#i KNOW this a lil out of character for him

[shokocide]

HEY, EMO BOY! - CHOSO KAMO

summary. Choso doesn’t do distractions. But then you walk into his show and ruin his focus with one look. And now, he’s handing you his guitar, his heart, maybe more. And baby, you haven’t even seen what those fingers can really do.

word count. 10.5k (i got a lil carried away)

content. mdni fem! reader, bassist! choso, mutual pining, heavy tension, choso is a tease (and so down bad), really lovey-dovey shi like bro's not even emo, pet names, smut, fingering, oral (fem rec.), p in v, mating press, praise, creampie, slight overstim, aftercare

author's note. saw this fanart and started ovulating on demand.

"Come on, it'll be fun," Shoko says, tugging on your sleeve with the persistence of a woman who knows you have no other plans. "You like music. You like hot guys. This is both."

You squint at her, unconvinced. "You said that last time and we ended up at some dude’s garage while he rapped about capitalism."

She grins. “And it was unforgettable.”

“You spilled beer on my shoes.”

“And I’ve had character development after that.”

You roll your eyes, but she already knows she's won. She’s practically vibrating with excitement as she drags you through the dimly lit alley that opens into an even dimmer basement venue—graffiti-tagged walls, sticker-covered speakers, the scent of cigarettes and something vaguely fruity in the air.

The lights are low, the crowd humming with quiet energy, and the stage is set but empty—just a drum kit, a couple mics, and a bass propped against its amp like it’s waiting for someone.

“You’re gonna love them,” Shoko whispers, already pulling out her phone to snap photos. “The music’s sick. And the bassist—”

You blink at her.

“The bassist,” she repeats, dramatically placing a hand over her heart. “Tall, broody, pretty eyes. Never says a damn word on stage but plays like he’s in pain.”

You scoff. “You’ve got issues.”

“Just wait,” she says. “You’re not ready.”

And you’re not.

Because when the band finally comes on stage and the lights cut through the haze, your eyes lock onto him—tall, dark, dressed in all black with his bass slung low, rings glinting on his fingers, and a half-lidded stare like he’s seeing ghosts.

And when he starts playing? Oh. Yeah. You’re done for.

The lights dim, bathing the room in moody blue and red hues. The crowd hushes—just for a moment—then the first chord explodes through the speakers. It’s loud, raw, electric, vibrating through the floor and straight up your spine.

You don’t flinch.

You should. The guy next to you does. Shoko’s already swaying to the beat like she’s been here a thousand times. But you? You’re frozen—entranced.

Not by the music. Not really.

By him.

The bassist, standing off to the left like he doesn’t crave the spotlight, like he’s content letting the others take the lead. But he’s the one you see. The one who owns the stage.

He’s tall and he’s wearing a loose black button-up, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the top few buttons left undone to tease just enough of his pale, sculpted chest. The stage lights catch on the gleam of sweat on his collarbones, highlighting every sharp angle and subtle flex of muscle as he moves with the rhythm. His fingers dance over the bass strings with practiced ease, and that’s when you notice it—apart from the black nail polish, each one is tattooed with a letter: C-H-O-S-O.

His long, dark hair is loose, falling in waves to the base of his neck, the ends brushing over his collar. The soft purple eyeshadow dusting his eyelids makes his deep-set eyes pop, casting shadows that only add to his sharp features. A bold tattoo cuts across the bridge of his nose, stark against his pale skin.

His brows are furrowed, mouth set in a hard, concentrated line, and his fingers—god, his fingers—they dance over the strings like he was born with a bass in his hands. There’s something hypnotic about the way he plays. Focused. Intense. Like the world doesn’t exist outside of this moment.

You don’t even realize you’re staring until Shoko elbows you lightly. “Told you,” she shouts in your ear, grinning like the smug little shit she is.

You nod, but your eyes don’t move. You can’t look away. It’s like you’ve been put under some kind of spell.

And then—then—mid-song, his head lifts just slightly. His gaze cuts through the haze and crowd and colored lights, and lands right on you. You swear it. A spark of something sharp and electric zips down your spine.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t nod. Just holds your gaze for a breath longer than necessary before he looks away, like he felt it too.

Like he knew.

Like the music wasn’t the only thing pulling strings tonight.

The band keeps playing, song after song bleeding into one another, but you barely register any of it.

Your eyes keep straying to him. Choso—at least, you think that’s his name, judging by the ink on his fingers. Fitting, really. It lingers in your head like a low bassline: heavy, addictive.

At one point, you swear he looks at you again.

Really looks.

And even if it’s just for a second, it feels like a live wire pressed to your skin.

You down the rest of your drink to keep yourself from combusting.

Shoko leans in and shouts something in your ear over the music—probably the band’s name or some fun fact about the drummer—but your eyes are locked on him. You nod absently, your smile weak, dazed, because how the hell are you supposed to listen to anyone else when he’s up there, commanding your every thought?

By the time the band wraps up their final song, you’re already craning your neck for a better look. You don't even realize you're moving toward the stage until Shoko’s hand snags your wrist.

"Where are you going?"

You blink, startled like you’ve been caught red-handed. "I—I don’t know."

But you do.

You’re hoping to get closer. Maybe he’ll notice you again.

Maybe he already has.

-

You find yourself outside the venue before you even realize what you’re doing—leaning against the brick wall, half hidden in the shadows, heart hammering like you’d just finished a set yourself. The crisp night air cools your skin, but it does nothing to quiet the heat bubbling beneath it.

You tell yourself you just needed some air.

That’s all.

Totally not waiting around like some groupie for a guy you don’t even know.

The door creaks open behind you, and a familiar pair of boots crunches against gravel. Shoko squints at you suspiciously.

“You good?” she asks, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with a quick flick. “You just disappeared.”

You shrug, too casual. “Yeah. Just needed a breather.”

She takes a drag, exhales slow. “Right. A breather. After not dancing and not drinking that much.”

You shoot her a side-eye. “Do you always interrogate people for wanting fresh air?”

“Only when they’ve been acting weird since the bassist took the stage.” She raises an eyebrow. “You’re not slick, y’know.”

You scoff, glancing away before she can catch the way your face warms. "I don't know what you’re talking about."

Shoko chuckles like she definitely knows what she’s talking about, but bless her, she doesn’t press it. Just smirks, gives your arm a little nudge. “He was hot, though.”

You give a noncommittal hum, eyes scanning every shadowed corner, every rusted doorway, hoping—just hoping—you might catch another glimpse of him. Choso. You’re almost certain that’s his name. It suits him. Dark. Sharp.

You won’t tell her, of course, but—yes.

Yes, this was fun.

Yes, she was absolutely right to drag you here.

Yes, the bassist was fine as hell and maybe, just maybe, you’ve developed the tiniest, stupidest little crush on a guy whose voice you haven’t even heard yet.

But god, you want to.

Even just once.

A glimpse. A moment. Anything.

And just when you think it’s time to give up, to stop being delusional and head home—

The door swings open again.

And this time, it’s him.

Panic.

Real, irrational, full-body panic.

Because there he is. Standing a few feet away. In the flesh. The bassist.

Loose black button-up clinging to his frame, sleeves still rolled up from the show, revealing forearms that shouldn’t be legal. The glint of his rings catching the light. A faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his collarbone—god, you can see it because the top few buttons are still undone, teasing just enough pale skin to keep you up at night.

And his eyes—

His eyes are rimmed with that soft, dusty lavender, and they’re looking straight at you.

You glance side to side like you might Houdini yourself out of this moment. Maybe if you ran fast enough, you could avoid embarrassing yourself beyond repair. Maybe if you—

Shoko bumps your shoulder, casual and smug. “Now’s your chance.”

“Chance for what?” you hiss, heart thudding in your ears. “To spontaneously combust? To make an idiot out of myself?”

But it’s too late.

Because before you can overthink your next twelve moves or plan a strategic escape—

He’s walking toward you.

Slow, calm, confident.

Like he knows what he’s doing to you.

Before you can say something completely unhinged, like “your bass playing did something weird to my hormones”, you feel Shoko shift beside you.

You whip your head toward her, silently begging for assistance, for backup, for escape. But she just smirks, looking between the two of you like she already knows exactly how this night’s gonna go.

“Well,” she says with a wink, already turning on her heel. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Your eyes nearly bulge out of your skull. “Shoko. No. Shoko, wait—SHOKO.”

But she’s already walking away like she didn’t just abandon you to the mercy of the hottest man you’ve ever laid eyes on.

And now—

Now he’s standing right in front of you.

He smells like sweat and incense and something dark—something addictive.

“You waited,” he says, voice lower than expected, rich. His lips curl, just barely. “Were you hoping for an autograph… or something else?”

You blink.

He knows.

Your mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again.

An autograph? Something else? What the hell does something else even mean—wait, you know what it means, OH GOD—

“I—I wasn’t waiting— I mean, I was, but not like—like in a weird way or anything!” you blurt, the words tumbling out like a panicked avalanche. “Not that liking your music is weird. I mean, it was good! Really good. You were good. Not in that way, I mean—not that you wouldn’t be—oh my God—”

You slap a hand over your face.

Abort mission. Let the ground open up. End scene.

When you peek through your fingers, he’s just watching you, amused, head tilted slightly to the side.

Then—he chuckles. Actually chuckles.

It’s low and quiet and kind of devastating.

“I was right,” he murmurs, voice all honeyed steel. “Cute.”

You make a high-pitched noise that cannot be classified as human.

And Choso—Choso just leans in slightly, lowering his voice like he’s offering a secret.

“Relax. I don’t bite.” A beat. “Unless you want me to.”

You definitely stop breathing.

Your brain is just a dial-up tone as you stare at him, stunned into silence, because did he actually just say that? He did. He really did. And he’s still looking at you like he’s waiting for your answer.

But when you open your mouth, what comes out is: “I—uh—yeah. I mean no. I mean—I don’t know what I mean.”

He grins. Not a smirk. A real, soft little grin, like he likes the mess you’ve become.

“Wanna get some air?” he asks, jerking his chin toward the alleyway beside the venue, quieter now that the band’s done and the crowd’s thinned.

You nod way too fast.

So you end up outside, standing under the faded neon of the venue sign, arms crossed to hide how jittery you are. Choso leans against the wall beside you, lighting a cigarette. The glow flares against his sharp cheekbones, his lashes casting shadows on his skin.

“So,” he says, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “You liked the set?”

“Yeah,” you say, trying not to look at his hands. His tattooed fingers. “You were… really good.”

He hums, clearly amused. “Still not in that way?”

You bury your face in your hands again.

He laughs under his breath, then nudges your shoulder with his. “You got a name, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart. 

Oh, how you were so very fucked.

You tell him your name. And when he repeats it softly, your knees almost give out.

Then he offers, “I’m Choso, by the way.”

Like it’s a gift.

And before the night ends, he asks if you’re coming to the next gig.

“Only if you’re playing,” you manage to say.

To which he replies, “I’ll be there if you are.”

-

shoko: hello?? where are you???

shoko: ANSWER ME

shoko: sigh

shoko: i didn’t want it to come to this but you leave me no choice

shoko: i’m checking your location.

shoko: GIRL WHAT ARE YOU STILL DOING THERE

shoko: 2 missed calls

shoko: you better give me answers the second you're online...or else.

you: dot dot dot

shoko: WHAT. HAPPENED.

you: emergency phone call

shoko: 🧍‍♀️

shoko: you’re a terrible liar

you: ok but like. 

you: it wasn’t a lie. it was an emergency. a hot boy emergency

shoko: OH MY GOD. 

shoko: OH MY GOD. 

shoko: OH MY GODDDDD.

you: he talked to me

you: HE TALKED TO ME SHOKO

shoko: AND???

you: and i said dumb shit

you: and he still talked to me

you: and i think i blacked out at one point??

you: but like. the good kind

shoko:YOU’RE TELLING ME MYSTERIOUS HOT BASSIST MAN TALKED TO YOU AND YOU LIVED???

you: barely

you: i think i ascended actually

shoko: you’re telling me you were about to dip and then HE approached YOU????

you: he remembered me from the front row 😭

you: called me cute 😭😭

you: asked for my name 😭😭😭

you: CALLED ME SWEETHEART 😭😭😭😭

shoko: …girl.

shoko: i don’t wanna be dramatic

shoko: but i might start planning your wedding

you: pls help i’m still outside the venue trying not to combust

you: he said he’d see me again if i came to the next gig

you: SHOKO WHAT IF I GO TO EVERY GIG UNTIL I DIE

shoko: yeah bestie we’re in our groupie era now

-

You show up a whole forty minutes before the doors even open—Shoko said she’d meet you later, but you’re already leaning against the building like a total loser. Or an over zealous fan. Same thing, really.

You're debating if you should take a walk to kill time when the door swings open, and out steps him. Black button-up, sleeves rolled up again, a few buttons undone, and that familiar purple eyeshadow hugging his tired eyes. His lip quirks up the second he sees you.

“Excited to see me?” he asks, cocking his head as he strolls over. His voice is low, teasing—but not unkind.

Your face goes up in flames. “What—n-no. I mean yes. I mean—Shoko said she’d meet me later and I didn’t wanna be late, obviously.”

He hums, clearly amused. “Mhm. Obnoxiously early, huh?”

“Fashionably early,” you grumble, and he laughs, like you’re the most entertaining thing he’s heard all day.

Then he nods his head toward the door. “C’mon. I’ll introduce you to the guys.”

You blink. Wait. Right now??

You glance down at your outfit—cute enough for the gig, maybe not cute enough to meet him again, let alone his entire band. But he’s already walking, and you’re a fool if you don’t follow.

The door creaks open, and you’re hit with the low hum of conversation, faint music playing from someone’s phone, and the scent of sweat and cologne. Your heart’s going a mile a minute.

“Yo,” Choso calls, and two heads turn.

The tall white-haired man draped across the couch offers a lazy grin. “Oh? Who’s this?”

Choso leans against the doorframe and jerks a thumb toward you. “She’s the one I was talking about.”

Your eyes widen. Talking about?? Since when???

“Ooooh,” the other guy drawls from where he’s fiddling with a drumstick, hair tied back and gaze sharp as ever. “So this is her.”

“Shut up,” Choso mutters, but there’s a hint of pink dusting his ears. He looks back at you, eyes soft. “That’s Satoru—he never shuts up. And that’s Suguru. Don’t let him fool you—he’s worse.”

“Lies and slander,” Satoru says with a wink.

You’re frozen. Do you wave? Speak? Die on the spot?

“Hi,” you say, awkwardly.

Suguru offers a small nod. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Finally???

Satoru leans forward with a devilish grin. “Choso wouldn’t shut up about you, y’know?”

Choso visibly tenses. “Go bother someone else.”

But it’s too late—you’re already flushed to your ears, and Satoru’s howling with laughter.

“You’re cute,” he tells you. “You can stick around.”

You glance at Choso, and he gives you the smallest smile. Like you belong here.

And for the first time—you think maybe you do.

He walks ahead a bit, glancing over his shoulder as he gestures toward the sound booth. “That’s Nao, our sound tech. She’s the only reason we don’t sound like trash onstage.”

Nao waves without looking up from her monitor, and you awkwardly lift a hand back. Choso chuckles under his breath.

He keeps going, showing you the light setup, where they stash backup guitars, even the vending machine he’s pretty sure is haunted. Every person you pass gives you that look—oh, so this is the girl.

Your fingers twist nervously around the strap of your bag. It’s not like they’re being unfriendly. If anything, everyone’s nice. Welcoming, even. But still—you can’t shake the nerves bubbling in your chest.

You feel his gaze before you hear his voice.

“Nervous?” he asks, quiet and low.

You blink up at him. He’s standing close now, one hand tucked into the pocket of his jacket, watching you like he’s not sure if he’s scaring you or if you’re just shy.

You swallow. “A little.”

His mouth twitches—almost a smile. “You don’t have to be. Everyone’s chill.”

You nod, but you know the tension is still written all over your face.

And then—he reaches out. Just a light touch to your wrist. “Hey. I asked you here ‘cause I wanted you to come. Not to freak you out.”

His voice is soft now, just for you.

You manage a sheepish smile. “Sorry. It’s just… new.”

He shrugs, lips curling slightly. “Yeah. But I’m not that scary, right?”

You meet his eyes, and the look he gives you—teasing but warm—makes your stomach flip.

“…Not yet,” you murmur.

And he laughs, head tilted back like you just said the funniest thing all night. “You’re cute.”

Great. Now you’re even more nervous.

He walks you over to the stage setup, lights dim and moody, the buzz of crew members in the background. The instruments are neatly arranged—drum kits, amps, tangled cords, and at the center, his guitar resting on its stand.

He picks it up effortlessly, letting the strap fall over his shoulder. His fingers settle over the strings, and he begins to strum, absentmindedly. It’s not even a real song, just soft notes—but it’s hypnotizing.

Especially the way his fingers move. Long, slender, practiced.

You're staring. Absolutely entranced.

“Wanna try playing?” he asks suddenly.

You snap out of it so fast it’s embarrassing. “H-huh?”

He chuckles, soft and low. “Bit distracted there, sweetheart. You okay?”

“I’m good. Mhm.” You nod a little too quickly, plastering on a tight smile as your face warms. You hope he doesn’t notice, but that knowing glint in his eyes tells you otherwise.

He steps toward you with the guitar, offering it out with a slight tilt of his head. “Here.”

Your hands hover uncertainly. “O-oh… I don’t know how to play.”

He just smiles. “It’s alright, I’ll help you.”

He walks behind you, close enough that you feel the warmth of him at your back. You swear your heart skips a beat when his arms slip around you, guiding yours. He’s gentle as he places your left hand along the neck of the guitar, adjusting your fingers over the frets, his hand covering yours.

“Just relax,” he murmurs, voice right by your ear.

Your breath hitches.

“Shit—sorry, too close?” he asks quickly, voice laced with concern.

“N-no! It’s fine! Totally fine.” You somehow manage to stand upright.

He smiles again, that soft kind of amused. “Alright, just press here... yeah, that’s it.” He places your fingers on the strings. “Now, strum with this hand—lightly. Let the strings breathe.”

You try, hesitantly dragging your fingers down the strings. A clumsy note sounds out.

Choso hums. “Not bad. Now, try a G chord—here, like this.” His fingers mold yours again, warm and careful.

You nod, barely able to think with him this close, and repeat the motion. It sounds... slightly better.

“See?” he says, praising you with a smile in his voice. “Fast learner.”

You glance up at him over your shoulder, heart fluttering. “Maybe I just have a good teacher.”

His lips quirk, and he looks at you like you’ve just made his night.

“Well,” he says, “I am good with my hands.”

Your brain short-circuits.

He grins when he hears that soft, breathy little sound escape your lips.

“O-oh,” you stammer, eyes wide as you blink up at him.

His smile deepens, all teasing and low charm. “Didn’t mean to make you nervous,” he says, though he definitely did. 

You open your mouth to say something—anything—but your brain’s gone completely blank. The only thing in your head is him. His voice, his scent, the low buzz of his guitar still humming in your hands.

“I—uh, yeah. No. You’re doing great. I mean—I’m doing great. I mean—thank you.”

He laughs. Not mockingly—it's soft, sweet, like he finds you genuinely adorable.

“You’re cute when you get flustered,” he says, voice quiet.

You look down at the guitar in your hands, pretending very hard to be focused on the strings.

“Maybe we’ll get you to play a whole song next time.”

You blink. “Next time?”

He shrugs casually, stepping back just enough to make you miss his warmth. “If you’re coming to the next gig, I figured I’d see you again.”

And then, with the most casual confidence, he adds, “You wanna?”

You blink up at him, heart still pounding from the way he practically wrapped himself around you moments ago. But then—somehow—you find your footing, just enough to muster a sliver of confidence.

You clear your throat, giving him a lopsided little smile. “Let’s see how this one goes first.”

His brows shoot up, clearly amused. “Is that a challenge?”

You shrug, trying not to melt under his gaze. “Depends. You think you can handle it?”

Choso laughs—a low, warm sound that vibrates in your chest more than your ears. He leans in again, just a little, his face dangerously close to yours. “Sweetheart,” he says, voice like silk, “I know I can.”

-

The crowd is thicker than last time. Hazy neon lights wash the walls in streaks of violet and red, and the room thrums with anticipation. You can feel the energy buzzing through your fingertips, your legs bouncing where you sit off to the side of the stage.

Choso catches your eye just before stepping on. He’s dressed in that same loose black button-up—top few buttons undone, sleeves rolled to the elbows, tattoos stark against his pale skin. His eyes are lined in that soft purple hue again, hair falling wild to his neck, and yet he somehow looks composed. Grounded. Like he was born to be here.

He doesn’t say anything, just gives you a look—half smirk, half something softer—and it sends butterflies flurrying in your chest.

And then: the lights dim. The crowd erupts. The band takes the stage.

Suguru on drums, flashing a grin at the front row before twirling his sticks and slamming into the first beat like a force of nature. Satoru struts forward, mic in hand, already oozing charisma, and Choso—Choso slides into position with his bass like it’s a part of him. One hand gripping the neck, the other plucking strings with a lazy, practiced ease.

The sound hits you like a wave. Loud. Gritty. Addictive.

But even as the music drowns everything out, your eyes stay locked on him.

Choso doesn’t look at the crowd. Doesn’t need to. He’s in his own world—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, swaying with the rhythm like the bass is leading him. And yet, somehow, he still finds a way to glance at you.

Just for a second. A flicker of a smirk.

And that’s when you realize it.

He’s playing for them—but looking at you.

And that smolder in his gaze? That spark that coils low in your belly?

It’s all for you.

-

The crowd’s roars have faded, the lights are dimming, and you’re still standing there, heart racing. Choso’s walking off stage, sweat-slick and glowing, bass still strapped to his back, and the second his eyes find you he smiles. Soft. Lopsided. Like it’s just for you.

He weaves through the staff with ease, and before you can fully brace yourself, he’s in front of you, that same lazy smirk playing on his lips. “Didn’t think you’d actually stick around,” he teases, voice low, raspy from the set.

You roll your eyes, a little bashful. “Had to see if your fingers really lived up to the hype.”

His brows shoot up, surprised—and then he laughs. It’s deep and warm and it makes your stomach do flips. “Oh? And?”

You tilt your head, pretending to think. “I’m not sure yet. Might need a private performance to decide.”

And damn, now he’s the one blushing.

He blinks. Once. Twice. And then that lazy grin deepens into something more—something that makes your throat dry.

“A private performance, huh?” he echoes, slinging the bass off his shoulder, setting it down like he’s done this a thousand times before—cool, collected, practiced. “You planning to book me?”

You cross your arms, trying to look unbothered despite the heat crawling up your neck. “Maybe. Depends on your rates.”

He steps closer, just a little, enough to tilt his head down to look at you properly. His voice drops lower. “I charge in coffee. Late-night conversations. And the occasional secret.”

“Oh?” you arch a brow. “That’s expensive.”

He chuckles, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear. “You’re worth it.”

Pause.

Your heart skips. Literally skips.

And suddenly it’s too quiet. The post-show noise is just background hum now—muffled cheers, clinks of beer bottles, bandmates laughing somewhere behind you. But he’s looking at you like you’re the only person who matters in this moment. Like he wants to learn you.

So you try to deflect, half-teasing, “You say that to all the girls who hang around after shows?”

He hums, like he’s pretending to think. “No,” he says finally. “You’re the only one who stayed quiet the whole time. Just… watched.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Was it creepy?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. It was nice. Felt like you were listening to more than just the music.”

You weren’t. You were listening to him.

But you don’t say that. Instead, you glance away, pretending not to be swooning.

And then—

“Hey,” he says softly, nudging your chin with two fingers to bring your gaze back to his. “Wanna get outta here?”

Your breath hitches. “Huh?”

He smiles, easy and relaxed, eyes scanning your face like he’s memorizing it. “There’s this spot a few blocks from here—low lights, decent drinks, great fries. Thought maybe I could buy you one. A drink, not a fry,” he adds with a little chuckle.

Your heart is thudding so loudly you're sure he can hear it. “Are you… asking me out?”

He shrugs, casual but undeniably charming. “If I said yes, would you say no?”

You try to play it cool, crossing your arms even though your insides are a whole storm. “You planning to pull that whole mysterious musician act the whole time?”

He leans in just a bit, close enough for your noses to nearly brush. “Only if it gets me a second date.”

And just like that, you’re done for.

“...I guess I could go for a drink.”

His grin widens. “Good. I’ll grab my jacket.”

-

The bar he takes you to is tucked away on a quiet street, the kind of place you wouldn’t find unless someone told you about it. There’s warm yellow lighting, a soft hum of old-school music playing on the speakers, and barely anyone around. It’s intimate in a way that makes your skin feel warm before you’ve even taken a sip of your drink.

He lets you slide into the booth first, then settles in across from you. His hands rest on the table, rings catching the light, and you find your gaze drawn to them—again. Damn those fingers.

“I’m not used to people sticking around after shows,” he says, eyes not leaving yours.

“I’m not used to chasing after bassists,” you shoot back, lips twitching.

He smirks. “So I’m special, huh?”

You roll your eyes, but the smile you’re fighting wins. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

Your drinks come. He lets you steal a sip of his. You let him steal two of yours.

“What got you into music?” you ask after a while, resting your chin on your hand.

He leans back, gaze flickering up like he’s searching the ceiling for the answer. “My dad, actually. He taught me how to play. He was obsessed with rhythm—said it was the heart of everything.”

You nod slowly. “He still around?”

Choso shakes his head. “Nah. Been a while. But I think he’d get a kick out of seeing me like this.”

There’s a quiet between you, not awkward, just full. You sip your drink.

“What about you?” he asks. “What do you do when you’re not falling for mysterious musicians at dive bars?”

You raise a brow. “Who said I was falling?”

His lips curve. “Touché.”

You end up telling him more than you thought you would. About your work, your favorite food, even boring little details. But he listens like every word matters. Laughs when you least expect it. His foot nudges yours under the table halfway through the night, and it stays there.

Eventually, the lights get lower, and the bar empties out.

“Guess we closed the place down,” you say, glancing around.

Choso’s watching you with a soft look. “Wouldn’t mind doing it again.”

Your heart flutters. “Same place?”

He smiles, gaze never leaving yours. “Sure.”

The night doesn’t end there.

He insists on walking you home—no arguments, no jokes, just slips his hand into yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And you let him, fingers intertwining with his, warmth blooming in your chest. It’s a quiet walk, but not the awkward kind. It’s that gentle, late-night calm. Like the whole world slowed down just for the two of you.

And for once, he’s not the brooding bassist with sharp eyeliner and calloused fingers. He’s just Choso. A guy who likes the way your hand fits in his. A guy who lets out a soft chuckle when you shiver and instinctively step closer.

You reach your place too soon.

You stop at the doorstep, neither of you making a move. No one says anything. You should probably say something. Goodnight. Thanks. This was fun. But the words get caught somewhere in your throat.

He steps closer instead.

There’s a breath between you. Just one.

And then his lips are on yours—soft, almost hesitant, like he’s asking if this is okay. And you answer him by fisting the fabric of his shirt and pulling him in. His hand comes up to your cheek, holding you steady as he kisses you again. Still gentle. Still quiet. But it makes your head spin all the same.

When he finally pulls back, he stays close, forehead pressed lightly to yours.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

Your heart might’ve actually stopped.

You slam the door shut behind you, back pressed against it, heart pounding so hard you swear it echoes in your ribcage. You stare at your phone, wide-eyed, thumbs flying:

you: SHOKO

you: SHOKO I NEED YOU TO WAKE UP

you: THIS IS AN EMERGENCY 

shoko: it’s literally 1am

shoko: you better be on fire 

you: I KISSED HIM

shoko: what

shoko: WHO

shoko: WAIT

shoko: WAIT.

you: YES. HIM.

shoko: THE HOT GUITAR PLAYER???

you: CHOSO. YES. YES. YES

shoko: oh my god you’re so gone

you: HE WALKED ME HOME. HELD MY HAND. KISSED ME. I AM GONE GONE.

shoko: AAAAAAAAAAA

you: HE SAID ‘GOODNIGHT SWEETHEART’

shoko: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

you: I KNOW

You toss your phone onto the bed, face planting right after it, squealing into your pillow like a teenager all over again.

Because you kissed him. And he kissed you back. And you’re never sleeping tonight.

-

You’re lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. The room is quiet—too quiet. You’ve already scrolled through your entire feed twice, tried reading, even got up to make tea you didn’t drink.

Then your phone lights up.

Incoming call: Choso.

Your heart stutters.

You take a breath and answer. “…Hey.”

His voice is warm on the other end. “Hey. Did I wake you?”

You shake your head even though he can’t see. “No. Couldn’t sleep.”

“Same,” he says. “Kept thinking about you.”

Your breath catches. You pull the blanket tighter around yourself, like it might calm your racing heart.

There’s a small silence, but it’s not awkward. It’s soft. Comfortable. Like neither of you really wants to hang up.

He speaks again, voice a little lower. “You looked beautiful tonight.”

You try to play it off. “I put in effort. Didn’t want to show up looking like I did last time.”

“I liked that too,” he says. “But tonight you walked in and I forgot what the hell I was doing.”

You laugh, hiding your face in your pillow.

“I wish I could see you again right now,” he says.

“Me too.”

“Would it be too much if I said I kinda wanna fall asleep listening to you?”

Your stomach flips.

You whisper, “Then stay on the line.”

And you do—both of you quiet, just breathing, letting the silence say everything.

-

You're standing outside the bar, shifting on your feet, trying to act like you haven’t been checking your reflection in every window on the walk here.

This time, your outfit isn’t casual by accident. You planned it. Styled your hair just right. Even put on that gloss you save for special occasions.

You step inside and immediately spot him, leaning back against a booth like he owns the place, one arm slung lazily over the seat. His eyes lift—

—and damn.

They rake down your figure slowly, like he’s drinking you in. And when they return to your face, there’s the smallest upward curve to his lips.

“Someone dressed to impress,” he says, standing as you approach.

“Maybe,” you reply, coy. “You are the star of the show, after all.”

He laughs low in his throat, hand brushing the small of your back as he leans in close. “Nah,” he murmurs. “Tonight, it’s all about you.”

You sit together in the same booth. This time, there’s no ice to break. The tension simmers warm between you—his knee bumps yours under the table and doesn’t move away. His eyes flicker to your lips more than once.

“So,” you say, swirling your drink. “What happens after drinks, guitar boy?”

He smirks, elbow resting on the table as he leans closer. “Depends. You thinking of letting me kiss you again?”

You raise your brows. “You planning on asking?”

He tilts his head. “I could. But you didn’t seem to need much prompting last time.”

That earns him a playful nudge. And a flustered laugh.

He grins. "Take your time, sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere."

The jukebox crackles as the next track begins—slow, dreamy, sweet.

Like falling asleep in warm hands. Like the part in a romance film where everything softens.

Before you can even comment on the vibe shift, Choso is rising from the booth, hand extended toward you, palm up.

Your brows lift. “You serious?”

He just smiles. “C’mon. Dance with me.”

You hesitate—because, what? In a bar? With him?? But his fingers flex, waiting, and the way he’s looking at you makes it impossible to say no.

You slip your hand into his.

He pulls you gently to the dance floor. There’s no one else there—just you, him, and the slow rhythm bleeding from the speakers. His hands settle on your waist. Yours hover awkwardly before curling behind his neck.

You sway.

“I didn’t take you for a dancer,” you mumble, heart skipping when he twirls you suddenly.

He smirks. “I’m not.”

You laugh—loud and sweet and so damn happy. And when he catches you again, you don’t pull away. Instead, you melt into him, resting your head against his chest, feeling the soft thud of his heartbeat under the fabric of his shirt.

His hand traces slow circles on your back.

“This okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, nuzzling in closer. “Yeah… It’s perfect.”

He rests his chin lightly atop your head. And neither of you says another word.

Not when the song ends.

Not when the next one starts.

Because for that moment—it’s just the two of you, swaying under dim lights, held together by the sound of a love song.

-

You step outside into the night, your breath curling in pale puffs. The air is colder than before, wrapping around your bare arms like a whispered warning. You shiver.

Without a word, Choso shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders, tugging you into his side. His hand rests at your waist, warm and firm, grounding you.

For a while, you just stand there—side by side, quiet. The city buzzes in the distance, cars passing, streetlights humming.

You glance up at him, and he’s already looking at you. Hard.

Like he’s trying to memorize the slope of your jaw. The way the wind lifts your hair. The way your lips part just slightly when you breathe.

“What?” you ask, a soft laugh in your voice, raising an eyebrow.

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just wets his lips. His fingers flex against your hip.

“I just…” he starts, voice rough with restraint. “I really want to kiss you right now.”

You blink, heart thudding once. Twice.

The pause stretches.

“Yeah?” you murmur, leaning in a fraction. Teasing.

He nods once. Barely.

You smile—heart pounding in your throat. “So why don’t you?”

And that’s all it takes.

He cups your face with both hands, thumbs brushing the apples of your cheeks like you’re made of porcelain. And when his lips finally meet yours—it’s soft. Slow. Full of the tension he’s been carrying all night, unspooling between you in breathless silence.

His nose bumps yours. Your hands fist the front of his shirt again. Just like last time.

Only this time, you don’t stop at one kiss.

And when you finally pull away, he rests his forehead against yours, his voice low:

“You’re gonna ruin me, y’know that?”

You laugh, barely a whisper against his lips, breath mingling with his. “Then I guess I better make it worth your while.”

That gets a reaction.

His gaze darkens just slightly, lips twitching into the faintest smirk as his hands slide down from your cheeks, one settling at the nape of your neck while the other pulls you flush against him. “You trying to kill me, sweetheart?”

You don’t answer.

Because you’re already kissing him again.

This time it’s different.

Less hesitant.

More hungry.

Your fingers find his hair, tangling in the dark strands that fall just past his neck, tugging gently until he groans into your mouth. He kisses you deeper, like he’s starved, like he hasn’t been thinking about this since the first night he met you in the crowd, eyes wide and awe-struck.

His hand grips your waist, fingers digging in—not too hard, but enough to make your breath hitch.

You gasp, and he takes the opportunity to nip at your bottom lip, tongue flicking against it before pulling back just enough to breathe:

“You’re trouble.”

You blink up at him, dazed, lips kiss-swollen and heart racing. “You’re one to talk.”

And he laughs—low and breathy, pressing another quick kiss to your mouth like he can’t help himself.

“C’mon,” he murmurs. “Let me walk you home before I get any worse ideas.”

The walk back is quiet—but not the awkward kind. It’s heavy with something, charged with unspoken words and lingering touches. His fingers brush yours with every step, and each time it happens, your breath catches.

You swear he’s doing it on purpose.

But you don’t stop him.

The streetlights cast a soft glow on him, turning his features golden for a moment, then shadowed the next. He looks… different like this. Softer. Less like the untouchable bassist who had you practically drooling the first night, and more like someone you could fall for if you’re not careful.

You sneak a glance at him.

He’s already looking at you.

You look away fast, heart leaping, and he chuckles under his breath.

"Cold?" he asks, tugging you gently closer.

You nod, even though that’s not why you’re shaking.

His arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you into his side as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your head fits against him perfectly, and his hand rubs slow circles against your arm, warm and grounding.

“Still nervous?” he murmurs.

You laugh quietly. “Little bit.”

“Me too.”

You tilt your head to look at him, surprised. “Really?”

He nods. “You make me nervous.”

You’re about to say something—anything—but then you’ve reached your place.

And suddenly, you don’t want to go inside.

He stops in front of your door, letting you go with a reluctant sigh. His hand lingers on your arm for a second longer before falling away.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then he shoves his hands into his pockets and asks, “You gonna call me?”

You nod. “If you answer.”

He grins. “Always.”

You hesitate—just for a second—and then press a soft kiss to his cheek. It’s quick, but the way his breath hitches tells you it did the trick.

“Goodnight, Choso.”

And before he can pull you in again, before you can throw all common sense out the window and kiss him properly, you slip inside.

Heart pounding. Lips tingling.

-

You wake up with your heart still pounding.

And not because of a nightmare.

Nope. This was worse.

Because it was real.

You kissed Choso.

Again.

And not in a dreamlike, floaty, “this could be a maybe” kind of way. You kissed him after swaying in his arms like some romcom protagonist. You kissed him, and he kissed you back, and you felt your knees give just a little, and you definitely whimpered against his mouth like a fool.

You groan and roll onto your side, burying your face in your pillow.

You’re so doomed.

Your phone vibrates.

You blink and grab it, squinting at the screen.

choso: didn’t want to wake you but i just wanted to say

choso: thank you for last night

You freeze.

Sit up slowly.

Your heartbeat? Violent.

You tap out a reply, delete it, rewrite it, delete again. Finally, you just go with:

you: it was nothing :)

Immediately after sending it:

you: i’m being weird aren’t i ignore me please

And then:

you: but also don’t ignore me because i liked it and i like you and i’m going to stop talking now before i make it worse

Your phone is dangerously quiet for thirty seconds.

Then it buzzes again.

choso: you’re not being weird.

choso: you’re being adorable

choso: i like you too

choso: also… can i see you again tonight?

You shriek into your pillow.

And then type:

you: you better

-

You weren’t expecting it when he texted you earlier that day.

come to the studio. i want you to hear something.

Now here you are, walking through a narrow hallway that smells like cigarettes and worn leather, Choso’s voice telling the receptionist to let you in. He meets you at the door, hoodie on, hair loosely tied back, a pair of headphones slung around his neck.

“Hey,” he murmurs, eyes raking over you with a small smile tugging at his lips.

You smile back, brushing past him as he closes the door behind you. The studio is dimly lit, a warm orange hue cast by the LED strips lining the edges of the ceiling. There’s a worn-out couch in the corner, an empty coffee cup on the desk, and wires everywhere.

He leads you to a chair beside him. “Wrote something last night. Thought you might want to hear it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Inspired by anything?”

He doesn’t say anything. Just gives you a look.

He clicks a few keys on his laptop, and music starts playing—slow, rich bass, soft drums, a melody that feels like it’s watching you breathe. Then lyrics—his voice, lower and raspier than usual.

And the words? They burn.

It’s about being unable to get someone off your mind. About how they haunt your quiet moments. About wanting something that feels dangerous and delicate at the same time.

When it ends, there’s a beat of silence.

“…You wrote that?” you ask.

Choso nods, slow. “All of it.”

“It’s…” Your voice catches. “It’s beautiful.”

He leans back, watching you carefully. “It’s about you. In case that wasn’t obvious.”

The room feels smaller. Hotter. You swallow.

You murmur, “I didn’t know I had that kind of effect on you.”

“You don’t,” he says, stepping closer. “You have more.”

He’s standing between your knees now. One hand on the armrest beside you. The other gently tilts your chin up.

“Can I kiss you again?”

You nod before your brain even catches up.

And then he does—slower this time. Like he’s savoring it. His lips slot against yours and the world blurs. His hand slips to your waist, drawing you closer, and you wrap your arms around his neck without thinking.

The music plays on in the background. But neither of you hears it.

His lips are warm against yours, stealing every thought from your head. One kiss turns into two, then three—deeper, slower, more intense. His hands settle on your waist, firm, grounding. You melt into him without thinking.

But then—between kisses, you manage a breathless whisper, lips brushing his as you speak.

“Choso, not here—there’s people around.”

His eyes open slowly, pupils blown wide. He glances around, then back at you, and that look in his eyes? It's trouble.

Without saying a word, he grabs your hand. “Come on.”

You barely catch your breath before he’s pulling you along, weaving past people, straight toward the exit. His grip doesn’t loosen, even when he’s fumbling for his keys. He unlocks his car in a rush and opens the passenger door for you before sliding into the driver’s seat himself.

The whole ride is charged—silent, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional stolen glance. He taps the steering wheel with his fingers, the ones that had just been ghosting over your skin minutes ago.

When he pulls into the parking lot of his building, he doesn’t waste time. Hands still locked with yours, he leads you upstairs, heart pounding just as fast as yours.

The second the door shuts behind you, he turns around—and everything finally snaps.

Choso doesn’t pounce. He doesn’t rush.

He leans against the door, just watching you. Taking you in like it’s the first time. His eyes roam your face, your lips—your heaving chest. There’s a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he’s trying not to smile.

“You sure?” he asks, voice low, husky.

You nod, breathless. “Yeah.”

That’s all it takes.

He pushes off the door slowly, strides over like a man with nowhere else to be. His hands find your waist, gentle at first, then firm. His head dips down, lips ghosting over your jaw, your cheek, your mouth—but he doesn’t kiss you yet.

“You look so pretty tonight,” he murmurs, voice thick with restraint.

His nose grazes your neck, and you shudder. Every place his breath touches feels like it’s burning.

“You always look pretty,” he adds, kissing just below your ear now. “But tonight?”

He sucks in a breath through his teeth, lips brushing lower.

“You’re killing me.”

Your hands find the hem of his hoodie, fingers twitching as you lift it up slowly—exposing the pale skin of his stomach inch by inch. He lets you, arms raised, letting the fabric slide off and onto the floor. The tattoos swirl over his chest, catching the soft glow of the apartment lights, and your fingers can’t help but trace them.

“Still nervous?” he asks, voice rougher now.

You shake your head. “No. Just… can’t believe this is real.”

Choso tilts your chin up, makes you look at him. His gaze is so intense it steals the breath from your lungs.

“It is,” he says. “And we’ve got all night.”

He kisses you again, this time softer, slower. No rush. Just lips moving against yours with quiet reverence, like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth.

His hands stay on your waist, warm and steady, but you feel the way his thumbs are drawing lazy circles on your skin—like he’s trying to ground himself. Like he’s savoring the moment as much as you are.

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. He hums into the kiss, one hand sliding up your back, fingers curling into your hair.

The path to the bedroom is a blur.

You’re not sure how you get there—if he carries you, or if you walk, tangled up in each other, lips never parting for more than a breath.

The room is dim, lit only by the city lights bleeding through the blinds. It paints both of you in silver and shadow. Choso backs you toward the bed, and when your knees hit the edge, he pauses. Looks down at you like you’re something sacred.

You swallow, heart thundering. “Are you gonna keep staring or—”

“Shh.” He dips his head, kisses your neck, just under your jaw. “Let me take my time with you.”

You shiver. God, his voice—low, velvet, dangerous.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this.”

He pushes you onto the bed and you bounce slightly on it. He’s crawling up your body, hands trailing along your sides, slipping beneath your shirt—fingertips so gentle it sends goosebumps across your skin. You raise your arms, let him take it off. He discards it carefully, almost reverently, and then he’s touching you again.

It’s not frantic. It’s worship.

The way he kisses down your chest, murmuring things you can’t even process. The way he handles you like he’s scared you’ll break. His mouth is everywhere—leaving warmth and wetness and little marks that’ll be there tomorrow. Proof that this happened. That he happened.

When his hands slip lower, and he finally asks, “Can I?”—you nod, breathless, and he grins, slow and sinful.

“Good,” he whispers. “Because I’m not stopping tonight.”

His touch starts soft. Teasing.

His fingers graze along your thigh, slipping under your skirt. Just the pad of one finger tracing your inner thigh, slow and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to unravel you. He watches your reactions closely—every breath, every twitch, every clench of your thighs like it’s his favorite show.

“Already shaking,” he murmurs with a smirk, fingers drifting up higher, stopping just at the edge of your underwear. “And I’ve barely touched you.”

When he finally slips his hand beneath the fabric of your panties, his fingers are warm, his touch confident. He finds you wet—soaked—and he groans low in his throat.

“Fuck... all this for me?”

His middle finger drags through your folds, slow and deliberate, gathering everything, spreading it around before circling your clit—just barely touching it. It’s maddening.

“You’re already this worked up,” he breathes, leaning in to kiss your jaw. “What happens when I really start?”

He’s rushing to take your underwear off, almost ripping them in the process. Then—finally—he eases a finger inside.

It’s slow at first. Just one finger, shallow thrusts, curling up and stroking that spot inside you until your hips start chasing him, greedy for more. He watches your face the whole time, eats up every whimper.

“Choso… more,” you whisper, barely able to speak.

His eyes flick up, dark and hungry. “Yeah?” he murmurs. “You can take another?”

You nod, breathless.

He slides a second finger in—thicker, deeper. His palm presses against your clit as his fingers work inside you, curling just right, just enough pressure to make your back arch. His other hand grabs your thigh, keeps you open and steady as he builds a rhythm.

It’s obscene—the wet, messy sounds of his fingers fucking into you—but it only makes him grin.

“You hear that, sweetheart?” he says lowly. 

You’re gasping now, clutching the sheets, legs shaking. He really is good with his hands.

“C’mon,” he whispers against your neck, tongue darting out to taste you. “Let go for me.”

And with one more curl, one more stroke—you do.

You come around his fingers, back arching, a moan ripped from your chest as he keeps moving through it, working you until you’re twitching, thighs trembling against him.

When he finally pulls his fingers out, he brings them to his lips.

“Tastes even better than I imagined,” he says, voice low and ruined.

He doesn’t give you a second to catch your breath.

The second those words leave his mouth, his gaze drops—hungry, wicked—and before you can ask what he’s doing, he’s already moving.

He’s moving down your body, settling between your legs, hands parting your thighs, spreading you wide open for him. You barely manage a gasp before his mouth is on you.

And fuck.

He licks a slow stripe from your entrance to your clit—moaning against you like he’s tasting something divine. His tongue is hot, wet, firm—flicking against your clit before flattening and dragging against it again. He’s not shy. He devours.

You twitch under him, gasping, and his grip on your thighs tightens.

“Stay still for me,” he murmurs against you, breath fanning over your soaked heat. “Let me eat, baby.”

And oh, does he eat.

He buries his face between your legs like he’s starved—lips and tongue and heat and mess, sucking your clit into his mouth, groaning when your fingers grab his hair and pull. His nose nudges your clit, the piercings in his ears cold against your thigh.

His hands slide under your ass, lifting your hips just right so he can get even deeper. His tongue fucks into you, messy and wet, before he pulls back to mouth at your clit again.

You’re a wreck—panting, eyes rolling back, legs trembling on either side of his head. He loves it. You can tell by the way he hums into you, nose buried in your folds, like every whimper out of you is a personal victory.

Your thighs start to close around his head—he lets them. Arms locking around your legs, holding you there like he wants to be suffocated. And with one more flick of his tongue—one more swirl, one more perfect pressure—

You cry out, hips jerking, thighs clenching, and he doesn’t stop. He works you through it, licking, kissing, groaning against your cunt like he’s drunk off you.

When your body finally slumps back against the mattress, dazed and spent, he pulls back just enough to look up at you.

His mouth glistens. His eyes are wrecked.

And he licks his lips.

“Sweetest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Choso’s mouth is still hot against yours, the kiss messy and hungry, his tongue sliding over yours like he can’t get enough of the taste of you. 

He unbuckles his belt, pushing his pants down along with his boxers, his girthy length slapping against his abdomen. Your mouth parts in a soft gasp at the sight of it. But you don't have time to marvel at it. His hands are already on your thighs, pushing them up—higher, higher—until you're folded in half in a mean mating press.

“Gonna keep you like this,” he murmurs, voice rough, chest heaving. “Wanna see your face while I fuck you.”

Your breath catches.

His hands hook behind your knees, holding them open as he shifts forward. The position has you completely laid out for him, helpless beneath the weight of his body. You feel his cock, thick and hard, dragging over your slick entrance—and then he pushes in, slow and deep.

You whimper—a sound torn from your throat, soft and wrecked, your back arching as he presses deeper.

Choso groans, low and guttural, head falling forward to rest against yours. His breath fans hot across your cheek, and you swear you can feel the tremble in his arms as he holds himself still—just for a second.

“F-fuck…” he breathes, voice rough with restraint. “You’re so fucking tight like this…”

His hips roll forward again, slower this time, the movement deliberate—like he wants you to feel every inch. “Feels like you’re made for me,” he murmurs, his voice barely more than a rasp.

Your fingers scramble across the expanse of his back, nails dragging, searching for something to ground you. His shoulders, his arms, anything—because the way he’s filling you, stretching you, it’s too much and not enough at the same time.

Then he starts to move. Deep. Steady. And the new angle is devastating.

He hits every spot just right, his cock dragging along your walls, slow and purposeful, grinding into the deepest parts of you with every thrust. Your legs tremble in his hold, pinned back and open for him, the pressure building with each stroke. Your jaw falls open, a moan slipping free—high-pitched and desperate.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

But it’s not pain. No—never that.

It’s overwhelming. It’s perfect. It’s him.

“You’re taking it so well,” he grits out, eyes burning into yours as his pace deepens. “Fuck—just like that, baby. Taking all of me.”

You blink up at him, dazed, lips parted as your moans spill freely. He leans down—closer, closer—until your thighs are nearly flush to your chest and his weight settles on top of you, heavy and grounding.

And he fucks you.

Not rough, but intentional—each stroke slow and deep, hips rolling so he never leaves you empty. He watches your face, watches every twitch of your brows, every flutter of your lashes. Like he’s trying to memorize it. All of it.

Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling when his thrusts grind just right. His name escapes you in a whimper—over and over, his name like a mantra.

“Choso—” you gasp. “Oh my God—Choso, I-I…”

“I know,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”

You’re soaked—messy, slick dripping down your thighs, pooling where your bodies meet. The wet slap of skin on skin is loud in the room, underscored by the soft creak of the mattress and your broken cries.

He shifts, angling just so, and you shatter.

Your body seizes, nails digging into his back as your orgasm rips through you, sudden and all-consuming. A sob leaves your throat, your back arching as your walls flutter and clamp down around him.

With a low groan, he shifts—gently, carefully—his hands sliding beneath your thighs to lower them. You gasp softly when he wraps your legs around his waist, keeping you close, keeping you full, as his hips press flush to yours.

He groans—a raw, broken sound—his hips stuttering. “Shit—fuck, I’m close—where do you want it, sweetheart?”

You barely think. You just nod, desperate. “Inside—please—inside.”

That’s all he needs.

He presses in deep, body trembling, a shudder running through him as he spills into you, cock twitching with every pulse of his release. You feel the heat of it—so much, thick and warm as it fills you up. And still, he doesn’t stop.

He keeps moving—soft, shallow thrusts that drag it out, that make your body twitch and whimper, overstimulated and glowing.

His name slips from your lips again, quieter this time, your fingers trailing down his back, soothing over sweat-slick skin.

And then—finally—he stills.

Buried to the hilt. Breathing hard. Forehead pressed to your shoulder, lips ghosting over your collarbone.

“I’ve got you,” he says again, voice low and reverent.

His hands settle on your waist, thumbs stroking your skin like he’s grounding himself.

"Don’t want to let go just yet," he murmurs, voice rough with emotion and aftermath. He leans down, kissing your shoulder, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “Feels too good like this.”

You hum, dazed and pliant, arms winding around his neck as your forehead rests against his. His weight, his warmth—it’s comforting. Heavy in the best way.

Every small shift makes you gasp—too sensitive, too raw—but you don’t ask him to move.

You don’t want him to either.

And neither does he.

So he stays there—buried deep, your legs locked around his waist, your bodies tangled as if they were always meant to be like this.

After, when the haze finally starts to fade, Choso is the first to move—but only just.

He brushes your hair from your face with slow fingers, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “You okay?” he murmurs, voice low and full of concern. Gentle. So gentle. “Was that… too much?”

You shake your head, barely able to speak as you whisper, “No. It was perfect.”

He exhales, and the breath sounds like relief. Like he needed to hear that.

Without a word, he slips out of bed, grabbing a warm cloth and returning to you. He moves with such care—his hands slow, wiping between your thighs with reverence, like you’re something precious. You flinch a little at the sensitivity, and he mumbles a soft “Sorry” as he presses a kiss to your knee, his gaze flickering up to check on you again.

Once you’re clean, he tosses the cloth aside and crawls back under the covers. You instinctively curl into him, and he opens his arms wide, pulling you in, tucking your head beneath his chin.

His fingers trace slow, lazy circles along your spine. Your legs are tangled with his, your body warm and sore and safe. He smells like sweat and sex and his cologne, and you want to fall asleep in this exact moment, forever.

“You’re amazing,” he murmurs against your hair.

You blink up at him. “That’s my line.”

He smiles, barely-there but so real. “Guess we’ll take turns.”

You laugh—quiet, muffled against his chest—and he hums along with it, fingers still moving along your back.

A silence settles between you, but it isn’t awkward. It’s peaceful. The kind that only comes after letting someone see you bare in every way.

He breaks it eventually, voice thick with sleep. “You staying over?”

“Mhm.”

“You sure?”

You nod, eyes fluttering closed. “Wouldn’t wanna be anywhere else.”

And neither would he.

So he kisses the top of your head one more time, murmurs something soft and unintelligible against your skin, and lets himself fall asleep with you in his arms.

Exactly where you both want to be.

author's note. this is just pure choso brainrot because i could not get that fanart out of my head so ofc i had to write something about it. (choso girlies, i'm borrowing your man for a while, thank you)

please do not steal, modify or translate my work.

[cerusee]

@amedetoiles’s great tags per usual

Lotta takes that are like "Jiang Cheng didn't change his behaviour at all in 13 years, that proves that he doesn't want to grow as a person" and it's like, sorry but why would he change his behaviour when the information that would recontextualise Wei Wuxian's actions and thus lead him to rethink his own reactions was deliberately kept hidden from him? From his perspective, his brother broke all his promises for no goddamn reason, picked a different family over him, lost control of the evil energy he swore he could control, and in doing so caused such a catastrophe that both of Jin Ling's parents were killed. We know that there's more to that story, but he doesn't, and it would be impossible for him to find out on his own because again, everyone involved was lying to him and hiding the relevant information on purpose.

He's told about the golden core transfer like three hours before the book ends, and frankly processes it faster than most people could reasonably be expected to after 13 years of grief and loneliness! "He had chances to improve his behaviour and didn't" HE LITERALLY DIDN'T HAVE ANY CHANCES BECAUSE WWX LIED TO HIM!! His behaviour was completely justified from his perspective and when his perspective is changed, and he realises that what he did was wrong, he's like, SUPER upset about it!

[no1blacksapphirefan]

Hello there! I love the work you do and hope that you have a great day! My request is for your Self-Aware Cookie Run au.

The reader somehow is transported into the game, meaning they can finally interact with everyone. There is just one drawback, their body is now a replica of the cookie that appears in the guild domain. (Ex: They chose Shadow Milk in the guild domain and now they have the same body as him.) I imagine some cookies have fun with this, using it as opportunity to pull some pranks or maybe even tease them a bit if the cookie the reader chose was their favorite. Maybe even try on costumes that were made for that cookie?

Also I would like Red Velvet and Capsaicin to be included in this ask please?

Hihii!! I hope you're having a good day too :D Glad you like my work hehe, your idea is very silly and I hope you enjoy

Red Velvet He was just looking for his cute lil cake hounds and now he's face to face with...himself?? Huh, when did this happen...AND WHY DOES HIS CAKE HOUNDS LIKE THIS CLONE OF HIM MORE?? He gently asks them to come back, what if you're some evil entity that can change form!! He can't let them be hur-...what's that Chiffon?...Wait what-

You're not sure how he understood the dog, if he actually did and it was just a "cooler"/funnier way to show that he knows but he points at you and questions if your truly their so called "God" Wow that's weird to hear out of someones mouth, you didn't know the cookies saw you as their God? You think? All you had to do was say you're name and he just stands there in shock. He wanted to meet you but like this??...Wow...And you look like him too...he gets a bit flustered when you explain why you look like him, due to the guild. But he's also happy, and Chiffon and the other Cake Hounds like you so, win-win?

Capsaicin He got so confused at first, looking you up and down. You know that TV trope where the character acts like it's a mirror? Holding up one arm and the "clone" (in this case you) holds up the other. I see him doing that. He has a feeling he knows you, and not the fact that it's just...well him staring back. But he feels like your just a separate person.

When you tell him he's so happy, quickly hugging you tight. He wanted to meet you for so long!! He does question why you look like him, so you explain that you seem to just be a "copy" of whoever you had as your avatar in guild. Oh he's so honoured, out of all the cookies you chose him to be and walk around in, in your guild? Definitely tries to convince you to pull some pranks on the others.

Shadow Milk Imagine your dressed as the Sage of Truth though. Like he's walking around, humming to himself then he suddenly sees an alternate version of himself. What?? How, is he dreaming? Must be an illusion, he flies over and pokes you, just to see if you're real before pinching himself...so you're real and he's not dreaming, then why is he--

When you spoke out to him he came to realise who you were, let's just say your voice stayed the same. He...isn't sure what to think. Like, don't get me wrong, he loves seeing you here now and to think that you chose him to, in better words. Represent yourself in your guild is making him feel butterflies but...he's staring at this version of himself, this version who had accepted what he had not...it was strange and he didn’t know what to think. It takes him a bit to get used too, he still wants to hang around you but it may take a bit to ignore the fact you looked like what he could’ve been in another universe.

((He defo convinces you to pull pranks on other cookies though))

Pure Vanilla Oh? Oh my, he stares at you for a bit, he had thought he heard your voice when he was taking a walk but now he just sees himself. Calmly picking up flowers. When this version of him turns around and spots him, you nearly had a heart attack, you didn't think you'd meet him. You quickly explain and all he can do is laugh gently, lending a hand out and asks if you'd walk with him.

This is quite the discovery though, he always wanted to meet you in "person" (...cookieson?) and imagined either him getting out of the screen or seeing you as a cookie like they were, but you were just a clone of him in better terms. He's very happy to hear the reason seemed to be that you used him to represent yourself in your little guild. He's so honoured.

Black Pearl Hear me out, just like Shadow Milk. Instead of looking like Black Pearl, you looked like White Pearl. Her more...tranquil side, when she was happier. You just wanted to test out swimming, it's a new body after all and one that can swim when you were grabbed by her. At first she thought you were disturbing the tranquil of her seas but then she sees...her past self? She grows...disturbed seeing it and lets you go.

You try to tell her who you are, which she does listen but she can't help but flee quickly. Out of all the cookie you had to be when you came here, did it have to be her? She comes finds you eventually, despite her initial reaction, she's quick to help you swim around. She still feels...off seeing her past self but she knows it's not her. That "her" has long gone. It's only you know, and to be honest. She is honoured you had used her to represent yourself in the guild.

[leashybebes]

if you have time - bucktommy for ♠: One character adjusting the other’s jewelry/neck tie/ etc. 😊

a lil future ficlet for you 🥰

"Knock knock," Tommy says, sticking his head through the door. "You ready?"

"Almost," Evan says, fiddling with his tie. The hat's downstairs waiting for them, waiting to cover the incredibly sharp haircut he'd gotten yesterday. The jacket is there too, still in its dry cleaning bag to keep it safe from dog hair and sticky fingered kids. Jack's little enough that he couldn't reach it on its hanger, but Jessie's tall enough and interested enough in everything to do with her dads' jobs that it wouldn't have stood a chance.

"Okay. Well, Maddie and Chim just left with the kids, so you have fifteen minutes if you want to stick to that delightfully color coded itinerary or yours."

"I worked in time for a kiss or three," Evan says, with that same coy look that had Tommy falling head over heels all those years ago.

"Of course you did," Tommy says, letting himself be towed in closer. "So organized."

"Is it still hot?" Evan asks, and kisses him.

"Stop fishing. You know it only got hotter once you had to include two different sets of play dates and school trips."

Evan hums into the next kiss and then says, "Hey. Help me with something?"

"Of course."

Evan holds out a box. Tommy knows Athena had given him a pair of Bobby's cufflinks for the ceremony and knows just as well that Evan went and got a new shirt to accommodate them because he's never worn cufflinks a day in his life. He's managed to attach one but the other has clearly been eluding him. Tommy secures it for him, straightens the other one, runs an unnecessary hand down his tie to smooth out nonexistent wrinkles.

Evan looks almost unbearably handsome even in just around two thirds of his dress uniform, and Tommy feels like he might burst with pride.

"C'mon, Captain Buckley-Kinard. Let's get moving."

Evan makes an interested noise in the back of his throat. "Put a pin in that. Maybe see if the kids want a sleepover with their cousins."

"Yes, sir," Tommy purrs and Evan pulls him in for another kiss before nudging him away.

"Tommy, if you make me late for my own promotion, I swear to god - "

"You mean you didn't schedule in time for a quick knee-trembler? Organizational skills are slipping, sweetheart."

"Go get my jacket, dumbass!"

Evan's laughter carries him all the way down the stairs.

[digiflora]

hello!!

i’m here to spam your blog again, but this time with a request!!

i know you write for a lot of fandoms, but i’m kinda curious about your favorite characters… so what about them with a sleepy reader?

i’ve had Certain Thoughts about being a sleepy gf (i definitely already am sleepy just need the gf part) but i’m curious to see how you’ll take this request, especially bc it’s vague on purpose 😭

lmk if you would like more info on it if you take this req! ❤️

hihi nikster!! 🫶🏻🫶🏻 spam from u is always welcome, and a request is exciting!! :o especially this one, i lurrrvvvv talking abt my favourite characters

also as a fellow sleepy not quite gf I FEEL THISSSSSSS. the self insert is strong with this icl ehehofifoewihfewohfewohfew.

i thought it would probably be best if i just wrote about them in a big paragraph of hcs each? straightup word vomit it you will. the most authentic source of my thoughts on them i hope that you don't mind!!

alhaitham 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ a very ideal partner for someone who is sleepy imo. he's on the quiet side, rather withdrawn in his mannerisms, loves to read, and has big old bahonkers which all really indicates how perfect he would be to use as a human pillow lmfao. he would read to you 100%. on a good day if he feels like humouring you he'll even read an actual fiction book and do different voices for each character. but usually it will be some nerdy sciencey theoretical nonfiction one that works like a charm in sending you right off to sleep. i think that he would find a lot of peace in this activity, especially after a long day and he comes home to you, also feeling exhausted. and then with you curled up on his chest, his arms around u, and resting the book against the slope of your back, he'll make it as far through the book as he can, continuing to read to you in his soft low voice long after you've fallen asleep, before he finally lets the book fall shut, and he'll place it to the side before properly embracing you and letting himself conk out too. or maybe on the rare occasion where he falls alseep first he does it so adorably, voice trailing off as he fights to finish the sentence, the slight weight of it falling from his grasp to rest on your back alerting you that he's fully asleep. and (ok hc time alhaitham has reading glasses) then you'll grin up at him, his face a touch softer when he's unconscious and you reach up ever so carefully to coax his glasses off the bridge of his nose, folding them up and placing them safely on your bedside or the coffee table nearby whethere you're on the bed or the couch, before letting yourself join him in slumber <3 10/10 amazing incredible no notes

wriothesley 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. a very comfy man. i don't think he is really the type to nap that often, though he certainly doesn't mind if you do!! i feel like he has a very calming presence. if he feels like indulging you (aka always) he would maybe give you a lil scalp massage that would help send you straight to sleep hehe. or or ooh maybe if you're like coworkers and not lovers he can't help but take notice of your sleeping habits and how you seem to nap a lot and if you have to stay awake for a long while then it takes a toll on you. tries to show his atfection for u by recommending you different teas to try that might help invigorate you. shoots his shot by telling u to come have some tea with him during your break jejjfjejf. OOH and if he sees u slumped over some paperwork dead asleep from exhaustion or something ohhhhh this man he's such a silent lover he would gently pry the papers and pen from you, make sure you're comfy and resist the urge to just take you to his bed to let you properly sleep. would put a blanket over you if he could. very considerate of you. can't help but have a little preference for you. keep an eye on your wellbeing (just because he's a considerate employer, he tells himself). asks sigewinne to try help you out if you seem particularly exhausted. yupppp 🙂‍↕️ caring from a distance. blink and you'll miss it.

blade 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ look me in the eyes and tell me this man isn't dead tired to begin with. shared naps are so in with you two. he takes naps already. you do too. it's a match made in heaven. so imagine ur both stellaron hunters right. and he's his regular grouchy self and sure you're both members of the same team but you're certainly not close to him. and u end up sat by each other somehow and you just finished a mission and you are both just quite frankly exhausted. and before you know it your eyes droop shut and your head drops onto his shoulder and it's the best power nap of your life. and u wake up flustered when you realise what you've done but with the way blade is also blinking slowly and lethargically like a cat he's gone and done the exact same thing and fallen asleep on top of your head. and he doesn't seem to mind at alllll. and there blooms a new tradition between the two of you where you sort of just.... gravitate (you don't quite have the guts to admit that you seek each other out) towards each other when one or both of you need a nap. shoulders turn into laps. you're a bit sweeter than blade, and one day he wakes to find your fingers playing with his long locks as his head's in your lap (you swear you hear him purr at the sensation). his somewhat clumsier and more inexperienced hands try to return the favour when you fall asleep. the casual skinship tiptoes across the lines of more and more, both of you too greedy to care about how it looks when you're curled up on his lap, head against his chest as his arms keep you locked in place. it's a little too late to say it's just a casual thing now. but as greedy as you both are, you're also cowards when it comes to voicing your true feelings, so this limbo will just have to continue a bit longer..

nanami 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ aka the most perfect man ever no i am not biased. he's so attentive and sweet and lovely god i need a nap with him. his love grows with familiarity i think so he can read you like an open book. all your little tells that you're getting tired and with a gentle smile he's fixing you a cup of chamomile tea like it's second nature, helping you do your evening routine before gladly welcoming you into his arms so that the two of you can sleep. lightly reprimanding you if you stay up too late, his philosophy of hating overtime applying to all aspects of his life, carrying you away from your work if he has to, acting like a very forceful voice of reason. if you're sleepy but don't give yourself the time to rest properly he's on that, ensuring that you've got plenty of hours, not satisfied with rest until he's sure that you're asleep first. this one's kinda short oops but I SAID WHAT I SAID 🗣️🗣️

[subbyboysgalore]

both Triple Down parts are making me go so insane uuuuuuu (i really do wanna mark Gakkun's pretty skin all over and make a mess out of him huhu)

Now… hmm i wanna switch fandoms a lil bit but don't know which TWST character to start with…

Let's go with Trey since he's your pfp tho (totally no other reason)

He works so hard, i think he deserves to be taken care of and pampered in bed but… I wanna hear about your general subby HCs about him?

- 💫

a/n: ehehehhe I'm so happy u liked the triple down posts !!

now. trey clover. sigh... sighh........ he's so infuriatingly attractive.. and he has glasses too.. ///// I adore this card.

tags: mentions of overstim and bondage, sub!trey

type: hcs

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡

- glasses glasses glasses glasses-

- okay ahem so anyways.

- With Riddle's outbursts, Trey is often there to smooth things over. He's the calm and big brotherly type, taking care of everyone all the time.

- it's just who he is, so he can't say he hates it but..

- well it does strain him after a while.

- physically, in a way that his muscles are sore and tired after all the baking he has to do, and mentally, with all the things he has to keep track of in order for heartslabyul not to crash and burn.

- he has to be there for everyone!

- maybe you should help him out..

- maybe massage his (muscular) shoulders and neck, listening to him sigh in relief.

- maybe smile mischievously as you whisper how good he's been into his ear, gently showering him in praises. he didn't know he needed that so badly until you did it for him.

- and maybe, just maybe, you know another way trey can relax.

- he can lay back on the bed, and you hush him as he protests.

- "wait- let me touch you too-!" he'll say, jerking his body forward to yours. tonight, he's not allowed to touch you until you say so. it'll be different for once, usually he's the one making you feel good. it isn't fair you never really get to see him fucked out for once.

- speaking of that, he's usually big into making you feel good first, forgetting his own body's needs until it's too hard (lmao) to ignore.

- sometimes he needs to be spoiled, an oldest brother deserves that at the very least.

- he's a service sub. it's so obvious.

- it's what he's happy to do most of the time, but he has.. fantasies about you tying him up, rendering him unable to move. he's embarrassed to say it would be relaxing, every overthinking and fast thought thrown out of his mind. He doesn't need to worry about anything, only to focus on how good he feels.

- when you finally get to fucking, push him to his bed, and tell him to stop worrying, he did so perfect today. to relax, the only thing he should be worried about is getting fucked properly.

- he's not very loud most of the time, which means it's all the more rewarding when you do manage to make him groan. usually the most he'll do is to whisper, no, whine out your name, staring at you with hazy amber eyes.

- his arms are.. okay listen. have you seen a regular baker? their arms and shoulders are muscled. if you push him down, he'll stay. despite the ability to easily flip the positions and roles around, he doesn't.

- ..most of the time.

- he does have a mischievous streak after all.

- don't worry, keep him overstimulated enough and he won't even think about doing that <33

[calware]

Transmasc aranea is so interesting to me…do elaborate on your thoughts 👀

frankly i'm not really committed to this reading, it's just floating around in my head lol. not a "this should happen" idea but a "this would be kind of interesting" idea

the thing i AM pretty committed to is that she's TME, which is informed by comparing her to vriska; essentially, aranea gets to avoid a lot of the bad-faith perceptions vriska gets tacked on to her. vriska is a dangerous weapon that can't be trusted, aranea is just some annoying know-it-all who can't shut up. granted, both are bad labels to have, and both characters are targets of misogyny, but for a good amount of time there aranea gets away with a lot more than vriska does (for example, aranea idolizes her pre-scratch self and nobody bats an eye, but karkat goes running to john to tell him vriska is dangerous at the first sign that they might be into each other). so when you look at vriska through a TMA lens, aranea reads as TME by comparison

there are a lot of directions you can take this ofc, the "main" one being that she's a cis woman. that said, i think it's interesting that hussie posits characters who take on an "authorial role" as thematic representations of toxic masculinity, which was the seed in my mind that led to me considering aranea as transmasc in the first place:

"Much later in Act 6, we see Lil Cal is a juju vessel containing the splintered souls of various controversial characters in the story: Caliborn, Equius, Dirk, and yes...even Gamzee, which means he's actually here watching this ball drop in TWO forms. But all these figures are, in some manner, highly exaggerated negative manifestations of author avatars, who have amalgamated themselves within the body of English to wreak havoc on the story/reader. This is the galaxy-brained interpretation of the line. The most important character in the story is me, or more specifically, the most villainous, destructive splinter-composite of the author's presence in the story."

"Dirk and Equius similarly aren't even that unflattering as avatars either. You could do worse. And we do do worse. As far as demonic author-tiers go, English is the true monster. His dominating personality splinters are much worse too. Caliborn and Gamzee are complete hell-people compared to Dirk and Equius. They are also sort of author avatars in certain ways, but with a degree of cartoonishly evil exaggeration. They absolutely comprise the "authorial wrath" portion of the total Doc/English personality quagmire."

"I think when the time comes to show the douchebag cocktail stuck inside Cal, there's a brief temptation to regard it as an odd, semi-random melange of characters. But there are several layers of logic to the guys who all combine to form his personality. Much of the logic orbits around these negative traits associated with men, or more specifically, the "toxically masculine" aspects often linked to certain male personalities. Dirk has a lot of these traits, which are central to Dave's feelings of tension and abuse concerning his bro. The intellectual aggression, the power of assertion, the knowitall-ism, the mansplaining.

also, this line in particular makes me think of aranea:

As an alt-author figure, [Doc Scratch's] omniscience makes sense, since the author has sweeping knowledge of story details as well. Because I "know everything," he "knows everything" too. Of course, as I write the story, there are plenty of things I don't know yet, and the "not knowing" is always an important part of the process in this largely improvisational medium.

aranea starts out almost as a historian wanting to infodump pass down oral history of previous events; eventually, however, she becomes fed up with the story and decides to seize control of it herself, placing herself in an authorial position (or alt-author) so that she can steer the ship to the direction she that believes is best for everyone. ultimately, however, she fails, and gets herself re-killed by the condesce, a puppet of the real authorial avatar (english). the gendered interpretation of this is that a woman, she can girlboss (translation: be a woman in a man's position) as hard as she wants, but can never achieve true power under the patriarchy. she can play author all she wants (and hurt people along the way) but will never be allowed into the Boys Club

now, this doesn't mean that trying to be in a masculine position means a character is masculine (or even truly wants to be). but it's clear that she wants to be an author, she wants to know everything, she wants to wield the sword, all symbols of oppressive masculinity. and ONE(!!!!!) OF the ways to subvert/break that expectation is to figure out how to be true to yourself by reclaiming and embodying masculinity without succumbing the perpetuation of the patriarchy (which, coincidentally (or perhaps, not coincidentally?) is part of the basis for my transmasc reading of dirk, something i think he's forced to grapple with as well)

again, not my true + perfect vision that i'll die for or anything. just an interesting thought to speculate on

[thesoulforgeorder]

hello!!! congrats on the chapter 2 part 1 release!!! you've worked very hard and you should be proud of what you've accomplished!

so far I've only played as the Military!MC and god i could just feel how much their family cherishes them. i specifically play as a Military!MC who's not really entirely sure what she wants and is just trying to fulfill their duty so to speak and thus hasn't really voiced any of their doubts, but that little moment made me think, "you know, i don't think they would immediately turn their backs on you like you fear they would." idk it just made me tear up a lil bit ;3; disappointing them would still make me sad, but i was gladdened to see MC loved by their parents and siblings. i will probably defo come back after playing as an Orphan or Wastelander MC (*w*)

that said, i had to mention something funny. so i often use "Nikola", shortened as "Niko" as my preferred name. i also tend to play as a Chinese MC if the setting is conducive for it because well I'M Chinese xD so it was ESPECIALLY funny for me to meet Nico as Niko. like ok buddy, one of us is gonna have to change--especially if we're dating LOL

even funnier is that you said Nico would be a bard in DND...because I, too, am a bard in DND/BG3. when asked the same question about me, all of my friends took one look at my dopey, loves to sing, "but can i kiss the eldritch abomination?", troublemaker gremlin ass and said "yeah that's a bard." and now i am so curious and excited to see what makes Nico a bard >W<

*insert Spiderman pointing meme*

��Chinese

✓Shared/homophonous nickname/preferred name

✓Bards

✓Military background

✓Rhyming surnames (Zhu VS Wu)

ONE OF US IS GONNA HAVE TO CHANGE, BUDDY!!! nah jk we can just be Nico^2. or to avoid confusion i'm just gonna give him THE most annoying nicknames. and/or petnames if i romance him LOL please wish me luck that i come out of this IF unscathed for i am just as likely to get eaten by an Exillium as i am to get blasted by Nico for calling him "my dumpling" over the comms.

anyhow. once again, congratulations on chapter 2 part 1!!! i look forward to what else you've got cooking up; that said, please take all the time you need! you've worked very hard!!!!

Thank you so much for the kind words, Anon! All the hard work is worth it when I see how much you and others are enjoying the game.

Military!MC has a lot of interesting family moments throughout the game. The battle of wanting to not disappoint your father, live up to the family legacy, fear of isolation and rivalry and tension with siblings will all come into play in later chapters.

But there will be a lot of sweet moments to soften the angst!

Also that is absolutely hilarious, what a coincidence! Not so long ago another anon said the same thing but in regards to being Astrid! So I see I have anon twins. I can't believe it.

I am still new to coding so I'm not sure how to get characters to recognise players as having the same name as them but when I do, I'm writing that as a scene. Nico would 100% insist that he gets to be nico prime and MC will have to go by a nickname.

Perhaps people will get to see his bard side in part two hehe.

Thank you for the ask and you made my night! I love the Niko and Nico duo. Truly iconic

[inkykeiji]

maybe next time

character: todoroki touya | dabi warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, pseudo-cest (eventual step brother + step sister), fem!reader, pet names, drug use, generally toxic and manipulative behaviour words: 4.4k

notes: just a lil relationship study set two weeks after touya and reader’s initial encounter in the kitchen! no smut, but the piece contains dark content and heavy themes.

It’s late when the knock comes, the tiny clock on your desk reading a couple minutes past midnight, and you frown, glancing towards your closed bedroom door. 

You were positive Rei and your father had already gone to bed.

“Come in,” you call softly, a slight tremor of anxiety sewn into your words.

The brass knob begins to turn, slow and steady, the door creaking open a second later to reveal a dark, spiky silhouette, Touya’s face swimming into view a moment later as he peers through the gap. 

“Touya?” 

The surprise must show on your face, his name nothing more than a gasp of shock on your tongue, because the corner of his mouth curls up, something sinister wriggling on his face. An eyebrow raises, and his head tilts a little, as if to say aren’t you forgetting something? 

“-Niichan,” you tack on hastily, and his smirk grows. 

He holds your gaze for a moment, lidded eyes boring into a wide stare, your breath stagnating in your lungs as you wait. 

“What’re you doing tomorrow night?” he finally asks, pushing the door open wider and inviting himself into your room, heel kicking it shut a moment later.

“Tomorrow?” you repeat, brows furrowing as you attempt to recall. “Uh, I dunno. Studying, I guess?” 

Throwing a scoff over his shoulder, Touya regards you with skepticism. “On Halloween?” 

“Y-Yes?”

Your answer comes out hesitant, as if you’re afraid of being wrong, and he snorts. 

“That’s lame.” 

He doesn’t look at you as he talks, strolling languidly around your room as his eyes sweep across the space, unhurried and interested. Slowing to a stop in front of your vanity, his dirty fingers flip open a jewellery box, sapphire scanning the contents quickly before flicking the box shut again. 

“I don’t believe you,” he pivots on his heel, belt scraping against pink ivory wood as he leans back against the edge of the vanity, arms crossed loosely over his chest. 

“What?”

“I don’t believe you,” he shrugs a shoulder, but his eyes are gleaming. “Are you lying to me?”

“No, Touya-nii, I swear—” 

And, really, you should be ashamed of the way the words rush from your mouth in a singular breath, head shaking with ardency. “I don’t have any plans.”

Silence blankets the room once more as he observes you, stare narrowing. Your desk chair creeks as you subconsciously lean forward, physically imploring him. 

“Pretty girl like you doesn’t have any party invites? That doesn’t sound right.” 

The subtle compliment has your eyes darting down to the tangled mess of hands in your lap, heat flooding your cheeks, his unblinking gaze heavy and scalding. It’s hard to suppress the shy smile incessantly tugging at the edges of your lips, and your head droops further, chin tucked into your chest. 

“See? You’re even hiding from me.” He’s moving again, footfalls muted, the hem of his jeans dragging across hardwood, just a touch too long for him without his boots. “You know, it’s not very nice to lie to your niichan.”

The term sends a jolt rippling through your blood, still not used to hearing it drip from his lips, and your head snaps up immediately, instant denials bubbling up in your throat. 

“I promise I’m not lying,” you nearly whine out. “I—I’d never lie to my—my niichan.” 

It’s still foreign in your mouth, but you spit it from your tongue anyway, trembling and awkward, gazing up at him with a particular desperation, begging to be believed. 

He’s nearly toe-to-toe with you now, looking down at you with those bright, bright eyes, pinprick pupils swimming in a sea of azure. His stare is sharp and hungry, skinning the flesh from your bones and consuming it, and you let him, willingly holding still as he feeds.

“I’ll hold you to that, you know.” 

“I promise,” you repeat, a breathy vow. 

“You better,” he says, voice low and smooth, remnants of a threat infusing his tone. “Because good girls don’t ever lie.” 

“No,” you shake your head, trancelike, ensnared in his hypnotic eyes. “They don’t.” 

Something flickers in his irises, a shard of pride shining in the dim light of your bedroom, and his smirk mollifies to something softer, something sweeter, something you hope might be just for you.

“Good,” he murmurs, nimble fingers reaching out to stroke your temple in a feathery caress. 

Satisfaction swells your chest and you preen beneath his praise, suddenly starved for more—his touch, his attention, a soft noise of contentment vibrating in your throat as you attempt to nuzzle into his fingertips, Touya huffing out a chuckle in response. 

He awards you with another stroke of his thumb, callus rough against your supple skin, and then he’s pulling away, stalking toward your fluffy pink bed as he continues, you quickly swivelling in your chair to follow him.

“Well, if you’re not doing anything tomorrow,” he begins, flopping himself down on your mattress, looking sorely out of place among lace and frills and cute stuffed animals. “Why don’t you come to a party with me?” 

A party?

“I—I, um,” your breath tangles in your throat and you cough a little, sputtering. “You…Really want that?”

“Sure,” he pushes himself up on his elbows, head quirked to one side. “Why not?” 

“It’s just—I’m—Isn’t it kind of, like, lame to have your little sister tag along?” 

Touya’s smile drops, and your heart sinks with his disappointment. 

“You know, if you don’t want to come, you can just say so.”

“No!” you hasten to say, head shaking frantically. “No, that’s not what I meant at all—”

“I wouldn’t have invited you if I didn’t want you there, stupid.” 

“I’m sorry,” the apology tumbles from your lips automatically. “I’m sorry, Touya-nii, I didn’t—I really want to come with you.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” you breathe out, nails digging into the soft plastic of your armrests. “Absolutely, yes.” 

He pretends to contemplate, stretches the moment, lets you marinate in the uncertainty and soaks up your yearning for his approval. 

“Alright, it’s a deal.” He pushes himself up off your bed, grinning at the way your body visibly deflates. “Be ready for eight.”

“O-Okay. But…Um—”

A sigh is exhaled, slow and sharp, and he glances at you over his shoulder, hand flexing around your doorknob. “What?”

You wince at his growing impatience, eyes darting to your trembling knees before peeking at him again, protected by a shield of eyelashes. 

“Is it a costume party? I don’t have anything to wear.” 

Annoyance fades from his face immediately, eroded by something nefarious.

“Oh, don’t you worry your pretty little head about that,” he says, smirk resurfacing, tinged with malice. “Niichan will take care of it all.” 

  ✰          ✰          ✰    

Halloween night finds you on the counter of the upstairs bathroom, your older brother positioned between your spread thighs, callused fingers wreathed around your jaw as he holds your head in place. 

In the two short months you’ve known him, you’ve never been this close to him. Sapphire eyes stay focused on his actions, carefully following the trajectory of his fingers as they draw tiny black capillaries beneath your eyes with a thin stick of eyeliner.

He shifts a little, sharp hipbones bumping against the bare flesh of your inner thighs as he readjusts his stance, and your muscles tense, toes curling in an attempt to keep from squeezing your legs shut.

It is maybe a little inappropriate, just how close he actually is, gentle exhales infused with smoky hickory wafting across your cheeks, damp and hot. You can’t help but lick at your lips, hoping to soak up remnants of his breath, disappointed to taste nothing more than cheap Halloween makeup. 

“Come now,” he murmurs, stare never leaving his hand as it works. “Don’t ruin niichan’s hard work.” 

Pins of humiliation prick your cheeks and you squeak out an apology, resisting the urge to jerk your face free from his grasp, yearning to hide from his inquisitive eyes.

It is maybe a little inappropriate, just how reactive you are to him—just how much you crave his attention, just how easily you melt beneath his heat, a handful of words and a wicked smirk reducing you to something pliable and easy in his rough palms. 

It is definitely inappropriate, just how sinfully strong those feelings towards him are—feelings no good little sister should ever feel for her big brother, feelings that have your stomach swooping and your mouth watering and your thighs clenching, saliva collecting beneath your tongue and slick arousal seeping through cotton panties. 

This man is supposed to be your brother for Christ’s sake, yet here you are, fawning after him like some lovesick schoolgirl. 

It makes the costume he picked out for you ironically apt.

While you were in class, Touya had taken it upon himself to raid your closet in search of a last-minute Halloween costume—a plaid skirt from your high school years, now much too short to be considered wholly appropriate, and a button-up linen shirt, first button popped and last three left undone so Touya could tie your shirttails up in a knot, leaving your stomach exposed.

An undead schoolgirl, he had claimed when he presented it to you. 

“What are you going to be dressed up as?” you ask as Touya puts the finishing touches on the masterpiece he’s made of your face—a Chelsea smile stitched shut, not unlike his own tattoos. 

Stepping back, he straightens to his full height, the smirk worming on his face making your skin crawl, blue eyes darkening as he pulls a pair of nondescript black framed glasses from his back pocket.

“A teacher.” 

  ✰          ✰          ✰    

The basement is hazy, your nose wrinkling reflexively as the smell of burnt plastic envelopes you. Touya keeps your hand trapped tightly in his own while he navigates the space, glancing back over his shoulder and laughing at your reaction to the vapour saturating the room. 

What is that? you want to ask, eyes squinting against the putrid odour as you scan your surroundings, panic tingling in your chest at the sound of a glass pipe clacking against front teeth, a gentle crackling following a few seconds later. 

Oh. 

Your other hand curls around Touya’s wrist, nails biting into his flesh as you shuffle closer to him—so close that you bump into his back, fighting the impulse to bury your face against his spine. 

It’s okay, your inner voice echoes in your brain, a feeble attempt to calm the pounding against your ribs. You’re with Touya, you’re safe.

“What’s wrong?” he looks down at you, a wide smile slapped across his face, sapphire glittering with amusement. “You scared?”

“I—I’m—” 

The confession sticks in your throat, the words I’m terrified sounding much too childish and lame to tell your big brother, a rush of heat seeping into your cheeks.

But you don’t need to tell him; it seems he already knows. 

“Aww,” Touya coos, smile stretching to inhuman proportions. “That’s cute.” 

It’s spit from his mouth like it’s an insult, yet his eyes are gleaming, bright and alive with a misplaced excitement you couldn’t ever hope to understand. 

“Don’t worry,” he continues, wrapping a strong arm around your shoulder, a thumb stroking your bicep. “Niichan will protect you.”

Your body relaxes the instant it’s consumed by his embrace, a comforting cloak of home. It’s interesting how only a day ago you had feared him—feared his coolness, feared his callousness—yet now he acts as a solace, a safe place. 

“You promise?”

“Pinky,” he vows. “What’re big brother’s for?” 

Touya really does keep his promise, his arm slipping down to stay secured around your waist, heavy palm resting on your hip, fingers curling into your flesh slightly, massaging halfhearted lopsided circles into your bare skin.

He refuses to let go of you for a single second, dragging you along with him as he makes his customary rounds, greeting blurred faces painted with cheap makeup, half-melted by sweat. The hand on your hip has gone slippery with combined perspiration, but he grips you all the same, blunt nails nipping your flesh whenever he has you tug you out of the way.

It’s hard for you to catch much of the conversation exchanged between your big brother and an assortment of partygoers, the music too loud and the voices too slurred, their words encoded with foreign language and unfamiliar terms. 

It’s boring for the most part, and you’d feel exceptionally left out if it weren’t for Touya’s hand, hot and damp against your skin. 

It’s boring, but his touch is exciting, mind flooded with a never-ending stream of sordid thoughts about how such rough hands, peppered with hard calluses, would feel smoothing along your skin—up your skirt, between your thighs, along your waist, over your cotton panties…Would you be able to feel that hardened patch of tissue coating his thumb through the material if he were to stroke you there? 

Revulsion erupts across your body, followed by a scalding flush of shame, and you nuzzle your cheek against Touya’s chest, face half-hidden by the fabric of his shirt.

His scent cloaks you, a thick swamp of saliva collecting beneath your tongue, and you inhale deeper, filling your lungs with him, ribs expanding with his essence. Would his skin taste as spicy as he smells? Have any of these sloppy girls, stumbling in stilettos with cloudy heads full of crack cocaine, been afforded the privilege of finding out?

The sudden shock of jealousy that sears through your chest startles you, intense and blazing with unexplained hatred, and you wrap your other arm around his waist, fingers tangling in linen and tugging slightly, a silent claim. 

Really, you should feel disgusted in yourself—it isn’t right to be feeling such powerful emotions about a man who is supposed to be your brother, your big brother—but you just can’t help it, the envy potent and the desire primal. 

It seems like Touya consumes your self-discipline, burns it to smouldering cinders that simmer pitifully deep in the pit of your belly, and you find yourself indulging in your cravings despite knowing it’s wrong, so, so wrong. 

The party trudges on aimlessly and you stay drowned in Touya, steeping yourself in his aura, hoping to soak some of him up—as a memento, something to keep you company long after the party ends.

There is one guest, however, who stands out among the nondescript crowd to an almost impeccable degree. 

Touya doesn’t go looking for him. No, this man, sheathed in gold and crimson, finds him. 

The crowd parts for him like he’s some sort of messiah, faded eyes stealing glances as he advances towards the darkened corner Touya has stowed the two of you away in, pupils full of longing, of wanting, of hunger.

The air in your lungs evaporates in the radiance of his beauty, your eyes wide and glued to his form, your gaze slowly tracing over all of his features: the sharp, angular jaw, the dusting of aureate whiskers adoring his chin, the shimmering topaz irises, sharp and alert despite the man’s easygoing speech and languid tone.

He talks to Touya for a little, his words muffled to your ears, full attention enraptured by his breathtaking nature. It isn’t until he addresses you directly that his voice finally cuts through the haze, forcing you to tune back into his frequency, dry eyes blinking stickily as you descend back down to earth. 

“And who is this little miss?” 

His smile is teasing, but his eyes shine with undeniable sincerity, interest perked. 

“My little sister.” 

And it’s the way he says it—smug and proud and slightly possessive—that has you preening, presenting yourself to his friend with a swelled chest and a bashful smile, honoured to wear the title of Touya’s little sister.

“Oh?” the man looks toward Touya, grin curling into something corrupt. “Lucky you.” 

Turning back to you, the man holds out his hand. “I’m Keigo.” 

It takes you a moment to whimper out your own name, clumsily slotting your hand into his. His hand feels strong, but his grip is gentle—dainty, almost, as if he’s afraid of shattering your delicate bones. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Keigo dips his head, gentlemanly, and a giggle curdles in your throat. “Has anyone ever told you you’ve got a voice like a songbird?” 

Your head shakes, your whole body heating beneath his keen stare, biceps flexing around Touya’s waist as you re-embrace him. 

“Well, you do,” Keigo continues. “So airy and elegant—graceful, almost.” 

“You tryna recruit her or something?” 

The bite in Touya’s voice is nearly tangible, sharp and harsh, and it devours Keigo’s train of thought immediately, the man heeding the implicit warning of back the fuck off. 

It should make you feel sad, you think, that Touya’s being so mean to someone so lovely, but it doesn’t. Instead, it inspires a bout of giddiness to flood your chest, his concerning protectiveness conjuring a shy smile to form on your lips. 

Touya must notice in some regard, because his chest puffs out a little, his grip on your body tightening, a silent notion of I’m here, I’ve got you. 

“‘Wouldn’t dream of it,” Keigo eases off lightly with a pacifying smile. “Just an observation, s’all.”

Keigo’s surrender seems to satisfy Touya, though, and they slip back into a boring conversation, peppered with amounts and weights and dollars, your presence forgotten, tucked securely away beneath the arm of your big brother. 

And, really, you don’t mind it there—it’s cozy, and it’s warm, and it’s safe—until you have to pee. 

“N-Niichan,” your knuckles curl in the cotton of his shirt, tugging down a little. “Niichan. Touya-nii.” 

He looks down at you, brows furrowed slightly in confusion. 

“What?” 

“I—” your eyes dart to Keigo, who feigns disinterest, then back to Touya, his gaze mimicking the trajectory of yours. “I have to pee.” 

A smirk materializes on his face and something akin to dread unfurls in the pit of your stomach, thick and tarry.

“No problem,” he says easily, but you can’t shake the feeling something is off. “I’ll bring you to the washroom.” 

And bring you to the washroom, he does. What you don’t expect is for his palm to catch the door, just as you’re squeaking out your thanks, a big black boot wedged in the doorframe as collateral. 

There isn’t a moment to question what he’s doing, because before your stunned mind can even comprehend it, Touya’s shoving forward, pushing himself through the small space and into the washroom with you. 

“Gotta make sure you stay safe,” he says as way of explanation, nonchalant with a shrugged shoulder, as though this is normal behaviour. 

Blinking slowly, your head quirks, forehead puckered. “You could’ve just stood outside the door…”

“And, what? Break my promise?” His eyes are hard, his brows knitted, as if he’s offended you even insinuated such a thing. “What kind of big brother do you think I am?” 

The kind who forcibly intrudes private spaces, apparently. 

“No, I mean—It’s just—Is this really necessary?” 

“I made you a promise,” Touya annunciates slowly, the pace insinuating your stupidity, his gaze boring into your own, imploring you to understand. “And I intend to keep that promise.” 

Claws of panic encase your heart, your chest beginning to feel tight and heavy, as if his steady stare is depressing your ribs, pressing the life from your lungs. 

You think you are finally beginning to understand the full extent of Touya’s bullheadedness (as Rei calls it), because it is becoming abundantly clear that he will not be taking no for an answer, under any circumstances.

His unrelenting glare wears you down easily, quickly, and you can feel your bones crumpling beneath his eyes, haughtily staring down the bridge of his nose at your folding form. 

“Can you at least turn around?” you mutter out weakly, wincing at how pathetic your voice sounds, a timid request instead of a terse demand, one last desperate plea for privacy.

But the disapproval coating Touya’s face cracks, revealing sterling satisfaction, and he nods with a small smile, pivoting on the balls of his feet. “Of course.” 

It’s intimate in the most invasive way, to have his presence in the room as your skirt flips up and your panties pool around your ankles—white lace; you wonder if Touya likes lace?—his aura powerful and suffocating. 

“Wash your hands.” 

The order comes the moment the toilet flushes, calm and stern and strong over the rush of flowing water. 

“Y-Yes, niichan,” your head ducks obediently, even if he can’t see you, quickly thrusting your hands under the faucet. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs when he finally turns around, and his eyes are soft, melty, as you dry your hands on a dirty towel. 

You should feel ashamed, horrified, at the way you preen beneath his praise—an innate reaction, entirely subconscious as you’re drawn to his heat, a sunflower yearning for fiery sun—but you barely even notice it’s happening, the response so instinctual it feels natural, normal, right.

You expect it to be awkward after; he did just force you to pee in front of him, essentially, a violation of your basic rights as a human—but it isn’t. 

If anything, you suddenly feel inexplicably closer to him, as if the whole bizarre experience has united you in some way, a new bond birthed, a special secret to share between the two of you.  

The rest of the party passes in an incomprehensible blur, Touya the only constant in your mind—the feeling of his hands on your hips, palms rough but warm; the sensation of his fingers threaded through yours, slim and bony but strong in their grip, pressing intermittently into your knuckles with varying degrees of force; the warmth of his lap beneath your bum and his chest cushioning your back, one of his hands in both of yours as he allows you to idly trace the inked sutures lining the back of his hand, symbolically connecting puckered skin to healthy flesh. 

You’re pretty sure siblings aren’t supposed to act this way—touch like this, be this close—but you can’t be certain; maybe it’s different when the siblings aren’t related by blood? Or maybe, since you aren’t technically, officially step-siblings just yet, then it doesn’t count? 

Either way, if Touya’s doing it, then it’s probably okay, isn’t it? Touya presumably knows better than you do, anyway. Touya’s been a big brother to three other siblings all his life. 

And if Touya’s behaviour is okay, then it must mean that it’s okay for you to nestle into his body, face nuzzling into the junction of his shoulder and neck—a cozy little curve, perfect to cradle your cheek—as dainty little fingers crawl across his chest, right?

There’s nothing wrong with that, is there? Brothers and sisters cuddle sometimes, don’t they? This is mostly harmless, right?

So what if being this close to him ignites a flock of sparks to fizz in your tummy? So what if feeling his hands on your body—his palm petting the back of your head, his fingers trailing the notches of your spine—inspires your own greedy hands to wander, too: tiptoeing down the buttons lining his sternum, trailing along the collar of his shirt, aching to trace the sharp line of his jaw or twirl in inky tufts of hair at the base of his skull.  

And so what if this makes you crave more of him—more of his touch, more of his time—what’s so bad about a little sister wanting more of her brother’s attention? 

It’s not a big deal, is it? That’s normal, isn’t it? 

He’s so warm, and he’s so strong, and he smells so good, your eyes slipping shut against your better judgement, the pulsing thrum of his blood rushing through the thick veins in his neck, steady and calm, the perfect lullaby. 

You have no idea what time it is when Touya finally hoists you up, legs locking loosely around his waist and arms draped over his shoulders as he carries you from the dingy basement. 

“S’going on?” you mumble into his collarbone, question smeared across his skin.

“Party’s over,” he chuckles, and you can feel his amusement, deep and warm and real, rumbling against your ribs. “And someone needs to be put to bed.” 

“Already?”

“It’s nearly three AM, baby.” 

Baby. Baby. Weak sparks flare to life in your chest at the utterance of the pet name, and you smile into his skin, rubbing your mouth along the protruding bone—a crude imitation of a kiss. 

It doesn’t go unnoticed by Touya—you’re beginning to realize, slowly but surely, that no part of you ever goes unnoticed by Touya; the nervous tremble in your voice always caught by his keen ears, the timid winces and yearning, bashful stares always catalogued by his inquisitive eyes. 

You’re not quite sure it matters either way. Maybe big brothers are supposed to catch this kind of stuff; maybe it’s their duty to know all of their little sister’s mannerisms.

So you know he doesn’t miss the way your fingers curl against his shoulders, nails scraping linen, after he’s laid you across your mattress, still in your Halloween costume, and is beginning to pull away.

“Don’t go.”

The desperation in your voice is palpable, and in any other circumstance you’d be writhing with horrified humiliation, but your brain is too tired to process the weight of your words, floating in the purgatory between conscious and unconscious. 

Touya wavers, dreamlike, in your sleep-tinged vision, a gentle noise of disgruntlement sounding at the back of your throat. 

“Hm?” 

“Don’t want you to go,” you manage to mumble out through a pout.

“Oh?” 

Your bedroom is dark, the waning moon bathing it in a soft silver glow, sapphire eyes catching in the beams as they search your face, slow and purposeful, almost as if he doesn’t believe you. 

“Is that so?”  

“T’is,” your arms tighten around his neck, weakly tugging him toward you. “Stay.” 

He goes willingly, his elbows digging into the plush of your mattress on either side of your shoulders, his body half-blanketing yours. 

“I don’t think you understand what you’re asking for, sweetheart.”

His breath is hot against your face, his voice low and smooth as it rumbles against your heart. 

Perhaps not, but you want it anyway. 

“Please?” 

Something sharp glints in his eye as his gaze sweeps your features again, a predatory smirk smeared across his lips. His thumb ghosts over the apple of your cheek, a promise written in the action, and a responding shiver skitters up your spine. 

“Maybe next time.” 

[bfdiwoody]

i love the idea of giving my bfdi gijinkas human names... like some could stay the same like woody which i like but for characters like blocky, pin, leafy, etc. i have to get a bit more creative '^.^ here r some i have so far :3

blocky - brooke !! idk i have had this for almost a year,, it fits him trust leafy - lillian but she would go by lil/lilly flower - fiona.. idk it just fits 2 me pen - ben.. i think we all know why /silly eraser - i like either elias or elijah pin - idk why but i feel like it would be penny... donr ask lollipop - this is gonna sound so weird I feel like but I swear its what makes sense to me in my head but like.. Amira.. idk.. the gijinka I have for her looks like she would be named Amira nickle - it would be . nick / nicholas. i feel like thats pretty basic buttttt it fits :p woody - it wuld just be . woody..... BUT i hc him to be half japanese so i think his name in japanese would be something like Fuyuki? Idk im still working it out cuz i wanna try to incoorporate something that 1. makes sense and 2. relates / has the meaning of forest in it(SOZ IF IT MAKES NO SENSE IMBAD WITH WORDS) thats all i have 4 now!! i might update this if i feel like it and if any1 wants to share theirs or has some suggestions i am happy 2 hear them ^_^

[charmwasjess]

you know the drill

💔&🖤

Ohh, Boli, my love, you got me comin' in hot here:

💔: If you had to remove one major character from the series, who would you choose?

Honestly? It’s Dooku. 

The films fail him as a character. He’s there to kill time between villains, foreshadow Anakin's fall, and because Lucas wanted a respected film icon in his prequels the way he had Cushing and Guinness in the OT.

"But Jess, he's your fav and you're uncomfortably horny about him on main?!" you might ask. Yes, Dooku has an incredible backstory, a huge amount of narrative and emotional complexity, and a burning pile of potential, but it is never addressed or expanded on in the films. He has no arc or dynamic development - even his political scenes with Padme hit the cutting room floor. His motives for leaving the Order or joining the Sith are confused at best, shunted to supplemental canon, and the fake war plot is arguably one of the weakest and most confusing aspects of the prequels. He isn’t even given last words; fitting in the scene, also a perfect summary for how the character is used in the narrative. 

Imagining him gone is also an interesting possible fix-it recipe. So: lil' baby Doo gets turned into a spinewolf snackpack back in bby 101 or whatever and never exists. Okay, without Dooku there to save his life, teenaged Sifo-Dyas is either a. smashed by a falling city, b. drowned in hospital basement bacta flood, or c. tortured to death by Evil Moss (holy shit Dooku rescues him a LOT in that damn book). Between the two of them, that means the clone army is out. And if Qui-Gon had a different Master, one who actually put their foot down about the prophecy holocron instead of codependently indulging him, would he still have gotten obsessed with it to the point that it built into his obsession with the Chosen One and actions with Anakin? Maybe, maybe.

🖤: Which character is not as morally good as everyone else seems to think?

It’s ironic that my man Qui-Gon has become the canon poster child for The Only Truest Goodest Jedi, the exception to the so-called arrogance of the late stage Order, when his actions in Phantom Menace are a laundry list of things people routinely blame the Jedi for doing. Now, I love Qui-Gon, he’s my first favorite character, but let me just give a quick bad faith summary of his actions in TPM just to prove my point before I round back around:

convinces an enslaved child to participate in a deadly race, then buys the child from profits gained from betting on the race’s outcome

blatantly ignores priorities of intergalactic crisis to pursue the goals of his own fringe spiritual beliefs and conspiracy theories

takes said untrained 9 year old child into active combat after being told expressly not to train him 

Of course, this is a bad faith summary: all those decisions have greater nuance and narrative context. (Tho, actually, why did Anakin come to Naboo... nevermind) This is not to say I think Qui-Gon is secretly bad or something.

But I think people reduce Qui-Gon down to:

Qui-Gon follows his instincts to commune with plants and rescue cute animals :3 

When the reality is (also!):

Qui-Gon follows his instincts to do some morally dubious bad optics shit that works out for him by the end, which is a thing he learned to do from watching Dooku break shit with no consequences btw, and not a uniquely different approach from all other Jedi

I've said it before, I'll say it a thousand times: let Qui-Gon be a beautiful problem, that is part of the joy of the character!  

[rozeliyawashereyall]

I had a vision

May or may not have infused a few HCs to this,, they're subtle but they're there

These two are from @obsidian-lantern yipppee

[bumfuzzled-bee]

!! Lil Ojiro drawings !!

[syrupbitee]

free my boy from his own show he did nothing wrong

[acerikus]

Okay!!!! It's!!!! A day off being a month since I finished tma and I. Gave it a couple of days to feel crushingly sad and read a bunch of fanfics, then listened to the entire thing again (a lil less all at once though bc I started using it for evening walks and it's been really nice!!!! On one of my walks rn and will be continuing through protocol I think :])

Putting this under a readmore bc I was just gonna slap together some ending thoughts, but I accidentally let the words spill out and I've been typing this out for an hour now. Oops.

Anyway. G o d this was good. I've never listened to podcasts before really and this feels like it was a good place to get into it! Only picked it up in the first place bc I've seen mutuals talking about it for years and I wanted something to do when cooking other than half watch YouTube videos in the background. Somehow I still managed to go into it totally blind except for knowing it was horror, that it was mainly voiced by jonny sims and that the spinoff has lesbians???? EXTREMELY glad I wasn't spoiled on anything, bc watching it all come together was magical and a huge part of why I had to relisten.

I love how tied together every story is and how the earlier seasons in a first listen just kinda???? Feel like disconnected scary stories???? I usually don't do horror - never been able to watch horror movies and I only get through horror games by watching manlybadasshero play them and sound so chill about it the whole time, and I knew from slay the princess that jonny had a nice voice for it too.

Anyway a bunch of the early ones still freaked me out but were like... Kinda assuring bc the people mostly made it out? Like that kinda assurance of 'oh it's not TOO scary bc they have to survive to make a statement!' ...Until they started revealing a bunch died afterwards and then the scariness was right back.

Then it's... Kinda cool how as you learn more info about the fears and avatars, it takes a lot more shape???? The tone feels totally different once you learn to start identifying which fear each statement is, where avatars are involved and start recognising reoccurring names (is2g I recognised sarah baldwin's name when it got to Melanie's statement, then dismissed it as some other Sarah like all the Michaels and the way jonny kept pronouncing gerard as jared and making it seem like there were several jareds w wildly different motivations 😭)

And after a while it becomes a lot more about the characters - including avatars from earlier on who just seemed like background spookiness, and you have to sit and listen as jon gets more and more dragged into it himself. Especially liked that part in season 3 where Gerry mentions that Gertrude doesn't like compelling people and then Jon admits he does when asked. Like. Oh. Oh this isn't gonna end well, huh.

Like!!!! The way the entire thing builds up more and more to Jon being far too wrapped up in beholding to ever give it up is really cool, and solidifies that it couldn't have ended any other way, I think. He would've always made that choice, he couldn't help it. He was always going to end up that way.

And there's the added tragedy of him mentioning that he doesn't wanna end up a mystery back in his conversation w martin at the end of season 1 too!!!! Bc the way the end is so ambiguous and open with what actually happened to them (I think I actually do like the idea that they both died best tbh, but I love that it's not confirmed either way) and like. At the core of it, his fate DID end up a mystery. One of the things he was scared of most. And that's just... Really neat????

Should wrap this up soon bc I've been typing this out for like half an hour but another thing I like is that NOBODY in tma is like. Treated as wholly a good person. Everyone's an asshole and most of the time nobody even likes each other and that's???? Really fun and interesting? Like even when jon and martin get together they still argue constantly and aren't super great for each other, and a good chunk of that is probably due to going through an apocalypse but even then, they'd probably both need to work through a lot more of their own issues independently before they could actually have a healthy relationship, I think. Even at the safehouse before the eyepocalypse happened I think they were probs sweeping a loooooot of their issues under the rug, both with themselves and with each other. And I genuinely LOVE that, they're doomed and kinda toxic and not exactly good for each other, but they still somehow love each other more than pretty much anything in such a powerful and destructive way and that's awesome.

Characters like Gertrude too!!!! Gertrude fascinates me so so much because everything about her feels like somebody who would be far more fitting as a protag to this kind of story, while jon would be some kinda distant tragic failure of the past, but that's not it at all. She's the archivist who never really became The Archivist, who learned enough about the situation and the fears and who Magnus really was to decide she was never going to let any of that in, to hold onto her humanity at every chance she got and devoted herself to stopping the dread powers in every way she could. She p much felt like some kind of badass action antihero in all of her tapes - even as it was proved time and time again that she was pretty messed up too and treated all her assistants as disposable, a means to an end.

It contrasts so much with jon, as someone who's so desperate to Know that he falls further into the grasp of the eye, who takes thrill from compelling people and seeking out information, even as it becomes clearer and clearer how dangerous it is, and how it won't end well for him. And jon cares so much for the others around him too, even as they turn their backs on him and call him a monster. He just also does that while relishing in the power he's been given by an eldrich dread entity, and being aware of that fact. Idk, I just think the way they contrast each other is neat :]

Anyway uhhhhhh tma didn't actually make me cry but it made me scared, got me hooked, made me laugh a bunch, caught me EXTREMELY off guard bc for some reason I thought jon was aro even up till most of season 4 due to mishearing something earlier on (he's demiro TO ME) and its ending hit me so hard that I just kinda sat numb the entire night after I finished it and didn't sleep Like At All for like three days bc I was too buzzed (which has only happened to me before after uhh. Undertale, deltarune chapter 2 and uty soooooooo-)

Yeah. It was good. And now that I've finally had a good relisten, had a chance to notice all the connections and plot threads and setup from the get-go and take them all in at a slower pace, I think I'm ready to listen to protocol!

...even if I did just get to the end of my walk. Oops. Maybe I'll do one tonight?

OH. OH ELIAS HAS BEEN JONAH THIS WHOLE TIME HASN'T HE

[quesocheeso]

3am AU

Shadowpeach edition

I'm enjoying having this AU be written posts while I'm also working on comic strips for it, it's fun👍

Okay okay, since the au is based on what happens in canon/ canon present time I'll be referring to stuff from there

Okay so Shadowpeach is complicated in 3am AU (when are they not?) they're by all means rivals who are still hostile to each other, they have just extremely reeled it back when raising their kids, so although Xiaoxing knows they're in somewhat okay(?) terms, he doesn't know what really happened between them. Shadowpeach really went from enemies to co-parents, and they never spoke of their own issues, just an agreement to raise the kids without hostility to each other. Although at the time they shook hands on this, they only had Xiaoxing and the plan was to raise him to adulthood before going back to trying to beat each other up,,,but then they had Xiaoyue which monkey wrench moment fr

I also want to clarify, Shadowpeach aren't together in this AU, they definitely hook up with each other whenever they want, but they aren't together. Do they have romantic feelings for each other? Oh boy they definitely do, I just find it hilarious that Macaque knows he does, while Wukong is kinda oblivious or thinks he has indigestion.

Which brings me to the main topic: Love.

No matter how much Macaque says he hates or despises Wukong, he still goes out of his way to help him. No matter if his own life is in danger he is always there, and isn't that care? One could even say love? Maybe even...Unconditional love.

Hate is born out of love that has rotten, especially between two people like these monkeys.

Just like Peng said, my favorite little instigator, "is there anything wukong can do that will break his hold over you" like wow doesn't that sum it up

In the 3am AU, Macaque has always known that he loved Wukong romantically, even before the journey or brotherhood.

Wukong never really figured out his own feelings, and most likely didn't have a sense of unconditional love for the other, doesn't mean he didn't care.

He just didn't feel as intense as Macaque did, and that's fine.

I do think he was the first to fall out of love with the other (even before he realized he was in love😭) and I mean after the events that transpired in jttw it makes sense and is valid.

I just find it hilarious that the guy who died from his mistakes, got revived and hated the other, still fell in love again first like brother pls

Like dude you died?? You weren't supposed to come back, that was it. You got killed with the knowledge that that was the end, only reincarnation could bring you back and yet your back to being a simp???

Although kudos to him for his love being converted to hate ig

And yet here they are now, with two kids and a home in the island.

I think people in the outside can see how down bad Mac really is, which is hilarious when they look at Wukong and he's like ya that's my "rival", he's also a lil more hostile in their everyday lives which guys pls just talk like yeesh

Doesn't mean Wukong isn't down bad too, my guy just won't realize how much he really cares until it's almost too late😊

Shadowpeach just starts to figure out themselves after Season 3,,,like finally