Pregnancy scare w/ bassist choso
...
The bass guitar didn’t just make noise, it made a vibration that started in the soles of your feet and ended somewhere deep in your pelvis, right where the ache usually sat.
From your spot on the battered green velvet couch in the corner of the green room, you watched Choso. The venue smelled like stale beer, ozone, and the chemical sharp tang of the crushable amphetamine pill you’d snorted off the back of a cracked compact mirror ten minutes before the doors opened. Your heart was doing a frantic, fluttering tap dance against your ribs, but outwardly, you were just a puddle of loose limbs and dilated pupils.
Choso was unplugged, practicing a finger picking sequence that looked entirely too complex for a man with hands that big. The harsh fluorescent lights of the backstage room caught the silver glinting in his face. He’d changed since the early days of this messy, undefined arrangement.
The standard-issue rock-and-roll look had mutated into something specific to your vices, a sharp hoop through his left eyebrow, a stud in his bottom lip that he constantly clicked against his teeth when he was thinking, and a thick silver barbell through his tongue.
He didn’t look up from the fretboard, but his voice carried over the ambient hum of the venue’s ventilation. "You're shaking over there. How much did you take?"
"Just enough to stay awake through the set," you lied, your voice a little too airy, a little too thin.
Choso’s thumb stopped dead on the string. He looked up, his dark eyes heavy. He set the bass down with a heavy, deliberate thud against its stand and walked over to you. He didn’t look angry, he looked exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with the tour schedule.
He sat on the edge of the low table in front of you, crowding your space, smelling of leather, tobacco, and the expensive laundry detergent he used to try and wash the smell of venues out of his hoodies. He reached out, his thumb catching your chin, tilting your head up. His thumb roughened your skin, tracing your jawline before his fingers moved down, pressing firmly against the pulse point in your neck.
"Your heart is running a marathon" he murmured, his thumb rubbing a slow, rhythmic circle against your skin. "You promised me you’d scale it back this week."
"I did scale it back" you mumbled, leaning your face into his palm because the skin of his hand was cool against your flushed, feverish cheek. "You're just being dramatic."
"I'm not being dramatic. I'm keeping you alive." He sighed, a low, rumbling sound in his chest. His eyes dropped to your collarbone, then drifted down to his own.
He was wearing a tank top, the low neckline revealing the fresh, red-tinged ink script running right along the ridge of his left collarbone. Your name. It was stark, elegant, and entirely inappropriate for two people who were supposed to just be "friends who fucked when the tour bus stopped."
When you’d first seen it three weeks ago, you’d laughed, a high, panicked sound.
He’d just shrugged his broad shoulders, his expression deadpan. “I like the font. And I like the reminder.”
Now, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours. The cold metal of his eyebrow piercing nipped at your skin. "The test is in my bag" he whispered. "Did you take it yet?"
The reminder made your stomach do a sickening drop that had nothing to do with the drugs. The second time in four months. The first time had been a frantic, tear filled midnight run to a 24 hour pharmacy in Chicago, both of you staring at a plastic stick on the edge of a hotel sink while the television blared an infomercial.
That one had been negative, but the terror had lingered. This time, the late period had coincided with a particularly bad bender on the west coast, and the guilt had been eating you from the inside out. A baby? With your blood chemistry? You were a walking hazard.
"No" you breathed. "I was waiting for you."
Choso got up, walked over to his duffel bag, and pulled out the cardboard box. He didn't hand it to you. He took your hand, pulling you up from the couch, your knees were a little weak, and he caught your waist to steady you, and led you into the cramped, single occupancy bathroom attached to the green room.
He sat on the closed toilet seat while you stood in the tub, turning his back to give you a semblance of privacy, though privacy had expired between you two a long time ago.
Five minutes later, the little plastic window showed a single, solitary pink line.
A heavy, shuddering breath escaped your lips, your shoulders slumping so hard you nearly hit the wall. Choso stood up immediately, taking the test from your hand and tossing it into the trash. He didn’t say I told you so, and he didn’t look relieved in the way a guy who wanted to escape a trap would look.
He looked... complicated. Almost mournful.
He pulled you into his chest, wrapping his long arms around your shoulders, burying his face in your hair. He rocked you back and forth in the tiny bathroom.
"Okay" he muttered into your hair. "Okay. We're clear. You're okay."
"I'm sorry" you whispered against his shirt. "I'm sorry, Cho. I know I'm a mess."
"You're my mess," he corrected, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register he only used when the doors were locked. "But we have to change this. I can't keep watching you disappear into yourself. I want... I want more than this. I want the whole thing. With you."
You pulled back, looking at him. "Cho."
"The deal is stupid" he said bluntly, his lip piercing catching the light as he sneered at the word. "I have your name on my body. I have a piece of metal in my dick because you said you liked the look of it on a guy in a magazine. Do you think I do that for every girl who comes backstage?"
The reminder made a heat bloom low in your stomach. It was true, months ago, high on some terrible hotel wine, you’d pointed at an altmodel in a magazine and offhandedly remarked that an apadravya piercing was the sexiest thing a man could get. Two weeks later, Choso had shown up at your apartment, walking a little stiffly, with a silver bar split through the head of his shaft, purely because he wanted to see the look on your face when he dropped his trousers.
...
The hotel room was small, but it had a king sized bed with white sheets that were about to get ruined.
The adrenaline from the show was still rolling off Choso in waves his skin was hot, his hair damp with sweat where he’d pulled it out of its usual twin topknots. He hadn’t even taken off his leather boots before he threw you onto the mattress, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand.
The drugs were wearing off, leaving you in that jittery, hyper sensitive comedown state where every touch felt like an electric shock.
"You're too quiet" Choso growled, leaning down to bite at your jawline, his lip stud dragging against your skin. "Talk to me."
"I want you" you gasped, arching your hips up against his.
He let out a satisfied sound. He released your wrists, his hands traveling down to rip your clothes away with an urgency that bordered on feral. When he stripped out of his own pants, the heavy silver jewelry between his thighs caught the dim light of the bedside lamp.
He didn't go for the standard routine. Tonight, he wanted to look at you. He pulled you to the edge of the bed, sitting back on his calves, leaving you elevated.
"Climb on" he commanded, his dark eyes fixed on yours. "Ride it"
You didn't hesitate. You slid forward, shifting until you were straddling his lap, your thighs gripping his hips. As you lowered yourself onto him, the cold, heavy sensation of the metal bar inside him hit your internal walls, followed immediately by the thick, stretching heat of him. You let out a loud, ragged sob of pleasure, your fingers burying into his damp hair to hold yourself steady.
Choso’s hands clamped onto your hips, not to lift you, but to hold you down, pinning you against his groin. He began to move his hips in small, rolling circles from below, the metal piercing sliding against your gspot with a friction that made your vision go blurry at the edges.
"Look at me" he commanded, his voice tight with restraint.
You forced your eyes open, looking down at him. His face was flushed, his jaw clenched so hard the muscles jumped. Right there, inches from your face, was his collarbone, your name moving up and down with his ragged breathing.
He leaned up, his mouth catching yours. The kiss was heavy, and wet. Every movement was deliberate, designed to overwhelm your senses until the craving for anything chemical was completely washed out by the sheer weight of him.
You began to rock against him, your pace frantic, your head throwing back as the climax began to build like a wave. Choso reached down, his thumb finding your clit, pressing hard.
"Choso—Choso, please—"
"I’m right here" he moaned, his thumb working in fast, merciless circles. "I'm not going anywhere."
The orgasm hit you so hard your back arched, your internal muscles clamping down around him in tight, violent spasms. The friction of his thumb sent you over the edge into a screaming release, your tears hot against his neck as you collapsed forward, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder.
Choso let out a low groan, his own pace quickening for three hard, deep thrusts before he came inside you, his body shuddering beneath yours, his fingers digging into the meat of your thighs until it would leave bruises tomorrow.
Afterward, he didn't pull away. He shifted, lifting you with him as he crawled further onto the bed, pulling the duvet over both of your sticky, sweating bodies. He tucked your head under his chin, one large hand rubbing slow, soothing circles into your lower back.
"We're going to clean you up" he whispered into the dark room, his voice softer than you'd ever heard it. "Tomorrow, I’m calling a manager. We're taking a break after this leg. I'm getting you clean, and then I'm buying a house. With a yard."
You were too tired, too spent to fight him. "Choso... that sounds like a lot of work."
"I don't care" he said, his lips pressing a firm, lingering kiss against the top of your head. "You're my family now. I don't lose family."
