur, smiling despite yourself.
He chuckles, and it’s quiet but deep. “Would’ve looked good either way. But I’m glad you didn’t.”
You peek up at him again—and he’s still looking. Not just at your dress, not at the way your hair’s curled around your shoulders—but at you. Really looking.
He gestures to the edge of the hill beyond the festival. “C’mon. There’s a view you might like.”
You follow without thinking.
And maybe this isn’t a date. Maybe you both keep pretending it’s not.
But as he walks just ahead of you, turning back now and then to make sure you’re still with him—you feel it settling in your chest.
You follow him past the last of the booths, away from the warmth of the fire and the noise of the crowd. The grass grows wilder out here, untamed and soft beneath your boots. String lights give way to open sky, and above you, the stars stretch wide and scattered like sugar spilled over velvet.
Choso walks a little ahead, hands tucked in his pockets. His pace is slow, easy. Like he’s making sure you can keep up without looking like he’s trying.
“D you always bring girls out here?” you tease, nudging his arm gently with your shoulder.
He glances at you, amused. “Ain’t much of a crowd person, remember?”
“Still didn’t answer the question.”
That almost-smile tugs at his lips again. “No. First time.”
You don’t know what to say to that, but your heart makes a quiet little flutter behind your ribs.
The hill slopes up just enough to make your calves ache by the time you reach the top. But the view? It’s worth it.
Below, Dustwell looks like something out of a painting. Warm flickers of light. People like shadows moving between tents. Music floating up faint and distant. And past it all, the open stretch of the plains—blue-black and endless.
You exhale softly. “Wow.”
Choso settles beside you, just close enough for your arms to almost brush. “Didn’t oversell it, huh?”
You shake your head. “You didn’t say anything about it being this beautiful.”
He glances sideways, and for a moment, you think he’s going to say something else.
Instead, he hums low in his throat and says, “Figured you’d see it yourself.”
A breeze kicks up, catching the hem of your dress and lifting it just enough to make you shiver. You cross your arms, rubbing at your sleeves, and without a word, Choso shrugs off his jacket.
You hesitate. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” he says simply, already draping it over your shoulders. “But you’re cold.”
The jacket smells like cedar and sun-warmed cotton. It’s too big, but in a comforting way. You sink into it without thinking, and when you glance up to thank him, he’s already looking at you.
Not shy. Not teasing.
Just… honest.
And something about it—something about him—makes your pulse slow, heavy in your ears.
Maybe this isn’t a date.
But it feels like one.
And right now, that’s more than enough.
You both fall into a quiet lull, watching the horizon blur at its edges. The night wraps around you, soft and vast, and with his jacket warming your shoulders, something inside you loosens.
You hug it closer. “I wasn’t even sure I’d stay at first,” you admit, voice hushed. “Dustwell just… felt like a name on a deed. Not a place I’d belong.”
Choso doesn’t interrupt. He waits, like he knows there’s more.
“I thought I’d fix up the house, sell it maybe. Move back to the city,” you say. “But then I started patching up things. Talking to people. And then…”
You glance over, offering a small smile. “Then I met you.”
His gaze is steady, unreadable—but his jaw flexes, just barely. Like your words landed somewhere deeper than you meant them to.
You shift slightly, brushing hair away from your face. “You ever get that feeling? Like maybe you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, even if it doesn’t make sense yet?”
He’s silent for a beat too long.
Then, quietly—“Yeah.”
The word hangs between you, heavy and fragile.
You turn to face him fully now, searching his expression—and find that he’s already looking at you.
And there’s something in his eyes. Something new.
Tentative. Quiet. Intense.
His gaze flickers downward—just once, just enough to make your breath catch.
To your mouth.
He swallows, throat working. “You keep lookin’ at me like that, darlin’, ’m gonna start gettin’ ideas.”
Your heart slams in your chest.
And then he leans in—slow, so goddamn slow, like giving you every chance to pull away.
But you don’t.
Your hand finds the edge of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric on instinct—like you need something to hold onto to keep you grounded. His fingertips skim along your jaw, featherlight, until his thumb brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
He doesn’t pull away.
And you don’t either.
The air between you grows thick, weighted with everything unsaid. His hand lingers just beneath your jaw, rough from work and calloused in a way that feels real, solid—so unlike anything you’ve ever known.
You swear your heart’s beating so loud it’s echoing in your ears.
His eyes flicker from yours to your lips and back again, like he’s giving you every second to say no.
You don’t.
His nose grazes yours, warm breath fanning across your skin. Your lashes flutter as your eyes fall shut.
Then, finally, his lips press to yours.
Soft. Barely there at first. Just a brush. A question.
You sigh—yes, God, yes—and that’s all he needs.
The kiss deepens, coaxed open by quiet urgency and something tender just beneath the surface. His palm cradles the side of your face now, thumb stroking the apple of your cheek like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.
He tastes like mint and something a little smoky, a little wild. He kisses like he’s not used to having something this gentle, this good, and he’s afraid it’ll vanish if he pushes too hard.
But still—he leans in closer.
Your spine meets the wooden rail behind you, but you hardly notice. Your hands slide up to his chest, the warmth of him soaking through his shirt, steady and sure. One of his hands drifts to your waist, grounding you, tugging you infinitesimally closer.
And God—you feel it. That shift.
That invisible line you just crossed.
When you finally part, it’s only because you need to breathe. And even then, his lips brush yours once more. A quieter kiss. A promise.
He doesn’t move far.
Forehead resting against yours, he murmurs, voice husky, “Been wantin’ to do that for a while now.”
You smile, lips still tingling. “Yeah?”
His eyes don’t leave yours. “Yeah.”
You blink up at him, dazed. Your lips still buzz where his mouth had just been, and your heart is doing something stupidly dramatic in your chest—fluttering like it’s got something to prove.
Choso pulls back just enough to see you, really see you. There’s a small crease between his brows like he’s still unsure if he overstepped.
But all you can do is stare.
Then—God—you laugh.
A quiet, breathy little sound that slips out before you can catch it.
He tilts his head. “Somethin’ funny, darlin’?”
Your hands are still resting against his chest, and you shake your head, cheeks warming. “No—no, just… I think my brain short-circuited a little.”
That earns the faintest smirk from him—just the barest curve at the corner of his mouth, but it feels like sunlight cracking through clouds.
“Well,” he drawls, voice low and rough, “you did look real pretty tonight. Could’ve warned me.”
You narrow your eyes at him, trying to play it cool despite the way your pulse is still racing. “Is that how you kiss everyone?”
He huffs a quiet breath—almost a laugh—and dips his gaze to your lips again. “No,” he says, low. “Just you.”
That does something to your chest. You feel it settle there, warm and certain.
Your voice is quieter now. “Why me?”
His eyes meet yours again, steady. “Ain’t figured that part out yet.”
And just like that, the shyness dissolves into something quieter, sweeter. You lean into him, your hands settling over his heart. It’s steady. Comforting.
He doesn’t rush the silence. Doesn’t push.
The noise of the festival still hums in the background, but it feels like a distant memory now—muted beneath the rush of your heart and the warmth still lingering on your lips.
He steps back a little, just enough to breathe, but not enough to lose the closeness. “You wan’ me to walk ya home?”
Your answer is immediate, quiet. “I do.”
You fall into step beside each other, the path dimly lit by strings of warm bulbs and the fading firelight from the festival. The ground crunches under your boots, and the night air wraps cool and easy around your skin. He doesn’t speak at first, and you don’t mind. You like the silence between you—it’s comfortable. Safe.
Then, as you near the edge of town, his hand brushes yours.
Just barely.
You glance over at him. He’s looking straight ahead like nothing happened, but there’s a soft pink creeping up the side of his neck.
You don’t say anything. You just let your hand shift a little closer.
The next time they touch, it’s on purpose.
Fingers slide together slow, like testing the weight of something new.
He doesn’t pull away.
And neither do you.
-
By the time you reach your porch, the stars are scattered thick above you and the crickets are singing like they know something you don’t.
You stop at the steps, not quite ready to go inside.
Choso stands just a step down, taller than you even now, his silhouette all shadows and moonlight. His fingers are still loosely curled around yours.
He looks at you, quiet.
You look back.
Something thick and tender swims in the air between you.
Then, just as you’re about to speak—he leans in again.
But this time, it’s different.
Softer. Slower. Like he’s savoring it.
His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin, and his lips meet yours in a kiss that’s warm and unhurried. Like a goodnight. Like a promise.
It doesn’t last long—but it doesn’t need to.
When he pulls away, you’re still standing there, blinking, trying to catch your breath.
“Night, darlin’,” he murmurs, voice low and warm.
You open your mouth to respond but—nothing comes out.
He smirks, just barely, and tips his hat before turning back toward the road, boots crunching softly as he walks away.
You exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding, pressing your fingers to your lips, heart racing.
-
[you]: shoko.
[you]: he kissed me.
[you]: just… kissed me. said “night, darlin’” and walked off like it was nothing.
[you]: i think i forgot how to stand for a second.
You watch the typing bubble blink in and out a few times.
[shoko]: and how was it
[you]: …really good.
[shoko]: knew it. told you he had a thing for you.
[you]: you also said he probably talks to horses more than people.
[shoko]: and apparently he kisses better than both. proud of you.
You huff a laugh, dropping your head back against the couch.
The room is quiet. The porch light still glows through the curtains. Your lips still tingle.
You pull your knees up to your chest, phone resting in your palm.
And when sleep finally pulls you under, it's with the weight of his touch still lingering and his voice—low and warm—tucked somewhere in the back of your mind.
-
The days that follow feel different.
Not loud or sudden—just quieter in a way that stays with you.
Like the way his eyes linger a little longer when you talk. Like the way he leans in when no one’s looking. Like the way your hand always seems to find his when no one’s around to see.
There’s a moment in the barn—just the two of you, the air heavy with hay and late sun—where he kisses you slow, with one hand braced against the stall and the other at your waist. You laugh into his mouth, and he smiles like he can’t help it.
Another time, it’s behind your house, just after he helps you carry firewood. You thank him and mean it—and before you can say more, he cups your jaw and kisses you like he’s been thinking about it all day.
Sometimes, though—sometimes it shifts.
Like the night you're sitting side by side on your porch steps, your knee brushing his, your laughter fading into something quieter. His eyes darken as they drop to your mouth. He kisses you, slower this time. Deeper. And when his lips trail down to the edge of your jaw, when his hand skims along your thigh—
The porch light flickers.
A car rumbles by.
You both pause, breath caught in your throats.
He pulls back with a soft exhale, forehead resting against yours for a second longer before he clears his throat and leans away.
Another time, it’s the hayloft—warm, private, the dust floating golden in the air. He’s hovering above you, lips at your collarbone, fingers curling just under the hem of your shirt—
Then the barn door creaks. A voice calls for him.
You sit up, flushed and breathless, heart thudding hard in your chest.
He mutters something under his breath, presses a kiss to your temple, and climbs down first.
It’s never awkward. Never forced.
Just moments that build. Stretch. Hold.
And it’s always him who pulls back—like he's afraid of what might happen if he doesn’t.
-
The air seems lighter, the walk into town quieter, your thoughts a little louder.
You find yourself smiling at nothing, fingers ghosting over your lips like they still remember the weight of his. And when you catch sight of him across the way—hat low, shirt clinging to his shoulders from the heat—you swear your pulse stutters.
He doesn’t say much when he sees you, just tips his head in that lazy way of his, mouth curling faintly at the edges.
But as you pass by, his hand brushes yours—just for a second. Barely there. Like a secret no one else is supposed to notice.
And you swear your skin hums from the touch.
Later, when you're out by the edge of the property replacing fence boards, he shows up with that same quiet timing he always does. He leans against the post beside you, hands in his pockets, watching.
“You’re gonna get splinters, y’know,” he drawls.
You shoot him a look. “Then maybe you should help.”
He does.
And this time, when he kneels beside you, handing you nails and steadying the board with one hand, his knee brushes yours and stays there. There’s no flinch, no apology—just a glance up, a half-smile passed between you.
When he stands, he offers a hand to pull you up. You hesitate a moment too long before taking it, your fingers curling around his, warm and sure.
“You always this helpful?” you tease.
He shrugs. “Only when there’s pretty company.”
You try to roll your eyes, but the way your heart kicks in your chest ruins the effort.
-
It starts with a rumble.
The sky’s been moody all morning, clouds hanging heavy like they’re waiting for the right moment to split open. You’d taken the risk anyway, walking into town for some supplies, telling yourself you’d beat the storm back.
You don’t.
You're only halfway down the winding road back to the house when it hits—sudden and sharp, fat drops pelting the dust and kicking up the smell of rain-soaked earth. Within seconds, you’re drenched. Your dress clings to your skin, hair plastered to your face, and you’re shivering as you trudge along, arms wrapped around yourself.
You barely hear the truck pulling up beside you over the roar of rain.
But you definitely hear his voice.
“Darlin’?”
You blink through the downpour, and there he is—Choso, leaning out the driver’s side window of his old pickup, hat pulled low, brow furrowed in concern.
“You tryin’ to drown out here?”
You shake your head, a breathless laugh escaping you despite the chill. “Thought I could outrun it.”
His eyes flick down, taking in your soaked dress, the way you’re hugging your elbows. His jaw flexes.
“My place is closer,” he says after a beat. “C’mon.”
You hesitate only for a second. Not because you don’t trust him—you do, more than you probably should—but because stepping into that truck feels like crossing into something else. Something charged.
Still, the rain’s cold, and your feet hurt, and his voice is so damn gentle.
You nod.
He’s out of the truck in a blink, jogging around the front and opening the door for you like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t send a flutter through your chest. He holds the door open as you climb in, and when your fingers brush his wrist, they’re warm, solid. Comforting.
Inside the cab, the heater’s on, and it smells like cedar and something faintly smoky. Choso reaches behind the seat, grabs an old flannel, and without a word, drapes it over your shoulders.
You glance over at him, your hands gripping the soft fabric.
“Thanks,” you murmur.
He’s quiet for a moment, eyes fixed ahead as he pulls back onto the road. Then, voice low: “Ain’t gonna let you freeze out here.”
You look over at him again, and this time, he catches your gaze.
The silence stretches.
“You always play knight in shining armor?” you tease, trying for casual, though your voice is soft around the edges.
Choso doesn’t look at you right away. His fingers flex around the steering wheel. “Nah,” he says eventually. “Don’t usually have a reason to.”
The hum of the engine fills the cab, steady and low, and the rain tapping against the windshield makes the world outside feel far away—blurred and gray and quiet.
Inside, it’s warmer. Safer.
You clutch the flannel tighter around you, the sleeves hanging over your fingers. The scent of it—woodsmoke, leather, something him—makes your chest ache just a little.
“Didn’t think the weather’d turn that fast,” you murmur, glancing out the window.
Choso glances over. “Storms move quick out here,” he says. “You’ll learn.”
You smile faintly. “Guess I’m still adjusting.”
“You’re doin’ alright,” he says, voice low.
The silence returns, but it’s not awkward. It settles over the two of you like another blanket. Comforting. There’s something steady in his presence, something grounding, and it creeps in slow, calming your nerves until your body starts to relax on its own.
He makes a turn, gravel crunching under the tires as he pulls onto a long, dirt path lined with wild mesquite trees. You didn’t realize how close his place actually was.
Your eyes feel heavy. Maybe it’s the warmth. Maybe it’s the rhythm of the road.
Maybe it’s him.
You glance over, watching him quietly—his jawline, the way the rain beads on the brim of his hat. Without thinking, you lean a little closer, until your head gently rests against his shoulder.
Choso’s muscles tense just slightly beneath you.
“Sorry,” you say quickly, starting to pull away.
But his voice stops you—soft, quieter than usual.
“It’s alright.”
And so you stay.
For a minute, maybe two, neither of you says anything. His shoulder is solid and warm beneath your cheek. You close your eyes.
“You get used to the rain, too,” he says after a while. “’Specially when you’ve got someone to ride it out with.”
There’s a pause. Your fingers twitch under the flannel.
“Think I’d like that,” you murmur.
He doesn’t answer, but you can feel the way his breath shifts. Like he wants to say something but bites it back.
The truck rolls to a stop.
“We’re here,” he says gently.
The rain’s still falling when Choso gets out and jogs around to open your door, hat tilted low to shield from the downpour. You hesitate for a second before slipping your hand into his, jumping down from the truck. His palm is rough and warm, and when you look up at him, his eyes are already on you.
The walk to the front porch is brief but soaked. By the time you’re inside, boots tracking mud onto the wooden floor, your clothes cling to your skin and your hair’s dripping water down your neck.
“Bathroom’s down the hall,” Choso says, tossing his keys onto a hook near the door. “Towels are in the cabinet. I’ll find you somethin’ dry.”
You nod, teeth chattering just a bit. “Thanks.”
The bathroom smells faintly of cedar and old cologne. You dry off as best you can, toweling your hair and arms. When you step out, Choso’s waiting in the hall with a bundle in his hands—a soft, well-worn hoodie and a pair of sweatpants that’ll definitely be too big.
“Hope that works,” he says, eyes flicking over you quickly. “Didn’t figure you’d want jeans.”
You smile, hugging the bundle to your chest. “Perfect.”
When you come out dressed in his clothes, sleeves past your hands and the waistband of the sweatpants rolled over once, he’s in the kitchen, pouring you a mug of something steaming.
“Here,” he says, holding it out. “Hot cocoa. Not coffee—it’s late.”
You raise a brow. “Didn’t peg you as the cocoa type.”
A ghost of a smirk tugs at his lips. “I ain’t. But you seem like the kind who’d need somethin’ sweet after a cold walk home.”
Your stomach flips.
You sip slowly, the warmth seeping into your fingers. He leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching you. There’s a quiet in the room again—not awkward, just…thick. Charged. Like something could happen if either of you let it.
Then, he tilts his head a bit. “You look good in that.”
Your gaze snaps up to his.
“In what?”
He nods at the hoodie. “Never liked how it looked on me, but it suits you.”
You laugh softly, heart in your throat. “I look like I’m drowning in it.”
“Still suits you.”
You barely register the shift in the air until you feel him move behind you—slow, purposeful. His boots echo quiet on the wooden floor, and before you can even turn, he’s there. His arms plant on either side of you, palms flat against the counter, caging you in without a word.
The space between your bodies buzzes with unspoken something. His chest nearly brushes your back, and when he dips his head, breath warm at the curve of your neck, you freeze.
Then—soft.
The faintest brush of his lips against your skin. Once. Then again. Featherlight, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to want this much.
You manage a breathless laugh. “I’m starting to think this was all an excuse to bring me here.”
You feel him smile against your neck, a quiet huff of amusement. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea I’ve ever had.”
Your heart skips, and before you can respond, he presses one more kiss—just below your ear this time—and murmurs, voice low, rough:
“Glad you agreed to come.”
You shift slightly, finally daring to glance back at him. “And if I hadn’t?”
He lifts his head, eyes locking with yours now—closer than you expected, darker too. “Guess I’d be missin’ out.”
The tension between you crackles. You're not sure who leans in first, but suddenly the distance isn’t so wide anymore.
His mouth crashes against yours this time—no hesitation, no space to think, just heat.
It’s clumsy at first, teeth clashing, breath hitching, but neither of you care. Your fingers tangle in the front of his shirt, tugging him closer like you’ll fall apart if there’s even an inch between you. He groans into your mouth, low and rough, one hand sliding around your waist to press you flush to him, the other threading into your hair.
Your back hits the counter as he crowds you in, lips hot and relentless, kissing like he means to memorize every inch. Tongues meet, the kiss deepening into something hungry, something that’s been simmering just below the surface for far too long.
His fingers splay across your lower back, gripping like he can’t stand the thought of letting go. Your hands wander—his jaw, his neck, the soft strands of his hair now damp from the rain. He kisses you like he’s starved, like this moment has been clawing at the edge of his self-control for days. Weeks.
When you gasp against him, he takes the opportunity to nip at your bottom lip, chasing it with a gentler kiss right after—contrasting, addictive. You pull him closer, like you’ll crawl into him if he lets you.
The only sound in the room is the soft rustle of clothing, the quiet thud of footsteps shifting, the desperate sound of mouths colliding again and again—wet, open-mouthed, aching.
Nothing else exists. Just the warmth of his body, the taste of his kiss, and the way he’s kissing you like he never wants to stop.
His hand slips beneath your hoodie, palm warm and steady against your skin. It’s not rushed—he touches like he’s memorizing, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist.
“Been thinkin’ about this,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice thick. “’Bout you.”
You shiver, not just from his touch but from how needy he sounds—like he’s been holding back and it’s finally breaking loose.
His teeth graze your jaw, your neck, and then he’s kissing lower, slower, the kind of kiss that makes your knees threaten to give out.
“You gotta tell me to stop,” he says, breath hot against your skin, “or I’m not gonna.”
But your hands are already tugging his shirt up, fingers greedy against the lines of his stomach, and the way you say his name—low, breathy, a little wrecked—has him cursing under his breath.
He’s everywhere—hands and lips and heat.
You barely notice when his hands shift—one to your thigh, the other braced at your lower back—until your feet leave the ground.
You gasp, arms locking around his shoulders as he lifts you like you weigh nothing.
“Choso—”
“Not here,” he murmurs, voice rough in your ear. “You deserve better than a fuckin’ kitchen counter.”
The heat of his breath sends a full-body shiver down your spine, but there’s something else too—the way he carries you, steady and certain, like he’s done thinking. Like he’s made up his mind.
He walks with you through the dim hallway, never once breaking eye contact when you look up at him.
“You sure?” he asks, even though he’s already halfway to his room.
You nod, breathless. “Yeah.”
His mouth twitches and the second you’re in his room, he’s setting you down on the bed like you’re the most important thing he’s ever touched.
Then he’s on you again, lips trailing down your neck, hands at your waist, tugging at your clothes like they’re in the way of something holy.
He leans over you, breath still heavy, eyes dragging across your body like he can’t decide where to touch first.
You’re in his hoodie—his hoodie—and there’s something about that that makes his jaw flex, like the sight alone has undone him.
“Didn’t think you could look better in my clothes,” he murmurs, voice low and gravelly. “’Til now.”
His fingers curl around the hem, and he lifts it inch by inch, knuckles brushing your stomach, your ribs, the curve of your chest—leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. He pulls it over your head with care, like he’s unwrapping something delicate, and tosses it aside without taking his eyes off you.
Then his hands slide to the waistband of the sweatpants.
He hooks his fingers under the fabric, ready to ask again—ready to take it slow. But when he tugs it down your hips and catches the bare skin beneath, he freezes.
There’s no fabric. No lace. Nothing.
His breath catches—sharp and audible—and his hands go still.
“...You’re not wearin’ anything underneath,” he says, almost like he’s making sure he didn’t just imagine it.
You nod, watching the understanding settle across his face. “Yeah. Didn’t wanna put them back on. You handed me your clothes, so I just…”
His hands tighten at your hips, knuckles flexing against your bare skin like he’s trying so fucking hard not to lose it.
“Jesus,” he mutters, low and hoarse, like the image just broke something in him. “You’ve been like this the whole time?”
Your breath hitches, and that’s all the answer he needs.
The shift in him is instant—his mouth is back on your skin, kissing a line down your stomach, then your inner thigh, slower this time, deeper, like he’s savoring the thought.
Hands spread your legs with a kind of reverence, eyes locked on you like a man seeing something sacred for the first time.
And when he settles between them, shoulders anchoring your thighs apart, it’s not just lust in his expression.
It’s awe. It’s hunger. It’s devotion.
He exhales slow, like he’s trying to ground himself—but the tension in his shoulders says it’s a losing battle.
“Fuck, baby…” he murmurs, voice barely there, lips hovering just over your skin. “You got no idea what that’s doin’ to me.”
His fingers dig into your thighs, spreading you wider as he leans in—and when he finally drags his tongue through your folds, slow and deliberate, it pulls a gasp straight from your chest.
He groans against you, deep and raw, like you’re the best thing he’s ever tasted.
“You’re soaked,” he breathes, almost in disbelief, like he wasn’t expecting you to be this ready for him. “This all for me?”
You nod, breath ragged, and he huffs a short, wrecked laugh against your skin. Then he’s back at it—mouth open, tongue greedy, sucking your clit into the heat of his mouth before pulling away just enough to tease you with the flat of his tongue.
It’s messy. It’s focused. He’s focused—like he’s been dreaming about this and finally has you where he wants you, and now he can’t stop. Won’t stop.
He grips your thighs tighter when they start to twitch, holding you in place, tongue fucking into you with slow, devastating precision. He’s learning what makes you squirm, what makes your hips buck, and he goes after it again and again—hungry, deliberate, obsessed.
Every so often, he pauses just to kiss you there. Open-mouthed, lingering kisses, like he’s trying to make it tender and filthy at the same time.
And when he speaks, it’s into your skin—low and reverent and wrecked.
“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he growls. “Could stay down here all night. You’d let me, wouldn’t you? Let me make you come on my fuckin’ tongue?”
You can’t even respond—your fingers are in his hair, clutching hard, and he moans at the way you tug, like your need turns him on even more.
He doesn’t stop. If anything, he gets deeper, more intense—tongue and lips working in tandem, determined to push you right over the edge.
And the look he gives you when you start to unravel? It’s pure worship.
Like you’re a miracle.
He doesn’t rush.
Doesn’t tear into you like he’s trying to make a point. He just stays there—mouth warm and steady, tongue moving slow and sure through your folds, like he’s figuring you out by feel.
And the second you react—hips tilting toward him, breath hitching—he locks onto it. Keeps going in the same rhythm, like he’s memorizing what works.
His grip on your thighs tightens just slightly, holding you open, but never forceful. Just firm. Like he doesn’t want to miss a single twitch, a single sound. One hand slides up, settling on your hip, grounding you, keeping you right where he wants you. The other stays on your thigh, thumb brushing slow circles into your skin, keeping you calm. Or trying to.
Because it’s not calm anymore.
There’s nothing showy in the way he moves—just focused, hungry pressure. Every lap of his tongue has intention behind it. He’s not trying to tease. He wants you to come, and it’s obvious in every breath, every groan, every time his mouth seals around your clit and pulls a noise out of you you didn’t know you could make.
When you start to shake, he pulls back just a little—enough to look at you.
“Almost there?”
You nod fast, too far gone for words, and that’s all he needs.
He goes right back in, tongue and mouth working in sync now, no hesitation, no breaks. Just pressure, just heat, just him, fully focused on pulling you under. The tension builds quick—sharp and tight, spiraling—and he doesn’t stop until you fall apart.
Even then, he lingers. Soft, slow, soothing now. Gentle licks while you come down, his hands smoothing over your hips like he’s making sure you’re still breathing.
He stays between your thighs for a moment, just breathing, eyes dragging over you like he’s trying to decide if you’re real. Then his hand slides down—slow, careful—and his fingers spread you open with a quiet, appreciative hum.
“You’re still dripping,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
He runs a thumb through the mess he’s made, not teasing, just... feeling. Like he needs to know how soft you are, how warm. Then he shifts up slightly, mouth still close, and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh before slipping one finger in—slow and steady.
“Still with me?” he asks, voice low.
You nod, biting your lip, hips twitching at the stretch.
“Good.”
He keeps it gentle at first, letting you adjust, watching your face the whole time. Then he curls his finger just right, and the sound you make has him swearing under his breath.
“Fuck… yeah. There it is.”
He adds a second finger, just as slowly. It’s a snug fit, but you’re wet enough that he doesn’t have to push hard—and he doesn’t. He’s careful, steady, easing you open like he wants to take his time.
Like it matters.
And it does.
“You’re takin’ me so well already,” he says quietly, more wonder than praise. “Gonna feel so fuckin’ good around me.”
His fingers work in a steady rhythm now—deep, purposeful, hitting the spot over and over while his thumb finds your clit again, rubbing soft, slow circles that have your thighs shaking all over again.
“Think you can come like this?” he asks, almost curious. “Wanna feel you squeeze around my fingers before I even get inside you.”
He keeps going until your legs are trembling again, until you’re arching into him without even realizing, until he knows you’re right there—
And he doesn’t stop until he has you falling apart a second time.
You’re still catching your breath when his fingers slip free, slow and careful, like he doesn’t want to lose the warmth of you just yet. He presses another kiss to your inner thigh, then one just above your hipbone, working his way up your body with this quiet, steady intensity—like he’s been waiting forever to touch you like this.
When he finally settles over you, his face is close, his hair still damp at the ends, a little wild from where you’ve tugged at it.
“You okay?” he asks, voice low and quiet. Not just a throwaway check-in—he means it. Like if you said stop right now, he actually would.
You nod, still flushed, still reeling.
He studies you for a beat longer, eyes scanning your face like he’s looking for any sign you’re not sure. But you are. And when your hand curls around the back of his neck to pull him down for a kiss, that’s all he needs.
His mouth moves over yours—slow this time, less frantic than before. It’s warm. Intimate. Like he wants you to feel how much this means to him. And when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.
“Still not rushin’ you,” he says, almost like a promise. “But I want you. Been wantin’ you since the day we met.”
You swallow, heart pounding, and ease up onto your knees.
“Then let me,” you murmur. “I want to.”
He nods—small, reverent. His hands fall back to the mattress like he’s surrendering himself to you completely, and you shift, climbing into his lap with shaky hands and a tight chest. He watches you the whole time, eyes dark but gentle, tracking the way your thighs settle around his hips.
You lean forward to kiss him once—slow, almost nervous—then sit back and reach for the waistband of his sweatpants.
And that’s when your breath catches.
He’s big.
Thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip, and heavy against his stomach. You don’t even have your hand around him yet and he looks like he shouldn’t fit.
Choso sees your hesitation—feels it, maybe—and his voice comes quiet. Steady.
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” you whisper, eyes still locked on him.
You reach down, fingers curling around the base, and he shudders under you. The sound he makes is low and wrecked, like even the idea of you touching him is too much.
You guide him toward your entrance, breathing a little harder now. Every nerve is alive. His leaky tip brushes against you and he groans, fingers twitching against the bedsheets.
“Wait,” he says softly, his voice suddenly closer, steadier. His hand comes to your thigh, grounding. “You alright?”
You nod—quick, almost frantic.
“Yeah,” you breathe. “I just—you're big.”
His thumb strokes gently along your skin. “I know, baby. You don’t gotta rush, alright?”
Still, you press down—slowly, inch by inch—and your body gives, stretching around him. He’s thick, the burn immediate but not unbearable, just enough to make your eyes flutter shut, jaw tight as you try to breathe through it.
He sees it all.
Your thighs shaking. The hitch in your breath. The way your hands scramble for something to hold onto—him, the sheets, anything.
“Takin’ me so good,” he murmurs, sitting up just a bit to cup your face. His thumbs brush beneath your eyes. “Look at me, sweetheart.”
You blink down at him—and that’s when the tears slip, soft and silent.
“Oh, hey,” he whispers, thumbing them away gently, kissing the edge of your jaw. “Shh… you’re okay. You’re doin’ so good for me.”
His hands cradle your hips now, steadying you. Not forcing—supporting.
“You feel like heaven,” he says, eyes flicking down to where you’re still taking him. “You’re perfect. So fuckin’ perfect like this.”
Your breath stutters as you sink just a little more, and his jaw clenches hard.
“God, you’re squeezin’ me so tight,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “You don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me.”
You pause with most of him inside, breath shaky, overwhelmed—but full. And when your eyes find his again, he’s already there, watching you with a kind of quiet awe.
“You’re okay?” he asks again, softer this time.
You nod, a tear rolling down your cheek.
“I want to,” you whisper.
Choso smiles—soft and aching.
“Then take your time,” he says. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
You breathe deep, hands braced on his chest, hips trembling as you sink down the last few inches. The stretch burns, your body aching with the effort, but the way he looks at you—like you’re some kind of miracle—keeps you steady.
And then you bottom out.
Your thighs meet his hips. He’s all the way inside.
And for a second, everything goes still.
Choso’s head falls back against the pillows with a ragged breath, jaw clenched so tight you swear you can hear his teeth grind. His fingers grip your hips, not to guide you, just to anchor himself—like he needs something to hold on to or he’ll lose whatever grip on reality he has left.
“Fuck,” he chokes out. “Baby—fuck, you—”
His eyes squeeze shut and he groans, long and low, like he’s never felt anything like this before. Like you’ve just undone him completely.
“You feel so good,” he whispers, voice shaking. “You feel so fuckin’ good, I can’t—can’t even think straight.”
Your hands slide up his chest as you breathe through the fullness, the pressure—every nerve raw and pulsing.
He blinks up at you, eyes blown wide, flushed and wrecked. His hands move again, gentler now, one cupping your waist, the other smoothing up your spine until it cradles the back of your head.
“You okay?” he murmurs again. “Still good?”
You nod, breathless, lips parted. “Yeah.”
“You’re takin’ me so good. Can’t believe you’re lettin’ me in like this. Feels like—feels like I’m dreamin’,” he murmurs, kissing your chest, your collarbone, wherever he can reach.
You shift your hips just slightly, and he groans, clutching at your waist like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
“Don’t move yet,” he begs, forehead pressed to your sternum. “Just—just stay like this a minute. Let me feel you.”
And so you do.
You sit there, chest to chest, buried deep in each other, his hands trembling against your skin, your breath feathering against his ear. No movement. No rush. Just the overwhelming heat of him inside you, the way he kisses your shoulder like he’s saying thank you without words.
Like he can’t believe he gets to be this close.
You start to move—just barely. A slow roll of your hips, careful and unsure, easing yourself into the rhythm.
Choso groans, low and guttural, his fingers tightening where they rest on your hips. You feel him twitch inside you, thick and heavy, and when you do it again—just a little deeper—his head drops back with a gasp.
“Baby…”
It’s a warning. A plea. His restraint is hanging by a thread.
But you do it again—grind down a little harder, a little slower—and that thread snaps.
He surges up with a grunt, hips bucking into you hard and sudden, burying himself deeper than before. You gasp, eyes wide, hands flying to his chest for balance.
“Choso—!”
“Fuck, I can’t,” he growls, mouth at your neck, voice cracked and breathless. “You feel too good—too fuckin’ good—I tried, baby, I did—”
He thrusts up again, rougher now, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room. You moan loud, back arching into him, completely overwhelmed.
He groans against your shoulder, hands gripping your hips like a man possessed, guiding you into a rhythm he can’t hold back anymore. Snapping up into you over and over, messy and hard and desperate.
“So tight—so fuckin’ wet—” he pants. “You were made for me, weren’t you?”
You whimper, nodding against his mouth, and he kisses you hard, open and gasping between thrusts.
“This what you wanted?” he mutters, teeth grazing your bottom lip. “Me losin’ it underneath you? Fuckin’ you like I need it?”
Your only answer is a cry—his name—and that breaks him even more.
He pounds into you now, rhythm rough and frantic, his body trembling under the weight of it all. Every thrust drives him deeper, drags a moan from your throat, makes your vision blur with heat.
His thumb brushes your clit, fast and precise, and your whole body jerks.
“There you go,” he breathes, watching you with wild eyes. “C’mon, baby. Wanna feel you cum on me. Wanna feel you lose it—right fuckin’ here.”
And with the way he’s fucking into you—relentless, possessive, absolutely wrecked—you know you won’t last long.
Your climax crashes through you like a wave—sudden, shaking, too much. Your hips stutter, thighs trembling where they’re locked around him, mouth falling open in a gasping moan.
“Thaaat’s it,” he murmurs through gritted teeth, slowing his thrusts but never stopping, easing you through the high. “That’s my girl. Fuck—so pretty when you come for me.”
His grip on your waist loosens just slightly, letting you ride the tail end of it. You collapse forward onto his chest, boneless, breathing hard, face tucked into the crook of his neck as your walls flutter helplessly around him.
He groans.
And then it happens.
In one fluid motion, he moves—sits up, grabs you by the hips, and flips you onto your back like you weigh nothing. Your gasp barely escapes before his mouth is on yours, hungry, his body heavy and burning over yours.
He thrusts back into you hard and deep, and your whole body jolts. He’s panting now, fully gone, sweat beading at his temple, hair sticking to his jaw in damp strands.
His hips slap against yours, hard and fast, rhythm brutal. Gone is the careful restraint.
“Fuck—you’re still so tight,” he pants, driving into you again, harder. “So warm—could stay inside you forever.”
One hand grabs your thigh and pushes it back, open, spreading you wider so he can get even deeper. You cry out, toes curling, fingernails dragging down his back.
“Hold it there, baby,” he says through clenched teeth, eyes locked on where you’re joined. “Just like that—let me have it.”
His other hand drops between your bodies, fingers finding your clit like he knows exactly what you need. He rubs tight, fast circles, dragging a broken sound from your throat.
“You’re gonna give me another one,” he growls, pace relentless. “You’re gonna fuckin’ take it.”
And with the way he’s pounding into you—feral, possessed, hand on your thigh, breath hot against your cheek—you know he means it.
You’re not leaving this bed until he’s satisfied.
You’re soaked—sweat-slick and breathless beneath him, body trembling with the aftershocks of your third orgasm but he’s still moving—still buried inside you, deep and hard and relentless.
“Cho,” you whimper, voice wrecked, eyes fluttering.
“I know, I know,” Choso breathes, hand still working tight, precise circles against your clit. “One more, you got one more for me.”
You’re not sure if it’s a question or a command—but your body responds before your mouth can. Hips twitching, walls fluttering again around him like you need him to wring the last of it from you.
His thrusts grow rougher—sloppier, deeper—his control unraveling fast. His hand moves from your thigh to your face, tilting your chin toward him as he leans in, eyes locked to yours.
“You feel what you’re doin’ to me?” he hisses. “Can’t hold back anymore—fuck, baby—”
And then he slams into you one last time, hips grinding deep as you clench around him like a vice.
That’s all it takes. You break.
Again.
Your fourth orgasm rips through you without warning—violent, breath-stealing, almost too much. Your vision blurs. Back arches. A sob breaks in your throat as your body clenches, pulsing wildly around him.
Choso loses it.
“Fuck—fuck—oh my god—” he snarls, buried to the hilt as his body goes rigid, cock twitching inside you. “That’s it—fuckin’—fuckin’ takin’ me just like that—”
He cums hard, groaning deep and wrecked, hips jerking as he spills into you, warmth flooding deep. One hand cradles the back of your head, the other gripping your waist like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.
You both stay like that—panting, sweating, shaking—his body heavy over yours, his forehead pressed to yours, eyes shut tight like he’s afraid it’s all going to disappear if he opens them.
Finally, he exhales—slow, shaky, almost a laugh.
“You alright?” he whispers, voice hoarse, thumb brushing your cheek.
You nod weakly, barely able to speak. “Mhm.”
He smiles, kisses your forehead.
“You were so good for me, angel,” he murmurs. “So fuckin’ perfect.”
You flinch a little when he pulls away, already missing the weight of him, the heat.
“Be right back, darlin’,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your jaw. His voice is low, rough around the edges, but there’s something tender in it. “Gonna get you cleaned up.”
You nod, barely able to do more than breathe.
He disappears down the hall, leaving the room bathed in the quiet aftermath—your heart still hammering, skin tingling where his hands had been. He returns a minute later with a damp, warm towel and kneels beside you, moving slow, careful.
“Still doin’ alright?” he asks, voice softer now.
“Yeah,” you whisper, and he gives a small nod, gaze never leaving yours as he starts to clean you up.
“Did so good for me,” he says. “Took me so damn well.”
You try to hide your face, but he catches your chin between his fingers, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw.
“Don’t go shy on me now.”
Once he’s done, he tosses the towel aside and climbs back into bed, pulling you into him like you belong there. You do. Right now, you do.
For a long while, it’s just the sound of your breathing—yours slowing, his steady. One of his hands drifts up and down your back, lazy and unhurried, like he’s in no rush to let the moment go.
Then, quietly, “Didn’t think I’d ever want somethin’ like this.”
You glance up at him, chin tucked near his shoulder. “Like what?”
He hesitates, eyes on the ceiling. Then, “You. In my bed. Not just for tonight.”
Your breath catches, heart stumbling. You don’t answer right away. Instead, your fingers find his, lacing together.
“I’m not in a rush to leave,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to his chest.
Choso doesn’t say anything at first, just exhales slowly—and the arm around you tightens, pulling you in like he’s afraid to let go.
Then, just above a whisper, you hear him say, “I’m glad you’re not.”
There’s a quiet honesty in it that makes your chest ache a little. You nuzzle closer, fingers still laced with his, and let the silence stretch comfortably between you.
No need to rush. Not tonight.
author's note. not my proudest work but to be fair, i did write this while going through major writer's block. i still hope y'all enjoy it <3
nerdjo needs to be written by REAL nerds, like yeah he likes physics whatever, can he tell me about the 2003 hit game Sonic Heroes for the ps2 and gamecube? Absolutely no real complaints tho. big kisses to every and all nerdjo writers <3
summary. Choso doesn’t do distractions. But then you walk into his show and ruin his focus with one look. And now, he’s handing you his guitar, his heart, maybe more. And baby, you haven’t even seen what those fingers can really do.
word count. 10.5k (i got a lil carried away)
content. mdni fem! reader, bassist! choso, mutual pining, heavy tension, choso is a tease (and so down bad), really lovey-dovey shi like bro's not even emo, pet names, smut, fingering, oral (fem rec.), p in v, mating press, praise, creampie, slight overstim, aftercare
author's note. saw this fanart and started ovulating on demand.
"Come on, it'll be fun," Shoko says, tugging on your sleeve with the persistence of a woman who knows you have no other plans. "You like music. You like hot guys. This is both."
You squint at her, unconvinced. "You said that last time and we ended up at some dude’s garage while he rapped about capitalism."
She grins. “And it was unforgettable.”
“You spilled beer on my shoes.”
“And I’ve had character development after that.”
You roll your eyes, but she already knows she's won. She’s practically vibrating with excitement as she drags you through the dimly lit alley that opens into an even dimmer basement venue—graffiti-tagged walls, sticker-covered speakers, the scent of cigarettes and something vaguely fruity in the air.
The lights are low, the crowd humming with quiet energy, and the stage is set but empty—just a drum kit, a couple mics, and a bass propped against its amp like it’s waiting for someone.
“You’re gonna love them,” Shoko whispers, already pulling out her phone to snap photos. “The music’s sick. And the bassist—”
You blink at her.
“The bassist,” she repeats, dramatically placing a hand over her heart. “Tall, broody, pretty eyes. Never says a damn word on stage but plays like he’s in pain.”
You scoff. “You’ve got issues.”
“Just wait,” she says. “You’re not ready.”
And you’re not.
Because when the band finally comes on stage and the lights cut through the haze, your eyes lock onto him—tall, dark, dressed in all black with his bass slung low, rings glinting on his fingers, and a half-lidded stare like he’s seeing ghosts.
And when he starts playing? Oh. Yeah. You’re done for.
The lights dim, bathing the room in moody blue and red hues. The crowd hushes—just for a moment—then the first chord explodes through the speakers. It’s loud, raw, electric, vibrating through the floor and straight up your spine.
You don’t flinch.
You should. The guy next to you does. Shoko’s already swaying to the beat like she’s been here a thousand times. But you? You’re frozen—entranced.
Not by the music. Not really.
By him.
The bassist, standing off to the left like he doesn’t crave the spotlight, like he’s content letting the others take the lead. But he’s the one you see. The one who owns the stage.
He’s tall and he’s wearing a loose black button-up, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the top few buttons left undone to tease just enough of his pale, sculpted chest. The stage lights catch on the gleam of sweat on his collarbones, highlighting every sharp angle and subtle flex of muscle as he moves with the rhythm. His fingers dance over the bass strings with practiced ease, and that’s when you notice it—apart from the black nail polish, each one is tattooed with a letter: C-H-O-S-O.
His long, dark hair is loose, falling in waves to the base of his neck, the ends brushing over his collar. The soft purple eyeshadow dusting his eyelids makes his deep-set eyes pop, casting shadows that only add to his sharp features. A bold tattoo cuts across the bridge of his nose, stark against his pale skin.
His brows are furrowed, mouth set in a hard, concentrated line, and his fingers—god, his fingers—they dance over the strings like he was born with a bass in his hands. There’s something hypnotic about the way he plays. Focused. Intense. Like the world doesn’t exist outside of this moment.
You don’t even realize you’re staring until Shoko elbows you lightly. “Told you,” she shouts in your ear, grinning like the smug little shit she is.
You nod, but your eyes don’t move. You can’t look away. It’s like you’ve been put under some kind of spell.
And then—then—mid-song, his head lifts just slightly. His gaze cuts through the haze and crowd and colored lights, and lands right on you. You swear it. A spark of something sharp and electric zips down your spine.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t nod. Just holds your gaze for a breath longer than necessary before he looks away, like he felt it too.
Like he knew.
Like the music wasn’t the only thing pulling strings tonight.
The band keeps playing, song after song bleeding into one another, but you barely register any of it.
Your eyes keep straying to him. Choso—at least, you think that’s his name, judging by the ink on his fingers. Fitting, really. It lingers in your head like a low bassline: heavy, addictive.
At one point, you swear he looks at you again.
Really looks.
And even if it’s just for a second, it feels like a live wire pressed to your skin.
You down the rest of your drink to keep yourself from combusting.
Shoko leans in and shouts something in your ear over the music—probably the band’s name or some fun fact about the drummer—but your eyes are locked on him. You nod absently, your smile weak, dazed, because how the hell are you supposed to listen to anyone else when he’s up there, commanding your every thought?
By the time the band wraps up their final song, you’re already craning your neck for a better look. You don't even realize you're moving toward the stage until Shoko’s hand snags your wrist.
"Where are you going?"
You blink, startled like you’ve been caught red-handed. "I—I don’t know."
But you do.
You’re hoping to get closer. Maybe he’ll notice you again.
Maybe he already has.
-
You find yourself outside the venue before you even realize what you’re doing—leaning against the brick wall, half hidden in the shadows, heart hammering like you’d just finished a set yourself. The crisp night air cools your skin, but it does nothing to quiet the heat bubbling beneath it.
You tell yourself you just needed some air.
That’s all.
Totally not waiting around like some groupie for a guy you don’t even know.
The door creaks open behind you, and a familiar pair of boots crunches against gravel. Shoko squints at you suspiciously.
“You good?” she asks, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with a quick flick. “You just disappeared.”
You shrug, too casual. “Yeah. Just needed a breather.”
She takes a drag, exhales slow. “Right. A breather. After not dancing and not drinking that much.”
You shoot her a side-eye. “Do you always interrogate people for wanting fresh air?”
“Only when they’ve been acting weird since the bassist took the stage.” She raises an eyebrow. “You’re not slick, y’know.”
You scoff, glancing away before she can catch the way your face warms. "I don't know what you’re talking about."
Shoko chuckles like she definitely knows what she’s talking about, but bless her, she doesn’t press it. Just smirks, gives your arm a little nudge. “He was hot, though.”
You give a noncommittal hum, eyes scanning every shadowed corner, every rusted doorway, hoping—just hoping—you might catch another glimpse of him. Choso. You’re almost certain that’s his name. It suits him. Dark. Sharp.
You won’t tell her, of course, but—yes.
Yes, this was fun.
Yes, she was absolutely right to drag you here.
Yes, the bassist was fine as hell and maybe, just maybe, you’ve developed the tiniest, stupidest little crush on a guy whose voice you haven’t even heard yet.
But god, you want to.
Even just once.
A glimpse. A moment. Anything.
And just when you think it’s time to give up, to stop being delusional and head home—
The door swings open again.
And this time, it’s him.
Panic.
Real, irrational, full-body panic.
Because there he is. Standing a few feet away. In the flesh. The bassist.
Loose black button-up clinging to his frame, sleeves still rolled up from the show, revealing forearms that shouldn’t be legal. The glint of his rings catching the light. A faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his collarbone—god, you can see it because the top few buttons are still undone, teasing just enough pale skin to keep you up at night.
And his eyes—
His eyes are rimmed with that soft, dusty lavender, and they’re looking straight at you.
You glance side to side like you might Houdini yourself out of this moment. Maybe if you ran fast enough, you could avoid embarrassing yourself beyond repair. Maybe if you—
Shoko bumps your shoulder, casual and smug. “Now’s your chance.”
“Chance for what?” you hiss, heart thudding in your ears. “To spontaneously combust? To make an idiot out of myself?”
But it’s too late.
Because before you can overthink your next twelve moves or plan a strategic escape—
He’s walking toward you.
Slow, calm, confident.
Like he knows what he’s doing to you.
Before you can say something completely unhinged, like “your bass playing did something weird to my hormones”, you feel Shoko shift beside you.
You whip your head toward her, silently begging for assistance, for backup, for escape. But she just smirks, looking between the two of you like she already knows exactly how this night’s gonna go.
“Well,” she says with a wink, already turning on her heel. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Your eyes nearly bulge out of your skull. “Shoko. No. Shoko, wait—SHOKO.”
But she’s already walking away like she didn’t just abandon you to the mercy of the hottest man you’ve ever laid eyes on.
And now—
Now he’s standing right in front of you.
He smells like sweat and incense and something dark—something addictive.
“You waited,” he says, voice lower than expected, rich. His lips curl, just barely. “Were you hoping for an autograph… or something else?”
You blink.
He knows.
Your mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again.
An autograph? Something else? What the hell does something else even mean—wait, you know what it means, OH GOD—
“I—I wasn’t waiting— I mean, I was, but not like—like in a weird way or anything!” you blurt, the words tumbling out like a panicked avalanche. “Not that liking your music is weird. I mean, it was good! Really good. You were good. Not in that way, I mean—not that you wouldn’t be—oh my God—”
You slap a hand over your face.
Abort mission. Let the ground open up. End scene.
When you peek through your fingers, he’s just watching you, amused, head tilted slightly to the side.
Then—he chuckles. Actually chuckles.
It’s low and quiet and kind of devastating.
“I was right,” he murmurs, voice all honeyed steel. “Cute.”
You make a high-pitched noise that cannot be classified as human.
And Choso—Choso just leans in slightly, lowering his voice like he’s offering a secret.
“Relax. I don’t bite.” A beat. “Unless you want me to.”
You definitely stop breathing.
Your brain is just a dial-up tone as you stare at him, stunned into silence, because did he actually just say that? He did. He really did. And he’s still looking at you like he’s waiting for your answer.
But when you open your mouth, what comes out is:
“I—uh—yeah. I mean no. I mean—I don’t know what I mean.”
He grins. Not a smirk. A real, soft little grin, like he likes the mess you’ve become.
“Wanna get some air?” he asks, jerking his chin toward the alleyway beside the venue, quieter now that the band’s done and the crowd’s thinned.
You nod way too fast.
So you end up outside, standing under the faded neon of the venue sign, arms crossed to hide how jittery you are. Choso leans against the wall beside you, lighting a cigarette. The glow flares against his sharp cheekbones, his lashes casting shadows on his skin.
“So,” he says, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “You liked the set?”
“Yeah,” you say, trying not to look at his hands. His tattooed fingers. “You were… really good.”
He hums, clearly amused. “Still not in that way?”
You bury your face in your hands again.
He laughs under his breath, then nudges your shoulder with his. “You got a name, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart.
Oh, how you were so very fucked.
You tell him your name. And when he repeats it softly, your knees almost give out.
Then he offers, “I’m Choso, by the way.”
Like it’s a gift.
And before the night ends, he asks if you’re coming to the next gig.
“Only if you’re playing,” you manage to say.
To which he replies, “I’ll be there if you are.”
-
shoko: hello?? where are you???
shoko: ANSWER ME
shoko: sigh
shoko: i didn’t want it to come to this but you leave me no choice
shoko: i’m checking your location.
shoko: GIRL WHAT ARE YOU STILL DOING THERE
shoko: 2 missed calls
shoko: you better give me answers the second you're online...or else.
you: dot dot dot
shoko: WHAT. HAPPENED.
you: emergency phone call
shoko: 🧍♀️
shoko: you’re a terrible liar
you: ok but like.
you: it wasn’t a lie. it was an emergency. a hot boy emergency
shoko: OH MY GOD.
shoko: OH MY GOD.
shoko: OH MY GODDDDD.
you: he talked to me
you: HE TALKED TO ME SHOKO
shoko: AND???
you: and i said dumb shit
you: and he still talked to me
you: and i think i blacked out at one point??
you: but like. the good kind
shoko:YOU’RE TELLING ME MYSTERIOUS HOT BASSIST MAN TALKED TO YOU AND YOU LIVED???
you: barely
you: i think i ascended actually
shoko: you’re telling me you were about to dip and then HE approached YOU????
you: he remembered me from the front row 😭
you: called me cute 😭😭
you: asked for my name 😭😭😭
you: CALLED ME SWEETHEART 😭😭😭😭
shoko: …girl.
shoko: i don’t wanna be dramatic
shoko: but i might start planning your wedding
you: pls help i’m still outside the venue trying not to combust
you: he said he’d see me again if i came to the next gig
you: SHOKO WHAT IF I GO TO EVERY GIG UNTIL I DIE
shoko: yeah bestie we’re in our groupie era now
-
You show up a whole forty minutes before the doors even open—Shoko said she’d meet you later, but you’re already leaning against the building like a total loser. Or an over zealous fan. Same thing, really.
You're debating if you should take a walk to kill time when the door swings open, and out steps him. Black button-up, sleeves rolled up again, a few buttons undone, and that familiar purple eyeshadow hugging his tired eyes. His lip quirks up the second he sees you.
“Excited to see me?” he asks, cocking his head as he strolls over. His voice is low, teasing—but not unkind.
Your face goes up in flames. “What—n-no. I mean yes. I mean—Shoko said she’d meet me later and I didn’t wanna be late, obviously.”
He hums, clearly amused. “Mhm. Obnoxiously early, huh?”
“Fashionably early,” you grumble, and he laughs, like you’re the most entertaining thing he’s heard all day.
Then he nods his head toward the door. “C’mon. I’ll introduce you to the guys.”
You blink. Wait. Right now??
You glance down at your outfit—cute enough for the gig, maybe not cute enough to meet him again, let alone his entire band. But he’s already walking, and you’re a fool if you don’t follow.
The door creaks open, and you’re hit with the low hum of conversation, faint music playing from someone’s phone, and the scent of sweat and cologne. Your heart’s going a mile a minute.
“Yo,” Choso calls, and two heads turn.
The tall white-haired man draped across the couch offers a lazy grin. “Oh? Who’s this?”
Choso leans against the doorframe and jerks a thumb toward you. “She’s the one I was talking about.”
Your eyes widen. Talking about?? Since when???
“Ooooh,” the other guy drawls from where he’s fiddling with a drumstick, hair tied back and gaze sharp as ever. “So this is her.”
“Shut up,” Choso mutters, but there’s a hint of pink dusting his ears. He looks back at you, eyes soft. “That’s Satoru—he never shuts up. And that’s Suguru. Don’t let him fool you—he’s worse.”
“Lies and slander,” Satoru says with a wink.
You’re frozen. Do you wave? Speak? Die on the spot?
“Hi,” you say, awkwardly.
Suguru offers a small nod. “Nice to finally meet you.”
Finally???
Satoru leans forward with a devilish grin. “Choso wouldn’t shut up about you, y’know?”
Choso visibly tenses. “Go bother someone else.”
But it’s too late—you’re already flushed to your ears, and Satoru’s howling with laughter.
“You’re cute,” he tells you. “You can stick around.”
You glance at Choso, and he gives you the smallest smile. Like you belong here.
And for the first time—you think maybe you do.
He walks ahead a bit, glancing over his shoulder as he gestures toward the sound booth. “That’s Nao, our sound tech. She’s the only reason we don’t sound like trash onstage.”
Nao waves without looking up from her monitor, and you awkwardly lift a hand back. Choso chuckles under his breath.
He keeps going, showing you the light setup, where they stash backup guitars, even the vending machine he’s pretty sure is haunted. Every person you pass gives you that look—oh, so this is the girl.
Your fingers twist nervously around the strap of your bag. It’s not like they’re being unfriendly. If anything, everyone’s nice. Welcoming, even. But still—you can’t shake the nerves bubbling in your chest.
You feel his gaze before you hear his voice.
“Nervous?” he asks, quiet and low.
You blink up at him. He’s standing close now, one hand tucked into the pocket of his jacket, watching you like he’s not sure if he’s scaring you or if you’re just shy.
You swallow. “A little.”
His mouth twitches—almost a smile. “You don’t have to be. Everyone’s chill.”
You nod, but you know the tension is still written all over your face.
And then—he reaches out. Just a light touch to your wrist. “Hey. I asked you here ‘cause I wanted you to come. Not to freak you out.”
His voice is soft now, just for you.
You manage a sheepish smile. “Sorry. It’s just… new.”
He shrugs, lips curling slightly. “Yeah. But I’m not that scary, right?”
You meet his eyes, and the look he gives you—teasing but warm—makes your stomach flip.
“…Not yet,” you murmur.
And he laughs, head tilted back like you just said the funniest thing all night. “You’re cute.”
Great. Now you’re even more nervous.
He walks you over to the stage setup, lights dim and moody, the buzz of crew members in the background. The instruments are neatly arranged—drum kits, amps, tangled cords, and at the center, his guitar resting on its stand.
He picks it up effortlessly, letting the strap fall over his shoulder. His fingers settle over the strings, and he begins to strum, absentmindedly. It’s not even a real song, just soft notes—but it’s hypnotizing.
Especially the way his fingers move. Long, slender, practiced.
You're staring. Absolutely entranced.
“Wanna try playing?” he asks suddenly.
You snap out of it so fast it’s embarrassing. “H-huh?”
He chuckles, soft and low. “Bit distracted there, sweetheart. You okay?”
“I’m good. Mhm.” You nod a little too quickly, plastering on a tight smile as your face warms. You hope he doesn’t notice, but that knowing glint in his eyes tells you otherwise.
He steps toward you with the guitar, offering it out with a slight tilt of his head. “Here.”
Your hands hover uncertainly. “O-oh… I don’t know how to play.”
He just smiles. “It’s alright, I’ll help you.”
He walks behind you, close enough that you feel the warmth of him at your back. You swear your heart skips a beat when his arms slip around you, guiding yours. He’s gentle as he places your left hand along the neck of the guitar, adjusting your fingers over the frets, his hand covering yours.
“Just relax,” he murmurs, voice right by your ear.
Your breath hitches.
“Shit—sorry, too close?” he asks quickly, voice laced with concern.
“N-no! It’s fine! Totally fine.” You somehow manage to stand upright.
He smiles again, that soft kind of amused. “Alright, just press here... yeah, that’s it.” He places your fingers on the strings. “Now, strum with this hand—lightly. Let the strings breathe.”
You try, hesitantly dragging your fingers down the strings. A clumsy note sounds out.
Choso hums. “Not bad. Now, try a G chord—here, like this.” His fingers mold yours again, warm and careful.
You nod, barely able to think with him this close, and repeat the motion. It sounds... slightly better.
“See?” he says, praising you with a smile in his voice. “Fast learner.”
You glance up at him over your shoulder, heart fluttering. “Maybe I just have a good teacher.”
His lips quirk, and he looks at you like you’ve just made his night.
“Well,” he says, “I am good with my hands.”
Your brain short-circuits.
He grins when he hears that soft, breathy little sound escape your lips.
“O-oh,” you stammer, eyes wide as you blink up at him.
His smile deepens, all teasing and low charm. “Didn’t mean to make you nervous,” he says, though he definitely did.
You open your mouth to say something—anything—but your brain’s gone completely blank. The only thing in your head is him. His voice, his scent, the low buzz of his guitar still humming in your hands.
“I—uh, yeah. No. You’re doing great. I mean—I’m doing great. I mean—thank you.”
He laughs. Not mockingly—it's soft, sweet, like he finds you genuinely adorable.
“You’re cute when you get flustered,” he says, voice quiet.
You look down at the guitar in your hands, pretending very hard to be focused on the strings.
“Maybe we’ll get you to play a whole song next time.”
You blink. “Next time?”
He shrugs casually, stepping back just enough to make you miss his warmth. “If you’re coming to the next gig, I figured I’d see you again.”
And then, with the most casual confidence, he adds, “You wanna?”
You blink up at him, heart still pounding from the way he practically wrapped himself around you moments ago. But then—somehow—you find your footing, just enough to muster a sliver of confidence.
You clear your throat, giving him a lopsided little smile. “Let’s see how this one goes first.”
His brows shoot up, clearly amused. “Is that a challenge?”
You shrug, trying not to melt under his gaze. “Depends. You think you can handle it?”
Choso laughs—a low, warm sound that vibrates in your chest more than your ears. He leans in again, just a little, his face dangerously close to yours. “Sweetheart,” he says, voice like silk, “I know I can.”
-
The crowd is thicker than last time. Hazy neon lights wash the walls in streaks of violet and red, and the room thrums with anticipation. You can feel the energy buzzing through your fingertips, your legs bouncing where you sit off to the side of the stage.
Choso catches your eye just before stepping on. He’s dressed in that same loose black button-up—top few buttons undone, sleeves rolled to the elbows, tattoos stark against his pale skin. His eyes are lined in that soft purple hue again, hair falling wild to his neck, and yet he somehow looks composed. Grounded. Like he was born to be here.
He doesn’t say anything, just gives you a look—half smirk, half something softer—and it sends butterflies flurrying in your chest.
And then: the lights dim. The crowd erupts. The band takes the stage.
Suguru on drums, flashing a grin at the front row before twirling his sticks and slamming into the first beat like a force of nature. Satoru struts forward, mic in hand, already oozing charisma, and Choso—Choso slides into position with his bass like it’s a part of him. One hand gripping the neck, the other plucking strings with a lazy, practiced ease.
The sound hits you like a wave. Loud. Gritty. Addictive.
But even as the music drowns everything out, your eyes stay locked on him.
Choso doesn’t look at the crowd. Doesn’t need to. He’s in his own world—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, swaying with the rhythm like the bass is leading him. And yet, somehow, he still finds a way to glance at you.
Just for a second. A flicker of a smirk.
And that’s when you realize it.
He’s playing for them—but looking at you.
And that smolder in his gaze? That spark that coils low in your belly?
It’s all for you.
-
The crowd’s roars have faded, the lights are dimming, and you’re still standing there, heart racing. Choso’s walking off stage, sweat-slick and glowing, bass still strapped to his back, and the second his eyes find you he smiles. Soft. Lopsided. Like it’s just for you.
He weaves through the staff with ease, and before you can fully brace yourself, he’s in front of you, that same lazy smirk playing on his lips. “Didn’t think you’d actually stick around,” he teases, voice low, raspy from the set.
You roll your eyes, a little bashful. “Had to see if your fingers really lived up to the hype.”
His brows shoot up, surprised—and then he laughs. It’s deep and warm and it makes your stomach do flips. “Oh? And?”
You tilt your head, pretending to think. “I’m not sure yet. Might need a private performance to decide.”
And damn, now he’s the one blushing.
He blinks. Once. Twice. And then that lazy grin deepens into something more—something that makes your throat dry.
“A private performance, huh?” he echoes, slinging the bass off his shoulder, setting it down like he’s done this a thousand times before—cool, collected, practiced. “You planning to book me?”
You cross your arms, trying to look unbothered despite the heat crawling up your neck. “Maybe. Depends on your rates.”
He steps closer, just a little, enough to tilt his head down to look at you properly. His voice drops lower. “I charge in coffee. Late-night conversations. And the occasional secret.”
“Oh?” you arch a brow. “That’s expensive.”
He chuckles, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear. “You’re worth it.”
Pause.
Your heart skips. Literally skips.
And suddenly it’s too quiet. The post-show noise is just background hum now—muffled cheers, clinks of beer bottles, bandmates laughing somewhere behind you. But he’s looking at you like you’re the only person who matters in this moment. Like he wants to learn you.
So you try to deflect, half-teasing, “You say that to all the girls who hang around after shows?”
He hums, like he’s pretending to think. “No,” he says finally. “You’re the only one who stayed quiet the whole time. Just… watched.”
You blink, caught off guard. “Was it creepy?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. It was nice. Felt like you were listening to more than just the music.”
You weren’t. You were listening to him.
But you don’t say that. Instead, you glance away, pretending not to be swooning.
And then—
“Hey,” he says softly, nudging your chin with two fingers to bring your gaze back to his. “Wanna get outta here?”
Your breath hitches. “Huh?”
He smiles, easy and relaxed, eyes scanning your face like he’s memorizing it. “There’s this spot a few blocks from here—low lights, decent drinks, great fries. Thought maybe I could buy you one. A drink, not a fry,” he adds with a little chuckle.
Your heart is thudding so loudly you're sure he can hear it. “Are you… asking me out?”
He shrugs, casual but undeniably charming. “If I said yes, would you say no?”
You try to play it cool, crossing your arms even though your insides are a whole storm. “You planning to pull that whole mysterious musician act the whole time?”
He leans in just a bit, close enough for your noses to nearly brush. “Only if it gets me a second date.”
And just like that, you’re done for.
“...I guess I could go for a drink.”
His grin widens. “Good. I’ll grab my jacket.”
-
The bar he takes you to is tucked away on a quiet street, the kind of place you wouldn’t find unless someone told you about it. There’s warm yellow lighting, a soft hum of old-school music playing on the speakers, and barely anyone around. It’s intimate in a way that makes your skin feel warm before you’ve even taken a sip of your drink.
He lets you slide into the booth first, then settles in across from you. His hands rest on the table, rings catching the light, and you find your gaze drawn to them—again. Damn those fingers.
“I’m not used to people sticking around after shows,” he says, eyes not leaving yours.
“I’m not used to chasing after bassists,” you shoot back, lips twitching.
He smirks. “So I’m special, huh?”
You roll your eyes, but the smile you’re fighting wins. “Don’t let it get to your head.”
Your drinks come. He lets you steal a sip of his. You let him steal two of yours.
“What got you into music?” you ask after a while, resting your chin on your hand.
He leans back, gaze flickering up like he’s searching the ceiling for the answer. “My dad, actually. He taught me how to play. He was obsessed with rhythm—said it was the heart of everything.”
You nod slowly. “He still around?”
Choso shakes his head. “Nah. Been a while. But I think he’d get a kick out of seeing me like this.”
There’s a quiet between you, not awkward, just full. You sip your drink.
“What about you?” he asks. “What do you do when you’re not falling for mysterious musicians at dive bars?”
You raise a brow. “Who said I was falling?”
His lips curve. “Touché.”
You end up telling him more than you thought you would. About your work, your favorite food, even boring little details. But he listens like every word matters. Laughs when you least expect it. His foot nudges yours under the table halfway through the night, and it stays there.
Eventually, the lights get lower, and the bar empties out.
“Guess we closed the place down,” you say, glancing around.
Choso’s watching you with a soft look. “Wouldn’t mind doing it again.”
Your heart flutters. “Same place?”
He smiles, gaze never leaving yours. “Sure.”
The night doesn’t end there.
He insists on walking you home—no arguments, no jokes, just slips his hand into yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And you let him, fingers intertwining with his, warmth blooming in your chest. It’s a quiet walk, but not the awkward kind. It’s that gentle, late-night calm. Like the whole world slowed down just for the two of you.
And for once, he’s not the brooding bassist with sharp eyeliner and calloused fingers. He’s just Choso. A guy who likes the way your hand fits in his. A guy who lets out a soft chuckle when you shiver and instinctively step closer.
You reach your place too soon.
You stop at the doorstep, neither of you making a move. No one says anything. You should probably say something. Goodnight. Thanks. This was fun. But the words get caught somewhere in your throat.
He steps closer instead.
There’s a breath between you. Just one.
And then his lips are on yours—soft, almost hesitant, like he’s asking if this is okay. And you answer him by fisting the fabric of his shirt and pulling him in. His hand comes up to your cheek, holding you steady as he kisses you again. Still gentle. Still quiet. But it makes your head spin all the same.
When he finally pulls back, he stays close, forehead pressed lightly to yours.
“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he murmurs.
Your heart might’ve actually stopped.
You slam the door shut behind you, back pressed against it, heart pounding so hard you swear it echoes in your ribcage. You stare at your phone, wide-eyed, thumbs flying:
you: SHOKO
you: SHOKO I NEED YOU TO WAKE UP
you: THIS IS AN EMERGENCY
shoko: it’s literally 1am
shoko: you better be on fire
you: I KISSED HIM
shoko: what
shoko: WHO
shoko: WAIT
shoko: WAIT.
you: YES. HIM.
shoko: THE HOT GUITAR PLAYER???
you: CHOSO. YES. YES. YES
shoko: oh my god you’re so gone
you: HE WALKED ME HOME. HELD MY HAND. KISSED ME. I AM GONE GONE.
shoko: AAAAAAAAAAA
you: HE SAID ‘GOODNIGHT SWEETHEART’
shoko: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
you: I KNOW
You toss your phone onto the bed, face planting right after it, squealing into your pillow like a teenager all over again.
Because you kissed him. And he kissed you back. And you’re never sleeping tonight.
-
You’re lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. The room is quiet—too quiet. You’ve already scrolled through your entire feed twice, tried reading, even got up to make tea you didn’t drink.
Then your phone lights up.
Incoming call: Choso.
Your heart stutters.
You take a breath and answer. “…Hey.”
His voice is warm on the other end. “Hey. Did I wake you?”
You shake your head even though he can’t see. “No. Couldn’t sleep.”
“Same,” he says. “Kept thinking about you.”
Your breath catches. You pull the blanket tighter around yourself, like it might calm your racing heart.
There’s a small silence, but it’s not awkward. It’s soft. Comfortable. Like neither of you really wants to hang up.
He speaks again, voice a little lower. “You looked beautiful tonight.”
You try to play it off. “I put in effort. Didn’t want to show up looking like I did last time.”
“I liked that too,” he says. “But tonight you walked in and I forgot what the hell I was doing.”
You laugh, hiding your face in your pillow.
“I wish I could see you again right now,” he says.
“Me too.”
“Would it be too much if I said I kinda wanna fall asleep listening to you?”
Your stomach flips.
You whisper, “Then stay on the line.”
And you do—both of you quiet, just breathing, letting the silence say everything.
-
You're standing outside the bar, shifting on your feet, trying to act like you haven’t been checking your reflection in every window on the walk here.
This time, your outfit isn’t casual by accident. You planned it. Styled your hair just right. Even put on that gloss you save for special occasions.
You step inside and immediately spot him, leaning back against a booth like he owns the place, one arm slung lazily over the seat. His eyes lift—
—and damn.
They rake down your figure slowly, like he’s drinking you in. And when they return to your face, there’s the smallest upward curve to his lips.
“Someone dressed to impress,” he says, standing as you approach.
“Maybe,” you reply, coy. “You are the star of the show, after all.”
He laughs low in his throat, hand brushing the small of your back as he leans in close. “Nah,” he murmurs. “Tonight, it’s all about you.”
You sit together in the same booth. This time, there’s no ice to break. The tension simmers warm between you—his knee bumps yours under the table and doesn’t move away. His eyes flicker to your lips more than once.
“So,” you say, swirling your drink. “What happens after drinks, guitar boy?”
He smirks, elbow resting on the table as he leans closer. “Depends. You thinking of letting me kiss you again?”
You raise your brows. “You planning on asking?”
He tilts his head. “I could. But you didn’t seem to need much prompting last time.”
That earns him a playful nudge. And a flustered laugh.
He grins. "Take your time, sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere."
The jukebox crackles as the next track begins—slow, dreamy, sweet.
Like falling asleep in warm hands. Like the part in a romance film where everything softens.
Before you can even comment on the vibe shift, Choso is rising from the booth, hand extended toward you, palm up.
Your brows lift. “You serious?”
He just smiles. “C’mon. Dance with me.”
You hesitate—because, what? In a bar? With him?? But his fingers flex, waiting, and the way he’s looking at you makes it impossible to say no.
You slip your hand into his.
He pulls you gently to the dance floor. There’s no one else there—just you, him, and the slow rhythm bleeding from the speakers. His hands settle on your waist. Yours hover awkwardly before curling behind his neck.
You sway.
“I didn’t take you for a dancer,” you mumble, heart skipping when he twirls you suddenly.
He smirks. “I’m not.”
You laugh—loud and sweet and so damn happy. And when he catches you again, you don’t pull away. Instead, you melt into him, resting your head against his chest, feeling the soft thud of his heartbeat under the fabric of his shirt.
His hand traces slow circles on your back.
“This okay?” he murmurs.
You nod, nuzzling in closer. “Yeah… It’s perfect.”
He rests his chin lightly atop your head. And neither of you says another word.
Not when the song ends.
Not when the next one starts.
Because for that moment—it’s just the two of you, swaying under dim lights, held together by the sound of a love song.
-
You step outside into the night, your breath curling in pale puffs. The air is colder than before, wrapping around your bare arms like a whispered warning. You shiver.
Without a word, Choso shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders, tugging you into his side. His hand rests at your waist, warm and firm, grounding you.
For a while, you just stand there—side by side, quiet. The city buzzes in the distance, cars passing, streetlights humming.
You glance up at him, and he’s already looking at you. Hard.
Like he’s trying to memorize the slope of your jaw. The way the wind lifts your hair. The way your lips part just slightly when you breathe.
“What?” you ask, a soft laugh in your voice, raising an eyebrow.
He doesn’t answer immediately. Just wets his lips. His fingers flex against your hip.
“I just…” he starts, voice rough with restraint. “I really want to kiss you right now.”
You blink, heart thudding once. Twice.
The pause stretches.
“Yeah?” you murmur, leaning in a fraction. Teasing.
He nods once. Barely.
You smile—heart pounding in your throat. “So why don’t you?”
And that’s all it takes.
He cups your face with both hands, thumbs brushing the apples of your cheeks like you’re made of porcelain. And when his lips finally meet yours—it’s soft. Slow. Full of the tension he’s been carrying all night, unspooling between you in breathless silence.
His nose bumps yours. Your hands fist the front of his shirt again. Just like last time.
Only this time, you don’t stop at one kiss.
And when you finally pull away, he rests his forehead against yours, his voice low:
“You’re gonna ruin me, y’know that?”
You laugh, barely a whisper against his lips, breath mingling with his. “Then I guess I better make it worth your while.”
That gets a reaction.
His gaze darkens just slightly, lips twitching into the faintest smirk as his hands slide down from your cheeks, one settling at the nape of your neck while the other pulls you flush against him. “You trying to kill me, sweetheart?”
You don’t answer.
Because you’re already kissing him again.
This time it’s different.
Less hesitant.
More hungry.
Your fingers find his hair, tangling in the dark strands that fall just past his neck, tugging gently until he groans into your mouth. He kisses you deeper, like he’s starved, like he hasn’t been thinking about this since the first night he met you in the crowd, eyes wide and awe-struck.
His hand grips your waist, fingers digging in—not too hard, but enough to make your breath hitch.
You gasp, and he takes the opportunity to nip at your bottom lip, tongue flicking against it before pulling back just enough to breathe:
“You’re trouble.”
You blink up at him, dazed, lips kiss-swollen and heart racing. “You’re one to talk.”
And he laughs—low and breathy, pressing another quick kiss to your mouth like he can’t help himself.
“C’mon,” he murmurs. “Let me walk you home before I get any worse ideas.”
The walk back is quiet—but not the awkward kind. It’s heavy with something, charged with unspoken words and lingering touches. His fingers brush yours with every step, and each time it happens, your breath catches.
You swear he’s doing it on purpose.
But you don’t stop him.
The streetlights cast a soft glow on him, turning his features golden for a moment, then shadowed the next. He looks… different like this. Softer. Less like the untouchable bassist who had you practically drooling the first night, and more like someone you could fall for if you’re not careful.
You sneak a glance at him.
He’s already looking at you.
You look away fast, heart leaping, and he chuckles under his breath.
"Cold?" he asks, tugging you gently closer.
You nod, even though that’s not why you’re shaking.
His arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you into his side as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your head fits against him perfectly, and his hand rubs slow circles against your arm, warm and grounding.
“Still nervous?” he murmurs.
You laugh quietly. “Little bit.”
“Me too.”
You tilt your head to look at him, surprised. “Really?”
He nods. “You make me nervous.”
You’re about to say something—anything—but then you’ve reached your place.
And suddenly, you don’t want to go inside.
He stops in front of your door, letting you go with a reluctant sigh. His hand lingers on your arm for a second longer before falling away.
There’s a beat of silence.
Then he shoves his hands into his pockets and asks, “You gonna call me?”
You nod. “If you answer.”
He grins. “Always.”
You hesitate—just for a second—and then press a soft kiss to his cheek. It’s quick, but the way his breath hitches tells you it did the trick.
“Goodnight, Choso.”
And before he can pull you in again, before you can throw all common sense out the window and kiss him properly, you slip inside.
Heart pounding. Lips tingling.
-
You wake up with your heart still pounding.
And not because of a nightmare.
Nope. This was worse.
Because it was real.
You kissed Choso.
Again.
And not in a dreamlike, floaty, “this could be a maybe” kind of way. You kissed him after swaying in his arms like some romcom protagonist. You kissed him, and he kissed you back, and you felt your knees give just a little, and you definitely whimpered against his mouth like a fool.
You groan and roll onto your side, burying your face in your pillow.
You’re so doomed.
Your phone vibrates.
You blink and grab it, squinting at the screen.
choso: didn’t want to wake you but i just wanted to say
choso: thank you for last night
You freeze.
Sit up slowly.
Your heartbeat? Violent.
You tap out a reply, delete it, rewrite it, delete again. Finally, you just go with:
you: it was nothing :)
Immediately after sending it:
you: i’m being weird aren’t i ignore me please
And then:
you: but also don’t ignore me because i liked it and i like you and i’m going to stop talking now before i make it worse
Your phone is dangerously quiet for thirty seconds.
Then it buzzes again.
choso: you’re not being weird.
choso: you’re being adorable
choso: i like you too
choso: also… can i see you again tonight?
You shriek into your pillow.
And then type:
you: you better
-
You weren’t expecting it when he texted you earlier that day.
come to the studio. i want you to hear something.
Now here you are, walking through a narrow hallway that smells like cigarettes and worn leather, Choso’s voice telling the receptionist to let you in. He meets you at the door, hoodie on, hair loosely tied back, a pair of headphones slung around his neck.
“Hey,” he murmurs, eyes raking over you with a small smile tugging at his lips.
You smile back, brushing past him as he closes the door behind you. The studio is dimly lit, a warm orange hue cast by the LED strips lining the edges of the ceiling. There’s a worn-out couch in the corner, an empty coffee cup on the desk, and wires everywhere.
He leads you to a chair beside him. “Wrote something last night. Thought you might want to hear it.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Inspired by anything?”
He doesn’t say anything. Just gives you a look.
He clicks a few keys on his laptop, and music starts playing—slow, rich bass, soft drums, a melody that feels like it’s watching you breathe. Then lyrics—his voice, lower and raspier than usual.
And the words? They burn.
It’s about being unable to get someone off your mind. About how they haunt your quiet moments. About wanting something that feels dangerous and delicate at the same time.
When it ends, there’s a beat of silence.
“…You wrote that?” you ask.
Choso nods, slow. “All of it.”
“It’s…” Your voice catches. “It’s beautiful.”
He leans back, watching you carefully. “It’s about you. In case that wasn’t obvious.”
The room feels smaller. Hotter. You swallow.
You murmur, “I didn’t know I had that kind of effect on you.”
“You don’t,” he says, stepping closer. “You have more.”
He’s standing between your knees now. One hand on the armrest beside you. The other gently tilts your chin up.
“Can I kiss you again?”
You nod before your brain even catches up.
And then he does—slower this time. Like he’s savoring it. His lips slot against yours and the world blurs. His hand slips to your waist, drawing you closer, and you wrap your arms around his neck without thinking.
The music plays on in the background. But neither of you hears it.
His lips are warm against yours, stealing every thought from your head. One kiss turns into two, then three—deeper, slower, more intense. His hands settle on your waist, firm, grounding. You melt into him without thinking.
But then—between kisses, you manage a breathless whisper, lips brushing his as you speak.
“Choso, not here—there’s people around.”
His eyes open slowly, pupils blown wide. He glances around, then back at you, and that look in his eyes? It's trouble.
Without saying a word, he grabs your hand. “Come on.”
You barely catch your breath before he’s pulling you along, weaving past people, straight toward the exit. His grip doesn’t loosen, even when he’s fumbling for his keys. He unlocks his car in a rush and opens the passenger door for you before sliding into the driver’s seat himself.
The whole ride is charged—silent, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional stolen glance. He taps the steering wheel with his fingers, the ones that had just been ghosting over your skin minutes ago.
When he pulls into the parking lot of his building, he doesn’t waste time. Hands still locked with yours, he leads you upstairs, heart pounding just as fast as yours.
The second the door shuts behind you, he turns around—and everything finally snaps.
Choso doesn’t pounce. He doesn’t rush.
He leans against the door, just watching you. Taking you in like it’s the first time. His eyes roam your face, your lips—your heaving chest. There’s a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he’s trying not to smile.
“You sure?” he asks, voice low, husky.
You nod, breathless. “Yeah.”
That’s all it takes.
He pushes off the door slowly, strides over like a man with nowhere else to be. His hands find your waist, gentle at first, then firm. His head dips down, lips ghosting over your jaw, your cheek, your mouth—but he doesn’t kiss you yet.
“You look so pretty tonight,” he murmurs, voice thick with restraint.
His nose grazes your neck, and you shudder. Every place his breath touches feels like it’s burning.
“You always look pretty,” he adds, kissing just below your ear now. “But tonight?”
He sucks in a breath through his teeth, lips brushing lower.
“You’re killing me.”
Your hands find the hem of his hoodie, fingers twitching as you lift it up slowly—exposing the pale skin of his stomach inch by inch. He lets you, arms raised, letting the fabric slide off and onto the floor. The tattoos swirl over his chest, catching the soft glow of the apartment lights, and your fingers can’t help but trace them.
“Still nervous?” he asks, voice rougher now.
You shake your head. “No. Just… can’t believe this is real.”
Choso tilts your chin up, makes you look at him. His gaze is so intense it steals the breath from your lungs.
“It is,” he says. “And we’ve got all night.”
He kisses you again, this time softer, slower. No rush. Just lips moving against yours with quiet reverence, like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth.
His hands stay on your waist, warm and steady, but you feel the way his thumbs are drawing lazy circles on your skin—like he’s trying to ground himself. Like he’s savoring the moment as much as you are.
You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. He hums into the kiss, one hand sliding up your back, fingers curling into your hair.
The path to the bedroom is a blur.
You’re not sure how you get there—if he carries you, or if you walk, tangled up in each other, lips never parting for more than a breath.
The room is dim, lit only by the city lights bleeding through the blinds. It paints both of you in silver and shadow. Choso backs you toward the bed, and when your knees hit the edge, he pauses. Looks down at you like you’re something sacred.
You swallow, heart thundering. “Are you gonna keep staring or—”
“Shh.” He dips his head, kisses your neck, just under your jaw. “Let me take my time with you.”
You shiver. God, his voice—low, velvet, dangerous.
“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this.”
He pushes you onto the bed and you bounce slightly on it. He’s crawling up your body, hands trailing along your sides, slipping beneath your shirt—fingertips so gentle it sends goosebumps across your skin. You raise your arms, let him take it off. He discards it carefully, almost reverently, and then he’s touching you again.
It’s not frantic. It’s worship.
The way he kisses down your chest, murmuring things you can’t even process. The way he handles you like he’s scared you’ll break. His mouth is everywhere—leaving warmth and wetness and little marks that’ll be there tomorrow. Proof that this happened. That he happened.
When his hands slip lower, and he finally asks, “Can I?”—you nod, breathless, and he grins, slow and sinful.
“Good,” he whispers. “Because I’m not stopping tonight.”
His touch starts soft. Teasing.
His fingers graze along your thigh, slipping under your skirt. Just the pad of one finger tracing your inner thigh, slow and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to unravel you. He watches your reactions closely—every breath, every twitch, every clench of your thighs like it’s his favorite show.
“Already shaking,” he murmurs with a smirk, fingers drifting up higher, stopping just at the edge of your underwear. “And I’ve barely touched you.”
When he finally slips his hand beneath the fabric of your panties, his fingers are warm, his touch confident. He finds you wet—soaked—and he groans low in his throat.
“Fuck... all this for me?”
His middle finger drags through your folds, slow and deliberate, gathering everything, spreading it around before circling your clit—just barely touching it. It’s maddening.
“You’re already this worked up,” he breathes, leaning in to kiss your jaw. “What happens when I really start?”
He’s rushing to take your underwear off, almost ripping them in the process. Then—finally—he eases a finger inside.
It’s slow at first. Just one finger, shallow thrusts, curling up and stroking that spot inside you until your hips start chasing him, greedy for more. He watches your face the whole time, eats up every whimper.
“Choso… more,” you whisper, barely able to speak.
His eyes flick up, dark and hungry. “Yeah?” he murmurs. “You can take another?”
You nod, breathless.
He slides a second finger in—thicker, deeper. His palm presses against your clit as his fingers work inside you, curling just right, just enough pressure to make your back arch. His other hand grabs your thigh, keeps you open and steady as he builds a rhythm.
It’s obscene—the wet, messy sounds of his fingers fucking into you—but it only makes him grin.
“You hear that, sweetheart?” he says lowly.
You’re gasping now, clutching the sheets, legs shaking. He really is good with his hands.
“C’mon,” he whispers against your neck, tongue darting out to taste you. “Let go for me.”
And with one more curl, one more stroke—you do.
You come around his fingers, back arching, a moan ripped from your chest as he keeps moving through it, working you until you’re twitching, thighs trembling against him.
When he finally pulls his fingers out, he brings them to his lips.
“Tastes even better than I imagined,” he says, voice low and ruined.
He doesn’t give you a second to catch your breath.
The second those words leave his mouth, his gaze drops—hungry, wicked—and before you can ask what he’s doing, he’s already moving.
He’s moving down your body, settling between your legs, hands parting your thighs, spreading you wide open for him. You barely manage a gasp before his mouth is on you.
And fuck.
He licks a slow stripe from your entrance to your clit—moaning against you like he’s tasting something divine. His tongue is hot, wet, firm—flicking against your clit before flattening and dragging against it again. He’s not shy. He devours.
You twitch under him, gasping, and his grip on your thighs tightens.
“Stay still for me,” he murmurs against you, breath fanning over your soaked heat. “Let me eat, baby.”
And oh, does he eat.
He buries his face between your legs like he’s starved—lips and tongue and heat and mess, sucking your clit into his mouth, groaning when your fingers grab his hair and pull. His nose nudges your clit, the piercings in his ears cold against your thigh.
His hands slide under your ass, lifting your hips just right so he can get even deeper. His tongue fucks into you, messy and wet, before he pulls back to mouth at your clit again.
You’re a wreck—panting, eyes rolling back, legs trembling on either side of his head. He loves it. You can tell by the way he hums into you, nose buried in your folds, like every whimper out of you is a personal victory.
Your thighs start to close around his head—he lets them. Arms locking around your legs, holding you there like he wants to be suffocated. And with one more flick of his tongue—one more swirl, one more perfect pressure—
You cry out, hips jerking, thighs clenching, and he doesn’t stop. He works you through it, licking, kissing, groaning against your cunt like he’s drunk off you.
When your body finally slumps back against the mattress, dazed and spent, he pulls back just enough to look up at you.
His mouth glistens. His eyes are wrecked.
And he licks his lips.
“Sweetest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever tasted.”
Choso’s mouth is still hot against yours, the kiss messy and hungry, his tongue sliding over yours like he can’t get enough of the taste of you.
He unbuckles his belt, pushing his pants down along with his boxers, his girthy length slapping against his abdomen. Your mouth parts in a soft gasp at the sight of it. But you don't have time to marvel at it. His hands are already on your thighs, pushing them up—higher, higher—until you're folded in half in a mean mating press.
“Gonna keep you like this,” he murmurs, voice rough, chest heaving. “Wanna see your face while I fuck you.”
Your breath catches.
His hands hook behind your knees, holding them open as he shifts forward. The position has you completely laid out for him, helpless beneath the weight of his body. You feel his cock, thick and hard, dragging over your slick entrance—and then he pushes in, slow and deep.
You whimper—a sound torn from your throat, soft and wrecked, your back arching as he presses deeper.
Choso groans, low and guttural, head falling forward to rest against yours. His breath fans hot across your cheek, and you swear you can feel the tremble in his arms as he holds himself still—just for a second.
“F-fuck…” he breathes, voice rough with restraint. “You’re so fucking tight like this…”
His hips roll forward again, slower this time, the movement deliberate—like he wants you to feel every inch. “Feels like you’re made for me,” he murmurs, his voice barely more than a rasp.
Your fingers scramble across the expanse of his back, nails dragging, searching for something to ground you. His shoulders, his arms, anything—because the way he’s filling you, stretching you, it’s too much and not enough at the same time.
Then he starts to move. Deep. Steady. And the new angle is devastating.
He hits every spot just right, his cock dragging along your walls, slow and purposeful, grinding into the deepest parts of you with every thrust. Your legs tremble in his hold, pinned back and open for him, the pressure building with each stroke. Your jaw falls open, a moan slipping free—high-pitched and desperate.
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes.
But it’s not pain. No—never that.
It’s overwhelming. It’s perfect. It’s him.
“You’re taking it so well,” he grits out, eyes burning into yours as his pace deepens. “Fuck—just like that, baby. Taking all of me.”
You blink up at him, dazed, lips parted as your moans spill freely. He leans down—closer, closer—until your thighs are nearly flush to your chest and his weight settles on top of you, heavy and grounding.
And he fucks you.
Not rough, but intentional—each stroke slow and deep, hips rolling so he never leaves you empty. He watches your face, watches every twitch of your brows, every flutter of your lashes. Like he’s trying to memorize it. All of it.
Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling when his thrusts grind just right. His name escapes you in a whimper—over and over, his name like a mantra.
“Choso—” you gasp. “Oh my God—Choso, I-I…”
“I know,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”
You’re soaked—messy, slick dripping down your thighs, pooling where your bodies meet. The wet slap of skin on skin is loud in the room, underscored by the soft creak of the mattress and your broken cries.
He shifts, angling just so, and you shatter.
Your body seizes, nails digging into his back as your orgasm rips through you, sudden and all-consuming. A sob leaves your throat, your back arching as your walls flutter and clamp down around him.
With a low groan, he shifts—gently, carefully—his hands sliding beneath your thighs to lower them. You gasp softly when he wraps your legs around his waist, keeping you close, keeping you full, as his hips press flush to yours.
He groans—a raw, broken sound—his hips stuttering. “Shit—fuck, I’m close—where do you want it, sweetheart?”
You barely think. You just nod, desperate. “Inside—please—inside.”
That’s all he needs.
He presses in deep, body trembling, a shudder running through him as he spills into you, cock twitching with every pulse of his release. You feel the heat of it—so much, thick and warm as it fills you up. And still, he doesn’t stop.
He keeps moving—soft, shallow thrusts that drag it out, that make your body twitch and whimper, overstimulated and glowing.
His name slips from your lips again, quieter this time, your fingers trailing down his back, soothing over sweat-slick skin.
And then—finally—he stills.
Buried to the hilt. Breathing hard. Forehead pressed to your shoulder, lips ghosting over your collarbone.
“I’ve got you,” he says again, voice low and reverent.
His hands settle on your waist, thumbs stroking your skin like he’s grounding himself.
"Don’t want to let go just yet," he murmurs, voice rough with emotion and aftermath. He leans down, kissing your shoulder, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “Feels too good like this.”
You hum, dazed and pliant, arms winding around his neck as your forehead rests against his. His weight, his warmth—it’s comforting. Heavy in the best way.
Every small shift makes you gasp—too sensitive, too raw—but you don’t ask him to move.
You don’t want him to either.
And neither does he.
So he stays there—buried deep, your legs locked around his waist, your bodies tangled as if they were always meant to be like this.
After, when the haze finally starts to fade, Choso is the first to move—but only just.
He brushes your hair from your face with slow fingers, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “You okay?” he murmurs, voice low and full of concern. Gentle. So gentle. “Was that… too much?”
You shake your head, barely able to speak as you whisper, “No. It was perfect.”
He exhales, and the breath sounds like relief. Like he needed to hear that.
Without a word, he slips out of bed, grabbing a warm cloth and returning to you. He moves with such care—his hands slow, wiping between your thighs with reverence, like you’re something precious. You flinch a little at the sensitivity, and he mumbles a soft “Sorry” as he presses a kiss to your knee, his gaze flickering up to check on you again.
Once you’re clean, he tosses the cloth aside and crawls back under the covers. You instinctively curl into him, and he opens his arms wide, pulling you in, tucking your head beneath his chin.
His fingers trace slow, lazy circles along your spine. Your legs are tangled with his, your body warm and sore and safe. He smells like sweat and sex and his cologne, and you want to fall asleep in this exact moment, forever.
“You’re amazing,” he murmurs against your hair.
You blink up at him. “That’s my line.”
He smiles, barely-there but so real. “Guess we’ll take turns.”
You laugh—quiet, muffled against his chest—and he hums along with it, fingers still moving along your back.
A silence settles between you, but it isn’t awkward. It’s peaceful. The kind that only comes after letting someone see you bare in every way.
He breaks it eventually, voice thick with sleep. “You staying over?”
“Mhm.”
“You sure?”
You nod, eyes fluttering closed. “Wouldn’t wanna be anywhere else.”
And neither would he.
So he kisses the top of your head one more time, murmurs something soft and unintelligible against your skin, and lets himself fall asleep with you in his arms.
Exactly where you both want to be.
author's note. this is just pure choso brainrot because i could not get that fanart out of my head so ofc i had to write something about it. (choso girlies, i'm borrowing your man for a while, thank you)
when you guys are reading the idw comics, what voice do you read sonic in? actually all the characters for that matter. cuz PERSONALLY when im reading the comics sometimes i hear jason griffith and other times i hear roger craig it really depends on the day