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@lostintrost
welcome to the shit show
āæā crys | she/her | get to know me
āāæā m. list | kinktober m. list | mdni
WOOF WOOF WOOF BARK BARK MEOW MEOW MEOW
have you ever thought of making smauās? i have a lot of ideas if you do bestie š©š©š©
i honestly havenāt, but iām down to try! SEND ME IDEAS
PONYBOY - CHOSO KAMO
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 wasnāt on the agendaāand ending up in his bed? Yeah, that wasnāt 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, alcohol consumption, 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 itās 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. Thatās what the letter called itālike 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.
Thereās no air conditioning. The ceiling fan makes a sound like itās chewing on itself. You prop open the back door and hope the breeze isnāt carrying more hornets.
By the time the sun starts to dip behind the trees, the living roomās half-unpacked, your hairās sticking to your neck, and youāre dangerously close to throwing a box labeled āKITCHEN ā FRAGILEā straight through the window.
You need a drink.
The barālocals call it The Pitāis tucked between a feed store and a mechanicās garage on the edge of town. Itās not much to look at from the outside, just sun-bleached siding and a rusted-out neon sign that reads āOPENā if you squint hard enough. But inside, itās 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 sheās wearing a plain tank top and jeans, no name tag. She raises an eyebrow as you approach.
āNew in town?ā
You slide onto a stool. āThat obvious?ā
She pours something golden into a glass. āAround here? Everything is.ā
You take a sip. It burns, in a good way.
āMovinā into the old place a few blocks down?ā 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 wallās been plastered with old photosārodeos, family cookouts, black-and-white shots of horses mid-stride.
āLotta history out there,ā she says. āThat landās got roots deeper than the well.ā
You glance at the glass in your hand. āHopefully no ghosts.ā
She smirks. āNah. Just nosy neighbors, rattlesnakes, and one too many cowboys who think silence is a personality trait.ā
You laugh, tired but genuine. You donāt ask for names. Not yet.
The bartender leans back on one hip, wiping down a glass with a rag thatās seen better days. āYouāll meet the whole town soon enough,ā she says, voice easy. āMornings at the diner, Friday nights at the Pit. Someoneāll swing by your place, offer help you didnāt ask for. Happens every time someone new rolls in.ā
You raise an eyebrow. āThat supposed to be comforting?ā
She grins. āThat depends. Some of āem are harmless. Some of āem donāt know how to mind their own business.ā
A photo behind her catches your eyeāframed and slightly crooked, tucked between shelves of mismatched liquor bottles. Itās 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. Heās wearing gloves, a long coat, boots scuffed to hell. Thereās something still about himāsomething heavy.
āThat one?ā she says, catching your gaze. āChoso.ā
You donāt look away. āHe local?ā
āMhm. Works the Dustwell Ranch a few miles out. Sticks to himself. Comes in when the nights get long or the work gets worse.ā She pauses, then adds, āQuiet, mostly. But folks around here know better than to mistake that for soft.ā
You blink. The photo stays with you longer than it should.
āLemme guess,ā you say, setting your glass down. āHe one of those cowboys you mentioned?ā
She chuckles, dry. āHeās the reason I mentioned them.ā
You nod slowly. āHeās⦠not bad-looking.ā
The bartender smirks. āYeah, he hears that a lot. Doesnāt do much with it, though.ā
You glance back at the photo. āNot the friendly type?ā
āPolite,ā she says, ābut quiet. Keeps to himself. Doesnāt stick around long when folks start talking too much.ā
You hum into your drink. āSo, not exactly easy to get to know.ā
She shrugs. āPeopleāve tried. Never really seems interested. Doesnāt mean anythingās wrong with himājust one of those men who likes his space.ā
You let that sit for a second. Then: āYou saying I shouldnāt bother?ā
She smiles without looking at you. āIām saying if youāre the curious type, just donāt expect straight answers.ā
-
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 windāwildflowers, 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 oneās been out here fixing things in a while.
You donāt take a phone. Thereās 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.
Thereās not much out hereājust land. Wide and quiet. Like itās 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.
Itās bigāold wood and iron, solid in that way that says it wasnāt built for decoration. Thereās a sign nailed across the top beam. The paintās worn, but the letteringās still clear:
DUSTWELL RANCH
You slow without meaning to.
Beyond the gate, the land stretches open againāmiles 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.
Youāre about to turn back when you hear itāthe low groan of leather, the thud of boots hitting packed earth.
Someoneās moving out there.
And then, farther outānear the barnāyou catch sight of a figure. Broad shoulders, long stride, dark hair pulled back under a white hat. He moves like the heat doesnāt bother him. Like the landās just an extension of his own skin.
You canāt make out his face from this far, but something about the way he adjusts the strap over his shoulderāsmooth, practicedātells you itās him.
Choso.
You donāt call out. You donāt 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 youāre immediately hit with the scent of wood and old paper. The general storeās got everythingācanned 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. Youāre reaching for a pack of nails on a higher shelf when someone steps into the aisle at the same time you do.
You both stopāalmost head to chest.
āWhoaāsorry,ā you say, laughing a little.
He steps back without much of a reaction, but his eyes linger. Itās him. Cowboy hat, button-down rolled to the elbows, gloves tucked into his back pocket. Heās taller up close. And quieter, tooālike the kind of quiet that says more than most people do out loud.
āHavenāt seen you around before,ā he says, voice low and easy. āYou new?ā
You nod, trying not to stare. āYeah. Just moved in. My grandfather left me the old place off Hollow Creek.ā
He tilts his head. āBig property, that one. Lotta trees.ā
āAlso a lot of creaky floors and suspicious plumbing,ā you joke.
That gets himājust barely. A small huff of a laugh, like it surprised him too.
āIām Choso.ā
āSo Iāve heard.ā you smile at him before offering your own name.
āWell,ā he says, eyes crinkling just a little at the corners, āwelcome to Dustwell, darlinā.ā
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.
ā...Are you lying dead in a ditch or just ghosting me now?ā Shokoās voice is dry as ever as she finally appears on screen, sunglasses on, cigarette in one hand, something suspiciously alcoholic in the otherāeven though itās barely 3 p.m.
āIāve been busy,ā you whine, slumping onto the couch. āThereās a lot to unpack.ā
āYeah? Unpack the hot cowboy you texted me about at midnight and then never followed up on.ā
You groan into your palm. āIt wasnāt that serious! He justāhe was at the store. I bumped into him. Literally. And heās tall andāhat, gloves, boots, the whole deal.ā
āCowboy cosplay or actual cowboy?ā
āActual cowboy, Shoko. Like... brawny forearms and slow drawl. Called me darlinā.ā
She sips her drink. āMmm. Cowboys are usually good with their hands. You should test that.ā
āShoko! I donāt even know the guy!ā
āPerfect. No expectations. Just vibes.ā
You gawk at her, scandalized. She shrugs.
āI'm just sayingāmanās probably got calluses in all the right places.ā
You grab a pillow and yell into it while she just watches, smug.
You peek out from behind the pillow. āYouāre the worst.ā
āIāve been called worse,ā she says, exhaling smoke. āNow show me.ā
āShow you what?ā
āThe cowboy, obviously.ā
You blink. āShoko. Iām not a stalker. I didnāt take a picture of him.ā
She raises a brow. āMiss maāam didnāt sneak a pic? I taught you nothing.ā
You groan. āIt wouldāve been weird! I didnāt even know what to say after he walked off. I just stood there like an idiot with my bread and canned soup.ā
āThatās hot. Very romance novel of you.ā
āI hate you.ā
āNo you donāt,ā she says, smug. āYouāre just mad because your little prairie crush made your brain short-circuit.ā
You bury your face again, voice muffled. āHe had that whole rugged, fresh-off-the-ranch thing going on, Shoko.ā
Thereās a pause.
āOkay, yeah. Youāre done for.ā
You sit back up, defeated. āIt was just one interaction. He probably wonāt even remember me.ā
āOh, heāll remember. Youāre new in town. He absolutely noticed. And if heās quiet and broody like you said, that manās probably thought about you seventeen times since then and doesnāt know what to do about it.ā
You blink at her.
āYouāre scary.ā
āIām right.ā
You sulk into the couch. āWhat do I even do with that information?ā
Shoko grins slowly. āYou go to the store again. And you wait.ā
You squint at the screen. āThatās your plan? I just... loiter in the soup aisle until he appears?ā
āIf heās got work boots and a quiet drawl, yeah. Linger,ā Shoko says, entirely unfazed.
You groan. āHe probably wonāt even show up again. Itās a small town, not a Hallmark movie.ā
āWhich means heāll show up everywhere,ā she counters, raising a brow. āThatās the rule. First hot man encounter? You will see him again. At least three times. One of them in an inconvenient setting.ā
You pause. āLike what?ā
She smirks. āPublic restroom line. Town fair. Your porch. Shirtless.ā
āOkay goodbye,ā 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 werenāt even looking for anyone. This move was supposed to be peacefulāslow 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 thereās a man with sleepy eyes and dust on his jeans, and you canāt stop replaying the way heād said darlinā, like it wasnāt the first time heād said it and like he wouldnāt mind saying it again.
You sigh.
And the worst part?
You already need eggs.
-
You need eggs.
Thatās 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. Itās all for the eggs.
You meander through the store, making slow, aimless rounds. Produce. Aisles with three different kinds of cereal. Laundry detergent. Youāre halfway through the snacks when you realize youāre not shopping anymore. Youāre 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. Youāve looped the store twice, possibly three times. The cashierās starting to give you that polite, ādo you need help with something or are you casing the jointā 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 wonāt be everywhere after all.
Youāre not looking for him.
Youāre just taking a walk.
Thatās what you tell yourself as your feet find the same dusty road that runs past that ranch. The signās old but well-kept, carved into smooth wood with curling ends, tucked beside a wide gate.
You think about turning back.
You donāt.
Thereās a low soundārhythmic, 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 itās 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.
āYou again,ā he says, like itās not surprising at all. āYou lost, darlinā?ā
Your stomach does a stupid flip.
āNo,ā you manage. āJust walking.ā
He nods like that tracks. āItās getting late.ā
You shrug, trying not to stare at the way the reins rest between his gloved fingers. āNeeded air.ā
He humsālow and easy. āAirās better out here anyway.ā
You take a breath like you need proof. It is better.
He shifts a bit in the saddle, posture relaxed. āSo. You just out sightseeing?ā
You huff a laugh before you can stop it. āJust wanted to familiarize myself with the place.ā
That gets a tiny smile out of himāsmall, but there. He tips his hat. āWell. You ever wanna get closer, Dustwell has open trails past the fence. Just mind the mud. And the bulls.ā
āOh,ā you say, blinking. āCool. Thanks.ā
āSure thing,ā he says, clicking his tongue once to move the horse forward. He nods at you as he rides past. āSee you āround.ā
You donāt say anything. Youāre too busy trying not to grin at nothing like a complete idiot.
Shoko was right.
Youāre done for.
-
The barās 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 bartenderāsame one from before, hair up in a messy bun, a dishrag slung over her shoulder like itās part of the uniform.
āBack already?ā she asks with a grin. āThought you city types got bored easy.ā
āI donāt scare that easy,ā you say, returning the smile. āAnd besides⦠the drinks are good.ā
She snorts. āFlattery wonāt get you a free round.ā
āDamn. Worth a shot.ā
She pours you something light, something crisp, and leans against the bar, elbow propped lazily. āSo. You settlinā in okay out at that old house?ā
You nod. āTrying to. Place has character.ā
āYou mean termites?ā
You laugh. And then, because maybe the alcoholās working faster than expected, you say itā
āI met Choso though. Kind of. Ran into him out by the ranch. Real quiet.ā
The bartender lifts an eyebrow. āTall, broody, horse-riding kind of hot?ā
You gesture with your glass. āExactly.ā
She hums knowingly. āSounds like him.ā
āYeah. He was pretty nice though.ā
āMhm. Doesnāt talk much. Just keeps to himself.ā
You nod along, about to say something else when the bell over the door rings.
And of courseā
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 doesnāt know you were just talking about him.
Your mouth goes a little dry.
The bartender glances at you and smirks.
āWell, well,ā she murmurs under her breath. āLooks like fateās got a good sense of timing.ā
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. āYou want me to bring him over?ā
Your eyes go wide. āAbsolutely not.ā
She grins like thatās not an answer. āToo late.ā
Before you can stop her, she cups a hand to her mouth and calls out across the bar, casual as anythingā
āHey, Choso! You want your usual?ā
His head lifts slightly. His gaze shifts, one beat to the bartender, the nextāunmistakablyāto you.
Then he nods.
The bartender grabs a clean glass, but before she moves to pour, she shoots you a wink. āBe a peach and slide down one seat, would you?ā
You blink. āYouāre not serious.ā
āIām always serious about good company.ā
You hesitate just long enough to regret it, and then Chosoās already making his way overālong 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.
āEveninā,ā he says, low and smooth.
Your heartās doing something ridiculous, but you manage a smile. āHey. Fancy seeing you again.ā
The bartender places his drink down and looks way too pleased with herself. āYāall have fun,ā she says, backing away with her towel slung over her shoulder like a mission accomplished banner.
Choso glances after her, then back at you.
āShe always like that?ā you ask.
He huffs a quiet laugh. āOnly when she senses blood in the water.ā
And thereās something playful in his tone this time. Barely there. But it makes your stomach flutter anyway.
You raise a brow. āThat so?ā
hides a smile behind his glass.
āSo,ā you say after a beat, ādo you always ride in dramatically right after someone talks about you?ā
He tilts his head. āYou were talkinā about me?ā
You pause, caught.
āā¦No?ā
He hums. āHuh.ā
You shoot him a look. āDonāt act like you werenāt eavesdropping.ā
āDidnāt have to,ā he says, calm as ever. āYouāre not exactly subtle.ā
You open your mouth to respond, probably with something cleverāor at least less humiliatingābut he leans an elbow on the bar, eyes on yours.
āDarlinā, I can tell.ā
Your jaw drops. āI was not-ā
āItās cute.ā
You swat at his arm lightly, but he just chuckles under his breathābarely there, but there.
Somehow, the small talk slips easy after that. Talk of the town. The best place for coffee in the morning (āItās not the diner,ā 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 windowādark now, and quiet, the kind of still night that makes everything feel slower.
āI should probably head back,ā you say, setting your glass down.
Choso finishes his sip and nods. āIāll walk you.ā
You blink. āYou donāt have toāā
āI want to.ā
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 itās the most natural thing in the world.
You glance at him. āYou always this quiet?ā
He shrugs, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. āTalk when I need to.ā
You hum. āThatās fair. I talk even when I donāt need to, so⦠you balance it out.ā
Thereās the ghost of a grin at the edge of his mouth. āYeah, I figured that out.ā
You nudge him lightly with your shoulder, and he lets it happen without comment.
Itās quiet again. Not awkward, just⦠easy.
You donāt live far, and the walk feels shorter with someone next to you. Before long, your porch lightās glowing just up ahead.
āWell,ā you say as you stop in front of your door. āThanks for the company.ā
Choso nods. āYou gonna be alright out here on your own?ā
āIāve survived worse,ā you joke. āLike moving boxes. And small talk with ranch-hands.ā
That gets a real smile out of him. Barely-there dimples. Trouble.
He dips his head a little, eyes on you. āYou ever need somethinā, you know where the ranch is.ā
You raise a brow. āAnd what exactly would I be needinā?ā
He takes a small step back, eyes flicking to your porch light, then back to you.
āDunno,ā he says, and this time his voice is a little rougher. āThought Iād leave the door open.ā
And with that, he tips his hatājust slightlyāand 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]: iāve met him 3 times.
[shoko]: and thatās just the BEGINNING
[shoko]: trust the process
[you]: iām 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 thenālike clockworkāyour mind drifts.
Choso.
You donāt even know him. Had one conversation, maybe two. But of course thatās enough for your brain to cling to the one decent-looking guy youāve seen in town so far. Tall, quiet, unfairly attractive. Of course.
You roll over, annoyed at yourself.
Heās probably just...normal. Works with his hands. Doesnāt talk much. Wears the whole rugged cowboy thing like itās not a big deal, which makes it worse somehow. And okayāfine, the ādarlināā thing did something to you. Thatās on him. But itās also on you for letting it live rent-free in your head all day.
You stare at yourself in the bathroom mirror.
You didnāt 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. Youāre here to get your life together.
Unfortunately, your life now involves a cowboy you canāt stop thinking about.
You shut your eyes and try to pretend youāre not already in trouble.
-
Youād been at it for over an hour nowāsweating under the midday sun, brow furrowed, and jaw clenched tight. The damn wooden plank on your porch just wouldnāt fit right. Youād hammered, yanked, cursed, and even tried sweet-talking it at one point, like that would somehow make it cooperate.
It didnāt.
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.
āYālook like youāre about five seconds from fightinā that board.ā
You jump a little, glancing up to see Choso standing by the gateāhands in his back pockets, hat pulled low, a half-smirk tugging at his lips.
āDonāt tempt me,ā you mutter, rising to your feet. āIāve about had it with this thing.ā
He starts walking toward you, boots crunching softly in the dirt. āNeed a hand?ā
You shake your head quickly. āNo, no, IāI got it. Donāt worry. I know youāve got your own work to do.ā
He slows to a stop at the edge of the porch. āAināt in a rush. Sānot a burden if I offer.ā
You hesitate. Heās not the kind of man you ask favors from lightlyāpartly because heās always so quiet, so distant. But heās looking at you with a kind of patience that softens his usually sharp features.
āā¦Alright,ā you say, stepping aside. āBut only because this thingās winning, and I canāt have that.ā
He huffs a quiet laugh and crouches beside the plank, examining the fit. You expect him to just get to workābut instead, he peels off his gloves, sets them aside, and reaches up to tug his hat off his head.
You blink.
Because holy hell.
Youād only ever seen glimpses of his face beforeājust enough to wonder what he was hiding beneath the brim. And now that itās gone, itās like the sun comes out in full.
Heās beautiful. Not the kind of pretty youād expect from someone who works rough and silentāno, heās got the kind of beauty thatās sharp. Angular cheekbones. Long lashes. Hair tied back but loose strands frame his face. And that tattooādark and striking across the bridge of his noseāonly makes it worse.
Your brain short-circuits for a second.
ā...What?ā he asks, not looking up, already focused on the wood.
āWhat?ā he asks.
You swallow, trying to play it cool. āJust⦠didnāt know you had a tattoo there.ā
He nods once, unfazed. āHad it a long time.ā
āIt suits you,ā you say before you can think better of it.
Choso pauses. His eyes flick to yoursāslow, unreadable.
āThanks,ā 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. Itās the kind of quiet that doesnāt feel awkwardājust 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 thereās 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 whisperāgentle, but impossible to ignore.
When the boardās finally in place, he sits back and nods once, satisfied. āThere. Should hold now.ā
You clear your throat. āThanks. Really.ā
He glances up at you, hat dangling from his fingers. āTold you Iād help if you needed.ā
āYeah,ā you say quietly. āGuess you did.ā
The two of you sit there for a minute longer, side by side, watching the wind stir the grass. Itās quiet, but not in a bad way.
Like maybe you donāt need to say everything out loud.
āYou want somethinā to drink?ā you ask, brushing your palms on your thighs as you stand. āItās not much, just some lemonade. Store-bought, not even the fancy kind.ā
Choso shifts a little like heās not used to being offered anything. Like youāve surprised him.
You catch it, that pauseāand suddenly feel a little silly. āYou donāt have to, obviously. I just thought, you know⦠in return for saving me from an early death by splinter.ā
He huffs out a laugh, low and amused. āDidnāt know I was savinā your life.ā
āOh, you absolutely were,ā you say, feigning seriousness. āThat board had it out for me.ā
He looks at you for a second too long. Then: āAlright. Iāll take a glass.ā
You try not to grin as you head inside, calling back over your shoulder, āDonāt run off. Iām only sharing if you stay and actually drink it.ā
When you return, two slightly sweating glasses in hand, heās 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.
āThanks,ā he says, fingers brushing yours briefly.
You sit beside him again, both sipping in a quiet that doesnāt feel awkwardājust easy.
Itās small. Itās nothing.
But your heart is beating just a little faster anyway.
Choso tips his glass back, slow. āDid a good job, yāknow.ā
You glance over. āOn the porch?ā
āOn the house. All of it.ā He shrugs one shoulder, like itās no big deal. āMost folks wouldāve given up or hired it out. But you stuck with it.ā
You blink, surprised by the softness in his voice.
āThanks,ā you say, quieter than you mean to. āI wasnāt sure itād show.ā
He nods once. āIt shows.ā
Then he stands, stretches a bit, picks up his hat. And just as he steps off the porch, he glances back at you.
āYouāre settlinā in alright,ā he says simply. āYou should stay. Itād be nice if you do.ā
And then heās goneāhat 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]: itās literally midnight
[shoko]: did something catch on fire
[you]: NO
[you]: but Iām gonna die anyway
[you]: he said itād be nice if i stay here
[you]: WHO SAYS THAT
[you]: I HAVENāT 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
[you]: SHOKO PLEASE
[you]: THATāS NOT HELPING
[you]: I CALLED LEMONADE āLEMON WATERā AFTER
[you]: IāM SO STUPID
[shoko]: oh youāre down bad
[shoko]: adorable
[shoko]: pls keep embarrassing yourself. itās entertaining
[shoko]: also
[shoko]: call me when you kiss him
[you]: FUCK YOU.
-
The Pit is quieter on weeknights. Less rowdy, more murmured conversation and old country music buzzing from the jukebox in the corner. Youāre 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.
āYou look distracted,ā drawls the bartender as she wipes down a glass.Ā
You smile sheepishly. āLong day.ā
She hums like she doesnāt believe you, sliding the glass onto the shelf. āWell, youāll wanna unwind before Saturday anyway. Big weekend cominā.ā
You blink. āSaturday?ā
āYou didnāt hear? Dustwellās annual Fall Festival.ā She leans an elbow on the bar, grinning. āWhole town shows up. Good food, live music, terrible dancing.ā
Your brows raise. āThat sounds... kind of amazing.ā
āOh, itās somethinā. Bit of everythingābonfire, market stalls, pie contest, all that small-town charm.ā She leans in a little. āYou should come. Be a good way to meet folks.ā
You sip your drink. āWill there be whiskey?ā
āEnough to drown a horse,ā she deadpans. āCāmon. You might even have fun.ā
You hesitate. Then nod, smiling. āAlright. Iāll check it out.ā
She straightens, clearly pleased. āAttagirl.ā
You pause. āIs it the kind of thing people go to alone?ā
āYou wonāt be alone long,ā she says, smirking as she grabs a bottle from the shelf. āTrust me.ā
You smile into your glass and murmur, āThatās what Iām afraid of.ā
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.
Youāre going to that festival. You already know exactly who you hope to see there.
-
You tell yourself itās 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, youāve tried on three outfits already and youāre still standing in front of the mirror, arms crossed, trying to decide if you look like youāre trying.
Your fingers smooth down the hem of the floral babydoll dress you finally settled onālight, 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.
āStupid,ā you mutter, swiping it on anyway.
Youāre not dressing up for him. Youāre 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. Thatās not why youāre going.
(Probably.)
-
The lights strung up over Dustwellās main road flicker warm and golden, casting a glow over the small crowd thatās gathered. Thereās laughter, music, chatterāa 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 donāt 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.
Heās not here.
You try not to feel stupid about it.
Choso never said heād come. Hell, you never even asked him. Maybe heās back at the ranch. Maybe he hates crowds. Or maybe he just didnāt think about you at all.
You sigh through your nose and roll your shoulders like that could shake the disappointment off.
āPretty dress,ā someone says beside you, voice too close, too sticky with alcohol.
You tense.
Some guy, clearly drunk, sways into your space with a grin thatās more grease than charm. Heās got a beer bottle in hand and eyes that crawl. You step back slightly, but he follows, grin widening.
āYou look real sweet tonight,ā he adds, leaning closer. āYou local?ā
You step sideways, the movement polite but clear. āJust passing through,ā you lie.
He follows. āNah, Iāve seen you before. Came in not long ago. Youāve been out at the old farmstead, aināt you? Near the ridge?ā
Your mouth tightens. āI donāt think weāve met.ā
He laughs, too loud, too bold. āWell, weāre meetinā now, aināt we?ā
āYou here alone?ā he asks, leaning in. āDonāt seem right, someone like you walkinā around without a man.ā
āIām fine, thanks,ā you say, voice firm but polite.
āAww, cāmon nowādonāt be like that,ā he drawls, reaching like heās about to touch your arm.
You stiffen, heart starting to poundā
Then suddenly, thereās 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 donāt even need to look up to know who it is.
Low and slow, that familiar gravel-edged voice speaks:
āThis guy botherinā you, darlinā?ā
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 doesnāt turn around. Doesnāt raise his voice. Just says, āGet lost.ā
The guy laughs nervously. āHey, no troubleājust chattinā, thatās allāā
Choso shifts. Barely. But something about the way he straightens, the silence that falls around himāitās enough.
The drunk mutters something under his breath and stumbles off.
For a beat, itās quiet.
Then Choso turns, finally, and his eyes rake over youāslowly, like heās still processing what heās seeing.
āYou alright?ā he asks.
You nod, heart fluttering so loud youāre sure he can hear it. āYeah. Thanks.ā
His gaze lingers a second too long before flicking away. āShouldnāt be lettinā creeps like that get near you.ā
You smile softly. āWasnāt exactly planning on it.ā
He huffs, almost a laugh, then gestures toward the booths. āYou eaten yet?ā
āā¦No.ā
āCāmon then,ā he murmurs. āIāll buy you somethinā.ā
You fall into step beside him.
Maybe you werenāt just looking around after all.
The two of you drift past the bonfire, not saying much at first. Thereās an ease to itālike 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 askingāone for you, one for him. You raise an eyebrow as he hands it over.
āThought I wasnāt hungry,ā you say, amused.
āYou looked at it twice,ā he replies simply.
You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. āYou always this observant?ā
He shrugs, chewing. āJust when it matters.ā
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. Thereās 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 canāt help sneaking a look at him. The way the firelight hits his profile. The way his jaw tightens when heās lost in thought. Heās wearing that same beat-up hatābut youāve seen whatās 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 itās forgotten how to smile.
āYou donāt like crowds, do you?ā you ask softly.
He glances over, amused. āFigured that obvious?ā
You laugh. āYouāre standing like a bouncer outside a saloon.ā
He huffs. āJust keepinā an eye out.ā
āFor trouble?ā
He looks at you for a beat. āFor you.ā
You donāt know what to say to that. Your fingers fidget with the edge of your dressāuntil you feel his gaze lower.
āThat dress,ā he says, voice low like he almost hadnāt meant to say it aloud. āYou look real pretty in it.ā
You blink up at him, caught off guard. āā¦What?ā
He shifts his weight, gaze still on you but softer now. āI mean it. Real damn pretty, darlinā.ā
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.
āI almost wore jeans,ā you murmur, smiling despite yourself.
He chuckles, and itās quiet but deep. āWouldāve looked good either way. But Iām glad you didnāt.ā
You peek up at him againāand heās still looking. Not just at your dress, not at the way your hairās curled around your shouldersābut at you. Really looking.
He gestures to the edge of the hill beyond the festival. āCāmon. Thereās a view you might like.ā
You follow without thinking.
And maybe this isnāt a date. Maybe you both keep pretending itās not.
But as he walks just ahead of you, turning back now and then to make sure youāre still with himāyou 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 heās making sure you can keep up without looking like heās trying.
āD you always bring girls out here?ā you tease, nudging his arm gently with your shoulder.
He glances at you, amused. āAināt much of a crowd person, remember?ā
āStill didnāt answer the question.ā
That almost-smile tugs at his lips again. āNo. First time.ā
You donāt 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? Itās 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 plainsāblue-black and endless.
You exhale softly. āWow.ā
Choso settles beside you, just close enough for your arms to almost brush. āDidnāt oversell it, huh?ā
You shake your head. āYou didnāt say anything about it being this beautiful.ā
He glances sideways, and for a moment, you think heās going to say something else.
Instead, he hums low in his throat and says, āFigured youād see it yourself.ā
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. āYou donāt have toāā
āI know,ā he says simply, already draping it over your shoulders. āBut youāre cold.ā
The jacket smells like cedar and sun-warmed cotton. Itās too big, but in a comforting way. You sink into it without thinking, and when you glance up to thank him, heās already looking at you.
Not shy. Not teasing.
Just⦠honest.
And something about itāsomething about himāmakes your pulse slow, heavy in your ears.
Maybe this isnāt a date.
But it feels like one.
And right now, thatās 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. āI wasnāt even sure Iād stay at first,ā you admit, voice hushed. āDustwell just⦠felt like a name on a deed. Not a place Iād belong.ā
Choso doesnāt interrupt. He waits, like he knows thereās more.
āI thought Iād fix up the house, sell it maybe. Move back to the city,ā you say. āBut then I started patching up things. Talking to people. And thenā¦ā
You glance over, offering a small smile. āThen I met you.ā
His gaze is steady, unreadableābut 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. āYou ever get that feeling? Like maybe youāre exactly where youāre supposed to be, even if it doesnāt make sense yet?ā
Heās silent for a beat too long.
Then, quietlyāāYeah.ā
The word hangs between you, heavy and fragile.
You turn to face him fully now, searching his expressionāand find that heās already looking at you.
And thereās something in his eyes. Something new.
Tentative. Quiet. Intense.
His gaze flickers downwardājust once, just enough to make your breath catch.
To your mouth.
He swallows, throat working. āYou keep lookinā at me like that, darlinā, ām gonna start gettinā ideas.ā
Your heart slams in your chest.
And then he leans ināslow, so goddamn slow, like giving you every chance to pull away.
But you donāt.
Your hand finds the edge of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric on instinctālike 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 doesnāt pull away.
And you donāt 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, solidāso unlike anything youāve ever known.
You swear your heartās beating so loud itās echoing in your ears.
His eyes flicker from yours to your lips and back again, like heās giving you every second to say no.
You donāt.
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 sighāyes, God, yesāand thatās 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 heās trying to memorize the shape of you.
He tastes like mint and something a little smoky, a little wild. He kisses like heās not used to having something this gentle, this good, and heās afraid itāll vanish if he pushes too hard.
But stillāhe 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 Godāyou feel it. That shift.
That invisible line you just crossed.
When you finally part, itās only because you need to breathe. And even then, his lips brush yours once more. A quieter kiss. A promise.
He doesnāt move far.
Forehead resting against yours, he murmurs, voice husky, āBeen wantinā to do that for a while now.ā
You smile, lips still tingling. āYeah?ā
His eyes donāt leave yours. āYeah.ā
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 chestāfluttering like itās got something to prove.
Choso pulls back just enough to see you, really see you. Thereās a small crease between his brows like heās still unsure if he overstepped.
But all you can do is stare.
ThenāGodāyou laugh.
A quiet, breathy little sound that slips out before you can catch it.
He tilts his head. āSomethinā funny, darlinā?ā
Your hands are still resting against his chest, and you shake your head, cheeks warming. āNoāno, just⦠I think my brain short-circuited a little.ā
That earns the faintest smirk from himājust the barest curve at the corner of his mouth, but it feels like sunlight cracking through clouds.
āWell,ā he drawls, voice low and rough, āyou did look real pretty tonight. Couldāve warned me.ā
You narrow your eyes at him, trying to play it cool despite the way your pulse is still racing. āIs that how you kiss everyone?ā
He huffs a quiet breathāalmost a laughāand dips his gaze to your lips again. āNo,ā he says, low. āJust you.ā
That does something to your chest. You feel it settle there, warm and certain.
Your voice is quieter now. āWhy me?ā
His eyes meet yours again, steady. āAināt figured that part out yet.ā
And just like that, the shyness dissolves into something quieter, sweeter. You lean into him, your hands settling over his heart. Itās steady. Comforting.
He doesnāt rush the silence. Doesnāt push.
The noise of the festival still hums in the background, but it feels like a distant memory nowāmuted 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. āYou wanā me to walk ya home?ā
Your answer is immediate, quiet. āI do.ā
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 doesnāt speak at first, and you donāt mind. You like the silence between youāitās comfortable. Safe.
Then, as you near the edge of town, his hand brushes yours.
Just barely.
You glance over at him. Heās looking straight ahead like nothing happened, but thereās a soft pink creeping up the side of his neck.
You donāt say anything. You just let your hand shift a little closer.
The next time they touch, itās on purpose.
Fingers slide together slow, like testing the weight of something new.
He doesnāt 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 donāt.
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 youāre about to speakāhe leans in again.
But this time, itās different.
Softer. Slower. Like heās savoring it.
His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin, and his lips meet yours in a kiss thatās warm and unhurried. Like a goodnight. Like a promise.
It doesnāt last longābut it doesnāt need to.
When he pulls away, youāre still standing there, blinking, trying to catch your breath.
āNight, darlinā,ā he murmurs, voice low and warm.
You open your mouth to respond butānothing 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 didnāt know you were holding, pressing your fingers to your lips, heart racing.
-
[you]: shoko.
[you]: he kissed me.
[you]: just⦠kissed me. said ānight, darlināā 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]: ā¦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 voiceālow and warmātucked somewhere in the back of your mind.
-
The days that follow feel different.
Not loud or suddenājust 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 oneās looking. Like the way your hand always seems to find his when no oneās around to see.
Thereās a moment in the barnājust the two of you, the air heavy with hay and late sunāwhere 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 canāt help it.
Another time, itās behind your house, just after he helps you carry firewood. You thank him and mean itāand before you can say more, he cups your jaw and kisses you like heās been thinking about it all day.
Sometimes, thoughāsometimes 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 thighā
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, itās the hayloftāwarm, private, the dust floating golden in the air. Heās hovering above you, lips at your collarbone, fingers curling just under the hem of your shirtā
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.
Itās never awkward. Never forced.
Just moments that build. Stretch. Hold.
And itās always him who pulls backālike he's afraid of what might happen if he doesnāt.
-
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 wayāhat low, shirt clinging to his shoulders from the heatāyou swear your pulse stutters.
He doesnāt 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 yoursājust 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.
āYouāre gonna get splinters, yāknow,ā he drawls.
You shoot him a look. āThen maybe you should help.ā
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. Thereās no flinch, no apologyājust 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.
āYou always this helpful?ā you tease.
He shrugs. āOnly when thereās pretty company.ā
You try to roll your eyes, but the way your heart kicks in your chest ruins the effort.
-
It starts with a rumble.
The skyās been moody all morning, clouds hanging heavy like theyāre waiting for the right moment to split open. Youād taken the risk anyway, walking into town for some supplies, telling yourself youād beat the storm back.
You donāt.
You're only halfway down the winding road back to the house when it hitsāsudden and sharp, fat drops pelting the dust and kicking up the smell of rain-soaked earth. Within seconds, youāre drenched. Your dress clings to your skin, hair plastered to your face, and youāre 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.
āDarlinā?ā
You blink through the downpour, and there he isāChoso, leaning out the driverās side window of his old pickup, hat pulled low, brow furrowed in concern.
āYou tryinā to drown out here?ā
You shake your head, a breathless laugh escaping you despite the chill. āThought I could outrun it.ā
His eyes flick down, taking in your soaked dress, the way youāre hugging your elbows. His jaw flexes.
āMy place is closer,ā he says after a beat. āCāmon.ā
You hesitate only for a second. Not because you donāt trust himāyou do, more than you probably shouldābut because stepping into that truck feels like crossing into something else. Something charged.
Still, the rainās cold, and your feet hurt, and his voice is so damn gentle.
You nod.
Heās out of the truck in a blink, jogging around the front and opening the door for you like itās nothing, like it doesnāt send a flutter through your chest. He holds the door open as you climb in, and when your fingers brush his wrist, theyāre warm, solid. Comforting.
Inside the cab, the heaterās 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.
āThanks,ā you murmur.
Heās quiet for a moment, eyes fixed ahead as he pulls back onto the road. Then, voice low: āAināt gonna let you freeze out here.ā
You look over at him again, and this time, he catches your gaze.
The silence stretches.
āYou always play knight in shining armor?ā you tease, trying for casual, though your voice is soft around the edges.
Choso doesnāt look at you right away. His fingers flex around the steering wheel. āNah,ā he says eventually. āDonāt usually have a reason to.ā
The hum of the engine fills the cab, steady and low, and the rain tapping against the windshield makes the world outside feel far awayāblurred and gray and quiet.
Inside, itās warmer. Safer.
You clutch the flannel tighter around you, the sleeves hanging over your fingers. The scent of itāwoodsmoke, leather, something himāmakes your chest ache just a little.
āDidnāt think the weatherād turn that fast,ā you murmur, glancing out the window.
Choso glances over. āStorms move quick out here,ā he says. āYouāll learn.ā
You smile faintly. āGuess Iām still adjusting.ā
āYouāre doinā alright,ā he says, voice low.
The silence returns, but itās not awkward. It settles over the two of you like another blanket. Comforting. Thereās 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 didnāt realize how close his place actually was.
Your eyes feel heavy. Maybe itās the warmth. Maybe itās the rhythm of the road.
Maybe itās him.
You glance over, watching him quietlyāhis 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.
Chosoās muscles tense just slightly beneath you.
āSorry,ā you say quickly, starting to pull away.
But his voice stops youāsoft, quieter than usual.
āItās alright.ā
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.
āYou get used to the rain, too,ā he says after a while. āāSpecially when youāve got someone to ride it out with.ā
Thereās a pause. Your fingers twitch under the flannel.
āThink Iād like that,ā you murmur.
He doesnāt 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.
āWeāre here,ā he says gently.
The rainās 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 youāre inside, boots tracking mud onto the wooden floor, your clothes cling to your skin and your hairās dripping water down your neck.
āBathroomās down the hall,ā Choso says, tossing his keys onto a hook near the door. āTowels are in the cabinet. Iāll find you somethinā dry.ā
You nod, teeth chattering just a bit. āThanks.ā
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, Chosoās waiting in the hall with a bundle in his handsāa soft, well-worn hoodie and a pair of sweatpants thatāll definitely be too big.
āHope that works,ā he says, eyes flicking over you quickly. āDidnāt figure youād want jeans.ā
You smile, hugging the bundle to your chest. āPerfect.ā
When you come out dressed in his clothes, sleeves past your hands and the waistband of the sweatpants rolled over once, heās in the kitchen, pouring you a mug of something steaming.
āHere,ā he says, holding it out. āHot cocoa. Not coffeeāitās late.ā
You raise a brow. āDidnāt peg you as the cocoa type.ā
A ghost of a smirk tugs at his lips. āI aināt. But you seem like the kind whoād need somethinā sweet after a cold walk home.ā
Your stomach flips.
You sip slowly, the warmth seeping into your fingers. He leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching you. Thereās a quiet in the room againānot awkward, justā¦thick. Charged. Like something could happen if either of you let it.
Then, he tilts his head a bit. āYou look good in that.ā
Your gaze snaps up to his.
āIn what?ā
He nods at the hoodie. āNever liked how it looked on me, but it suits you.ā
You laugh softly, heart in your throat. āI look like Iām drowning in it.ā
āStill suits you.ā
You barely register the shift in the air until you feel him move behind youāslow, purposeful. His boots echo quiet on the wooden floor, and before you can even turn, heās 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.
Thenāsoft.
The faintest brush of his lips against your skin. Once. Then again. Featherlight, like heās not sure heās allowed to want this much.
You manage a breathless laugh. āIām starting to think this was all an excuse to bring me here.ā
You feel him smile against your neck, a quiet huff of amusement. āWouldnāt be the worst idea Iāve ever had.ā
Your heart skips, and before you can respond, he presses one more kissājust below your ear this timeāand murmurs, voice low, rough:
āGlad you agreed to come.ā
You shift slightly, finally daring to glance back at him. āAnd if I hadnāt?ā
He lifts his head, eyes locking with yours nowācloser than you expected, darker too. āGuess Iād be missinā out.ā
The tension between you crackles. You're not sure who leans in first, but suddenly the distance isnāt so wide anymore.
His mouth crashes against yours this timeāno hesitation, no space to think, just heat.
Itās 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 youāll fall apart if thereās 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 thatās been simmering just below the surface for far too long.
His fingers splay across your lower back, gripping like he canāt stand the thought of letting go. Your hands wanderāhis jaw, his neck, the soft strands of his hair now damp from the rain. He kisses you like heās 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 afterācontrasting, addictive. You pull him closer, like youāll 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 againāwet, open-mouthed, aching.
Nothing else exists. Just the warmth of his body, the taste of his kiss, and the way heās kissing you like he never wants to stop.
His hand slips beneath your hoodie, palm warm and steady against your skin. Itās not rushedāhe touches like heās memorizing, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist.
āBeen thinkinā about this,ā he murmurs against your mouth, voice thick. āāBout you.ā
You shiver, not just from his touch but from how needy he soundsālike heās been holding back and itās finally breaking loose.
His teeth graze your jaw, your neck, and then heās kissing lower, slower, the kind of kiss that makes your knees threaten to give out.
āYou gotta tell me to stop,ā he says, breath hot against your skin, āor Iām not gonna.ā
But your hands are already tugging his shirt up, fingers greedy against the lines of his stomach, and the way you say his nameālow, breathy, a little wreckedāhas him cursing under his breath.
Heās everywhereāhands and lips and heat.
You barely notice when his hands shiftāone to your thigh, the other braced at your lower backāuntil your feet leave the ground.
You gasp, arms locking around his shoulders as he lifts you like you weigh nothing.
āChosoāā
āNot here,ā he murmurs, voice rough in your ear. āYou deserve better than a fuckinā kitchen counter.ā
The heat of his breath sends a full-body shiver down your spine, but thereās something else tooāthe way he carries you, steady and certain, like heās done thinking. Like heās made up his mind.
He walks with you through the dim hallway, never once breaking eye contact when you look up at him.
āYou sure?ā he asks, even though heās already halfway to his room.
You nod, breathless. āYeah.ā
His mouth twitches and the second youāre in his room, heās setting you down on the bed like youāre the most important thing heās ever touched.
Then heās on you again, lips trailing down your neck, hands at your waist, tugging at your clothes like theyāre in the way of something holy.
He leans over you, breath still heavy, eyes dragging across your body like he canāt decide where to touch first. Youāre in his hoodieāhis hoodieāand thereās something about that that makes his jaw flex, like the sight alone has undone him.
āDidnāt think you could look better in my clothes,ā he murmurs, voice low and gravelly. āāTil now.ā
His fingers curl around the hem, and he lifts it inch by inch, knuckles brushing your stomach, your ribs, the curve of your chestāleaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. He pulls it over your head with care, like heās 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 againāready to take it slow. But when he tugs it down your hips and catches the bare skin beneath, he freezes.
Thereās no fabric. No lace. Nothing.
His breath catchesāsharp and audibleāand his hands go still.
ā...Youāre not wearinā anything underneath,ā he says, almost like heās making sure he didnāt just imagine it.
You nod, watching the understanding settle across his face. āYeah. Didnāt wanna put them back on. You handed me your clothes, so I justā¦ā
His hands tighten at your hips, knuckles flexing against your bare skin like heās trying so fucking hard not to lose it.
āJesus,ā he mutters, low and hoarse, like the image just broke something in him. āYouāve been like this the whole time?ā
Your breath hitches, and thatās all the answer he needs.
The shift in him is instantāhis mouth is back on your skin, kissing a line down your stomach, then your inner thigh, slower this time, deeper, like heās 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, itās not just lust in his expression.
Itās awe. Itās hunger. Itās devotion.
He exhales slow, like heās trying to ground himselfābut the tension in his shoulders says itās a losing battle.
āFuck, babyā¦ā he murmurs, voice barely there, lips hovering just over your skin. āYou got no idea what thatās doinā to me.ā
His fingers dig into your thighs, spreading you wider as he leans ināand 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 youāre the best thing heās ever tasted.
āYouāre soaked,ā he breathes, almost in disbelief, like he wasnāt expecting you to be this ready for him. āThis all for me?ā
You nod, breath ragged, and he huffs a short, wrecked laugh against your skin. Then heās back at itāmouth 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.
Itās messy. Itās focused. Heās focusedālike heās been dreaming about this and finally has you where he wants you, and now he canāt stop. Wonāt stop.
He grips your thighs tighter when they start to twitch, holding you in place, tongue fucking into you with slow, devastating precision. Heās learning what makes you squirm, what makes your hips buck, and he goes after it again and againāhungry, deliberate, obsessed.
Every so often, he pauses just to kiss you there. Open-mouthed, lingering kisses, like heās trying to make it tender and filthy at the same time.
And when he speaks, itās into your skinālow and reverent and wrecked.
āYou taste so fuckinā good,ā he growls. āCould stay down here all night. Youād let me, wouldnāt you? Let me make you come on my fuckinā tongue?ā
You canāt even respondāyour fingers are in his hair, clutching hard, and he moans at the way you tug, like your need turns him on even more.
He doesnāt stop. If anything, he gets deeper, more intenseātongue and lips working in tandem, determined to push you right over the edge.
And the look he gives you when you start to unravel? Itās pure worship.
Like youāre a miracle.
He doesnāt rush.
Doesnāt tear into you like heās trying to make a point. He just stays thereāmouth warm and steady, tongue moving slow and sure through your folds, like heās figuring you out by feel.
And the second you reactāhips tilting toward him, breath hitchingāhe locks onto it. Keeps going in the same rhythm, like heās memorizing what works.
His grip on your thighs tightens just slightly, holding you open, but never forceful. Just firm. Like he doesnāt 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 itās not calm anymore.
Thereās nothing showy in the way he movesājust focused, hungry pressure. Every lap of his tongue has intention behind it. Heās not trying to tease. He wants you to come, and itās obvious in every breath, every groan, every time his mouth seals around your clit and pulls a noise out of you you didnāt know you could make.
When you start to shake, he pulls back just a littleāenough to look at you.
āAlmost there?ā
You nod fast, too far gone for words, and thatās 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 quickāsharp and tight, spiralingāand he doesnāt 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 heās making sure youāre still breathing.
He stays between your thighs for a moment, just breathing, eyes dragging over you like heās trying to decide if youāre real. Then his hand slides downāslow, carefulāand his fingers spread you open with a quiet, appreciative hum.
āYouāre still dripping,ā he murmurs, almost to himself.
He runs a thumb through the mess heās 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 ināslow and steady.
āStill with me?ā he asks, voice low.
You nod, biting your lip, hips twitching at the stretch.
āGood.ā
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.
āFuck⦠yeah. There it is.ā
He adds a second finger, just as slowly. Itās a snug fit, but youāre wet enough that he doesnāt have to push hardāand he doesnāt. Heās careful, steady, easing you open like he wants to take his time.
Like it matters.
And it does.
āYouāre takinā me so well already,ā he says quietly, more wonder than praise. āGonna feel so fuckinā good around me.ā
His fingers work in a steady rhythm nowādeep, 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.
āThink you can come like this?ā he asks, almost curious. āWanna feel you squeeze around my fingers before I even get inside you.ā
He keeps going until your legs are trembling again, until youāre arching into him without even realizing, until he knows youāre right thereā
And he doesnāt stop until he has you falling apart a second time.
Youāre still catching your breath when his fingers slip free, slow and careful, like he doesnāt 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 intensityālike heās 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 youāve tugged at it.
āYou okay?ā he asks, voice low and quiet. Not just a throwaway check-ināhe 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 heās looking for any sign youāre not sure. But you are. And when your hand curls around the back of his neck to pull him down for a kiss, thatās all he needs.
His mouth moves over yoursāslow this time, less frantic than before. Itās warm. Intimate. Like he wants you to feel how much this means to him. And when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.
āStill not rushinā you,ā he says, almost like a promise. āBut I want you. Been wantinā you since the day we met.ā
You swallow, heart pounding, and ease up onto your knees.
āThen let me,ā you murmur. āI want to.ā
He nodsāsmall, reverent. His hands fall back to the mattress like heās 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 onceāslow, almost nervousāthen sit back and reach for the waistband of his sweatpants.
And thatās when your breath catches.
Heās big.
Thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip, and heavy against his stomach. You donāt even have your hand around him yet and he looks like he shouldnāt fit.
Choso sees your hesitationāfeels it, maybeāand his voice comes quiet. Steady.
āYou donāt have toāā
āI want to,ā 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.
āWait,ā he says softly, his voice suddenly closer, steadier. His hand comes to your thigh, grounding. āYou alright?ā
You nodāquick, almost frantic.
āYeah,ā you breathe. āI justāyou're big.ā
His thumb strokes gently along your skin. āI know, baby. You donāt gotta rush, alright?ā
Still, you press downāslowly, inch by inchāand your body gives, stretching around him. Heās 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 ontoāhim, the sheets, anything.
āTakinā me so good,ā he murmurs, sitting up just a bit to cup your face. His thumbs brush beneath your eyes. āLook at me, sweetheart.ā
You blink down at himāand thatās when the tears slip, soft and silent.
āOh, hey,ā he whispers, thumbing them away gently, kissing the edge of your jaw. āShh⦠youāre okay. Youāre doinā so good for me.ā
His hands cradle your hips now, steadying you. Not forcingāsupporting.
āYou feel like heaven,ā he says, eyes flicking down to where youāre still taking him. āYouāre perfect. So fuckinā perfect like this.ā
Your breath stutters as you sink just a little more, and his jaw clenches hard.
āGod, youāre squeezinā me so tight,ā he breathes, voice wrecked. āYou donāt even know what youāre doinā to me.ā
You pause with most of him inside, breath shaky, overwhelmedābut full. And when your eyes find his again, heās already there, watching you with a kind of quiet awe.
āYouāre okay?ā he asks again, softer this time.
You nod, a tear rolling down your cheek.
āI want to,ā you whisper.
Choso smilesāsoft and aching.
āThen take your time,ā he says. āIām not goinā anywhere.ā
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 youālike youāre some kind of miracleākeeps you steady.
And then you bottom out.
Your thighs meet his hips. Heās all the way inside.
And for a second, everything goes still.
Chosoās 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 himselfālike he needs something to hold on to or heāll lose whatever grip on reality he has left.
āFuck,ā he chokes out. āBabyāfuck, youāā
His eyes squeeze shut and he groans, long and low, like heās never felt anything like this before. Like youāve just undone him completely.
āYou feel so good,ā he whispers, voice shaking. āYou feel so fuckinā good, I canātācanāt even think straight.ā
Your hands slide up his chest as you breathe through the fullness, the pressureāevery 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.
āYou okay?ā he murmurs again. āStill good?ā
You nod, breathless, lips parted. āYeah.ā
āYouāre takinā me so good. Canāt believe youāre lettinā me in like this. Feels likeāfeels like Iām dreaminā,ā he murmurs, kissing your chest, your collarbone, wherever he can reach.Ā
You shift your hips just slightly, and he groans, clutching at your waist like itās the only thing keeping him grounded.
āDonāt move yet,ā he begs, forehead pressed to your sternum. āJustājust stay like this a minute. Let me feel you.ā
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 heās saying thank you without words.
Like he canāt believe he gets to be this close.
You start to moveājust 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 againājust a little deeperāhis head drops back with a gasp.
āBabyā¦ā
Itās a warning. A plea. His restraint is hanging by a thread.
But you do it againāgrind down a little harder, a little slowerāand 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.
āChosoā!ā
āFuck, I canāt,ā he growls, mouth at your neck, voice cracked and breathless. āYou feel too goodātoo fuckinā goodāI tried, baby, I didāā
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 canāt hold back anymore. Snapping up into you over and over, messy and hard and desperate.
āSo tightāso fuckinā wetāā he pants. āYou were made for me, werenāt you?ā
You whimper, nodding against his mouth, and he kisses you hard, open and gasping between thrusts.
āThis what you wanted?ā he mutters, teeth grazing your bottom lip. āMe losinā it underneath you? Fuckinā you like I need it?ā
Your only answer is a cryāhis nameāand 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.
āThere you go,ā he breathes, watching you with wild eyes. āCāmon, baby. Wanna feel you cum on me. Wanna feel you lose itāright fuckinā here.ā
And with the way heās fucking into youārelentless, possessive, absolutely wreckedāyou know you wonāt last long.
Your climax crashes through you like a waveāsudden, shaking, too much. Your hips stutter, thighs trembling where theyāre locked around him, mouth falling open in a gasping moan.
āThaaatās it,ā he murmurs through gritted teeth, slowing his thrusts but never stopping, easing you through the high. āThatās my girl. Fuckāso pretty when you come for me.ā
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 movesāsits 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. Heās 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.
āFuckāyouāre still so tight,ā he pants, driving into you again, harder. āSo warmācould stay inside you forever.ā
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.
āHold it there, baby,ā he says through clenched teeth, eyes locked on where youāre joined. āJust like thatālet me have it.ā
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.
āYouāre gonna give me another one,ā he growls, pace relentless. āYouāre gonna fuckinā take it.ā
And with the way heās pounding into youāferal, possessed, hand on your thigh, breath hot against your cheekāyou know he means it.
Youāre not leaving this bed until heās satisfied.
Youāre soakedāsweat-slick and breathless beneath him, body trembling with the aftershocks of your third orgasm but heās still movingāstill buried inside you, deep and hard and relentless.
āCho,ā you whimper, voice wrecked, eyes fluttering.
āI know, I know,ā Choso breathes, hand still working tight, precise circles against your clit. āOne more, you got one more for me.ā
Youāre not sure if itās a question or a commandābut 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 rougherāsloppier, deeperāhis 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.
āYou feel what youāre doinā to me?ā he hisses. āCanāt hold back anymoreāfuck, babyāā
And then he slams into you one last time, hips grinding deep as you clench around him like a vice.
Thatās all it takes. You break.
Again.
Your fourth orgasm rips through you without warningāviolent, 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.
āFuckāfuckāoh my godāā he snarls, buried to the hilt as his body goes rigid, cock twitching inside you. āThatās itāfuckināāfuckinā takinā me just like thatāā
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 itās the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.
You both stay like thatāpanting, sweating, shakingāhis body heavy over yours, his forehead pressed to yours, eyes shut tight like heās afraid itās all going to disappear if he opens them.
Finally, he exhalesāslow, shaky, almost a laugh.
āYou alright?ā he whispers, voice hoarse, thumb brushing your cheek.
You nod weakly, barely able to speak. āMhm.ā
He smiles, kisses your forehead.
āYou were so good for me, angel,ā he murmurs. āSo fuckinā perfect.ā
You flinch a little when he pulls away, already missing the weight of him, the heat.
āBe right back, darlinā,ā he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your jaw. His voice is low, rough around the edges, but thereās something tender in it. āGonna get you cleaned up.ā
You nod, barely able to do more than breathe.
He disappears down the hall, leaving the room bathed in the quiet aftermathāyour 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.
āStill doinā alright?ā he asks, voice softer now.
āYeah,ā you whisper, and he gives a small nod, gaze never leaving yours as he starts to clean you up.
āDid so good for me,ā he says. āTook me so damn well.ā
You try to hide your face, but he catches your chin between his fingers, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw.
āDonāt go shy on me now.ā
Once heās 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, itās just the sound of your breathingāyours slowing, his steady. One of his hands drifts up and down your back, lazy and unhurried, like heās in no rush to let the moment go.
Then, quietly, āDidnāt think Iād ever want somethinā like this.ā
You glance up at him, chin tucked near his shoulder. āLike what?ā
He hesitates, eyes on the ceiling. Then, āYou. In my bed. Not just for tonight.ā
Your breath catches, heart stumbling. You donāt answer right away. Instead, your fingers find his, lacing together.
āIām not in a rush to leave,ā you murmur, pressing your forehead to his chest.
Choso doesnāt say anything at first, just exhales slowlyāand the arm around you tightens, pulling you in like heās afraid to let go.
Then, just above a whisper, you hear him say, āIām glad youāre not.ā
Thereās 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
gotta lock in im gonna listen to erwins speech in repeat for two hours
NOTICE: As more and more fanfic writers are using generative AI for their works (you uncreative dweebs), I hereby swear on everything I hold dear that I have not and will NEVER use generative AI in ANY of my written work. Everything I post will be organically and creatively my own.
a writing competition i was going to participate in again this year has announced that they now allow AI generated content to be submitted
their reasoning being that "we couldn't ban it even if we wanted to, every writer already uses it anyway"
"Every writer"?
come on
Reblog if you're a writer who doesn't use AI.
levi covered in blood goes so hard
josh?
whereās the body of christ?
HAPPY BIRTHDAY JEAN <3
This drawing was inspired by @lostintrost and their save a horse ride a cowboy fic hahaha I read it and immediately needed to draw cowboy Jean š„°š“𤪠iykyk
I imagine irl Jean walking past a cowboy themed Photo Booth and taking this hehe
OMG????? i love this AND you! ā¤ļøā¤ļøā¤ļø HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY COWBOY KING JEAN
"if tumblr dies you can find me on bluesky" "if tumblr dies you can find me on Instagram" if tumblr dies you cannot find me. It's over. I'm free.
I need frat Eren, nerd Armin, plug Connie, art student Jean, best friend Mikasa, roommate Hitch, Jock Reiner, and guitarist Porco to make a comeback rn
If you have Spotify reblog this and tag what your number one song on your āon repeatā playlist is.
yall i am a busy woman and spam posted while i was poorly and now i have writers block bare w me šŖšŖšŖ
sorry for being so obsessed with that little man who lives in my head. as if i have any choice
Rewatching no regrets cause I miss my man
The truth of it š¤£

