𝘊𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘩 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦 (𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘭𝘺)‧₊˚ ⋅
# bassistloser!choso x populargirl reader
They said the prom queen would end up with the quarterback.
Guess they never met the freak in the back row.
content: MDNI, highschool au! (they are seniors), tension, the word hate is used a lot, smut, a lil angst, fluff, fingering, oral sex (f!receiving), pet names (baby,princess), a lil bullying, dirty talk, drug use, alcohol use, etc.
A/N: my first time writing on tumblr and first time writing smut lol, enjoy!!
East Ridge High wasn’t anything special. Just another typical high school: plastic cafeteria trays, questionable chicken patties, girls in low-rise jeans and shimmery lip gloss and guys who thought cargo pants were edgy. But if the school had one undeniable fact, it was this: everyone knew who you were.
You built your name like a brand. Pretty face, good clothes, the right friends. Attention just stuck to you.
People at school said you were “intimidating,” but that was just the polite way of calling you a bitch. And honestly? You didn’t mind. Being nice never got anyone anywhere in a building full of hormonal idiots who thought quoting Limp Bizkit counted as personality.
Girls said hi to you even if you didn’t know their names. Guys tripped over themselves trying to impress you. Teachers pretended not to notice when you bent dress code rules because calling you out meant dealing with your attitude, and nobody wanted that.
So yeah. You were a bitch sometimes. Whatever.
Everything worked exactly the way it was supposed too.
Dressed entirely in black.
Hair tied back like he’d been dragged out of a 2000s alt-rock music video.
Wore band tees no one recognized.
Not even when you walked by him in the hall in your pink Juicy zip-up, the one that usually caused at least three boys to walk into lockers. Not when you accidentally-on-purpose crossed his path near the water fountains.
He really acted like you didn’t exist.
Which was like actually offensive behavior.
The second day he showed up at East Ridge High, you already knew more about Choso Kamo than his academic counselor probably did.
Information just gravitated to you.
People talked around you, to you, for you.
Call it gossip. Call it manipulation. Whatever.
So by day two, you had his entire history arranged in your head.
Two brothers.His younger one—Yuji? Yuki? Yoshi? Whatever—was a freshman.
One of those hyper, overly friendly types who still thought high school was exciting.
He always waved too enthusiastically in the hall, like a golden retriever with a backpack.
“Armed robbery” was the rumor going around. All you knew was: gross.
You’d never even seen the inside of a police station—unless you counted that one time you and Mia flashed drivers from a bridge.
When you heard about it, you wrinkled your nose and said,
And yeah Choso was cute objectively.But not your type.You liked boys with futures.
It was 7:52 a.m. You were at your locker, pulling out your notebook, your gum, your lip gloss—morning essentials. The bell hadn’t rung yet, but the hallway was already filling up with people who walked too slow and talked too loud.
A shoulder. Hard. Your books flew out of your hands and scattered across the floor.
You spun so fast your hair whipped behind you. “What the actual fuck?”
Tall. Hoodie up. Dark hair pulled back messy with a hair tie. Headphones slung around his neck. A backpack hanging off one shoulder like he couldn’t be bothered.
He stared down at your spilled books with zero emotion. Like he didn’t just body-check you in the middle of the hallway.
You planted your hand on your hip. “Are you fucking serious?”
He blinked. Slowly. Like you were interrupting whatever deep, brooding thought he was having.
“You ran into me,” he said flatly.
Your mouth dropped open. “I was literally standing still. How do you run into someone who’s not even moving?”
He shrugged and leaned down, picking up one of your notebooks, the pink sparkly one with stickers on it. He turned it over like it was some weird object, then handed it back to you without making eye contact.
“Sorry,” he said. But it wasn’t really sorry. It was the kind of sorry you say to get someone to shut up.
You snatched the notebook from him. “Watch where you’re going next time.”
“You could watch too,” he said.
“Oh my god,” you hissed, “Is that your way of apologizing? Because it sucks.”
He looked at you then, really looked at you. His eyes scanning your hair, your outfit, your lip gloss, all the little carefully put-together details that made you you. And he smirked. Barely. But enough to piss you off.
“You’re fine,” he murmured. “You’ll live.”
You stepped toward him. “Do you even know who you just ran into?”
He deadpanned, “Some girl with sparkly shit on all her stuff.”
Your jaw clenched. “Excuse me?”
“You're excused ” he said, already turning away.
You stood there seething while he walked off, shoulders slouched, headphones going back over his ears like the conversation had bored him to death.
No one talked to you like that. No one dismissed you.
You hated him immediately.
You told your friends the story at lunch, exaggerating every detail, making him sound like he tried to tackle you in the hallway.
“God,” Mia said, wrinkling her nose. “He’s such a creep.”
“Total freak,” another girl chimed in.
The table nodded, all agreeing he was disgusting, disrespectful, gross, whatever word they landed on.
You should’ve forgotten about it.
Because later, after school ended, when you were walking to the parking lot with your bag on your shoulder, phone in hand, you saw him again.
Leaning against the metal railing, smoke curling from the cigarette between his fingers. He didn’t look up when you approached.
You could’ve walked past. Should’ve, actually.
Instead you stopped three feet away and snapped, “You’re really rude you know that?”
Slowly, too slowly, he exhaled the smoke and finally met your eyes.
“You’re still mad about that?” he asked like it was the most boring thing he’d heard all day.
“Damn, you're easy to piss off" he replied.
“And you have a death wish.”
He smiled then, a lazy, tired, annoying smile that made your stomach twist.
“You’re fun,” he said softly.
You bristled. “I’m not trying to be fun.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s the funny part.”
He flicked the cigarette, crushed it, and walked past you shoulder brushing yours on purpose this time.
And you hated how your pulse jumped.
You hated that he didn’t apologize.
You hated that he didn’t bow to you the way everyone else did.
And you hated, most of all, that you couldn’t stop thinking about him even after he was long gone.
You don't like Choso Kamo.
You don't like the stupid band tees, the stupid hair, the stupid tattoos that were probably done in someone’s basement. You don't like the way he looked at you like he wasn’t impressed, because everyone was impressed by you.
Which is why, obviously, it wasn’t like your eyes lingered in the cafeteria whenever he walked in.
It wasn’t like your ears perked up anytime someone whispered, “He skipped again,” or “His band’s playing somewhere this weekend,” or “I think he got suspended for smoking behind the gym again.”
You were just… curious. In an academic way. Like a scientist observing a weird, possibly dangerous creature.
That’s why you absolutely did NOT end up at a shitty bar on a Friday night just because you heard his band was playing.
The alcohol was cheap. That was your official reasoning.
Now you were inside the bar, sitting on a sticky stool with your friends, and everything smelled like beer and cheap perfume and those little fryer baskets they never clean.
The place was full of older college kids, bored locals, and people wearing band tees. Not your scene at all. The floor was questionable. The lighting was horrendous. You were 98% sure someone spilled a drink down your back when you walked in.
“Ugh,” Mia groaned, scrunching her nose. “This place is disgusting. I feel like I’m gonna catch something.”
You took a sip of your drink, something fruity the bartender made fun of you for ordering, and said, “Relax. It’s fine. Rustic. Very.. indie.”
They bought it. Of course they did. You were you.
You weren’t looking for him. You weren’t scanning the room. You weren’t trying to spot a certain tall guy with dark hair and a pissed-off expression.
Then the stage lights flickered on.
Dark hair falling in his face, sleeveless shirt clinging to him because he was already sweating, tattoos on his arms. He slung his bass over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.
Your stomach dropped. You ignored it.
“Oh my god,” Mia hissed. “You didn’t tell us HE was playing.”
“I LITERALLY DIDN’T KNOW,” you snapped, even though you absolutely did and you hated yourself for being here.
You tried to look away. Tried to look uninterested. Tried to focus on your drink.
But then he adjusted the strap on his bass and the muscles in his arms flexed and—
And of course because he had to ruin everything, he looked up.
His stare hit you like a shot of cold water. His expression didn’t change. He didn’t smile. He didn’t smirk. He just saw stared.
And for some reason, that felt worse.
You immediately looked away, pretending you were absolutely not looking at him, fixing your hair, taking another sip of your drink like your hands weren’t shaking a little.
Onstage, Choso ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back, sweat glistening down his neck, and your throat went dry. He looked wild. Messy. Distracted. Like the kind of boy you’d ruin your mascara over.
You hated that your eyes drifted back.
You hated that every time he moved, you felt it.
You hated that he kept glancing in your direction between songs, like he couldn’t decide if he was annoyed or curious.
And you REALLY hated that you stayed planted on your barstool, pretending you weren’t staring at him like he was the only person in the room.
When the band wrapped up, the crowd gave this half-hearted cheer that sounded more like everyone just remembered they had hands. Choso slung his bass off, wiped sweat from his forehead with the bottom of his shirt, exposing a line of tattooed skin and stomach you absolutely did NOT notice, and disappeared backstage.
A DJ took over playing some awful remix of a song that was already bad to begin with, the kind that sounded like someone burned a CD. Half the bar loved it the other half looked like they wanted to die.
Your friends split instantly, Mia vanished into the crowd grinding on some college guy, Jess was already swapping saliva with someone, and Lisa… well, Lisa was somewhere between throwing up and texting her ex.
You stayed on your barstool.Not because you were waiting for anyone.
Mostly because standing meant touching the floor, and honestly, no.
You pulled your perfume out of your purse and sprayed it around your neck, your wrists, inside your shirt, anywhere, really. You weren’t trying to smell good. You were trying to fight the scent of beer and sweat.
You were fixing your hair in the little mirror that you always carry when you felt someone approaching, this heavy presence.
His breathing was still uneven, like his body hadn’t caught up with the fact the set was over.
He leaned an elbow against the bar right next to you, smirking like he already knew he was going to annoy you.
“Didn’t know this was your scene,” he said, voice low.
You snapped your mirror closed. “It’s not.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“I could say the same,” you shot back, even though he literally just performed here and that made zero sense. Whatever.
His smirk widened, he caught the slip.
You glared. “Why are you even talking to me?”
“Dunno,” he shrugged. “Saw the queen of East Ridge High sitting at a shitty bar by herself. Felt like a once in a lifetime event.”
You scoffed. “You’re hilarious.”
That earned a laugh from him, an annoying, warm one that made something stupid flip in your stomach. He pushed his hair back from his face, exposing the faintest smear of eyeliner under his eyes.
Of course he wore eyeliner. And of course it looked good on him.
“So what,” he said, leaning a little closer, “you slumming it tonight? Research project? Trying to see how the poor freaks live?”
You rolled your eyes. “God, you’re dramatic. I’m here because the drinks are cheap.”
“And because my band was playing.”
You froze for half a second. “No. I didn’t know that.”
“Sure you didn’t,” he said, smirk deepening.
Your jaw clenched. “I don’t follow your little—whatever you call it—band schedule.”
“You’re in a bar I play at.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
He was too close now, close enough for you to smell him, sweat, cologne, cigarettes, and something masculine that made your pulse jump in a way you were absolutely not okay with.
Choso glanced at the perfume that was in your lap then at you.
“You know,” he said casually, “you smell really good”
You stared at him. “Are you… hitting on me?”
“Relax,” he snorted. “Just making an observation.”
“You always this fun at parties?”
“Are you always this annoying after sweating your ass on stage?”
His eyes flicked down your outfit, then up to your face, slow and deliberate.
“You liked it,” he said simply.
Your breath caught. “Shut up.”
“You watched the whole set.”
He tilted his head. “You stared.”
He grinned, cocky, knowing, and leaned in just enough for the world behind him to blur.
You lifted your chin. “In your dreams.”
He leaned back, satisfied, gaze still locked on you like he had already won whatever game you were pretending not to play.
“Yeah,” he said quietly, “maybe.”
And then like he hadn’t just dropped the most infuriating line of the night he pushed off the bar, dug his hands into his pockets, and turned away.
“Enjoy your cheap drinks, princess.”
You stared at his back, jaw clenched, pulse doing backflips.
So why the hell did you want him to come back?
You were leaning against your locker, perfectly poised like every other morning. Hair flawless, nails done, backpack slung just right. You weren’t here to make friends—you were here to maintain the persona. The queen of the school didn’t get caught off guard. Didn’t stumble over words. Didn’t get flustered. And certainly didn’t get distracted by the punk freak leaning against the lockers across the hall.
Of course, Choso Kamo saw you immediately. Of course. He didn’t move at first, just watched you like you were a puzzle he’d been dying to solve for a week.
You ignored him. Totally ignored him.
“You’re late to class,” he said, appearing next to you.
“I am not,” you replied, not even glancing at him.
“You’re predictable,” he said casually.
You froze, then straightened. “Excuse me?
“I said you’re predictable. Always perfectly posed, always composed. I can read you from here.”
“I don’t think you can,” you said, tilting your head, trying to look bored. “You think staring at me gives you insight into my personality? Cute.”
“It does,” he said smoothly.
You rolled your eyes. “Don’t you have something better to do?”
“Nop” he said, shrugging.
“If you excuse me, I have a class" you said, gesturing vaguely at your backpack. "Unlike some people, I have responsibilities.”
He tilted his head, mock-serious. “Responsibilities. Sure. That’s a good one.”
“Or what?” he said softly, voice low enough that it made your stomach twist.
You flushed and shoved past him, backpack tight against your shoulder. “Whatever,” you muttered, walking down the hall.
“See you around, princess” he called after you, casual, teasing, like he knew exactly what he was doing.
You froze mid-step. Your chest tightened. Then you shook your head and walked faster, flipping your hair, pretending that last word didn’t make your stomach do stupid things.
You weren’t flustered. Not even a little.
Like who does he think he is?
The queen of East Ridge High didn’t have crushes on freaks. Absolutely not. You had better things to do.
Prom was coming. Chad. Chad was going to ask. Chad—dumb, rich, football-playing, American-flag-polo-wearing Chad—Chad was perfect for prom. Everyone knew it. You had it all planned. Your hair would be flawless, your dress would be impeccable, Everything would be perfect.
Except… for the fact that Choso Kamo existed.
The mall was buzzing, early Saturday morning chaos, but you were in full control. Hair perfect, makeup flawless, pink top and mini skirt because obviously, you had to look good, and a whiff of Victoria’s Secret perfume trailing behind you.
First stop: coffee. Obviously. Because shopping for a prom dress was stressful, and caffeine was mandatory. You balanced your iced caramel latte in one hand and your phone in the other.
You took a careful sip and froze.
Choso, striding casually past Auntie Anne’s pretzels, hoodie half-zipped, ripped jeans, sunglasses perched on his head like he had somewhere important to be, but he didn’t. He was heading straight for Hot Topic.
Your first instinct? Panic. Your second? Of course he’s going there. And your third, annoyingly, was: follow him.
You shook your head. Hot Topic? Seriously? That’s not your scene. Not even close.
But naturally, your legs started moving in that direction. Totally normal. Totally casual. You told yourself you were just… looking for bracelets. Yeah. Accessories. That was it. Nothing else.
You stepped into Hot Topic like it was an alien planet. The smell of incense and cheap plastic hit immediately. Not your scene. Not at all.
You made a beeline for the accessories wall and started rifling through bracelets, clutching a black one with a tiny skull charm like it had actual importance. You tried to focus. Totally focused. Not at all thinking about the idiot a few feet away.
Then you felt it, a low, amused laugh.
You looked up, narrowing your eyes.
“What?” you snapped, trying to hide that your heart had skipped.
He smirked, clearly enjoying himself. “Wow. You're full of surprises”
You clenched your jaw. “Shut the fuck up.”
"Alright, alright,” he said, stepping a little closer, smirk softening just enough to be infuriating. “But seriously… that black one? With the skull?” He nodded toward your bracelet, trying not to smirk.
You straightened, trying to look casual. “Yeah?” you said, clearing your throat like you weren’t stalking him in a store that had literally nothing to do with you.
“Yeah,” he said. “Definitely suits you.”
You blinked, heart doing something embarrassing, and muttered, “I… kinda like it.”
“Uh-huh,” he said softly, smirk tugging at his lips. “I can see that.”
You adjusted your skirt like it was very important, glanced around the store to make sure no one else was noticing the ridiculous tension.
“Don’t tell anyone you saw me here,” you muttered, tugging your hair over one shoulder like that would protect your dignity.
“Relax,” he said, voice soft, teasing. “Your secret’s safe."
Then he turned, idly flipping through a stack of magazines, and you whispered under your breath, “Fucker.”
Of course he heard. The smirk spreading across his face gave it away immediately.
You rolled your eyes, muttering, “God, this is so dumb,” and deliberately walked past him, heading toward the band shirts. You barely recognized three of the names on the racks.
And of course, because nothing in your life was easy, he appeared next to you.
You huffed and moved toward the belt aisle, brushing past him again. He followed, pretending to examine the belts, that stupid grin never leaving his face.
You stopped, turned, and glared at him
“You’re following me,” you said, tone sharp but your lips twitching despite yourself.
He glanced down at the belts again, grin still in place, casual as hell. “I need a new belt.”
“You know,” he said softly, just loud enough for only you to hear, “this is kind of fun.”
You huffed, brushing past him again like a queen on a mission. “You’re ridiculous.”
And that’s how it happened. Somehow against your better judgment, you ended up dragging Choso Kamo into your favorite boutique. Your girls were busy, obviously, and you needed an opinion. Who else could you trust? Who else could possibly survive listening to you talk about prom without rolling their eyes? Right.. him.
He followed you through the racks with that infuriatingly relaxed smirk, hands in his pockets like he belonged in your space, which he absolutely did not. Hot Topic wasn’t your scene, but this boutique? This was your territory. And somehow, he survived it.
“So,” you said, flipping a dress over your arm, walking toward the mirrors, “any unlucky girl you're taking to prom?" You said it like you didn’t care, like jealousy wasn’t slowly curling around your chest.
He shrugged, voice lazy, “I don’t care about that shit.”
“Of course you don’t,” you muttered, rolling your eyes like it was exactly what you expected. You grabbed four dresses off the rack, holding them up against your chest, and started dragging him toward the dressing rooms.
You reached the dressing room area, plush carpet, walls painted a soft cream, a fancy couch conveniently placed in the middle of the room and you shoved him onto it.
He leaned back on the couch like it was his throne, smirked, and gave you a mock salute. “Yes, Your Highness."
You grabbed the first dress and disappeared behind the curtain, adjusting it against your body. Pink crop top and mini skirt were replaced with a soft pastel dress, flowy and cute, exactly what you’d expect a “safe” first pick to be.
Curtain pulled back, you stepped out.
Choso was sitting on the couch, legs spread casually like he owned the place. Fuck. But when he saw you, his sharp inhale barely masked by a gulp made your chest skip a beat.
“Uh… so?” you asked, trying to sound nonchalant, standing with your hands on your hips.
He smirked, shifting slightly, gaze lingering just long enough to make your stomach do stupid flips. “Do… a little twirl, princess,” he said, voice low, teasing, as if he didn’t know exactly what he was doing.
You huffed, rolling your eyes , but something in his tone, the way he was looking at you made you do it anyway.
Minutes pass by, second dress, third dress but the fourth dress caught your eye immediately. Baby blue, soft silky fabric, slightly plunging neckline, not over the top, just daring enough to make a statement. You smoothed it against your body and peeked out of the curtain.
Choso was still on the couch but when he looked at you, the smirk softened into something sharper, focused. He bit his lip just slightly, just enough that your stomach betrayed you in ways you hated.
You froze, heart doing that ridiculous flutter thing. Your eyes flicked down at him, sitting there like he had some right to make you feel this way. Slowly, reluctantly, you took a step toward him, careful to maintain your posture.
He reached out, brushing a fingertip over the silky fabric, and tilted his head, eyes glinting. “Beautiful,”
Your throat went dry. You took a step back, hands gripping the edges of the dress like armor. “That’s… all,” you said, trying to sound calm “Thank you, I guess… for helping me.”
He leaned back slightly, smirk still there, eyes darkening.
You narrowed your eyes. “And again,” you said, voice firmer this time, “you better not tell anyone about this.”
He slowly got up from the couch, moving closer, and leaned down so his face was just near your ear. His breath was warm, teasing, just enough to make your knees feel weak.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered, low, confident, "your secret is safe with me"
Two days after the mall, you found yourself walking into that bar again. The same one. The one where you had first seen him play. Alone this time.
Your chest tightened at the thought. And yes, maybe part of the reason you were here was exactly that. You wanted to see him. That fucking freak.
You sipped your drink at the bar, eyes scanning the crowd. Totally casual. Totally normal. Not like you were here specifically for him, right? That would be insane.
You told yourself this wasn’t about him. Not really. It was curiosity. Observation.
Choso Kamo, in his element, sweaty from the set, hair sticking to his forehead, fingers moving over the bass strings like he was born to do this.
You tried to look cool. Crossed your legs, tilted your head, sipped your drink.But your eyes kept finding him. Always him.
God, you hated it. And maybe, slowly, maybe you were starting to accept it. That you wanted to fuck him. That it wasn’t just curiosity.
You glanced around to make sure nobody could see you staring. Your friends would probably faint if they knew you willingly came here to see him. The thought made your lips twitch into a small, reluctant smile.
He caught your eye from the stage for a fraction of a second, just long enough for a spark of recognition to pass between you.
And yes. God, yes. You wanted to fuck him bad.
You gulped, heart hammering in your chest, as he played. Every pluck of his bass strings, every slight movement, made your stomach flip in ways that were annoying and thrilling all at once. You swirled your drink, fingers tightening on the glass, before impulsively ordering a shot. Why not, you told yourself.
The band finished, the last chord ringing out. The crowd cheered, but all your attention was on him. And of course he came straight to you.
He slid onto the barstool next to you, that familiar smirk on his face, smell of sweat and leather intoxicating in the best, worst way. You turned toward him, meeting his eyes head-on, trying to act like you weren’t already a mess inside.
“You know,” he said, voice low and teasing, leaning just slightly closer, “the first time… maybe I believed you. But right now?” He paused, eyes glinting. “I just think you’re here for me.”
Your heart skipped a beat. And you didn’t even hesitate.
“I am,” you whispered, words soft but deliberate.
His smirk widened, that cocky tilt of his head that made your chest tighten. “Is that so?”
You nodded, barely able to breathe, lips parted. “Mmhm,” you said, trying to maintain some shred of control.
Not gentle. Not soft. Not cautious. But exactly what you wanted—urgent, messy, electric. Heart hammering, hands tangling in his hair instinctively, pulling him closer.
You gasped lightly into the kiss, and suddenly—oh. His tongue. Pierced. Hot, bold, impossible. It pressed against yours, teasing, exploratory, and you practically melted. Every nerve in your body screamed, every rational thought gone, replaced by the dizzying, disorienting pull of him.
When you finally broke apart, gasping slightly, your foreheads rested together, and that smirk? Yeah. That smirk that said he knew exactly what he’d done to you.
Well you didn’t stop there. Of course not.
Back arching off the worn, stained seat of his van as jolts of electricity zapped through your body.
Your expensive denim shirt was bunched up around your waist, panties somewhere in the van and his head between your thighs.
His tongue parting your lower lips, his piercing dragging along your slit in a way that made you see stars.
Choso's tongue found your clit, circling the sensitive bud with a skill that stole your breath. He lapped and suckled at the swollen nub, sending shockwaves of pleasure radiating through your core. You cried out, fisting your hands in his dark, tousled hair, holding him in place as he worked you towards a shattering climax.
"Yes, just like that," you panted, your hips undulating against his face, seeking more pleasure.
Choso groaned against your dripping sex, the vibrations only adding to the intense sensations consuming you. He slipped two long, thick fingers inside your tight core, pumping them in and out, curling them to stroke that secret spot deep within.
Your head thrashed from side to side, lost in the throes of ecstasy as Choso's fingers and tongue drove you closer to the edge. Your inner walls clenched around his invading digits, your body tensing, coiling, ready to snap.
With a final, hard suck on your clit and a particularly deep thrust of his fingers, Choso sent you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed through you like a tidal wave, your vision whiting out as you screamed his name, your juices flooding his mouth and chin.
Choso lapped up your release, his tongue delving deep to catch every drop of your essence. As the aftershocks subsided, he crawled up your body, his lips finding yours in a searing kiss. You could taste yourself on his tongue. Fuck.
You tangled your fingers in Choso's hair, tugging him closer as you deepened the kiss, biting, sucking on his lower lip.
Breaking the kiss, Choso trailed his lips down the column of your throat, his teeth grazing your racing pulse. He nipped and sucked at the tender flesh, leaving a trail of marks in his wake.
Choso bunched up your shirt, roughly shoving the expensive fabric up to your mouth. "Bite down on this"
Without hesitation, you sank your teeth into the soft fabric, biting down hard as Choso's hungry gaze raked over your exposed breasts. The cool air hit your nipples, making them strain and pucker.
"Fuck, you're so fucking pretty," Choso breathed, his eyes dark with lust as he drank in the sight of your heaving chest.
He leaned down, his hot breath washing over your breasts before he captured one aching nipple in his mouth. He suckled hard, his tongue swirling and flicking the sensitive bud, sending jolts of electricity straight to your pussy. At the same time, his hand came up to knead and squeeze your other breast, his fingers plucking and tugging at the neglected nipple until it throbbed with need.
You couldn't help but let out a breathy moan, your hips bucking up against Choso's body as he lavished your breasts with attention. Drool dripped down onto the shirt you were biting, the wet spot spreading as Choso's mouth worked over your tender flesh, marking you, claiming you.
His hand and mouth realesed your breasts, letting them bounce free from his assault. One of his hands drifted down to your pussy. He slid his fingers through your slick folds, coating them in your essence before suddenly, without warning, he slapped your pussy.
The sharp sting made you gasp, your body jolting as you released the shirt from between your teeth. "Want me to fuck it?" Choso asked, his voice a low, taunting rumble. His fingers circled your clit, rubbing the sensitive nub in slow, deliberate circles that made your hips buck and your thighs tremble.
You could only nod desperately, words didn’t exist anymore.
His eyes, dark and hungry, bore into you. His breath mingled with yours, hot and heavy, making it impossible to catch your breath.
"Yeah?" Choso taunted, his fingers still rubbing tight circles on your clit "Fuck, you need it don't you?"
"Y-yes," you panted, your face flushed and your eyes glazed over with lust.
Choso's eyes gleamed with triumph, a wicked smirk twisting his lips. "Yeah?" the mothefucker mocked you.
He rubbed your clit harder, faster, pushing you towards the edge of another shattering climax. His other hand gripped your hip, squeezing the soft flesh hard enough to leave bruises. He was everywhere, consuming you, overwhelming your senses until all you could focus on was the aching, throbbing need between your thighs.
"Please, Choso," you whimpered, your nails digging into his shoulders, urging him closer. "Plea-"
Choso interrupted your desperate pleas with another searing, passionate kiss. His tongue, adorned with that maddening piercing, delved into your mouth, tangling with your own. He swallowed your moans and whimpers, drinking in your breathy cries of need like a man dying of thirst.
As he kissed you with a fervor that left you dizzy, Choso's fingers never ceased their torment of your aching sex. Your body writhed beneath his touch, not knowing if you wanted more or less.
One of your hands fisted in Choso's dark hair, holding him to you as you you tried to kiss back with equal fervor. The other hand traveled down the length of his body, feeling the hard planes of his chest, the lean muscles of his abdomen. You marveled at the way he shuddered under your touch, his skin prickling with goosebumps in the wake of your fingers. Your hand stopped at his belt, trying to unbuckle it.
Choso broke the kiss with a low chuckle, his eyes glinting with amusement and lust. "You're so desperate for it, aren't you?" he taunted, his voice a low rasp.
He abruptly stopped his ministrations on your clit, leaving you whimpering and arching into the empty air, aching for his touch.
He pulled back, his hands moving to the hem of his shirt. With a swift tug, he yanked the garment over his head, tossing it carelessly to the floor of the van. Your eyes widened as you took in the sight of his chest, a canvas of swirling tattoos and hard, sculpted muscle.
Choso knelt between your spread thighs, his hands moving to his belt. With deliberate slowness, he unbuckled it, the sound of the metal clasp releasing seeming to echo in the charged air of the van. Your fingers trembled with anticipation as you watched him, your heart pounding wildly in your chest.
Choso's smirk widened into a grin, revealing a flash of teeth. "Alright, alright," he cooed, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Don't worry, baby. I'm going to give you exactly what you need."
With a final tug, he unzipped his jeans, shoving them down his hips along with his boxers in one swift motion. His cock sprang free, long, hard, and thick, the swollen head already glistening with pre-cum. You licked your lips at the sight, your core clenching with a fresh surge of desire.
He rubbed the tip of his cock teasingly through your slick folds, not yet pushing inside, making you wait. A strangled whimper escaped your lips as the swollen head brushed against your sensitive clit, your hips bucked up involuntarily.
He continued his teasing torment, rubbing the thick length of his shaft up and down your slit, coating himself in your slick arousal. The head of his cock caught on your entrance with each pass, threatening to push inside before pulling back at the last second. Your thighs trembled, instinctively trying to close around him, to trap him between your legs and force him to take you.
But Choso was having none of it. His strong hands gripped your thighs, his fingers digging into your soft flesh as he forced your legs back open, pinning you down, exposing you completely to his hungry gaze. "Fucking asshole," you gasped out, your voice strained with the effort of holding back the desperate pleas bubbling up in your throat.
Without warning, without giving you a chance to respond, Choso slammed his hips forward, burying his thick cock deep inside your tight, clenching core. The sudden intrusion forced a choked scream from your throat, your back arching clean off the worn leather seat as he filled you completely.
Choso didn't give you a moment to adjust, to catch your breath. He set a brutal pace from the start, his hips slamming against yours with enough force to rock the van
You could barely draw a breath, his body caging you in, pinning you down as he took what he wanted.
He hooked your legs over his elbows, nearly bending you in half as he loomed over you, his chest heaving with exertion. "I tried to be nice, but you just couldn't wait, could you?"
He punctuated his words with a particularly hard thrust, grinding his pelvis against yours, stirring his thick length inside you. Your fingers scrabbled at his back, nails digging into his skin as you clung to him, your body shaking with the force of his fucking. Drool trickled down your chin, tears of pleasure streaking your cheeks as Choso used you, claimed you, fucked you with a wild, animalistic intensity that stole your breath and scrambled your thoughts.
"What would your friends say, hmm? If they could see you now, spread out like this begging for my dick?"
You were too far gone, too drunk on the feeling of his cock to care about anything he said. Only nodding along.
"Im... I'm..." you tried to warn Choso, but the words dissolved into a scream of ecstasy as he hammered into that perfect spot inside you over and over. Your body couldn't take the relentless stimulation, the pleasure bordering on pain, the intense pressure building to a breaking point.
"Yeah, that's it," Choso moaned, the prettiest fucking moan you've ever heard, his voice strained with the force of his thrusts.
He slipped a hand between your writhing bodies, his calloused fingers finding your swollen clit. He rubbed the sensitive nub in tight, fast circles, pushing you closer to the edge with each flick of his wrist.
"Come on pretty girl..fuck..come on give it to me please"
Your orgasm crashed through you like a tidal wave, your vision whiting out as you screamed Choso's name. Your inner walls clamped down around his pistoning cock, rippling and milking his length as you came undone. Your body convulsed beneath him, back arching clean off the seat as ecstasy consumed you.
"Fuckkkk that's it" Choso groaned, his hips never faltering, fucking you through your climax.
He grabbed your face with one hand, his fingers sinking into your hair as he forced you to meet his intense gaze. Your eyes locked with his.
Choso's lips crashed against yours, his tongue plundering your mouth, as the waves of your climax still crashed over you. You could barely keep up with his urgent kisses, your mind hazy and your body trembling.
"Fuck, I'm so close," he panted against your mouth, his hair sticking to his sweat-dampened forehead, his eyes squeezing shut as he teetered on the brink of orgasm.
"Inside, indise pleaseplease" you beg him. You have never begged a boy, anyone, period, before but there's a first for everything right?
"Fuuuuck" Choso whimpered, his body shuddering as thick ropes of hot seed painted your insides white. His hips jerked and bucked erratically as spurt after spurt of his essence flooded your womb, filling you up just like you begged him to.
Choso collapsed on top of you, his chest heaving against yours as he struggled to catch his breath.
You blinked up at the ceiling of the van, heart still hammering. Oh my God.
You had actually done it.
Your brain was lagging, trying desperately to process the fact that you had just… well, fucked the freak. Choso. Well, he fucked you. Good. Like really good.
Life after that changed in ways nobody could have predicted. On the surface, everything stayed the same. You were still the queen of the school and he was still the loser.
And yet somehow, he had become a permanent fixture in your life.
Not in a “relationship” way, not in a “we’re official” way. No, that would have been catastrophic. Labels? Public appearances? Absolutely not. That wasn’t you. That wasn’t him. You weren’t together, and that was exactly the way it was supposed to be—at least, that’s what you told yourself.
Just fooling around. Yeah. Right
You absolutely hate it of course. Of couuurseee.
Hated that morning in the cafeteria, you opened your bag to find your favorite gloss missing. The one that made your lips shine just enough to make everyone notice. Panic. Mild, high-school panic. You scanned the cafeteria, eyes narrowing as you checked every table, every friend, every passerby.
Later, at your locker, you were balancing books and trying to get your jacket on without dropping anything, when a sudden slip in your back pocket made you jump. Your hand shot back instinctively, patting your ass, and you froze. Offended? Totally. Intrusive? Absolutely.
You spun around just in time to see him walking away, grin plastered across his face like the little jerk he was. That motherfucker. Your eyes followed him, heart thumping, while you scanned the hallway to make sure no one saw. Fortunately, everyone was distracted—slamming lockers, gossiping.No witnesses.
You slipped your hand into your back pocket and felt it: smooth, perfectly untouched, your lip gloss. That perfect lip gloss that you thought was gone.
And just like that, your annoyance melted into a tiny, secret smile. The fucking audacity.
Hated that evening when your pink convertible was mysteriously “at the shop,” and the only solution was Choso’s van. Which meant you were stuck with him driving you to your nail appointment. A nightmare.
Him parking in alley so people wouldn't see you climbing out of his car.
And ten minutes later, you were leaning across the passenger seat, laughing as your lips pressed against his, and you were giggling like a fool, muttering “enough… enough…” even as he smiled against your lips, ignoring your protests.
And finally with a sigh, opening the door—because yes, you were late to your nail appointment, Kate would yell if you were tardy, and stepped out, adjusting your short skirt.
And just as you turned to make your way to the salon, you felt it: a sharp, cheeky slap on your ass.
“Fucker!” you hissed, whipping your head back.
He was laughing, loud and ridiculous, leaning back in the van.
Yeah you loathe that day.
And you definitely, definitely, hate how two weeks ago he gave you two tapes
You thought about it. A lot. But you’d never admit it out loud.
The first one he handed you had scribbled handwriting that wobbled slightly like he was in a rush or nervous.
“Here,” he said. “For you. Don’t lose it.”
You pretended to roll your eyes, crossing your arms. “Uh huh. I don’t listen to your shitty bands”
“Right,” he muttered, grinning like he knew exactly what you were doing.
And inside, you melted a little.
The two tapes, labeled in his awful, messy handwriting, were:
Tape 1 - For when you're sad and don't want to talk about it
Tape 2 - Stuff you pretend not to like
You remember reading the titles, pretending to groan like it was torture. “Ugh, seriously?”
“Yes,” he said, smirking, “because you totally won’t listen to them.”
Every single song. Emo, nu-metal, grungy—you listened to all of it. The songs he picked weren’t random. He had chosen the exact tracks he thought you’d secretly like.
And when he asked later if you liked them? You rolled your eyes, laughed, and said, “I didn’t listen to them”
He didn’t need to know. And honestly, you wouldn’t admit it even if he did.
Because pretending not to care? That was still part of your persona. But secretly, the tapes were everything.
You hate his room. It was exactly—exactly—what you imagined it would be.
Not that you’d imagined it.
You absolutely had not sat around daydreaming about what the freak’s room looked like.
Dim Christmas lights hanging unevenly.
Posters peeling at the corners—System of a Down, Korn, Her Words Kill and more angsty bands.
Stacks of CDs, a couple scratched records, a lava lamp, and a mattress on the floor with black sheets he definitely didn’t wash often enough.
It smelled like weed and something warm and familiar.
You sat cross-legged on the floor, dress swapped for one of his ridiculously soft band tees.
It was so big it hit your mid-thigh, and he kept glancing at your bare legs like he was trying very hard not to lose focus.
“Okay,” he said, pulling out rolling papers and shaking some weed on top of Blink - 182 cd case.
“This is serious for you huh?” you said.
He shot you a flat look. “Shut up and observe greatness.”
You snorted. “Oh, please, like rolling a joint is a résumé skill.”
He perked up, smirking as he shaped the paper between his fingers. “Actually? I’m like stupidly good at this. I could get hired.”
You laughed, an actual laugh that came straight from your chest, and he looked way too proud of himself for earning it.
He worked quickly, fingers moving with this weird mix of precision and laziness.
Graceful, sloppy, practiced.
You watched his hands and thought, oh—right. That’s why he’s good at this.
When he finished, he held up the joint like it was some kind of sacred relic and said, with a completely straight face:
“You’re welcome for witnessing history.”
You rolled your eyes. “You’re such a fucking loser, you know that?”
He grinned. “Yeah? You love it”
You hated the first time you ended up in the back of his car—really ended up there, not making out or fucking. You were both parked behind the bowling alley. The one nobody ever went to except bored middle schoolers and old men.
The windows were cracked, air warm against your skin.
He passed you the joint without even asking if you wanted it.
You took a drag—too long, too quick, too unpracticed—and the smoke hit your lungs like fire.
A loud, embarrassing, absolutely un-ladylike snort.
You slapped your hand over your mouth, eyes huge.
“Oh my God—no—pretend you did NOT hear that—”
Oh, he definitely heard it.
Choso threw his head back and laughed.
A real one. Loud. Surprised. Stupidly happy.
“Holy shit,” he wheezed, eyes crinkling. “You snorted.”
You groaned, hiding your face. “Shut up—no I didn’t—”
“You so did,” he said, leaning in, grin wide, amused, warm. “That was adorable.”
“Don’t call me adorable,” you muttered, shoving his shoulder.
He took the joint back, leaned against the seat, eyes softening in that way that always made your stomach dip.
“You don’t gotta do that here,” he said quietly.
“Do what?” you whispered.
You opened your mouth to argue—but couldn’t.
Because here, in his van, your hair was messy, your mascara was smudged, your skirt was wrinkled, and you’d just snorted like a drunk cartoon character.
And yet you’d never felt more yourself.
Yeah you despise that day. Absolutely.
You fucking hate the janitor closet. Where you let him finger you, fuck you, multiple times.
Your skirt and panties tangled around one ankle. Your shirt hiked up to your shoulders, exposing your tits to the cool air of the closet. Feeling every inch of Choso's body pressed against your back, his breath hot on your neck.
His fingers a blur of motion between your thighs, pumping in and out of your dripping pussy. The wet sounds of your arousal filling the tight space, mingling with your stifled moans and whimpers.
"Yeah? Is it good, baby?"
You can only gasp and whimper in response, your cheek pressed firmly against the rough wall of the closet. "Ye-yes," you manage to choke out, your voice hitching with pleasure
And when you cum and he leans in and presses a soft kiss to your shoulder. Then another, softer, right against the curve where your neck begins.
And he whispers so gently "You okay?"
God. You feel so fucking adored.
Which shouldn’t make sense. Not here.
Not after what you two had just done on a mop-scented floor with the door barely locked.
Your ex bought you a fucking car on your birthday.
Another flew you to France one summer and bragged about it for months.
All those boys threw money and shiny things at you because that’s what you were—
the girl you show off, the girl you brag about having.
But no one had ever asked you okay? in that voice. No one ever kissed your shoulder like it meant something. No one ever touched you like you mattered past the performance.
You hate how one minute you were making out in his van, until your lip gloss was basically gone, and the next—
you were pulling into your driveway.
Your driveway. Your house. Your room.
You don’t bring boys here. Ever.
Your exes? They got car seats, the back of bleachers, their bedrooms if they were lucky. You kept your world neat and perfect and separate.
Black shirt, black jeans, black nails, black everything— standing in the doorway of your aggressively pink bedroom like someone just dropped a stray dog into Barbie’s Dreamhouse.
You didn’t even give him time to say anything. You just opened your door, tossed your purse on your bed, and pretended this wasn’t the weirdest decision you’d made all month.
He stepped inside slow, eyes moving around like he’d walked into another dimension.
Your pink wallpaper. Your Britney poster.
Your Madonna poster with the rhinestones you glued on yourself at thirteen. Your massive king-sized bed covered in fluffy pillows. Your sparkly vanity setup. Your zebra-print chair.
“...So this is your room,” he finally said.
You crossed your arms like yeah, and?
He let out a low breath, almost a laugh but not quite.
You rolled your eyes. “No shit.”
He walked in further, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes taking in every sparkly surface like he was physically incapable of processing it all.
He looked curious. Interested.
He walked to your vanity, fingers hovering over your little collection of perfume bottles, glitter lids and heart-shaped caps. He didn’t touch anything, just looked.
And then he was sitting down on your bed like he’d been doing it his whole life.
On your ridiculous pink, princess-core bed.
Boots on the rug, shoulders relaxed, palms braced behind him, head tilted just enough to look at you through his lashes.
The chain around his neck.
And then he said it—low, almost amused, but with that look he does that turns your brain into scrambled eggs:
Every rational thought you ever had left your body. He had no right—absolutely none—to sit on your bed like that, looking like that, in your soft pink universe.
Should be charged in court.
He spread his knees a little wider.
Your body moved on instinct.
One second you were standing near your vanity pretending to be normal, the next—
Literally lunging onto the bed like an animal.
And you hate the most how at every gig, you are there. Tucked into a corner of some sticky floor bar.
He never misses a beat. Sweat glistening across his skin under the flickering stage lights, your lips moving over lyrics you swore you weren’t memorizing, but of course, you knew every word.
Finding yourself in some bathroom after he was done, your lipstick smudged, hair plastered to your forehead.
You hate it. You do. You hate everything. You hate him so much.
But that didn't matter because prom duh and Choso needs to get immediately out of your head like right now.
Chad had asked you a week ago, and of course, you said yes. It was perfect. The kind of perfect every high school senior dreamed of. Everyone wanted the two of you together—the golden couple, high school sweethearts destined for some idyllic future. You pictured it sometimes, if you were honest with yourself: college, him rich, you the stunning housewife, maybe two kids by the time you were twenty-five, the perfect life for a pretty girl like you. You could hear your mother’s approval already.
Tonight? Tonight was prom, and of course, you would be prom queen. Chad, the king. The world would cheer. People would take photos. Everyone would envy you.
And there you were, in the baby blue dress. The one you had picked…anyway
You smoothed the fabric of the dress over your chest, tugging slightly at the neckline, trying not to think about him. Not together. What good would it do? Polar opposites. You muttered it to yourself like a mantra, but it barely worked.
And yes, you had thought about him—a lot—even as you got ready for prom, even as you pinned your hair just so, even as you practiced that perfect, confident smile.
Chad. Perfect Chad. Safe. Predictable. Rich. Everyone’s dream. Your dream or at least, what you told yourself it was supposed to be.
You took a deep breath, pinned the last clip in your hair, smoothed the dress over your hips. “Focus,” you told yourself.
The knock at the door made you jump slightly, and your mom’s voice called out, “Chad! Come in!”
The door swung open, and there he was—perfectly polished, grin bright, hair gelled just right, looking like he belonged on the cover of a magazine.
“Wow,” Chad said, taking a step in, eyes scanning you up and down. “You look… perfect.”
“Thanks,” you said lightly, keeping your tone casual, effortless. Smile in place.
Your mom, of course, immediately pulled out her camera. “Smile! One, two, three!” Flashbulbs popped. You and Chad smiled, perfect posture, perfect high school prom couple. Your heart thumped in your chest, but you ignored the little pang of guilt when your mind briefly wandered to Choso. You shoved it down, adjusted your hair, and focused on the camera.
Chad took your hand after the photos, sliding it into his arm. “Ready?” he asked, that practiced, safe smile in place.
“Totally,” you said, stepping forward. You let him lead you to the limo waiting outside, leather seats gleaming, champagne-colored interior, curtains drawn.
The driver opened the door for you, and you slid inside, heels clicking against the floor. The door closed behind you with a soft thunk, shutting out the world for a second. You sat down, adjusting the hem of your dress, and Chad slid in beside you, arm brushing yours lightly.
“Can you believe this?” he asked, eyes scanning the interior. “Prom. Senior year. We actually made it.”
“Yeah,” you said, voice light, practiced, keeping everything perfectly controlled. “Hard to believe.”
The limo lurched forward, smooth ride, and you glanced out the tinted windows. Outside, the high school was buzzing with activity—crowds of students, some already a little drunk, sneaking alcohol in backpacks, trying not to get caught by parents or teachers. A few couples posed for photos.
As you stepped inside the school, the gym had been transformed into something between a fairy-tale prom and a high school fever dream. Streamers hung crookedly from the ceiling, glitter littered the floor, and colored lights flashed over everyone like some kind of fucking chaotic disco.
Students were dancing, some more gracefully than others.
You slid into the seat at the table where all your popular friends had gathered, heels clicking, purse in your lap. Of course, people were looking—whispering, staring. The little gossiping murmurs floated over: She’s going to be prom queen, just look at her with Chad. So cute.
Smile flawless, eyes sharp. You didn’t acknowledge the whispers except with a faint smirk.
Chad poured you some punch, bright pink and shimmering under the gym lights. You took a sip and immediately grimaced.
Chad laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah, sorry, vodka,” he said casually, like it was no big deal, totally unbothered by your reaction.
You rolled your eyes, fucking bitch
Around you, the dance floor thumped with sweaty couples and loud laughter. Some of your friends were already joking loudly, whispering about who would fuck who, who would be drunk first. And you, sitting there, punch in hand, hair perfect, smile practiced, were watching it all.
This was was perfect. Safe. Predictable.
But that little corner of your brain, the one you didn’t mention to anyone, was already wandering. And yes, it was thinking about him.
Mia plopped down beside you, elbow brushing yours, “Oh my god,” she gasped, fanning herself dramatically with her hands. “I cannot believe the freak from that band is playing tonight. Here. Like—here. At prom.”
Not visibly—you were too good for that—but inside? Your brain hit a wall so hard it practically screamed. You took a slow sip of your punch, trying not to choke on it.
“What?” you said, the word coming out just a little too sharp. You cleared your throat, forced the edges of your mouth into your usual bored smile. “I mean… what?” much calmer this time.
Mia didn’t notice the difference. Mia never noticed anything unless it was pink and sparkly.
“Yeah!” she said, bouncing in her seat. “Professor Adams told me. He said the school booked some, like, local band because they’re cheap or something? The freak one. The scary one.” She lowered her voice like it was a horror movie.
You swallowed hard. Fuck.
Choso.Here. At prom. Playing. Onstage.
Where everyone—including you—could see him.
Why was your heart doing that stupid flutter thing? You pressed your palm flat against your thigh, as if that would make you stop feeling like you’d swallowed a tiny, angry hummingbird.
Why did you care? He’s just a fuck, right?
You were here with Chad, for god’s sake. Perfect, rich, golden-boy Chad, who stood across the room taking duck-face photos with Tyler and pretending he wasn’t already tipsy off spiked punch.
That was your boyfriend. (Well. Supposed boyfriend. High school makes sense boyfriend.)
Not the guy with black nail polish who played bass.
You forced your body to relax, leaning back against the chair like nothing mattered.
“Whatever,” you said, checking your nails like this was all beneath you. “It’s just a band. They always hire some… group.”
Mia nodded, already distracted by something sparkly across the room. “Yeah, but I guess everyone says they’re, like, actually good? I don’t know. I’ve heard them once. I only listen to, like, Britney and Justin, sooo…”
You tried to breathe normally. Cool. Calm.
But the whole time, that little voice in the back of your head whispered—
And you care way, way too much.
Time slipped by in fuzzy little chunks, three plastic cups of that disgusting vodka punch, to be exact. Every sip burned like punishment, but whatever. You needed something to take the edge off. Or at least calm the buzzing in your chest since Mia’s little announcement.
The lights dimmed a little. Teachers moved around the stage like confused mall employees. And then—
And Chad, brilliant as ever, grinned and muttered, loud enough for your entire table to hear,
You felt your jaw tighten. For once, you wanted to punch him. Hard. But you only managed a small, polite nod.
“Mhmm,” you hummed, even though your fingers tightened around your plastic cup.
Doing anything else would crack the persona. And you couldn’t have that.
The crowd shifted as the band walked onstage. Some kids cheered, others whispered, a few laughed in that annoying, fake high-school way.
All black. Bass slung low. Hair falling in his eyes. Lips parted just slightly.
Your heart jolted so hard you nearly choked on the last swallow of punch.
Your friends stood, and Chad tugged your wrist.
“Come on,” he said, pulling you closer to the front where everyone was dancing. Closer. Closer to him.
You let him guide you, queen of the school, flawless, effortless, perfect—except your heartbeat was anything but. It was frantic, messy, too loud. Like his bass lines.
Choso’s eyes swept the crowd lazily.
And then he saw Chad’s hand on your waist.
You felt Chad’s arm slide fully around you, heavy and possessive.
You felt Choso’s eyes catch on the movement.
And then he does something he has never done to you before. He looks away
Just like that. No smirk. No raised eyebrow.
No private joke meant only for you. Nothing.
He looked past you like you weren’t even there.
And then the band started playing. Students cheered and jumped and danced like this was the best night of their lives.
But you barely heard anything except the roaring in your own chest.
Chad turned you around, dipped his head, and kissed you, sloppy, vodka-tasting, enthusiastic in the worst way. A kiss that looked good from the outside and felt like nothing inside.
You kissed back automatically, because that’s what you were supposed to do.
And you saw Choso look away sharply, refusing to look at you again. Refusing to give you even one glance.
He kept his eyes on the stage, on the ceiling, on the crowd—anywhere but you—as his fingers flew over the strings.
He wasn’t yours. You weren’t his.
You told yourself that a thousand times.
But the truth hit you then, harder than the bass pounding the floor.
You’re drinking more punch by the time the fourth one starts, vodka-heavy, sugar-sour, tasting like regret and whatever the hell they mixed it with.
Your friends pull you into the crowd to dance, squealing, glitter everywhere, perfume clouds mixing with sweat. The lights blur a little. The room spins a little. You pretend you don’t see him on stage.
He doesn’t even wait for the applause.
He unplugs his bass, hands it off, jumps down from the stage, and flees
No wave to the crowd, no “thanks,” no smiling at his bandmates.
And he doesn’t look back.
His bandmates stay behind to pack up, talking, joking, laughing, and you’re stuck there in the middle of the dance floor with Chad’s arm around your waist and your face frozen.
The second you can breathe again, you turn toward Chad and lean close.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” you whisper, pretending your lipstick needs adjusting.
He nods, already distracted by some stupid joke Tyler’s telling.
You slip away. Through the crowd.
Through the gym doors. Through the hallway that smells like floor cleaner and too much Axe body spray.
Your heels click-click-click like a countdown you can’t stop.
Outside, the night air hits you like a slap,cold, grounding, almost sobering.
Standing beside his crappy van, door open, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. Smoke curls lazily around him. His hair falls in his face, and for once, he’s not pushing it back, he’s just staring at the ground like it’s the only thing he has left to look at.
He doesn’t see you. He doesn’t hear the gym doors creak behind you.
You stand there for a second, frozen, then you clear your throat. Small, soft, pathetic.
And instead of smirking or teasing or doing that thing where he looks at you like he already knows what you’re thinking.
He flicks his cigarette to the ground, steps on it, and turns his head away like the sight of you physically annoys him.
“What’s your problem?” you say, trying to sound bitchy and bored, but it comes out thinner, weaker.
He lets out a laugh. A fake one. Sharp and empty.
“Nothing,” he says. “Just… funny, that’s all.”
Your brows knit. “What’s funny?”
He looks at you then, jaw tight, eyes angry and sad and tired all at once. He opens his mouth like he’s going to swallow the words, like he wants to hold them back. But he can’t. He doesn’t.
“I don’t know,” he says bitterly. “Just the fact that I fucked you three days ago and now you’re here with your little boyfriend.”
The words hit you like a punch.
“We just fucked,” you say, your voice steady even though your chest is screaming. “That’s it.”
He gives you a smile. If you can even call it a smile. More like something sharp he’s using to hold himself together.
“That’s what you tell yourself?”
Your throat tightens. You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to shake him and kiss him and make him understand something you can’t even admit to yourself.
Instead, you hear yourself say—
“There’s nothing more between us. I wouldn’t be caught with the fucking freak.”
It hangs between you like smoke.
You slap your hand over your mouth instantly, eyes wide. “Wait—I didn’t mean—Choso that’s not—”
He cuts you off, voice flat, dead, done:
“You know what? Why don’t you go back inside to your boyfriend, hmm?”
You shake your head, stepping closer.
“You’re gonna miss them announcing the prom queen,” he adds, voice mocking, eyes burning. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your perfect night, right?”
“Choso, please,” you whisper, the first crack splitting your perfect persona right in half. “Listen to me—”
“Leave me the fuck alone.”
Before you can say anything else, the gym doors open behind you and two of his bandmates walk out, laughter dying the second they see Choso’s face. They look between you two, confused.
“Uh… everything good, man?” one asks.
Choso doesn’t answer. He just climbs into the van, slamming the door so hard it rattles.
One of his bandmates turns to you, eyebrows drawn. “Hey… you okay?”
You don’t even think. The tears are already burning your eyes.
“Fuck off,” you snap, voice breaking right down the middle.
You spin on your heel and shove your way back into the building, mascara already smudging, your baby blue dress brushing against the gym floor as the door slams behind you. Inside everything slams into you at once , the music, the lights, the bodies everywhere. It’s too bright, too loud, too much. Your heartbeat feels like it’s vibrating in your throat.
Mia barrels toward you out of nowhere, glittery and breathless.
“Where were you?” she practically shrieks. “Oh my god, they’re announcing it!”
Her voice slices straight through your raw nerves. You blink at her, mascara smudging under your eyes, but she doesn’t even notice.
“Look! Look!” she says, grabbing your wrist, yanking you toward the front of the crowd.
Up on stage, one of the teachers, the boring math one whose name you always forget is holding a gold envelope like he's hosting the Oscars. The mic squeals. People cheer. The disco ball keeps spinning like your life isn’t falling apart.
“And now,” the teacher announces, adjusting his glasses, “your prom queen is…”
Your heart tries to crawl out of your chest.
Please not now. Please not tonight. Please not when you look like you’ve been crying behind the dumpsters.
He clears his throat into the mic.
Your stomach drops through the floor.
Mia screams in your face. Chad shoots up from a table somewhere, raising his fists like he just won state finals. Girls squeal. Guys whistle.
You just stand there in your stupid baby blue dress with mascara streaks drying under your eyes and your heart still on the pavement outside next to Choso’s cigarette.
The teacher scans the room, confused when you don’t come forward.
“Our prom queen? Are you here?”
“Bro, she’s literally right there why isn't she moving?”
Mia nudges you hard. “Go!! What are you doing?”
You blink. Your throat burns. Your hands shake.
You force a smile that feels like it might crack your face in half.
And something in your chest just.
Not the stupid plastic crown. Not the Barbie doll persona. Not Chad and his dumb vodka breath.Not this whole pretty princess bullshit you’ve worn like armor since freshman year.
god, you hate admitting it even to yourself—
the gigs. the van. the smell of weed and cheap cologne. the black nail polish on your waist. the tattooed hands holding your thighs. the boy who kissed you like he meant it. the boy you told yourself you didn’t care about.
the boy you fucking hurt.
Your heart chooses before your brain does.
Mia shrieks behind you as you push past her.
People are whispering. Turning. Staring. Judging.
The prom queen is leaving?
You shove through the crowd, through the gym doors, into the hallway that suddenly feels way too bright and empty and echoing.
Your heels clack erratically against the tile — you’re practically running, dress swishing behind you like a fucked-up Cinderella fleeing the ball before midnight.
Except you’re not running from something.
You’re running to him.Like an idiot.
Like a girl who finally can’t lie to herself anymore.
“What the hell am I doing,” you breathe, pushing through the exit door into the night air.
All you know is that prom doesn’t matter.
The crown doesn’t matter.
Your reputation doesn’t matter.
Not if he’s out there thinking he meant nothing to you.
The cold air hits your flushed skin, your heartbeat wild in your throat.
You whip around the parking lot like lunatic, scanning every corner, every shadow.
“Fuck,” you whisper, breath hitching, because the mascara is burning your eyes and your heels are sinking into the gravel and this is not how prom is supposed to look.
You spin in place, desperate, furious, stupidly close to crying again—
Choso’s freshman brother.
Wearing an oversized hoodie and trying to sneak past a teacher who absolutely sees him.
You stomp toward him so fast you almost twist an ankle.
Yuji turns at the sound of your heels pounding the pavement, then screams like you’re a poltergeist that crawled out of the bathroom mirror.
“OHMYGOD— WHAT— WHY—” he blurts, stumbling backward.
“Where’s your brother?” you snap, out of breath and absolutely done.
His eyes widen as he finally takes you in: ruined mascara, puffy eyes, expensive dress all wrinkled, hair falling out of its perfect curls.
“W-wait— are you crying?” he squeaks.
“Where. Is. Your. Brother.” You step closer, hands shaking but your voice pure venom.
Yuji lets out a sound somewhere between a whine and a dying ferret.
“Are—are you going to kill him?” he asks in a terrified whisper.
“No, Yuji. I’m not going to kill him.”
“But I might kill you if you don’t tell me where the fuck he is in the next five seconds.”
He looks around like maybe someone will rescue him from the deranged prom queen, but everyone is too busy throwing up in bushes or making out behind their parents’ cars to care.
Finally, Yuji squeaks, “He’s at Ino’s!”
“Who the fuck is Ino?” you yell.
“His—uh—friend? They’re probably smoking weed in his garage—PLEASE DON’T HIT ME.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose.
Of course. Of course he ran to a garage to sulk and get high like the dramatic, loser he is.
“Take me there,” you say.
Yuji stares at you like you just asked him to drive you to Mexico.
“You heard me. Take. Me. There.”
He shakes his head rapidly. “Do you—do you even have a car?”
Then laugh a humorless losing her mind laugh.
“No, Yuji. I don’t. Because my date is a drunk idiot"
“So unless you want me to fucking steal a car, you’re taking me.”
You lean forward, eyes wild.
“Get. Your. Keys. You dumb boy.”
Yuji yelps, digs frantically through his hoodie pocket, and nods so fast his hair flops into his eyes.
“Okay! Okay! Fine! Just—oh my god—”
You wipe your face with your wrist, mascara smearing worse.
“Shut up, Yuji. And hurry.”
He scrambles toward his ancient, purple Toyota, fumbling the keys like you’re chasing him with a knife.
“Let’s go,” you say, yanking the passenger door open.
Yuji climbs in, trembling.
“Yes ma’am,” he whispers.
You slam the door behind you.
“We’re here,” Yuji says after what feels like ten million years of driving.
You glance out the window. A sketchy garage behind a normal looking suburban house.
Before Yuji can even open his mouth, you fling the car door open.
And immediately, of course, your dress gets caught.
“Great,” you mutter through gritted teeth. “Fucking great.”
Yuji yelps behind you, fumbling with the handle. “Wait! You can’t—”
But you’re done waiting. You’re done being careful.
You yank your dress free. Rip it. Full-on warrior style. Maybe a bit too much dramatic.
You glance down. It’ short now.
“Fuck it,” you mutter to yourself. “Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it.”
You sprint to the garage, ignoring the gravel shredding your poor heels. Heart hammering, breath ragged. You reach the metal door and start knocking like a lunatic, fist pounding, almost laughing and crying at the same time.
“HELLO? CHOSO? ARE YOU IN THERE?!”
Four heads swivel toward you. Band members. Probably thinking you’ve lost it. One of them—Ino?—just stares, mouth slightly open.
Behind you, Yuji mutters something unintelligible.
You don’t even stop to process. You shove past them.
On the couch. Music and smoke hanging thick around him. He’s leaned back, messy hair falling into his eyes. And he’s staring at the floor
“Hi,” you say, voice shaky, gulping.
He doesn’t look at you immediately. Of course. You fucked up. You hurt him.
Finally, he glances up. “Where’s your boyfriend?”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” you say sharply.
“Could’ve fooled me,” he mutters.
You glance around the garage. His bandmates are staring at the two of you like you’re some bizarre reality show.
“What?” you ask them, exasperated.
They immediately turn away, looking guilty and a little terrified.
You take a deep breath, stepping closer to Choso. “I want to talk to you.”
He leans back, still half lounging. “I think we’ve talked enough".
“Please,” you whisper, feeling tears prick your eyes. “I—”
He exhales slowly, and then, surprisingly, gets up.
You step out of the garage, feeling exposed and ridiculous, but determined.
When he notices Yuji he narrows his eyes. “What’s he doing here?”
Yuji shrugs innocently, raising his hands like a tiny peace flag.
You keep walking down the street, a little faster than normal, until you spot the van. Parked under a streetlight, faintly glowing.
You stop. Choso halts beside you. The street is quiet, just the two of you away from everyone and everything.
“Talk,” he said, voice low, almost casual.
You swallowed. Fists tightening at your sides. “I… I…” you started, heart hammering so loud it was almost painful.
He didn’t look at you. Didn’t blink. Didn’t move.
“I lied,” you blurted. “About what I said out there.”
You took a shaky breath. “I like you. So fucking much. I like you.”
That finally made him look. Dark eyes locking on yours.
“I don’t want… all that prom shit,” you added, voice trembling. “Chad, popularity, all of it. I… I want you.”
You gulped, heart racing, and admitted, “Damn, that felt good to say.”
He didn’t move. He didn’t say anything. He just studied you.
You swallowed again, looking down at your ruined dress, voice small now “And I understand if you… if you don’t want to see me again. I… I was a bitch. I know it.”
You blinked, looking up at his face and he was smiling. That fucker.
You couldn’t help it. You smiled back. “Fucking loser.”
He stepped closer, leaning in, voice low and teasing. “A loser that you want.”
Your stomach flipped. You bit your lip and, impulsively, hooked your arms around his neck. He let you, leaning in until the space between you was small.
“So… did you win?” he asked, voice teasing, inches from your lips.
“Of course,” you huffed, heart pounding, chest rising and falling.
He laughed, that slow, warm laugh that made everything else melt away, lips brushing against yours.
“Where’s your crown then?” he murmured, voice low and teasing
You rolled your eyes. “I ran,” you said, exasperated but smiling.
He smirked, hand sliding to your waist, pulling you closer. “Get in the van” he said.
You didn’t need to be told twice.
Of course, after that night, you didn’t care anymore about that popular bullshit. High school was over in a few weeks anyway, and you had bigger things to worry about.
Word got out, of course. People whispered, laughed, and gasped. The “queen of high school” had run out of the gym like a lunatic, leaving Chad standing there with his perfectly coiffed hair and prom perfect suit, looking like someone just stole his heart and stomped on it.
And all you could say? Fuck them. Fuck the prom queen shit. You ended up with the hottest, most impossible loser nerd alive and honestly? You wouldn’t trade it for the world.
