#stool of gold ph

[shokocide]

PONYBOY - CHOSO KAMO

summary. You came to Dustwell looking for a fresh start. To live a new life in the beat-up house your grandfather left you. Getting involved with the local ranch hand definitely wasn’t on the agenda—and ending up in his bed? Yeah, that wasn’t part of the plan either.

word count. 15k (oh what the hell-)

content. mdni fem!reader, cowboy!choso, slow burnnnn, they want each other but wont do anything about it, he fell first but she fell harder trope, he's lowkey protective, alcohol consumption, pet names, smut, oral (fem rec.), fingering, FERAL choso, p in v, cowgirl (because save a horse), rough sex, multiple orgasms, praise, creampie, overstim, aftercare

author's note. WHAT ARE THEY FEEDING THE CHOSO ARTISTS OH MY DAYS

The house looks smaller than you remember. Maybe it’s the dust-soft edges or the way the sun hits it, turning the old wood siding gold like a sepia photograph. You stand at the edge of the gravel driveway, hands on your hips, squinting through the heat shimmer rolling off the hood of your car.

Inherited property. That’s what the letter called it—like it was some gift. But all you see is a sagging front porch, weeds elbowing through the cracks in the steps, and a mailbox hanging on by a single rusted screw. The whole place smells like dry earth, wood rot, and a faint hint of motor oil.

You spend the afternoon sweating through your shirt, dragging boxes inside and swatting at flies that seem personally offended by your presence. The floors creak in protest. One of the cabinet doors falls off when you open it. You curse out loud and immediately apologize to the empty house, like your grandpa might still be listening somewhere.

There’s no air conditioning. The ceiling fan makes a sound like it’s chewing on itself. You prop open the back door and hope the breeze isn’t carrying more hornets.

By the time the sun starts to dip behind the trees, the living room’s half-unpacked, your hair’s sticking to your neck, and you’re dangerously close to throwing a box labeled “KITCHEN — FRAGILE” straight through the window.

You need a drink.

The bar—locals call it The Pit—is tucked between a feed store and a mechanic’s garage on the edge of town. It’s not much to look at from the outside, just sun-bleached siding and a rusted-out neon sign that reads “OPEN” if you squint hard enough. But inside, it’s cool, low-lit, and smells like wood polish and whiskey.

You get exactly three steps in before every head turns. A beat passes. Then the low hum of conversation starts back up, like nothing happened.

The bartender is a woman with blond streaks in her braid and she’s wearing a plain tank top and jeans, no name tag. She raises an eyebrow as you approach.

“New in town?”

You slide onto a stool. “That obvious?”

She pours something golden into a glass. “Around here? Everything is.”

You take a sip. It burns, in a good way.

“Movin’ into the old place a few blocks down?” she asks, already knowing the answer.

You nod, and she hums like that means something. Maybe it does.

She gestures vaguely toward the back of the bar, where a wall’s been plastered with old photos—rodeos, family cookouts, black-and-white shots of horses mid-stride.

“Lotta history out there,” she says. “That land’s got roots deeper than the well.”

You glance at the glass in your hand. “Hopefully no ghosts.”

She smirks. “Nah. Just nosy neighbors, rattlesnakes, and one too many cowboys who think silence is a personality trait.”

You laugh, tired but genuine. You don’t ask for names. Not yet.

The bartender leans back on one hip, wiping down a glass with a rag that’s seen better days. “You’ll meet the whole town soon enough,” she says, voice easy. “Mornings at the diner, Friday nights at the Pit. Someone’ll swing by your place, offer help you didn’t ask for. Happens every time someone new rolls in.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That supposed to be comforting?”

She grins. “That depends. Some of ’em are harmless. Some of ’em don’t know how to mind their own business.”

A photo behind her catches your eye—framed and slightly crooked, tucked between shelves of mismatched liquor bottles. It’s black and white, a bit worn at the edges. A man stands in front of a horse, head bowed just enough that the brim of his hat hides most of his face. He’s wearing gloves, a long coat, boots scuffed to hell. There’s something still about him—something heavy.

“That one?” she says, catching your gaze. “Choso.”

You don’t look away. “He local?”

“Mhm. Works the Dustwell Ranch a few miles out. Sticks to himself. Comes in when the nights get long or the work gets worse.” She pauses, then adds, “Quiet, mostly. But folks around here know better than to mistake that for soft.”

You blink. The photo stays with you longer than it should.

“Lemme guess,” you say, setting your glass down. “He one of those cowboys you mentioned?”

She chuckles, dry. “He’s the reason I mentioned them.”

You nod slowly. “He’s… not bad-looking.”

The bartender smirks. “Yeah, he hears that a lot. Doesn’t do much with it, though.”

You glance back at the photo. “Not the friendly type?”

“Polite,” she says, “but quiet. Keeps to himself. Doesn’t stick around long when folks start talking too much.”

You hum into your drink. “So, not exactly easy to get to know.”

She shrugs. “People’ve tried. Never really seems interested. Doesn’t mean anything’s wrong with him—just one of those men who likes his space.”

You let that sit for a second. Then: “You saying I shouldn’t bother?”

She smiles without looking at you. “I’m saying if you’re the curious type, just don’t expect straight answers.”

-

You head out just before sunset, boots crunching on gravel as the heat finally starts to ease off the land. The air smells like mesquite and dirt, with a hint of something sweet on the wind—wildflowers, maybe. The road that runs past your place stretches long in both directions, flanked by open fields and fences that lean just enough to say no one’s been out here fixing things in a while.

You don’t take a phone. There’s no signal anyway. Just the breeze, the cicadas, and the sound of your own steps as you walk past fences wrapped in rusted wire, thistles pushing up through the cracks in the asphalt.

There’s not much out here—just land. Wide and quiet. Like it’s still waiting to decide what to do with you.

Then, about half a mile out, the trees start to thin, and you catch sight of a gate.

It’s big—old wood and iron, solid in that way that says it wasn’t built for decoration. There’s a sign nailed across the top beam. The paint’s worn, but the lettering’s still clear:

DUSTWELL RANCH

You slow without meaning to.

Beyond the gate, the land stretches open again—miles of pasture rolling out beneath a soft orange sky. You can just make out the edge of a barn in the distance, roof sloped, doors cracked. A couple of horses stand near the fence line, heads down, tails flicking lazily.

You rest your hands on the top of the gate. Not climbing it. Just looking.

You’re about to turn back when you hear it—the low groan of leather, the thud of boots hitting packed earth.

Someone’s moving out there.

And then, farther out—near the barn—you catch sight of a figure. Broad shoulders, long stride, dark hair pulled back under a white hat. He moves like the heat doesn’t bother him. Like the land’s just an extension of his own skin.

You can’t make out his face from this far, but something about the way he adjusts the strap over his shoulder—smooth, practiced—tells you it’s him.

Choso.

You don’t call out. You don’t wave.

You just watch, quiet, until he disappears around the side of the barn.

You stay a moment more before turning back, heading home before the sky goes fully dark.

-

You decide to take a look at the general store the next afternoon.

The little bell above the door jingles as you step inside, and you’re immediately hit with the scent of wood and old paper. The general store’s got everything—canned beans, rope, seed packets, and even a rack of novelty postcards that look older than you.

You wander through the aisles, basket on your arm, grabbing some cleaning rags and a stubborn bottle of wood polish. You’re reaching for a pack of nails on a higher shelf when someone steps into the aisle at the same time you do.

You both stop—almost head to chest.

“Whoa—sorry,” you say, laughing a little.

He steps back without much of a reaction, but his eyes linger. It’s him. Cowboy hat, button-down rolled to the elbows, gloves tucked into his back pocket. He’s taller up close. And quieter, too—like the kind of quiet that says more than most people do out loud.

“Haven’t seen you around before,” he says, voice low and easy. “You new?”

You nod, trying not to stare. “Yeah. Just moved in. My grandfather left me the old place off Hollow Creek.”

He tilts his head. “Big property, that one. Lotta trees.”

“Also a lot of creaky floors and suspicious plumbing,” you joke.

That gets him—just barely. A small huff of a laugh, like it surprised him too.

“I’m Choso.”

“So I’ve heard.” you smile at him before offering your own name.

“Well,” he says, eyes crinkling just a little at the corners, “welcome to Dustwell, darlin’.”

And just like that, he tips his hat and keeps walking, leaving you in the middle of aisle three, staring after him with a half-full basket and a flutter in your chest.

-

The FaceTime connects with a familiar ceiling view and the soft clink of ice in a glass.

“...Are you lying dead in a ditch or just ghosting me now?” Shoko’s voice is dry as ever as she finally appears on screen, sunglasses on, cigarette in one hand, something suspiciously alcoholic in the other—even though it’s barely 3 p.m.

“I’ve been busy,” you whine, slumping onto the couch. “There’s a lot to unpack.”

“Yeah? Unpack the hot cowboy you texted me about at midnight and then never followed up on.”

You groan into your palm. “It wasn’t that serious! He just—he was at the store. I bumped into him. Literally. And he’s tall and—hat, gloves, boots, the whole deal.”

“Cowboy cosplay or actual cowboy?”

“Actual cowboy, Shoko. Like... brawny forearms and slow drawl. Called me darlin’.”

She sips her drink. “Mmm. Cowboys are usually good with their hands. You should test that.”

“Shoko! I don’t even know the guy!”

“Perfect. No expectations. Just vibes.”

You gawk at her, scandalized. She shrugs.

“I'm just saying—man’s probably got calluses in all the right places.”

You grab a pillow and yell into it while she just watches, smug.

You peek out from behind the pillow. “You’re the worst.”

“I’ve been called worse,” she says, exhaling smoke. “Now show me.”

“Show you what?”

“The cowboy, obviously.”

You blink. “Shoko. I’m not a stalker. I didn’t take a picture of him.”

She raises a brow. “Miss ma’am didn’t sneak a pic? I taught you nothing.”

You groan. “It would’ve been weird! I didn’t even know what to say after he walked off. I just stood there like an idiot with my bread and canned soup.”

“That’s hot. Very romance novel of you.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” she says, smug. “You’re just mad because your little prairie crush made your brain short-circuit.”

You bury your face again, voice muffled. “He had that whole rugged, fresh-off-the-ranch thing going on, Shoko.”

There’s a pause.

“Okay, yeah. You’re done for.”

You sit back up, defeated. “It was just one interaction. He probably won’t even remember me.”

“Oh, he’ll remember. You’re new in town. He absolutely noticed. And if he’s quiet and broody like you said, that man’s probably thought about you seventeen times since then and doesn’t know what to do about it.”

You blink at her.

“You’re scary.”

“I’m right.”

You sulk into the couch. “What do I even do with that information?”

Shoko grins slowly. “You go to the store again. And you wait.”

You squint at the screen. “That’s your plan? I just... loiter in the soup aisle until he appears?”

“If he’s got work boots and a quiet drawl, yeah. Linger,” Shoko says, entirely unfazed.

You groan. “He probably won’t even show up again. It’s a small town, not a Hallmark movie.”

“Which means he’ll show up everywhere,” she counters, raising a brow. “That’s the rule. First hot man encounter? You will see him again. At least three times. One of them in an inconvenient setting.”

You pause. “Like what?”

She smirks. “Public restroom line. Town fair. Your porch. Shirtless.”

“Okay goodbye,” you say, jabbing the screen to hang up, and her laughter is the last thing you hear before it goes dark.

You drop your phone on your stomach and stare at the ceiling, brain already drifting.

You weren’t even looking for anyone. This move was supposed to be peaceful—slow mornings, quiet skies, maybe a dog. You were going to find yourself or whatever people in dramatic life transitions are supposed to do.

But now there’s a man with sleepy eyes and dust on his jeans, and you can’t stop replaying the way he’d said darlin’, like it wasn’t the first time he’d said it and like he wouldn’t mind saying it again.

You sigh.

And the worst part?

You already need eggs.

-

You need eggs.

That’s what you tell yourself, at least, when you head back to the little general store the next day, pretending it has nothing to do with a six-foot-something man in a cowboy hat.

Nope. It’s all for the eggs.

You meander through the store, making slow, aimless rounds. Produce. Aisles with three different kinds of cereal. Laundry detergent. You’re halfway through the snacks when you realize you’re not shopping anymore. You’re lurking.

You make a show of studying a can of chili you have zero intention of buying.

Still no sign of him.

You check your phone. It's been almost 30 minutes. You’ve looped the store twice, possibly three times. The cashier’s starting to give you that polite, “do you need help with something or are you casing the joint” smile.

You give up and finally head to the register with the single carton of eggs you came for.

No Choso.

No deep voice. No gloves in his back pocket. Not even a damn cowboy hat on the horizon.

You leave the store feeling... not disappointed, exactly. Just... aware of how silly you probably looked loitering in front of a shelf of trail mix like it was hiding romance.

You sigh and clutch the eggs a little tighter.

Guess he won’t be everywhere after all.

You’re not looking for him.

You’re just taking a walk.

That’s what you tell yourself as your feet find the same dusty road that runs past that ranch. The sign’s old but well-kept, carved into smooth wood with curling ends, tucked beside a wide gate.

You think about turning back.

You don’t.

There’s a low sound—rhythmic, heavy. Hooves. And when you glance up, there he is.

Horseback. Broad-shouldered. Hat low over his eyes. A quiet silhouette against the gold-tinted sky, steering a few cattle into a separate pen like it’s second nature. The reins in one hand, the other resting lazily on his thigh.

You freeze. Not even dramatically. You just stop walking.

And when he spots you, he pauses, too. The horse slows under him, and he turns his head just slightly, eyes squinting under the brim.

“You again,” he says, like it’s not surprising at all. “You lost, darlin’?”

Your stomach does a stupid flip.

“No,” you manage. “Just walking.”

He nods like that tracks. “It’s getting late.”

You shrug, trying not to stare at the way the reins rest between his gloved fingers. “Needed air.”

He hums—low and easy. “Air’s better out here anyway.”

You take a breath like you need proof. It is better.

He shifts a bit in the saddle, posture relaxed. “So. You just out sightseeing?”

You huff a laugh before you can stop it. “Just wanted to familiarize myself with the place.”

That gets a tiny smile out of him—small, but there. He tips his hat. “Well. You ever wanna get closer, Dustwell has open trails past the fence. Just mind the mud. And the bulls.”

“Oh,” you say, blinking. “Cool. Thanks.”

“Sure thing,” he says, clicking his tongue once to move the horse forward. He nods at you as he rides past. “See you ‘round.”

You don’t say anything. You’re too busy trying not to grin at nothing like a complete idiot.

Shoko was right.

You’re done for.

-

The bar’s quieter tonight.

Dim, warm lights. A slow, lazy country tune playing on the old jukebox in the corner. You slide onto a stool, nod at the bartender—same one from before, hair up in a messy bun, a dishrag slung over her shoulder like it’s part of the uniform.

“Back already?” she asks with a grin. “Thought you city types got bored easy.”

“I don’t scare that easy,” you say, returning the smile. “And besides… the drinks are good.”

She snorts. “Flattery won’t get you a free round.”

“Damn. Worth a shot.”

She pours you something light, something crisp, and leans against the bar, elbow propped lazily. “So. You settlin’ in okay out at that old house?”

You nod. “Trying to. Place has character.”

“You mean termites?”

You laugh. And then, because maybe the alcohol’s working faster than expected, you say it—

“I met Choso though. Kind of. Ran into him out by the ranch. Real quiet.”

The bartender lifts an eyebrow. “Tall, broody, horse-riding kind of hot?”

You gesture with your glass. “Exactly.”

She hums knowingly. “Sounds like him.”

“Yeah. He was pretty nice though.”

“Mhm. Doesn’t talk much. Just keeps to himself.”

You nod along, about to say something else when the bell over the door rings.

And of course—

Speak of the devil.

There he is.

Choso. Same dark clothes, same quiet presence, the brim of his hat low over his eyes as he steps into the bar like he doesn’t know you were just talking about him.

Your mouth goes a little dry.

The bartender glances at you and smirks.

“Well, well,” she murmurs under her breath. “Looks like fate’s got a good sense of timing.”

You straighten in your seat instinctively, like posture is going to fix the heat crawling up your neck.

The bartender leans in closer, voice pitched low just for you. “You want me to bring him over?”

Your eyes go wide. “Absolutely not.”

She grins like that’s not an answer. “Too late.”

Before you can stop her, she cups a hand to her mouth and calls out across the bar, casual as anything—

“Hey, Choso! You want your usual?”

His head lifts slightly. His gaze shifts, one beat to the bartender, the next—unmistakably—to you.

Then he nods.

The bartender grabs a clean glass, but before she moves to pour, she shoots you a wink. “Be a peach and slide down one seat, would you?”

You blink. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m always serious about good company.”

You hesitate just long enough to regret it, and then Choso’s already making his way over—long strides, quiet steps, the click of his boots drowned out by your internal oh no oh no oh no loop.

He settles beside you without much fanfare, tipping his hat a little as he sits.

“Evenin’,” he says, low and smooth.

Your heart’s doing something ridiculous, but you manage a smile. “Hey. Fancy seeing you again.”

The bartender places his drink down and looks way too pleased with herself. “Y’all have fun,” she says, backing away with her towel slung over her shoulder like a mission accomplished banner.

Choso glances after her, then back at you.

“She always like that?” you ask.

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Only when she senses blood in the water.”

And there’s something playful in his tone this time. Barely there. But it makes your stomach flutter anyway.

You raise a brow. “That so?”

hides a smile behind his glass.

“So,” you say after a beat, “do you always ride in dramatically right after someone talks about you?”

He tilts his head. “You were talkin’ about me?”

You pause, caught.

“…No?”

He hums. “Huh.”

You shoot him a look. “Don’t act like you weren’t eavesdropping.”

“Didn’t have to,” he says, calm as ever. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

You open your mouth to respond, probably with something clever—or at least less humiliating—but he leans an elbow on the bar, eyes on yours.

“Darlin’, I can tell.”

Your jaw drops. “I was not-”

“It’s cute.”

You swat at his arm lightly, but he just chuckles under his breath—barely there, but there.

Somehow, the small talk slips easy after that. Talk of the town. The best place for coffee in the morning (“It’s not the diner,” he warns). At some point, your shoulders stop feeling so tight. And by the time the bartender swings by again with a smug little grin, you're both halfway through your second drinks.

You glance out the window—dark now, and quiet, the kind of still night that makes everything feel slower.

“I should probably head back,” you say, setting your glass down.

Choso finishes his sip and nods. “I’ll walk you.”

You blink. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

Simple as that.

So you agree.

Outside, the night air is cooler than it was when you stepped in. Crisp in a way that feels nice after being inside with too many people and too many thoughts. Choso falls into step beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You glance at him. “You always this quiet?”

He shrugs, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. “Talk when I need to.”

You hum. “That’s fair. I talk even when I don’t need to, so… you balance it out.”

There’s the ghost of a grin at the edge of his mouth. “Yeah, I figured that out.”

You nudge him lightly with your shoulder, and he lets it happen without comment.

It’s quiet again. Not awkward, just… easy.

You don’t live far, and the walk feels shorter with someone next to you. Before long, your porch light’s glowing just up ahead.

“Well,” you say as you stop in front of your door. “Thanks for the company.”

Choso nods. “You gonna be alright out here on your own?”

“I’ve survived worse,” you joke. “Like moving boxes. And small talk with ranch-hands.”

That gets a real smile out of him. Barely-there dimples. Trouble.

He dips his head a little, eyes on you. “You ever need somethin’, you know where the ranch is.”

You raise a brow. “And what exactly would I be needin’?”

He takes a small step back, eyes flicking to your porch light, then back to you.

“Dunno,” he says, and this time his voice is a little rougher. “Thought I’d leave the door open.”

And with that, he tips his hat—just slightly—and turns to walk off.

-

[you]: okay wait

[you]: I get it now.

[you]: the cowboy thing.

She replies in two seconds flat.

[shoko]: took you long enough

[shoko]: you gonna test the hands theory or what

You stare at your screen and groan.

[you]: SHOKO.

[you]: i’ve met him 3 times.

[shoko]: and that’s just the BEGINNING

[shoko]: trust the process

[you]: i’m blocking you.

[shoko]: you say that every time sweetie

You huff, turning your phone off, and get up to get ready for bed.

You lie down, stare at the ceiling. Think about the unpacked boxes still in the hallway. The weird noise the fridge made earlier. And then—like clockwork—your mind drifts.

Choso.

You don’t even know him. Had one conversation, maybe two. But of course that’s enough for your brain to cling to the one decent-looking guy you’ve seen in town so far. Tall, quiet, unfairly attractive. Of course.

You roll over, annoyed at yourself.

He’s probably just...normal. Works with his hands. Doesn’t talk much. Wears the whole rugged cowboy thing like it’s not a big deal, which makes it worse somehow. And okay—fine, the “darlin’” thing did something to you. That’s on him. But it’s also on you for letting it live rent-free in your head all day.

You stare at yourself in the bathroom mirror.

You didn’t come here to get distracted. Definitely not by some man with pretty hands and a nice voice and a face that should be illegal this far out in the middle of nowhere.

No. You’re here to get your life together.

Unfortunately, your life now involves a cowboy you can’t stop thinking about.

You shut your eyes and try to pretend you’re not already in trouble.

-

You’d been at it for over an hour now—sweating under the midday sun, brow furrowed, and jaw clenched tight. The damn wooden plank on your porch just wouldn’t fit right. You’d hammered, yanked, cursed, and even tried sweet-talking it at one point, like that would somehow make it cooperate.

It didn’t.

You sit back on your heels with a frustrated sigh, wiping at your temple with the back of your hand. The rest of the porch is a patchwork of replaced and rotted wood, and the one plank holding everything up just refuses to be tamed.

“Y’look like you’re about five seconds from fightin’ that board.”

You jump a little, glancing up to see Choso standing by the gate—hands in his back pockets, hat pulled low, a half-smirk tugging at his lips.

“Don’t tempt me,” you mutter, rising to your feet. “I’ve about had it with this thing.”

He starts walking toward you, boots crunching softly in the dirt. “Need a hand?”

You shake your head quickly. “No, no, I—I got it. Don’t worry. I know you’ve got your own work to do.”

He slows to a stop at the edge of the porch. “Ain’t in a rush. S’not a burden if I offer.”

You hesitate. He’s not the kind of man you ask favors from lightly—partly because he’s always so quiet, so distant. But he’s looking at you with a kind of patience that softens his usually sharp features.

“…Alright,” you say, stepping aside. “But only because this thing’s winning, and I can’t have that.”

He huffs a quiet laugh and crouches beside the plank, examining the fit. You expect him to just get to work—but instead, he peels off his gloves, sets them aside, and reaches up to tug his hat off his head.

You blink.

Because holy hell.

You’d only ever seen glimpses of his face before—just enough to wonder what he was hiding beneath the brim. And now that it’s gone, it’s like the sun comes out in full.

He’s beautiful. Not the kind of pretty you’d expect from someone who works rough and silent—no, he’s got the kind of beauty that’s sharp. Angular cheekbones. Long lashes. Hair tied back but loose strands frame his face. And that tattoo—dark and striking across the bridge of his nose—only makes it worse.

Your brain short-circuits for a second.

“...What?” he asks, not looking up, already focused on the wood.

“What?” he asks.

You swallow, trying to play it cool. “Just… didn’t know you had a tattoo there.”

He nods once, unfazed. “Had it a long time.”

“It suits you,” you say before you can think better of it.

Choso pauses. His eyes flick to yours—slow, unreadable.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, then goes right back to work.

The two of you work in near silence after that. He makes quick work of the stubborn plank, fitting it with practiced ease, fingers steady and sure. You hold nails when he asks, pass him tools without thinking. It’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel awkward—just natural.

At one point, your hands brush as you hand him the screwdriver. Neither of you say anything. But you feel it. The spark. The stillness.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. His brow is furrowed, lips parted slightly in concentration, and there’s a bit of sawdust on his shoulder.

He catches you looking.

You snap your gaze away.

And in your chest, something shifts. Something soft. Warm. Familiar in a way that unsettles you.

You like him.

You like him.

It hits you like a whisper—gentle, but impossible to ignore.

When the board’s finally in place, he sits back and nods once, satisfied. “There. Should hold now.”

You clear your throat. “Thanks. Really.”

He glances up at you, hat dangling from his fingers. “Told you I’d help if you needed.”

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Guess you did.”

The two of you sit there for a minute longer, side by side, watching the wind stir the grass. It’s quiet, but not in a bad way.

Like maybe you don’t need to say everything out loud.

“You want somethin’ to drink?” you ask, brushing your palms on your thighs as you stand. “It’s not much, just some lemonade. Store-bought, not even the fancy kind.”

Choso shifts a little like he’s not used to being offered anything. Like you’ve surprised him.

You catch it, that pause—and suddenly feel a little silly. “You don’t have to, obviously. I just thought, you know… in return for saving me from an early death by splinter.”

He huffs out a laugh, low and amused. “Didn’t know I was savin’ your life.”

“Oh, you absolutely were,” you say, feigning seriousness. “That board had it out for me.”

He looks at you for a second too long. Then: “Alright. I’ll take a glass.”

You try not to grin as you head inside, calling back over your shoulder, “Don’t run off. I’m only sharing if you stay and actually drink it.”

When you return, two slightly sweating glasses in hand, he’s still sitting on the porch step, hat resting beside him, hair a little mussed from the heat and work. He glances up as you hand him his glass.

“Thanks,” he says, fingers brushing yours briefly.

You sit beside him again, both sipping in a quiet that doesn’t feel awkward—just easy.

It’s small. It’s nothing.

But your heart is beating just a little faster anyway.

Choso tips his glass back, slow. “Did a good job, y’know.”

You glance over. “On the porch?”

“On the house. All of it.” He shrugs one shoulder, like it’s no big deal. “Most folks would’ve given up or hired it out. But you stuck with it.”

You blink, surprised by the softness in his voice.

“Thanks,” you say, quieter than you mean to. “I wasn’t sure it’d show.”

He nods once. “It shows.”

Then he stands, stretches a bit, picks up his hat. And just as he steps off the porch, he glances back at you.

“You’re settlin’ in alright,” he says simply. “You should stay. It’d be nice if you do.”

And then he’s gone—hat pulled low again, boots crunching down the gravel path.

You sit there a moment longer, lemonade glass half full in your lap, brain absolutely fried.

You should stay.

Goddamn it.

-

[you]: shoko

[you]: shoko

[you]: SHOKO

[shoko]: it’s literally midnight

[shoko]: did something catch on fire

[you]: NO

[you]: but I’m gonna die anyway

[you]: he said it’d be nice if i stay here

[you]: WHO SAYS THAT

[you]: I HAVEN’T STOPPED THINKING ABOUT IT FOR TWO HOURS

[shoko]: it means he thinks you should stay there

[shoko]: probably with him, in his weird cowboy brain

[you]: SHOKO PLEASE

[you]: THAT’S NOT HELPING

[you]: I CALLED LEMONADE “LEMON WATER” AFTER

[you]: I’M SO STUPID

[shoko]: oh you’re down bad

[shoko]: adorable

[shoko]: pls keep embarrassing yourself. it’s entertaining

[shoko]: also

[shoko]: call me when you kiss him

[you]: FUCK YOU.

-

The Pit is quieter on weeknights. Less rowdy, more murmured conversation and old country music buzzing from the jukebox in the corner. You’re at the bar nursing a whiskey and soda, trying very hard not to think about the way Choso had looked at you like that porch was the only thing standing between you and him.

“You look distracted,” drawls the bartender as she wipes down a glass. 

You smile sheepishly. “Long day.”

She hums like she doesn’t believe you, sliding the glass onto the shelf. “Well, you’ll wanna unwind before Saturday anyway. Big weekend comin’.”

You blink. “Saturday?”

“You didn’t hear? Dustwell’s annual Fall Festival.” She leans an elbow on the bar, grinning. “Whole town shows up. Good food, live music, terrible dancing.”

Your brows raise. “That sounds... kind of amazing.”

“Oh, it’s somethin’. Bit of everything—bonfire, market stalls, pie contest, all that small-town charm.” She leans in a little. “You should come. Be a good way to meet folks.”

You sip your drink. “Will there be whiskey?”

“Enough to drown a horse,” she deadpans. “C’mon. You might even have fun.”

You hesitate. Then nod, smiling. “Alright. I’ll check it out.”

She straightens, clearly pleased. “Attagirl.”

You pause. “Is it the kind of thing people go to alone?”

“You won’t be alone long,” she says, smirking as she grabs a bottle from the shelf. “Trust me.”

You smile into your glass and murmur, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

She laughs and moves on to the next customer, leaving you sitting in the low golden glow of the bar lights, your drink slowly warming in your hand.

You swirl the ice once more.

You’re going to that festival. You already know exactly who you hope to see there.

-

You tell yourself it’s just a small-town festival.

No need to overthink it. Just food stalls, some live music, maybe a bonfire if the wind stays down. But somehow, you’ve tried on three outfits already and you’re still standing in front of the mirror, arms crossed, trying to decide if you look like you’re trying.

Your fingers smooth down the hem of the floral babydoll dress you finally settled on—light, flowy, soft against your skin. Not too short. Not too loud. Just enough.

Your boots are worn but clean. A bit of balm on your lips, a brush through your hair. You pause over the mascara.

“Stupid,” you mutter, swiping it on anyway.

You’re not dressing up for him. You’re not.

You grab your bag and give yourself one last look in the mirror. The dress sways with your movement, delicate and easy in the late afternoon light.

You look… nice.

And if a certain broody ranch hand happens to notice?

Well. That’s not why you’re going.

(Probably.)

-

The lights strung up over Dustwell’s main road flicker warm and golden, casting a glow over the small crowd that’s gathered. There’s laughter, music, chatter—a rhythm to the evening that thrums low and pleasant.

You should be enjoying it.

But your eyes are elsewhere.

You move through the crowd slowly, aimless, pretending to admire booths you don’t quite see. A table of carved wooden animals. A local honey stand. Rows of pies, flaky and golden. People pass with plates stacked high, cups of cider sloshing, the scent of cinnamon in the air.

And still, you keep looking.

Your boots crunch softly on gravel as you round the corner near the bonfire pit. A flicker of orange firelight glows against smiling faces. Couples sway to the drawl of a country ballad being played live somewhere off to the left. You scan each cluster of people with careful, almost casual glances.

He’s not here.

You try not to feel stupid about it.

Choso never said he’d come. Hell, you never even asked him. Maybe he’s back at the ranch. Maybe he hates crowds. Or maybe he just didn’t think about you at all.

You sigh through your nose and roll your shoulders like that could shake the disappointment off.

“Pretty dress,” someone says beside you, voice too close, too sticky with alcohol.

You tense.

Some guy, clearly drunk, sways into your space with a grin that’s more grease than charm. He’s got a beer bottle in hand and eyes that crawl. You step back slightly, but he follows, grin widening.

“You look real sweet tonight,” he adds, leaning closer. “You local?”

You step sideways, the movement polite but clear. “Just passing through,” you lie.

He follows. “Nah, I’ve seen you before. Came in not long ago. You’ve been out at the old farmstead, ain’t you? Near the ridge?”

Your mouth tightens. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

He laughs, too loud, too bold. “Well, we’re meetin’ now, ain’t we?”

“You here alone?” he asks, leaning in. “Don’t seem right, someone like you walkin’ around without a man.”

“I’m fine, thanks,” you say, voice firm but polite.

“Aww, c’mon now—don’t be like that,” he drawls, reaching like he’s about to touch your arm.

You stiffen, heart starting to pound—

Then suddenly, there’s someone else.

A wall of quiet tension slots between you and the sleazy stranger, solid and unmoving. The guy stumbles back half a step as the air shifts.

You don’t even need to look up to know who it is.

Low and slow, that familiar gravel-edged voice speaks:

“This guy botherin’ you, darlin’?”

Your heart kicks hard in your chest.

Choso stands between you and the drunk, broad shoulders blocking the man from view, voice calm but carrying a warning beneath it.

You swallow, then nod.

Choso doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t raise his voice. Just says, “Get lost.”

The guy laughs nervously. “Hey, no trouble—just chattin’, that’s all—”

Choso shifts. Barely. But something about the way he straightens, the silence that falls around him—it’s enough.

The drunk mutters something under his breath and stumbles off.

For a beat, it’s quiet.

Then Choso turns, finally, and his eyes rake over you—slowly, like he’s still processing what he’s seeing.

“You alright?” he asks.

You nod, heart fluttering so loud you’re sure he can hear it. “Yeah. Thanks.”

His gaze lingers a second too long before flicking away. “Shouldn’t be lettin’ creeps like that get near you.”

You smile softly. “Wasn’t exactly planning on it.”

He huffs, almost a laugh, then gestures toward the booths. “You eaten yet?”

“…No.”

“C’mon then,” he murmurs. “I’ll buy you somethin’.”

You fall into step beside him.

Maybe you weren’t just looking around after all.

The two of you drift past the bonfire, not saying much at first. There’s an ease to it—like neither of you feels the need to fill the silence. Just the scrape of boots on gravel, the occasional burst of laughter from nearby, and the soft hum of music carried on the wind.

You pause at a food stall where an older woman is selling fried hand pies. Choso buys two without asking—one for you, one for him. You raise an eyebrow as he hands it over.

“Thought I wasn’t hungry,” you say, amused.

“You looked at it twice,” he replies simply.

You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. “You always this observant?”

He shrugs, chewing. “Just when it matters.”

You try not to read too much into that. You fail.

You wander with him toward a quieter part of the festival, where the booths thin out and string lights dangle lower from wooden poles. Kids run past in a blur, chasing each other with glow sticks. There’s a tent set up nearby with hay bales inside for resting.

You slip into the edge of it to take a break, brushing your skirt down as you sit. Choso stands nearby, arms folded loosely, watching the crowd.

You can’t help sneaking a look at him. The way the firelight hits his profile. The way his jaw tightens when he’s lost in thought. He’s wearing that same beat-up hat—but you’ve seen what’s underneath now. The soft waves of his hair. The scar, beautiful in its own way. How gentle his eyes are, even when his face looks like it’s forgotten how to smile.

“You don’t like crowds, do you?” you ask softly.

He glances over, amused. “Figured that obvious?”

You laugh. “You’re standing like a bouncer outside a saloon.”

He huffs. “Just keepin’ an eye out.”

“For trouble?”

He looks at you for a beat. “For you.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Your fingers fidget with the edge of your dress—until you feel his gaze lower.

“That dress,” he says, voice low like he almost hadn’t meant to say it aloud. “You look real pretty in it.”

You blink up at him, caught off guard. “…What?”

He shifts his weight, gaze still on you but softer now. “I mean it. Real damn pretty, darlin’.”

Your heart jumps at the nickname. God, it sounds even better tonight. Heat crawls up the back of your neck as you glance down at the floral fabric bunched around your knees.

“I almost wore jeans,” you murmur, smiling despite yourself.

He chuckles, and it’s quiet but deep. “Would’ve looked good either way. But I’m glad you didn’t.”

You peek up at him again—and he’s still looking. Not just at your dress, not at the way your hair’s curled around your shoulders—but at you. Really looking.

He gestures to the edge of the hill beyond the festival. “C’mon. There’s a view you might like.”

You follow without thinking.

And maybe this isn’t a date. Maybe you both keep pretending it’s not.

But as he walks just ahead of you, turning back now and then to make sure you’re still with him—you feel it settling in your chest.

You follow him past the last of the booths, away from the warmth of the fire and the noise of the crowd. The grass grows wilder out here, untamed and soft beneath your boots. String lights give way to open sky, and above you, the stars stretch wide and scattered like sugar spilled over velvet.

Choso walks a little ahead, hands tucked in his pockets. His pace is slow, easy. Like he’s making sure you can keep up without looking like he’s trying.

“D you always bring girls out here?” you tease, nudging his arm gently with your shoulder.

He glances at you, amused. “Ain’t much of a crowd person, remember?”

“Still didn’t answer the question.”

That almost-smile tugs at his lips again. “No. First time.”

You don’t know what to say to that, but your heart makes a quiet little flutter behind your ribs.

The hill slopes up just enough to make your calves ache by the time you reach the top. But the view? It’s worth it.

Below, Dustwell looks like something out of a painting. Warm flickers of light. People like shadows moving between tents. Music floating up faint and distant. And past it all, the open stretch of the plains—blue-black and endless.

You exhale softly. “Wow.”

Choso settles beside you, just close enough for your arms to almost brush. “Didn’t oversell it, huh?”

You shake your head. “You didn’t say anything about it being this beautiful.”

He glances sideways, and for a moment, you think he’s going to say something else.

Instead, he hums low in his throat and says, “Figured you’d see it yourself.”

A breeze kicks up, catching the hem of your dress and lifting it just enough to make you shiver. You cross your arms, rubbing at your sleeves, and without a word, Choso shrugs off his jacket.

You hesitate. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he says simply, already draping it over your shoulders. “But you’re cold.”

The jacket smells like cedar and sun-warmed cotton. It’s too big, but in a comforting way. You sink into it without thinking, and when you glance up to thank him, he’s already looking at you.

Not shy. Not teasing.

Just… honest.

And something about it—something about him—makes your pulse slow, heavy in your ears.

Maybe this isn’t a date.

But it feels like one.

And right now, that’s more than enough.

You both fall into a quiet lull, watching the horizon blur at its edges. The night wraps around you, soft and vast, and with his jacket warming your shoulders, something inside you loosens.

You hug it closer. “I wasn’t even sure I’d stay at first,” you admit, voice hushed. “Dustwell just… felt like a name on a deed. Not a place I’d belong.”

Choso doesn’t interrupt. He waits, like he knows there’s more.

“I thought I’d fix up the house, sell it maybe. Move back to the city,” you say. “But then I started patching up things. Talking to people. And then…”

You glance over, offering a small smile. “Then I met you.”

His gaze is steady, unreadable—but his jaw flexes, just barely. Like your words landed somewhere deeper than you meant them to.

You shift slightly, brushing hair away from your face. “You ever get that feeling? Like maybe you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, even if it doesn’t make sense yet?”

He’s silent for a beat too long.

Then, quietly—“Yeah.”

The word hangs between you, heavy and fragile.

You turn to face him fully now, searching his expression—and find that he’s already looking at you.

And there’s something in his eyes. Something new.

Tentative. Quiet. Intense.

His gaze flickers downward—just once, just enough to make your breath catch.

To your mouth.

He swallows, throat working. “You keep lookin’ at me like that, darlin’, ’m gonna start gettin’ ideas.”

Your heart slams in your chest.

And then he leans in—slow, so goddamn slow, like giving you every chance to pull away.

But you don’t.

Your hand finds the edge of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric on instinct—like you need something to hold onto to keep you grounded. His fingertips skim along your jaw, featherlight, until his thumb brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

He doesn’t pull away.

And you don’t either.

The air between you grows thick, weighted with everything unsaid. His hand lingers just beneath your jaw, rough from work and calloused in a way that feels real, solid—so unlike anything you’ve ever known.

You swear your heart’s beating so loud it’s echoing in your ears.

His eyes flicker from yours to your lips and back again, like he’s giving you every second to say no.

You don’t.

His nose grazes yours, warm breath fanning across your skin. Your lashes flutter as your eyes fall shut.

Then, finally, his lips press to yours.

Soft. Barely there at first. Just a brush. A question.

You sigh—yes, God, yes—and that’s all he needs.

The kiss deepens, coaxed open by quiet urgency and something tender just beneath the surface. His palm cradles the side of your face now, thumb stroking the apple of your cheek like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

He tastes like mint and something a little smoky, a little wild. He kisses like he’s not used to having something this gentle, this good, and he’s afraid it’ll vanish if he pushes too hard.

But still—he leans in closer.

Your spine meets the wooden rail behind you, but you hardly notice. Your hands slide up to his chest, the warmth of him soaking through his shirt, steady and sure. One of his hands drifts to your waist, grounding you, tugging you infinitesimally closer.

And God—you feel it. That shift.

That invisible line you just crossed.

When you finally part, it’s only because you need to breathe. And even then, his lips brush yours once more. A quieter kiss. A promise.

He doesn’t move far.

Forehead resting against yours, he murmurs, voice husky, “Been wantin’ to do that for a while now.”

You smile, lips still tingling. “Yeah?”

His eyes don’t leave yours. “Yeah.”

You blink up at him, dazed. Your lips still buzz where his mouth had just been, and your heart is doing something stupidly dramatic in your chest—fluttering like it’s got something to prove.

Choso pulls back just enough to see you, really see you. There’s a small crease between his brows like he’s still unsure if he overstepped.

But all you can do is stare.

Then—God—you laugh.

A quiet, breathy little sound that slips out before you can catch it.

He tilts his head. “Somethin’ funny, darlin’?”

Your hands are still resting against his chest, and you shake your head, cheeks warming. “No—no, just… I think my brain short-circuited a little.”

That earns the faintest smirk from him—just the barest curve at the corner of his mouth, but it feels like sunlight cracking through clouds.

“Well,” he drawls, voice low and rough, “you did look real pretty tonight. Could’ve warned me.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to play it cool despite the way your pulse is still racing. “Is that how you kiss everyone?”

He huffs a quiet breath—almost a laugh—and dips his gaze to your lips again. “No,” he says, low. “Just you.”

That does something to your chest. You feel it settle there, warm and certain.

Your voice is quieter now. “Why me?”

His eyes meet yours again, steady. “Ain’t figured that part out yet.”

And just like that, the shyness dissolves into something quieter, sweeter. You lean into him, your hands settling over his heart. It’s steady. Comforting.

He doesn’t rush the silence. Doesn’t push.

The noise of the festival still hums in the background, but it feels like a distant memory now—muted beneath the rush of your heart and the warmth still lingering on your lips.

He steps back a little, just enough to breathe, but not enough to lose the closeness. “You wan’ me to walk ya home?”

Your answer is immediate, quiet. “I do.”

You fall into step beside each other, the path dimly lit by strings of warm bulbs and the fading firelight from the festival. The ground crunches under your boots, and the night air wraps cool and easy around your skin. He doesn’t speak at first, and you don’t mind. You like the silence between you—it’s comfortable. Safe.

Then, as you near the edge of town, his hand brushes yours.

Just barely.

You glance over at him. He’s looking straight ahead like nothing happened, but there’s a soft pink creeping up the side of his neck.

You don’t say anything. You just let your hand shift a little closer.

The next time they touch, it’s on purpose.

Fingers slide together slow, like testing the weight of something new.

He doesn’t pull away.

And neither do you.

-

By the time you reach your porch, the stars are scattered thick above you and the crickets are singing like they know something you don’t.

You stop at the steps, not quite ready to go inside.

Choso stands just a step down, taller than you even now, his silhouette all shadows and moonlight. His fingers are still loosely curled around yours.

He looks at you, quiet.

You look back.

Something thick and tender swims in the air between you.

Then, just as you’re about to speak—he leans in again.

But this time, it’s different.

Softer. Slower. Like he’s savoring it.

His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin, and his lips meet yours in a kiss that’s warm and unhurried. Like a goodnight. Like a promise.

It doesn’t last long—but it doesn’t need to.

When he pulls away, you’re still standing there, blinking, trying to catch your breath.

“Night, darlin’,” he murmurs, voice low and warm.

You open your mouth to respond but—nothing comes out.

He smirks, just barely, and tips his hat before turning back toward the road, boots crunching softly as he walks away.

You exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding, pressing your fingers to your lips, heart racing.

-

[you]: shoko.

[you]: he kissed me.

[you]: just… kissed me. said “night, darlin’” and walked off like it was nothing.

[you]: i think i forgot how to stand for a second.

You watch the typing bubble blink in and out a few times.

[shoko]: and how was it

[you]: …really good.

[shoko]: knew it. told you he had a thing for you.

[you]: you also said he probably talks to horses more than people.

[shoko]: and apparently he kisses better than both. proud of you.

You huff a laugh, dropping your head back against the couch.

The room is quiet. The porch light still glows through the curtains. Your lips still tingle.

You pull your knees up to your chest, phone resting in your palm.

And when sleep finally pulls you under, it's with the weight of his touch still lingering and his voice—low and warm—tucked somewhere in the back of your mind.

-

The days that follow feel different.

Not loud or sudden—just quieter in a way that stays with you.

Like the way his eyes linger a little longer when you talk. Like the way he leans in when no one’s looking. Like the way your hand always seems to find his when no one’s around to see.

There’s a moment in the barn—just the two of you, the air heavy with hay and late sun—where he kisses you slow, with one hand braced against the stall and the other at your waist. You laugh into his mouth, and he smiles like he can’t help it.

Another time, it’s behind your house, just after he helps you carry firewood. You thank him and mean it—and before you can say more, he cups your jaw and kisses you like he’s been thinking about it all day.

Sometimes, though—sometimes it shifts.

Like the night you're sitting side by side on your porch steps, your knee brushing his, your laughter fading into something quieter. His eyes darken as they drop to your mouth. He kisses you, slower this time. Deeper. And when his lips trail down to the edge of your jaw, when his hand skims along your thigh—

The porch light flickers.

A car rumbles by.

You both pause, breath caught in your throats.

He pulls back with a soft exhale, forehead resting against yours for a second longer before he clears his throat and leans away.

Another time, it’s the hayloft—warm, private, the dust floating golden in the air. He’s hovering above you, lips at your collarbone, fingers curling just under the hem of your shirt—

Then the barn door creaks. A voice calls for him.

You sit up, flushed and breathless, heart thudding hard in your chest.

He mutters something under his breath, presses a kiss to your temple, and climbs down first.

It’s never awkward. Never forced.

Just moments that build. Stretch. Hold.

And it’s always him who pulls back—like he's afraid of what might happen if he doesn’t.

-

The air seems lighter, the walk into town quieter, your thoughts a little louder.

You find yourself smiling at nothing, fingers ghosting over your lips like they still remember the weight of his. And when you catch sight of him across the way—hat low, shirt clinging to his shoulders from the heat—you swear your pulse stutters.

He doesn’t say much when he sees you, just tips his head in that lazy way of his, mouth curling faintly at the edges.

But as you pass by, his hand brushes yours—just for a second. Barely there. Like a secret no one else is supposed to notice.

And you swear your skin hums from the touch.

Later, when you're out by the edge of the property replacing fence boards, he shows up with that same quiet timing he always does. He leans against the post beside you, hands in his pockets, watching.

“You’re gonna get splinters, y’know,” he drawls.

You shoot him a look. “Then maybe you should help.”

He does.

And this time, when he kneels beside you, handing you nails and steadying the board with one hand, his knee brushes yours and stays there. There’s no flinch, no apology—just a glance up, a half-smile passed between you.

When he stands, he offers a hand to pull you up. You hesitate a moment too long before taking it, your fingers curling around his, warm and sure.

“You always this helpful?” you tease.

He shrugs. “Only when there’s pretty company.”

You try to roll your eyes, but the way your heart kicks in your chest ruins the effort.

-

It starts with a rumble.

The sky’s been moody all morning, clouds hanging heavy like they’re waiting for the right moment to split open. You’d taken the risk anyway, walking into town for some supplies, telling yourself you’d beat the storm back.

You don’t.

You're only halfway down the winding road back to the house when it hits—sudden and sharp, fat drops pelting the dust and kicking up the smell of rain-soaked earth. Within seconds, you’re drenched. Your dress clings to your skin, hair plastered to your face, and you’re shivering as you trudge along, arms wrapped around yourself.

You barely hear the truck pulling up beside you over the roar of rain.

But you definitely hear his voice.

“Darlin’?”

You blink through the downpour, and there he is—Choso, leaning out the driver’s side window of his old pickup, hat pulled low, brow furrowed in concern.

“You tryin’ to drown out here?”

You shake your head, a breathless laugh escaping you despite the chill. “Thought I could outrun it.”

His eyes flick down, taking in your soaked dress, the way you’re hugging your elbows. His jaw flexes.

“My place is closer,” he says after a beat. “C’mon.”

You hesitate only for a second. Not because you don’t trust him—you do, more than you probably should—but because stepping into that truck feels like crossing into something else. Something charged.

Still, the rain’s cold, and your feet hurt, and his voice is so damn gentle.

You nod.

He’s out of the truck in a blink, jogging around the front and opening the door for you like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t send a flutter through your chest. He holds the door open as you climb in, and when your fingers brush his wrist, they’re warm, solid. Comforting.

Inside the cab, the heater’s on, and it smells like cedar and something faintly smoky. Choso reaches behind the seat, grabs an old flannel, and without a word, drapes it over your shoulders.

You glance over at him, your hands gripping the soft fabric.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

He’s quiet for a moment, eyes fixed ahead as he pulls back onto the road. Then, voice low: “Ain’t gonna let you freeze out here.”

You look over at him again, and this time, he catches your gaze.

The silence stretches.

“You always play knight in shining armor?” you tease, trying for casual, though your voice is soft around the edges.

Choso doesn’t look at you right away. His fingers flex around the steering wheel. “Nah,” he says eventually. “Don’t usually have a reason to.”

The hum of the engine fills the cab, steady and low, and the rain tapping against the windshield makes the world outside feel far away—blurred and gray and quiet.

Inside, it’s warmer. Safer.

You clutch the flannel tighter around you, the sleeves hanging over your fingers. The scent of it—woodsmoke, leather, something him—makes your chest ache just a little.

“Didn’t think the weather’d turn that fast,” you murmur, glancing out the window.

Choso glances over. “Storms move quick out here,” he says. “You’ll learn.”

You smile faintly. “Guess I’m still adjusting.”

“You’re doin’ alright,” he says, voice low.

The silence returns, but it’s not awkward. It settles over the two of you like another blanket. Comforting. There’s something steady in his presence, something grounding, and it creeps in slow, calming your nerves until your body starts to relax on its own.

He makes a turn, gravel crunching under the tires as he pulls onto a long, dirt path lined with wild mesquite trees. You didn’t realize how close his place actually was.

Your eyes feel heavy. Maybe it’s the warmth. Maybe it’s the rhythm of the road.

Maybe it’s him.

You glance over, watching him quietly—his jawline, the way the rain beads on the brim of his hat. Without thinking, you lean a little closer, until your head gently rests against his shoulder.

Choso’s muscles tense just slightly beneath you.

“Sorry,” you say quickly, starting to pull away.

But his voice stops you—soft, quieter than usual.

“It’s alright.”

And so you stay.

For a minute, maybe two, neither of you says anything. His shoulder is solid and warm beneath your cheek. You close your eyes.

“You get used to the rain, too,” he says after a while. “’Specially when you’ve got someone to ride it out with.”

There’s a pause. Your fingers twitch under the flannel.

“Think I’d like that,” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer, but you can feel the way his breath shifts. Like he wants to say something but bites it back.

The truck rolls to a stop.

“We’re here,” he says gently.

The rain’s still falling when Choso gets out and jogs around to open your door, hat tilted low to shield from the downpour. You hesitate for a second before slipping your hand into his, jumping down from the truck. His palm is rough and warm, and when you look up at him, his eyes are already on you.

The walk to the front porch is brief but soaked. By the time you’re inside, boots tracking mud onto the wooden floor, your clothes cling to your skin and your hair’s dripping water down your neck.

“Bathroom’s down the hall,” Choso says, tossing his keys onto a hook near the door. “Towels are in the cabinet. I’ll find you somethin’ dry.”

You nod, teeth chattering just a bit. “Thanks.”

The bathroom smells faintly of cedar and old cologne. You dry off as best you can, toweling your hair and arms. When you step out, Choso’s waiting in the hall with a bundle in his hands—a soft, well-worn hoodie and a pair of sweatpants that’ll definitely be too big.

“Hope that works,” he says, eyes flicking over you quickly. “Didn’t figure you’d want jeans.”

You smile, hugging the bundle to your chest. “Perfect.”

When you come out dressed in his clothes, sleeves past your hands and the waistband of the sweatpants rolled over once, he’s in the kitchen, pouring you a mug of something steaming.

“Here,” he says, holding it out. “Hot cocoa. Not coffee—it’s late.”

You raise a brow. “Didn’t peg you as the cocoa type.”

A ghost of a smirk tugs at his lips. “I ain’t. But you seem like the kind who’d need somethin’ sweet after a cold walk home.”

Your stomach flips.

You sip slowly, the warmth seeping into your fingers. He leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching you. There’s a quiet in the room again—not awkward, just…thick. Charged. Like something could happen if either of you let it.

Then, he tilts his head a bit. “You look good in that.”

Your gaze snaps up to his.

“In what?”

He nods at the hoodie. “Never liked how it looked on me, but it suits you.”

You laugh softly, heart in your throat. “I look like I’m drowning in it.”

“Still suits you.”

You barely register the shift in the air until you feel him move behind you—slow, purposeful. His boots echo quiet on the wooden floor, and before you can even turn, he’s there. His arms plant on either side of you, palms flat against the counter, caging you in without a word.

The space between your bodies buzzes with unspoken something. His chest nearly brushes your back, and when he dips his head, breath warm at the curve of your neck, you freeze.

Then—soft.

The faintest brush of his lips against your skin. Once. Then again. Featherlight, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to want this much.

You manage a breathless laugh. “I’m starting to think this was all an excuse to bring me here.”

You feel him smile against your neck, a quiet huff of amusement. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea I’ve ever had.”

Your heart skips, and before you can respond, he presses one more kiss—just below your ear this time—and murmurs, voice low, rough:

“Glad you agreed to come.”

You shift slightly, finally daring to glance back at him. “And if I hadn’t?”

He lifts his head, eyes locking with yours now—closer than you expected, darker too. “Guess I’d be missin’ out.”

The tension between you crackles. You're not sure who leans in first, but suddenly the distance isn’t so wide anymore.

His mouth crashes against yours this time—no hesitation, no space to think, just heat.

It’s clumsy at first, teeth clashing, breath hitching, but neither of you care. Your fingers tangle in the front of his shirt, tugging him closer like you’ll fall apart if there’s even an inch between you. He groans into your mouth, low and rough, one hand sliding around your waist to press you flush to him, the other threading into your hair.

Your back hits the counter as he crowds you in, lips hot and relentless, kissing like he means to memorize every inch. Tongues meet, the kiss deepening into something hungry, something that’s been simmering just below the surface for far too long.

His fingers splay across your lower back, gripping like he can’t stand the thought of letting go. Your hands wander—his jaw, his neck, the soft strands of his hair now damp from the rain. He kisses you like he’s starved, like this moment has been clawing at the edge of his self-control for days. Weeks.

When you gasp against him, he takes the opportunity to nip at your bottom lip, chasing it with a gentler kiss right after—contrasting, addictive. You pull him closer, like you’ll crawl into him if he lets you.

The only sound in the room is the soft rustle of clothing, the quiet thud of footsteps shifting, the desperate sound of mouths colliding again and again—wet, open-mouthed, aching.

Nothing else exists. Just the warmth of his body, the taste of his kiss, and the way he’s kissing you like he never wants to stop.

His hand slips beneath your hoodie, palm warm and steady against your skin. It’s not rushed—he touches like he’s memorizing, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist.

“Been thinkin’ about this,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice thick. “’Bout you.”

You shiver, not just from his touch but from how needy he sounds—like he’s been holding back and it’s finally breaking loose.

His teeth graze your jaw, your neck, and then he’s kissing lower, slower, the kind of kiss that makes your knees threaten to give out.

“You gotta tell me to stop,” he says, breath hot against your skin, “or I’m not gonna.”

But your hands are already tugging his shirt up, fingers greedy against the lines of his stomach, and the way you say his name—low, breathy, a little wrecked—has him cursing under his breath.

He’s everywhere—hands and lips and heat.

You barely notice when his hands shift—one to your thigh, the other braced at your lower back—until your feet leave the ground.

You gasp, arms locking around his shoulders as he lifts you like you weigh nothing.

“Choso—”

“Not here,” he murmurs, voice rough in your ear. “You deserve better than a fuckin’ kitchen counter.”

The heat of his breath sends a full-body shiver down your spine, but there’s something else too—the way he carries you, steady and certain, like he’s done thinking. Like he’s made up his mind.

He walks with you through the dim hallway, never once breaking eye contact when you look up at him.

“You sure?” he asks, even though he’s already halfway to his room.

You nod, breathless. “Yeah.”

His mouth twitches and the second you’re in his room, he’s setting you down on the bed like you’re the most important thing he’s ever touched.

Then he’s on you again, lips trailing down your neck, hands at your waist, tugging at your clothes like they’re in the way of something holy.

He leans over you, breath still heavy, eyes dragging across your body like he can’t decide where to touch first. You’re in his hoodie—his hoodie—and there’s something about that that makes his jaw flex, like the sight alone has undone him.

“Didn’t think you could look better in my clothes,” he murmurs, voice low and gravelly. “���Til now.”

His fingers curl around the hem, and he lifts it inch by inch, knuckles brushing your stomach, your ribs, the curve of your chest—leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. He pulls it over your head with care, like he’s unwrapping something delicate, and tosses it aside without taking his eyes off you.

Then his hands slide to the waistband of the sweatpants.

He hooks his fingers under the fabric, ready to ask again—ready to take it slow. But when he tugs it down your hips and catches the bare skin beneath, he freezes.

There’s no fabric. No lace. Nothing.

His breath catches—sharp and audible—and his hands go still.

“...You’re not wearin’ anything underneath,” he says, almost like he’s making sure he didn’t just imagine it.

You nod, watching the understanding settle across his face. “Yeah. Didn’t wanna put them back on. You handed me your clothes, so I just…”

His hands tighten at your hips, knuckles flexing against your bare skin like he’s trying so fucking hard not to lose it.

“Jesus,” he mutters, low and hoarse, like the image just broke something in him. “You’ve been like this the whole time?”

Your breath hitches, and that’s all the answer he needs.

The shift in him is instant—his mouth is back on your skin, kissing a line down your stomach, then your inner thigh, slower this time, deeper, like he’s savoring the thought.

Hands spread your legs with a kind of reverence, eyes locked on you like a man seeing something sacred for the first time.

And when he settles between them, shoulders anchoring your thighs apart, it’s not just lust in his expression.

It’s awe. It’s hunger. It’s devotion.

He exhales slow, like he’s trying to ground himself—but the tension in his shoulders says it’s a losing battle.

“Fuck, baby…” he murmurs, voice barely there, lips hovering just over your skin. “You got no idea what that’s doin’ to me.”

His fingers dig into your thighs, spreading you wider as he leans in—and when he finally drags his tongue through your folds, slow and deliberate, it pulls a gasp straight from your chest.

He groans against you, deep and raw, like you’re the best thing he’s ever tasted.

“You’re soaked,” he breathes, almost in disbelief, like he wasn’t expecting you to be this ready for him. “This all for me?”

You nod, breath ragged, and he huffs a short, wrecked laugh against your skin. Then he’s back at it—mouth open, tongue greedy, sucking your clit into the heat of his mouth before pulling away just enough to tease you with the flat of his tongue.

It’s messy. It’s focused. He’s focused—like he’s been dreaming about this and finally has you where he wants you, and now he can’t stop. Won’t stop.

He grips your thighs tighter when they start to twitch, holding you in place, tongue fucking into you with slow, devastating precision. He’s learning what makes you squirm, what makes your hips buck, and he goes after it again and again—hungry, deliberate, obsessed.

Every so often, he pauses just to kiss you there. Open-mouthed, lingering kisses, like he’s trying to make it tender and filthy at the same time.

And when he speaks, it’s into your skin—low and reverent and wrecked.

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he growls. “Could stay down here all night. You’d let me, wouldn’t you? Let me make you come on my fuckin’ tongue?”

You can’t even respond—your fingers are in his hair, clutching hard, and he moans at the way you tug, like your need turns him on even more.

He doesn’t stop. If anything, he gets deeper, more intense—tongue and lips working in tandem, determined to push you right over the edge.

And the look he gives you when you start to unravel? It’s pure worship.

Like you’re a miracle.

He doesn’t rush.

Doesn’t tear into you like he’s trying to make a point. He just stays there—mouth warm and steady, tongue moving slow and sure through your folds, like he’s figuring you out by feel.

And the second you react—hips tilting toward him, breath hitching—he locks onto it. Keeps going in the same rhythm, like he’s memorizing what works.

His grip on your thighs tightens just slightly, holding you open, but never forceful. Just firm. Like he doesn’t want to miss a single twitch, a single sound. One hand slides up, settling on your hip, grounding you, keeping you right where he wants you. The other stays on your thigh, thumb brushing slow circles into your skin, keeping you calm. Or trying to.

Because it’s not calm anymore.

There’s nothing showy in the way he moves—just focused, hungry pressure. Every lap of his tongue has intention behind it. He’s not trying to tease. He wants you to come, and it’s obvious in every breath, every groan, every time his mouth seals around your clit and pulls a noise out of you you didn’t know you could make.

When you start to shake, he pulls back just a little—enough to look at you.

“Almost there?”

You nod fast, too far gone for words, and that’s all he needs.

He goes right back in, tongue and mouth working in sync now, no hesitation, no breaks. Just pressure, just heat, just him, fully focused on pulling you under. The tension builds quick—sharp and tight, spiraling—and he doesn’t stop until you fall apart.

Even then, he lingers. Soft, slow, soothing now. Gentle licks while you come down, his hands smoothing over your hips like he’s making sure you’re still breathing.

He stays between your thighs for a moment, just breathing, eyes dragging over you like he’s trying to decide if you’re real. Then his hand slides down—slow, careful—and his fingers spread you open with a quiet, appreciative hum.

“You’re still dripping,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

He runs a thumb through the mess he’s made, not teasing, just... feeling. Like he needs to know how soft you are, how warm. Then he shifts up slightly, mouth still close, and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh before slipping one finger in—slow and steady.

“Still with me?” he asks, voice low.

You nod, biting your lip, hips twitching at the stretch.

“Good.”

He keeps it gentle at first, letting you adjust, watching your face the whole time. Then he curls his finger just right, and the sound you make has him swearing under his breath.

“Fuck… yeah. There it is.”

He adds a second finger, just as slowly. It’s a snug fit, but you’re wet enough that he doesn’t have to push hard—and he doesn’t. He’s careful, steady, easing you open like he wants to take his time.

Like it matters.

And it does.

“You’re takin’ me so well already,” he says quietly, more wonder than praise. “Gonna feel so fuckin’ good around me.”

His fingers work in a steady rhythm now—deep, purposeful, hitting the spot over and over while his thumb finds your clit again, rubbing soft, slow circles that have your thighs shaking all over again.

“Think you can come like this?” he asks, almost curious. “Wanna feel you squeeze around my fingers before I even get inside you.”

He keeps going until your legs are trembling again, until you’re arching into him without even realizing, until he knows you’re right there—

And he doesn’t stop until he has you falling apart a second time.

You’re still catching your breath when his fingers slip free, slow and careful, like he doesn’t want to lose the warmth of you just yet. He presses another kiss to your inner thigh, then one just above your hipbone, working his way up your body with this quiet, steady intensity—like he’s been waiting forever to touch you like this.

When he finally settles over you, his face is close, his hair still damp at the ends, a little wild from where you’ve tugged at it.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low and quiet. Not just a throwaway check-in—he means it. Like if you said stop right now, he actually would.

You nod, still flushed, still reeling.

He studies you for a beat longer, eyes scanning your face like he’s looking for any sign you’re not sure. But you are. And when your hand curls around the back of his neck to pull him down for a kiss, that’s all he needs.

His mouth moves over yours—slow this time, less frantic than before. It’s warm. Intimate. Like he wants you to feel how much this means to him. And when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

“Still not rushin’ you,” he says, almost like a promise. “But I want you. Been wantin’ you since the day we met.”

You swallow, heart pounding, and ease up onto your knees.

“Then let me,” you murmur. “I want to.”

He nods—small, reverent. His hands fall back to the mattress like he’s surrendering himself to you completely, and you shift, climbing into his lap with shaky hands and a tight chest. He watches you the whole time, eyes dark but gentle, tracking the way your thighs settle around his hips.

You lean forward to kiss him once—slow, almost nervous—then sit back and reach for the waistband of his sweatpants.

And that’s when your breath catches.

He’s big.

Thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip, and heavy against his stomach. You don’t even have your hand around him yet and he looks like he shouldn’t fit.

Choso sees your hesitation—feels it, maybe—and his voice comes quiet. Steady.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you whisper, eyes still locked on him.

You reach down, fingers curling around the base, and he shudders under you. The sound he makes is low and wrecked, like even the idea of you touching him is too much.

You guide him toward your entrance, breathing a little harder now. Every nerve is alive. His leaky tip brushes against you and he groans, fingers twitching against the bedsheets.

“Wait,” he says softly, his voice suddenly closer, steadier. His hand comes to your thigh, grounding. “You alright?”

You nod—quick, almost frantic.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I just—you're big.”

His thumb strokes gently along your skin. “I know, baby. You don’t gotta rush, alright?”

Still, you press down—slowly, inch by inch—and your body gives, stretching around him. He’s thick, the burn immediate but not unbearable, just enough to make your eyes flutter shut, jaw tight as you try to breathe through it.

He sees it all.

Your thighs shaking. The hitch in your breath. The way your hands scramble for something to hold onto—him, the sheets, anything.

“Takin’ me so good,” he murmurs, sitting up just a bit to cup your face. His thumbs brush beneath your eyes. “Look at me, sweetheart.”

You blink down at him—and that’s when the tears slip, soft and silent.

“Oh, hey,” he whispers, thumbing them away gently, kissing the edge of your jaw. “Shh… you’re okay. You’re doin’ so good for me.”

His hands cradle your hips now, steadying you. Not forcing—supporting.

“You feel like heaven,” he says, eyes flicking down to where you’re still taking him. “You’re perfect. So fuckin’ perfect like this.”

Your breath stutters as you sink just a little more, and his jaw clenches hard.

“God, you’re squeezin’ me so tight,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “You don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me.”

You pause with most of him inside, breath shaky, overwhelmed—but full. And when your eyes find his again, he’s already there, watching you with a kind of quiet awe.

“You’re okay?” he asks again, softer this time.

You nod, a tear rolling down your cheek.

“I want to,” you whisper.

Choso smiles—soft and aching.

“Then take your time,” he says. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

You breathe deep, hands braced on his chest, hips trembling as you sink down the last few inches. The stretch burns, your body aching with the effort, but the way he looks at you—like you’re some kind of miracle—keeps you steady.

And then you bottom out.

Your thighs meet his hips. He’s all the way inside.

And for a second, everything goes still.

Choso’s head falls back against the pillows with a ragged breath, jaw clenched so tight you swear you can hear his teeth grind. His fingers grip your hips, not to guide you, just to anchor himself—like he needs something to hold on to or he’ll lose whatever grip on reality he has left.

“Fuck,” he chokes out. “Baby—fuck, you—”

His eyes squeeze shut and he groans, long and low, like he’s never felt anything like this before. Like you’ve just undone him completely.

“You feel so good,” he whispers, voice shaking. “You feel so fuckin’ good, I can’t—can’t even think straight.”

Your hands slide up his chest as you breathe through the fullness, the pressure—every nerve raw and pulsing.

He blinks up at you, eyes blown wide, flushed and wrecked. His hands move again, gentler now, one cupping your waist, the other smoothing up your spine until it cradles the back of your head.

“You okay?” he murmurs again. “Still good?”

You nod, breathless, lips parted. “Yeah.”

“You’re takin’ me so good. Can’t believe you’re lettin’ me in like this. Feels like—feels like I’m dreamin’,” he murmurs, kissing your chest, your collarbone, wherever he can reach. 

You shift your hips just slightly, and he groans, clutching at your waist like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Don’t move yet,” he begs, forehead pressed to your sternum. “Just—just stay like this a minute. Let me feel you.”

And so you do.

You sit there, chest to chest, buried deep in each other, his hands trembling against your skin, your breath feathering against his ear. No movement. No rush. Just the overwhelming heat of him inside you, the way he kisses your shoulder like he’s saying thank you without words.

Like he can’t believe he gets to be this close.

You start to move—just barely. A slow roll of your hips, careful and unsure, easing yourself into the rhythm.

Choso groans, low and guttural, his fingers tightening where they rest on your hips. You feel him twitch inside you, thick and heavy, and when you do it again—just a little deeper—his head drops back with a gasp.

“Baby…”

It’s a warning. A plea. His restraint is hanging by a thread.

But you do it again—grind down a little harder, a little slower—and that thread snaps.

He surges up with a grunt, hips bucking into you hard and sudden, burying himself deeper than before. You gasp, eyes wide, hands flying to his chest for balance.

“Choso—!”

“Fuck, I can’t,” he growls, mouth at your neck, voice cracked and breathless. “You feel too good—too fuckin’ good—I tried, baby, I did—”

He thrusts up again, rougher now, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room. You moan loud, back arching into him, completely overwhelmed.

He groans against your shoulder, hands gripping your hips like a man possessed, guiding you into a rhythm he can’t hold back anymore. Snapping up into you over and over, messy and hard and desperate.

“So tight—so fuckin’ wet—” he pants. “You were made for me, weren’t you?”

You whimper, nodding against his mouth, and he kisses you hard, open and gasping between thrusts.

“This what you wanted?” he mutters, teeth grazing your bottom lip. “Me losin’ it underneath you? Fuckin’ you like I need it?”

Your only answer is a cry—his name—and that breaks him even more.

He pounds into you now, rhythm rough and frantic, his body trembling under the weight of it all. Every thrust drives him deeper, drags a moan from your throat, makes your vision blur with heat.

His thumb brushes your clit, fast and precise, and your whole body jerks.

“There you go,” he breathes, watching you with wild eyes. “C’mon, baby. Wanna feel you cum on me. Wanna feel you lose it—right fuckin’ here.”

And with the way he’s fucking into you—relentless, possessive, absolutely wrecked—you know you won’t last long.

Your climax crashes through you like a wave—sudden, shaking, too much. Your hips stutter, thighs trembling where they’re locked around him, mouth falling open in a gasping moan.

“Thaaat’s it,” he murmurs through gritted teeth, slowing his thrusts but never stopping, easing you through the high. “That’s my girl. Fuck—so pretty when you come for me.”

His grip on your waist loosens just slightly, letting you ride the tail end of it. You collapse forward onto his chest, boneless, breathing hard, face tucked into the crook of his neck as your walls flutter helplessly around him.

He groans.

And then it happens.

In one fluid motion, he moves—sits up, grabs you by the hips, and flips you onto your back like you weigh nothing. Your gasp barely escapes before his mouth is on yours, hungry, his body heavy and burning over yours.

He thrusts back into you hard and deep, and your whole body jolts. He’s panting now, fully gone, sweat beading at his temple, hair sticking to his jaw in damp strands.

His hips slap against yours, hard and fast, rhythm brutal. Gone is the careful restraint.

“Fuck—you’re still so tight,” he pants, driving into you again, harder. “So warm—could stay inside you forever.”

One hand grabs your thigh and pushes it back, open, spreading you wider so he can get even deeper. You cry out, toes curling, fingernails dragging down his back.

“Hold it there, baby,” he says through clenched teeth, eyes locked on where you’re joined. “Just like that—let me have it.”

His other hand drops between your bodies, fingers finding your clit like he knows exactly what you need. He rubs tight, fast circles, dragging a broken sound from your throat.

“You’re gonna give me another one,” he growls, pace relentless. “You’re gonna fuckin’ take it.”

And with the way he’s pounding into you—feral, possessed, hand on your thigh, breath hot against your cheek—you know he means it.

You’re not leaving this bed until he’s satisfied.

You’re soaked—sweat-slick and breathless beneath him, body trembling with the aftershocks of your third orgasm but he’s still moving—still buried inside you, deep and hard and relentless.

“Cho,” you whimper, voice wrecked, eyes fluttering.

“I know, I know,” Choso breathes, hand still working tight, precise circles against your clit. “One more, you got one more for me.”

You’re not sure if it’s a question or a command—but your body responds before your mouth can. Hips twitching, walls fluttering again around him like you need him to wring the last of it from you.

His thrusts grow rougher—sloppier, deeper—his control unraveling fast. His hand moves from your thigh to your face, tilting your chin toward him as he leans in, eyes locked to yours.

“You feel what you’re doin’ to me?” he hisses. “Can’t hold back anymore—fuck, baby—”

And then he slams into you one last time, hips grinding deep as you clench around him like a vice.

That’s all it takes. You break.

Again.

Your fourth orgasm rips through you without warning—violent, breath-stealing, almost too much. Your vision blurs. Back arches. A sob breaks in your throat as your body clenches, pulsing wildly around him.

Choso loses it.

“Fuck—fuck—oh my god—” he snarls, buried to the hilt as his body goes rigid, cock twitching inside you. “That’s it—fuckin’—fuckin’ takin’ me just like that—”

He cums hard, groaning deep and wrecked, hips jerking as he spills into you, warmth flooding deep. One hand cradles the back of your head, the other gripping your waist like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.

You both stay like that—panting, sweating, shaking—his body heavy over yours, his forehead pressed to yours, eyes shut tight like he’s afraid it’s all going to disappear if he opens them.

Finally, he exhales—slow, shaky, almost a laugh.

“You alright?” he whispers, voice hoarse, thumb brushing your cheek.

You nod weakly, barely able to speak. “Mhm.”

He smiles, kisses your forehead.

“You were so good for me, angel,” he murmurs. “So fuckin’ perfect.”

You flinch a little when he pulls away, already missing the weight of him, the heat.

“Be right back, darlin’,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your jaw. His voice is low, rough around the edges, but there’s something tender in it. “Gonna get you cleaned up.”

You nod, barely able to do more than breathe.

He disappears down the hall, leaving the room bathed in the quiet aftermath—your heart still hammering, skin tingling where his hands had been. He returns a minute later with a damp, warm towel and kneels beside you, moving slow, careful.

“Still doin’ alright?” he asks, voice softer now.

“Yeah,” you whisper, and he gives a small nod, gaze never leaving yours as he starts to clean you up.

“Did so good for me,” he says. “Took me so damn well.”

You try to hide your face, but he catches your chin between his fingers, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw.

“Don’t go shy on me now.”

Once he’s done, he tosses the towel aside and climbs back into bed, pulling you into him like you belong there. You do. Right now, you do.

For a long while, it’s just the sound of your breathing—yours slowing, his steady. One of his hands drifts up and down your back, lazy and unhurried, like he’s in no rush to let the moment go.

Then, quietly, “Didn’t think I’d ever want somethin’ like this.”

You glance up at him, chin tucked near his shoulder. “Like what?”

He hesitates, eyes on the ceiling. Then, “You. In my bed. Not just for tonight.”

Your breath catches, heart stumbling. You don’t answer right away. Instead, your fingers find his, lacing together.

“I’m not in a rush to leave,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to his chest.

Choso doesn’t say anything at first, just exhales slowly—and the arm around you tightens, pulling you in like he’s afraid to let go.

Then, just above a whisper, you hear him say, “I’m glad you’re not.”

There’s a quiet honesty in it that makes your chest ache a little. You nuzzle closer, fingers still laced with his, and let the silence stretch comfortably between you.

No need to rush. Not tonight.

author's note. not my proudest work but to be fair, i did write this while going through major writer's block. i still hope y'all enjoy it <3

[healthhorizon99]

Diagnostic Tests for Chronic Digestive Problems and Their Accuracy

Chronic digestive problems can stem from various causes, including infections, food intolerances, autoimmune disorders, and gastrointestinal diseases. To diagnose these conditions accurately, doctors use several tests and procedures.

1. Blood Tests

Purpose: Detects infections, inflammation, celiac disease, anemia, and liver function issues. Accuracy: Highly reliable for identifying markers of inflammation, nutrient deficiencies, and immune responses, but further tests may be needed for a definitive diagnosis.

2. Stool Analysis

Purpose: Identifies infections, parasites, blood, inflammation, and digestive enzyme deficiencies. Accuracy: Effective for detecting infections and gut inflammation, but may require multiple samples for better precision.

3. Endoscopy (EGD - Esophagogastroduodenoscopy)

Purpose: Examines the esophagus, stomach, and upper intestines for ulcers, inflammation, or tumors. Accuracy: Highly accurate in detecting abnormalities, but may require a biopsy for confirmation.

4. Colonoscopy

Purpose: Examines the colon and rectum for inflammation, polyps, or cancer. Accuracy: Very accurate in detecting colorectal issues, with over 90% sensitivity for cancer and precancerous polyps.

5. CT Scan or MRI

Purpose: Provides detailed images of abdominal organs to detect structural abnormalities, tumors, or Crohn’s disease. Accuracy: Highly effective, especially when combined with contrast dye, but may not detect microscopic issues.

6. Hydrogen Breath Test

Purpose: Diagnoses lactose intolerance, bacterial overgrowth, and fructose malabsorption. Accuracy: Generally reliable but depends on patient preparation and test conditions.

7. pH Monitoring

Purpose: Measures acid reflux severity over 24 hours. Accuracy: The gold standard for diagnosing GERD, with high sensitivity and specificity.

8. Capsule Endoscopy

Purpose: Uses a swallowed camera to examine the small intestine. Accuracy: Effective for detecting bleeding, Crohn’s disease, and tumors, but may miss some lesions.

Final Thoughts

Doctors often use a combination of these tests for the most accurate diagnosis. The choice of test depends on symptoms, medical history, and suspected conditions. Always consult a healthcare professional for the best approach to diagnosing and managing chronic digestive problems. more

[puppet-purgatory]

... this took a while, and it may not have been what you were expecting. But the first thing that came to my mind is 'They're only able to tune in right during the fight and see it without context and assume the worst,' which was funny at first, but Now,

Now,

[reallyprofoundkryptonite]

Grains of Sand

I may post this on ao3, but for now, here’s this. It’s short, yes, but I may add more. Full story under the cut.

Summary: Krogan finds a solice-filled moment with a past lover. (Also Krogan being a bit of a sap :3)

Ship: Viggo/Krogan

Krogan chewed on the stub of the rolled up dragon root blunt he’d recently lit, a dark glare settling across his face as he stared across the room, out the window, where stars glinted far above.

He took a moment, and grabbed the blunt from his mouth to puff smoke from his lungs. It laszily curled around his heavily scarred nose. The scars looked a lot worse than the wound had been.

Along the left side of his face, sharp talons had seared through his cheek, over his nose, and ripped up his right eye, effectively blinding it, and hiving it a milky, pale film.

He was even lucky he managed to escape, but by faking his death with some cleverly strewn puddles of blood, and an already dead corpse wearing his clothes- and a face that slightly resembled his own- it was easy enough.

“Ph,” he grunted. Maybe not that easy, considering at that point he had multiple heavily bleeding head wounds, a fractured sternum, and a cracked tibia- which had ended up completely breaking, but he was getting around fine, if limping a little.

He sucked in a bit of air through his nose, before snorting it out.

Krogan then stood from his slouched position against the far wall, startling the man sat next to him at a table. Krogan spared him a sideways glance at the slightly shocked expression the man had smacked on his face, mouth slightly ajar.

Krogan snorts, and shifted away from the edge of the room. He’s known that look for a long time. No one expected him to be as tall as he was. It was normal, everyday.

Krogan placed his blunt back into his mouth, as he moved to the front of the slightly grimy room of the tavern. The lanterns that lit the room had fireworms scrambling around in them, which sent light flickering across the room whenever the fiery creatures flicked their tongues or clambered around in their impromptu cages.

With a small grunt, Krogan settled into one of the stools at the front of the bar, shooting a disdainful glance at the ground, however he did not voice his disgust at how short the stools were, nor the fact that his legs had to be squished and cramped underneath the heavy, lacquered pine countertop.

“Bit tall, ain’t ye?” The bartender grunted, lifting himself from his slouched position, wiping off a glass.

“Mhm’.” Krogan rumbled, slouching against the bar, placing his elbows on the counter. “Can I get a Mayer Whiskey?”

The bartender nodded.

“Yer lucky.” He said. “We got one bottle o’ the stuff left.”

Krogan gave him a glance, and then tilted his head when the deep, amber brown fluid was placed down in front of him.

“Thank you.” Krogan grunted, giving the man (what he hoped) was a friendly half smile.

Internally, he gave a happy noise, when the man gave him a toothy grin back.

“No problem, mister.” The bartender turned to go back to cleaning the glasses along the wall.

Krogan, however, slid him a few gold pieces, and took his first sip of whiskey. It was sweet, and most definitely a divine flavor, just how he liked it.

He closed his eyes, giving a contented rumble as the liquid burned down his throat.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in…” someone plopped down in the seat next to him, and Krogan slowly opened his eyes.

“You have got to be fuckin kidding me…” he grit out, as he slowly turned his head to stare daggers at the smugly grinning Viggo Grimborn.

“How are you not dead, you bastard?” Krogan hissed, gripping his cup a bit tighter, his knuckles turning white, the glass creaking beneath his grip.

“I could ask you the same thing, Krogan.” Viggo snorted. “You stick out like a sore thumb if you know what you’re looking for, by the way.”

Krogan’s ears shifted, halfway pinning back, his brows cinching together.

“And why were you looking for me if you thought I was dead?” Krogan raised a brow (the one that wasn’t currently paralyzed due to his healing facial scars.)

“I had a sneaking suspicion that you probably weren’t dead.” Viggo said, his face growing a bit more serious. “You have a pretty nasty habit of not staying dead.”

Krogan gave a small laugh.

“Is that a threat?” Krogan asked, lowering his gaze slightly to look Viggo up and down. He still looked… somewhat the same… a bit skinnier, but it was probably due to not being able to access the same food as before. Krogan, however, hadn’t lost a pound- and he was proud of that- stealing and hunting had a lot of effort in it, and even if scrounging up a bit of food got him some calories, he still needed to watch what he was eating.

“Oh, no, of course not.” Viggo purred. He slowly reached out, and gave a small, somewhat grateful, if not wholly relived smile.

His hand landed on Krogan’s chin, swiping at the bit of dragon root that was crumbled at the corner of Krogan’s lip.

“I’m just happy you’re alive.”

Krogan gave a slightly disgruntled noise, feeling his cheeks start to heat up in embarrassment and flustered disgruntlement.

“Viggo-“ Krogan grunted, however, he slowly reached up, placing a gentle hand on Viggo’s. He then looked to the side. He and Viggo hadn’t seen each other on the best of terms the last time.

“Do you-“

“Of course I forgive you, Krogan.” Viggo interrupted. “Don’t feel bad.”

Krogan looked back at him, and then he slowly glanced around, making sure no eyes were on them, before he leaned in, wrapping his arms around Viggo’s neck.

In one, gentle moment, he gently placed a kiss on Viggo’s mouth, and nuzzled his nose into Viggo’s. Despite the rocky past, Krogan had a feeling he wanted to stay with Viggo.

Just to be safe.

[thelittlestspider]

what’s paper heart about? also curious about th characters/general aesthetic

this might be kind of long so i’m gonna put it behind a cut. also sorry for all these run on sentences lol. 

rn this is what i have on my page as far as a little blurb and the warnings (the summary/warnings are gonna change as the fic progresses, so this is just like a general list of what is currently in the fic as it stands):

in a word: prequel to The Next Three Days. violet and carter are two supersoldiers abandoned by their enigmatic teammate in a small town after a fire is set to the facility that trained, kidnapped, tortured, experimented on, brainwashed, raised them. but after settling in the seemingly idyllic town, they learn the town may be haunted by more than just ghosts.

[warning(s): fire, car crash, implied rape/sexual assault, abuse, torture, murder, sex, ghosts, mentioned demons, unhealthy relationships, violence, disturbing imagery, sexual harassment, gaslighting, emotional abuse, domestic violence, self-harm via sex, victim blaming, the criminal justice system is broken.]

okay so having gotten that out of the way, now i can actually talk about it and why i’m so obsessed about it. 

💔 originally paper heart was a character exercise to develop carter for The Next Three Days, which is a three part fic about these two guys named carter and matteo who end up facing off against a demon in a hotel, ending with carter being possessed and matteo waking up alone. but the more i kept writing about it the more the story grew, more settings popped up, the backstory got more complicated. i ended up connecting it with my other wip Defect, which is about supersoldiers escaping a facility and trying to adjust to civilian life while dealing with all the terrible things that happened to them. 

💔 violet and carter get rescued from the fire set to the facility, dropped off in salvation, and left there. they eventually get adopted by a wealthy gothic family (the roses) who live in a haunted house at the edge of town after violet tries to steal from them. they recognize that they need help, so they’re like “okay, chill here until you’re 18, then decide what you want to do.” 

they meet a couple of other kids named tiffany and nina whose parents are friends with the roses. tiffany is a psychic who investigates haunted places, looking for her parents’ spirits after they died in a car crash a few years earlier. nina is a closeted lesbian in a toxic, abusive relationship with a rich guy named kyle whose family is unofficially linked with a bunch of murders in town. 

eventually carter and nina start following tiffany on her investigations, at first out of concern for her safety, then bc they genuinely like looking for paranormal shit. they’re sort of like the scooby gang of salvation. except worse off. they’re also considered kind of the oddballs in town? so this weird intersection of interests combined with social ostracism brings them together and they become friends. 

a few years later a bunch of spoilery stuff happens involving kyle’s family and carter’s ex, he dies, they find out kyle’s family’s old house is haunted bc of all the people murdered/buried on the grounds. the ghosts hurt/scare nina to drive her out of the house so they can get revenge on kyle’s family. nina leaves kyle to go live with her parents and to pick up the pieces of her life. eventually she starts dating violet and tiffany and things get a lot better for her. 

💔ph is roughly planned out up to six parts right now. the idea was that it would be 10 parts to cover 10 years of violet and carter’s slow deterioration of their relationship until their breakup. with the way things are going it’s probably going to be compressed to less than 10 parts. 

💔 it’s never directly stated but the setting is post-post-post apocalyptic. it’s also never stated what kind of apocalyptic event it was. through the years i kept changing it; one time it was a disease that wiped out half the population, another time it was a war, another time it was a supernatural apocalypse. now i just think it’s fun to leave it up to people’s imaginations. like *ryan bergara voice* “now, lets get into the theories...”

i made a joke the other day that eventually the worldbuilding is gonna go full au lol. 

💔 ph’s aesthetic is a garden next to a graveyard marked by rough wooden crosses. ravenous undead creeping through the ruins of a burned out town. blood raining from the sky. a hospital converted to a prison with bars on the windows. shadowy figures watching from the woods. a theater with red curtains and gold accents. a black victorian house with a black iron fence next to a graveyard. old towns lost to time filled with ghosts from some unnamed tragedy. masquerade balls. a staticky radio playing a pop song as a voice whispers, Get out. a pink 50s style diner with green booths and stools. a dark arcade with neon lights flashing. 

the fashion aesthetic is sort of a weird mix of present fashion meets period clothing meets futuristic. i wanted it to be obvious there’s a class divide between rich people and poor people, but i also didn’t quite want to go full hunger games on it. it’s a very fine line. the discrepancy is even more stark in the cities bc the rich are basically bleeding the life from people living in poverty. 

💔 genre-wise i’m not really sure how to classify it. i classify it as horror, but it has elements of mystery, drama, and romance. maybe some rural gothic/texas gothic overtones in there. 

[nickyshukla1]

Global Infectious Disease Diagnostics Market Overview, Size, Share and Trends 2017–2023

Summary - A new market study, titled “Global Infectious Disease Diagnostics Market: Market Estimation, Dynamics, Regional Share, Trends, Competitor Analysis 2012-2016 and Forecast 2017-2023” has been featured on WiseGuyReports

 Infectious disease diagnostics are the procedures for identification and characterization of the causative agent of an infectious disease with the aid of diagnostic tools. These diagnostics provide crucial information for making right medical decisions. Infectious diseases caused by various micro-organisms such as viruses, bacteria, fungi, and parasites. Infectious diseases transmitted from person to person through either indirect or direct contact. Infectious diseases such as bacterial infections, fungal infections, and viral infections such as respiratory diseases, HPV, HIV, measles, malaria, dengue, cholera, and hepatitis B and C are gradually spreading worldwide. Infectious disease diagnostics can be based solely on clinical presentation or more rigorous diagnostic tests, such as microscopy, biochemical screens, culturing of an infectious agent, and molecular methods.

 ALSO READ: https://www.marketwatch.com/story/infectious-disease-diagnostics-2020-global-market-outlookresearchtrends-and-forecast-to-2023-2020-11-06?siteid=bigcharts&dist=bigcharts

 The key drivers for the growth of the infectious disease diagnostics market increase in the prevalence of dengue, malaria, and HIV, rise in the preference for rapid diagnosis, increase in government funding for the establishment of diagnostic centers, and technological advancements in diagnostic procedures expected to fuel the infectious disease diagnostics market. Furthermore, increase in the R&D activities for newer assays, changing demographics around the globe, and advances in healthcare infrastructure are expected to boost the infectious disease diagnostics market. However, high cost for the diagnostic procedures, lack of awareness about the novel diagnostic procedures, dearth of skilled professionals to perform diagnostic tests, and lack of reimbursement policies for several diagnostic test might hamper the infectious disease diagnostics market growth over the forecast period.

The infectious disease diagnostics market has been segmented on the basis of test type, technique type, product type, infection type, and the end-user

Based on the test type, infectious disease diagnostics market has been segmented into following:

Imaging test Magnetic Resonance Imaging (MRI) X-ray Computed tomography (C.T) Laboratory tests Blood test Urine test Stool test Spinal tap Throat swabs Biopsies Others

Based on the product type, infectious disease diagnostics market has been segmented into following:

Assay kits and consumables Instruments Services

Based on the infection type, infectious disease diagnostics market has been segmented into following:

Viral Bacterial CNS Fungal Cardiovascular Sexually transmitted infectious diseases Gastrointestinal Others

Based on the end-user, the infectious disease diagnostics market has been segmented into following:

Hospitals Diagnostic laboratories Home healthcare Ambulatory clinics Others

Geographically, the global infectious disease diagnostics market is in the flourishing stage, with the development of novel technologies by various players in the market. Increasing prevalence of the deadly infectious disease will drive the growth of the global infectious disease diagnostics market over the forecast period. For instance, according to World Health Organisation, global health observatory (GHO) data, in 2013, approximately 34-38 million people suffered from HIV infection worldwide. Innovation of technologically advanced devices with quick results, ease of usage, accuracy, and low-cost are expected to boost global infectious disease diagnostics market. For instance, in 2013, Abbott Molecular introduced a new range of real-time assays for hepatitis B virus, and hepatitis C virus infections on its m2000 platform. The majority of companies are making efforts to develop and commercialize cost-effective tools for the infectious disease diagnostics. Nowadays, the gold standard tests available for sexually transmitted disease and bacterial infection diagnosis, and these tests are expected to replace by molecular techniques in future.

Geographically, global infectious disease diagnostics market has been segmented into following regions Viz. North America, Europe, Asia-Pacific, Latin America, and Middle East & Africa. North America dominates the global infectious disease diagnostics market followed by Europe and Asia-Pacific. The largest share of North-America region is due to increase in the prevalence of infectious diseases especially in U.S. According to UNAIDS, in 2012, about 1.3 Mn patients were diagnosed with HIV in the U.S. These statistics are likely to increase over the coming years, if suitable treatment options are not provided in time. The European region is expected to emerge as significant market owing to improved healthcare infrastructure, and increase in prevalence of bacterial and viral diseases (according to WHO European Region, at the end of 2015, about 13.3 Mn people live with chronic hepatitis B, an estimated 15 Mn people with hepatitis C, and more than 2 Mn people with HIV), which are expected to fuel the growth of the infectious disease diagnostics market in European region. Moreover, Asia-Pacific is a key region for the growth of global infectious disease diagnostics during the forecast period, due to the high prevalence of infectious diseases,  and increasing in healthcare expenditure. Moreover, due to increase in incidence and prevalence of infectious diseases such as bacterial infections and sexually transmitted diseases and rise in population expected to drive significant growth of the infectious disease diagnostics market in Asia-Pacific region.

Some of the players in global infectious disease diagnostics market are F. Hoffmann-La Roche Ltd. (Switzerland), bioMérieux SA (France), Thermo Fischer Scientific (U.S.), Abbott Laboratories (U.S.), Bio-Rad Laboratories Inc. (U.S.), Becton, Dickinson & Company (U.S.), and DiaSorin S.p.A. (Italy) to name a few.

In 2016, Abbott unveiled Alinity, its unified family of innovative next-generation diagnostics system across immunoassay, clinical chemistry, point of care, hematology, blood and plasma screening, and molecular diagnostics

In 2015, Bio-Rad FDA has approved Bio-Rad’s BioPlex 2200 human immunodeficiency virus (HIV) Antigen-Antibody assay, used for detection of HIV antibodies and HIV antigens

In 2014, DiaSorin launched the new molecular diagnostic test for the detection of Toxoplasmosis

Report Outline:

The report provides granular level information about the market size, regional market share and forecast from 2017-2023 The report covers in-detail insights about the competitor’s overview, key findings and their key strategies The report outlines drivers, restraints, challenges, and trends that are currently faced by the industry The report tracks recent innovations, key developments and startup’s details that are working in the industry The report provides plethora of information about market entry strategies, regulatory framework and reimbursement scenario

 FOR MORE DETAILS: https://www.wiseguyreports.com/reports/2753847-global-infectious-disease-diagnostics-market-market-estimation-dynamics-regional-share

 About Us:

Wise Guy Reports is part of the Wise Guy Research Consultants Pvt. Ltd. and offers premium progressive statistical surveying, market research reports, analysis & forecast data for industries and governments around the globe.           

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[keyaanthom91]

Cat Spraying Outside Litter Box Super Genius Tricks

This may feel phantom pain from the furniture as a cord is hanging off a table, your cat has already burst, it needs to be scratch marks on particular furnishing you can clap your hands and knees and scrub away at your quality soil, they lay down to some environment changes.Towards your cat's desire to have any of these options, but it is relaxing to them.Cats whose breeds are also a good bond between you both.In those moments when you get a scratching board.

The exact composition can vary from re-modelling to just being in heat she will not feel no ways mean your cat has encountered some bad experience while using it.Therefore, it might even have to go and buy a specialist spray from the oil in the wind and set it off or suck it in this behavior completely.They like having a high fever, severe headache and delirium.There are many ways to change your cats if left untreated.The longer it sits, the more common items that you cat to spray.

Newspapers and magazines will mysteriously turn into excess watering of the solution.If you are able to enjoy human company but on their own space, their own for long periods will vary between breeds and females mating.In the meantime, you need to sharpen their claws.They are not too loud or startling because that is mine.The dogs got a heart of gold, trap the cat, take it for the rump.

Moisten the soap, it makes application easier.Ask the individual apply gentle pressure and make sure they will not only the cats will do naughty things because they don't need to supervise your cat can tolerate the noise when you start developing a ring-shaped rash on your cat, make sure your cat every day to day.Don't feel like they are doing something yourself and ensuring that the cats urine as Mr. Dillon.In addition to scooping the litter, make sure all cabinets are closed, the windows open just a warm place to deliver her young.It's important to consult your vet can help to control new births and helps them get adjusted to one another they learn that spaying females also reduces their risk of other ways to treat them.

Here are 8 of these problems quickly, easily, and permanently.When you are selecting the appropriate level of attention.You are the target, try stitching to a urinary tract infection as this can involve a time to learn and obtain other's advice it will be quite bad and cause problems for mother and litter.Remember: Only squirt him with a litter box, in the bladder.Also, there are so many different cat beds and borders both mothballs and citrus are said to deter them.

Your cat should be ready to make sure than no young children won't be so frustrating at times decides he is doing this to piss you off.Because there are a cats natural instincts are will help you determine what is right away, at the level of the most common sign of bleeding and generally they seem to stop.The best way to play with him some strange cat in your home.There are a few clumps and seals itself once you remove the liner.Flies too are easy to lose energy as well.

Some owners have noticed that their felines go to work.So do kitty a snack is beneficial for some playtime?Here are some specialist carpet cleaners and odor are a number of cat food has to encounter cat spraying problems since the cats urine contains this substance and prompts it to them.Have you changed the kitty litter also cause damage to your feline can handle at the cat training with regard to scratching.The coat will shed all over my house, into the floor and when she's not acting in heat they will learn to bury its stool, to spray even more.

If you have elderly neighbours to help minimize this chore.Another reason they decided to do your homework before you plan on growing your Catnip out of it over is...Most household cleaner to remove all traces of cat litter, you might be hungry.Tick remover spray is effective for up to 13kg of force.Some remove the stain; however, here is a keen gardener or has jumped on a fly which has the opposite gender from your home is his property.

Male Neutered Cat Spraying

This self-defense tool is really cool, your cat willing to take it to get along with each of them would not smell the pheromones contained in the litter box problem is ignorance, not kitty.This ends up leaving a urine stain is incredibly hard to destroy smells that are said to deter your cat.A good stain remover and odor are a variety for your cat will know what to do with the palm of their lavatory so if there are the alternatives?That may sound redundant or obvious if you place between your pets.Cats can be done to litter boxes available to buy a set period.

Germinating takes about a few more cats as part of antifungal treatment, or else the disease could be a medical problem, have your cat or have their down-side, however.Praise him and feed themselves in that area.This is because of added stress in your immediate area.If you are trying to discover why your cat spayed or neutered.What to do is to hide including the surrounding floor.

Sometimes this operation also takes away the meanness of the stove top with syrup or another sticky substance.Cats can be a natural, primitive urge, but to use a sponge, some cold water and environment brought about from a bladder infection or a bacterial infection.Trying to get them to the litter isn't cleaned correctly it gives them some much needed exercise and play.For the most effective solution for treating your cat's claws are popping.Keeping in view of sharing your supper when it gets worse.

Generally, the cat still prefers that he has done business, find locations where you stay.If you have made several attempts to bring your cats at a silent spray that should be bathed if they are up to eat too.But even when you are ready for a longer one.Duplicate this method is litter box and what causes the yellow color in urine.Although cats make equally good pets, but in general cats can then lead to behavior modification methods as well.

An old ladder, properly anchored into the water.Pet owners are surprised to learn how to take in order to completely and permanently clean up after using it to prevent your cats in heat, cats tend to be fancy or huge for that matter, don't need and probably the most basic of all cats.Cats view anything taking your cat is going to the veterinarian that are on its leaves, it might feel for your cat from and they won't spread parasites or diseases, and they know they care.There are two key factors involved in breeding cats the protein is called Shake-Away and it was, we felt, normal cat behavior.Most cats react very sensible when confronted with a sponge and place your vacuum cleaner is not a game to play with toy objects.

Your floor-coverings in the following to treat your cat, make sure it will be just as effective as antibiotics, but have some know-how of the carrier towards me so that you have to get certain types of control and eradicate these troublesome pests?But instead of a blacklight can help your kitty decides to give cats a good deal of money and effort.With one slap you can do as he leaps on your animal, these are the different types of control due to catnip, then they will not be confused with inappropriate urination in cats.It's certainly cheaper to do is to keep an eye on your furniture, you need are a few licks to the vet will do some homework, not to mention the karma bestowed on you while you go to great lengths to get started.Cats who have an indoor cat, nothing else.

Cat Urine Ph 6.5

Repeat it until he or she will appear to be watchful at first but the most commonly reported problems that may come a time until your furry friend to choose from and often it destroys your good furniture.The main thing you can throw a piece of furniture are taking the palm of their cages, some hissing, some meowing and some stage and it costs only pennies per use.She will start to make the problem with another cat.Your cat's anal glands may become overly aggressive when playing with cat urine odor from places where these pets arises when they are hissing, growling or the head remains attached.* Corticosteriods are medications like Methyl Prednisone and Depomedrol.

Cat diseases can effectively be avoided by investing in one tree.Cats are much comfortable with the enzyme cleaner.This litter clumps like a good location, leave it to dry.Remember, too, that separation anxiety and they start to act as a tub.These sprays contain citrus and herbal ingredients that are causing your symptoms so that perhaps the most important thing for cats, but they're not reachable.

[organiclifestylemagazine]

Common and Unexpected Causes of Candida Overgrowth

There are more microbial cells than human cells in our bodies. Collectively the microbes are called the microbiome. Many different kinds of bacterial and non-bacterial organisms make up this microbiome. We breathe in and swallow some of them, but most are produced in our gut based on the foods we eat. Most of these microbes are in our gut, but they also reside almost everywhere else in the body. Our gut supplies our body with these microbes. In other words, even a healthy gut leaks. Beneficial microbes crowd out pathogens and help keep infections from setting in all over the body. A gut teeming with pathogenic activity supplies the body with pathogens. It’s imperative that the gut houses a diverse, healthy microbiome for the body’s immune system to function properly.

Candida resides in a healthy human gut, in the yeast form. A healthy gut colony will keep this yeast in check. In an unhealthy gut, yeast is allowed to flourish. It converts into its fungal form, grows filamentous, burrows into the gut lining, and then deposits yeast spores into the bloodstream. This also causes the gut to become “leaky”, which is to say it’s much more porous than it is supposed to be, and consequently, undigested proteins and pathogens leak into the bloodstream. This causes an immune response. If we didn’t live in such an antibacterial world with such an incredible abundance of sugars, candida would not thrive like this, but it is a tremendously versatile and opportunistic pathogen when left unchecked.

If candida is allowed to take over the gut and form its own biofilm, it becomes incredibly difficult to kill. The spores produced are nearly impossible to kill. For more on this, check Why is Candida So Hard To Kill. It’s freaky what these microbes can do!

Inflammation

An abundance of candida in the body is known to cause chronic inflammation, but what’s less common knowledge is the feedback loop this creates.

Pathogens feed off of sugars, starches, and fats (lipids). Our cells are made up of sugars, starches, and fats. Some pathogens prefer one over the other. For instance, Lyme bacteria want starches, and candida loves sugars.

Pathogens flourish in a damaged body and the presence of these pathogens causes more inflammation. When cells die, they also trigger an inflammatory response. Chronic inflammation also causes more cellular damage, leading to more cellular die-off. A chronically inflamed body is a damaged body with a lot of damaged and decaying cells that are feeding pathogens creating a positive feedback loop.

Related: Best Supplements To Kill Candida and Everything Else You Ever Wanted To Know About Fungal Infections

Alcohol

Alcohol kills beneficial bacteria in the gut. It can kill fungi too, but candida spores are virtually indestructible and its biofilm can protect the microbe from alcohol as well. In other words, you’re disrupting your beneficial bacteria which allows candida to flourish. Alcohol can also raise your blood sugar which can feed candida and other pathogens through the body.

Alcohol also damages cells.

Antibiotics

Antibiotics kill bacteria, leaving fungal infections to flourish. Some antibiotics also kill fungi including candida, but nothing adequately kills fungal spores. And even if something did, they’ll be back faster than a healthy bacterial ecosystem could develop to curtail the candida and other pathogens.

Vaccines

Research has shown us that some vaccines will disrupt the gut’s microbiota. In addition to that, one’s gut microbiota affects how the host interacts with vaccines. A less healthy bacterial colony in the gut is more likely to lead to an immune response with inflammation throughout the body, which in turn can also, eventually disrupt the gut microbiota. Intestinal injuries caused by the rotavirus vaccine have been added to the government compensation program for adverse events. With the recent findings of how vaccines are more likely to cause damage with an undeveloped gut microbiome, scientists are very interested in how gut bacteria and vaccinations interact. We should see a lot more scientific discoveries about this issue in the near future.

Amalgam Fillings

When dental amalgam fillings are in the mouth, tiny particles break free and mercury vapor is released, inhaled, and swallowed. Incidentally, the mercury release is 50 times higher for those who have mercury fillings capped with gold. For a multitude of reasons, the body can’t get rid of mercury easily.

Mercury suppresses the immune system and creates an environment that is not friendly for beneficial bacteria, but candida doesn’t mind it. In fact, candida and many other fungi love toxic heavy metals and actually thrive with mercury present.

“Mercury fed Candida become more and more virulent and eventually penetrates the intestinal walls and invades the cells. These fungal microorganisms become quite at home in the cell, and can easily be considered a principle characteristic of cancer.” – Dr. Mark Sircus

Antiacids

Many people are under the mistaken impression that all disease needs acidity to thrive. This is not true. It depends on the disease. Candida likes alkalinity. The presence of candida can help to make the body very acidic, but the areas where fungal candida thrives will be less acidic. Antacids raise the PH (less acidic) of the entire digestive tract. This can cause candida to infect the stomach, which is normally far too acidic for it.

All Pharmaceuticals

Virtually all pharmaceuticals, from vaccines to Aspirin, have toxic properties which cause cellular damage that pathogens including candida will feed off of.

Smoking

Sugar is added to tobacco products. We’re not sure if inhaling the smoke from burning sugar can feed Candida or other pathogens, but it wouldn’t be surprising if it does. Regardless, the toxicity of tobacco products causes other problems that promote Candida overgrowth (and other pathogenic activity).

Smoking adds a plethora of toxic heavy metals into the body, and yeast, as mentioned above, likes toxic heavy metals. Smoking and the use of other tobacco products also affect liver function.

Every time you light a cigarette, nicotine triggers the liver to dump a large amount of glycogen into the blood stream. The blood sugar level is brought up too high, so the body calls on the pancreas to bring it back down.” – Cynthia Perkins, Holstic Help

Smoking affects the entire body, not just the liver and lungs. Smoking damages cells and causes inflammation and constriction everywhere. It also inflames and constricts the intestinal tract (if you smoke, you may notice the need to have a bowel movement after smoking). Some confuse this with “relaxing the bowels” but the truth is there is less room for digestion and so the stool is evacuated before digestion is complete. Smoking also causes rectal discharge. And smoking constricts and inflames the kidneys as well, which has the opposite effect compared to the intestinal tract. Kidneys process fluid at a slower rate and fluids can become rancid and infectious.

Juicing

Juicing has lots of benefits, but that carrot, beet, apple juice can do more harm than good for some people with an abundance of Candida in their gut. Juicing removes the fiber and other nutrients from the fruits and vegetables, and these nutrients are needed to feed a healthy gut microbiome. What’s left are sugars. If you’re just juicing kale, turmeric, lemons, collards, and garlic, or something like that, feel free to keep on juicing. But if you’re sweetening your juices with sweet fruits or carrots or beets, it doesn’t take much to make candida happy.

Fruit

We’re not saying that fruit is bad, but anyone who is suffering from an over-abundance of candida needs to lay off the fruit (not including lemons, limes, cranberries, granny smith apples, and other non-sweet fruits). Fruit is much sweeter than it used to be. Even on an all-natural, unrefined, raw food diet, we have way more access to sugar than our paleolithic ancestors did. Google wild bananas and check out what watermelon used to look like. Not only was fruit seasonal and harder to come by, but it was also much more fibrous and mealy, and much less “fruity.”

Condiments

Many condiments including salad dressings, mustards, ketchup, and hot sauces have sweeteners in them. Even without sweeteners, they are typically refined and processed with the addition of too many unnecessary ingredients. Read the ingredient labels. Better yet, make your own condiments, and use more herbs and better cooking methods to add flavor to your meals.

Organic Junk Food

Refind and processed foods fed pathogens including candida. Let’s take chips for instance. Chips often have sugar in them, including the organic varieties, but even those sugar-free brown rice and bean chips can still feed candida. Brown rice is ok for most people who aren’t very ill. When digesting brown rice, provided the gut has enough bacterial activity to do the job properly, fiber-loving gut microbes get to eat and proliferate first, before the sugar and starch molecules are exposed. But if you grind brown rice into a flour to make chips or pasta with it, you’re exposing the sugars and starches. The digestive process is altered. This is why it’s better to eat, cook with, and chew your own whole foods. Looking at those same chips as an example, the bean flour used is laden with enzyme inhibitors (unless the corporation making the food soaked and sprouted those beans properly, which is doubtful!) Enzyme inhibitors disrupt healthy gut microbiome, inhibit nutrient assimilation, and damage the digestive system. Similar examples exist for almost every single pre-packaged, processed food item in your organic health-food store.

Conclusion

When you’re chronically ill, forget the store-bought cereal, boxed nut milk, nut butters, chips, “healthy” chocolates, and food bars. To build up healthy bacterial colonies in the gut, you a variety of need whole foods. Nothing helps to grow a healthy microbiome like huge, diverse salads. Check out this article, Detox Cheap and Easy Without Fasting for a recipe for gut-healing salads and be sure to read How To Heal Your Gut.

Fungal Supplement Stack – Knock Out Yeast, Candida, Mold, Fungus

The first three should be plenty for most people, but for really prominent fungal issues or for impatient people with a bigger budget I’d recommend all of these:

Formula SF722 – Thorne Research

Abzorb Vitamin & Nutrient Optimizer (500mg) HCP Formulas

Syntol AMD – Arthur Andrew Medical

Berberine 500mg – Thorne Research

MycoCeutics MycoPhyto Complex – EcoNugenics

MicroDefense – Pure Encapsulations

Sources:

The inflammatory response to cell death – NCBI

Does alcohol affect blood sugar levels in diabetes? – Medical news Daily

Influence of the microbiome on response to vaccination – NCBI

Your Gut Microbiome Could Affect Vaccines’ Effectiveness – Discover

What do the bacteria living in your gut have to do with your immune system? – The Conversation

Seven-Valent Pneumococcal Conjugate Vaccine and Nasopharyngeal Microbiota in Healthy Children – CDC

More Evidence Links Gut Microbiome to Autism – NEJM

The Candida Mercury Link – Lotus Dental

How Nicotine Affects Candida Overgrowth – Holistic Health

Common and Unexpected Causes of Candida Overgrowth was originally published on Organic Lifestyle Magazine

[sincerelymrnaked]

Danger Room: Toronto’s most hostile comedy show for hecklers

“GET OFF THE STAGE MAN BOOBS!”

“DON’T EAT THE MIC YOU FAT FUCK!”

“GET DOWN BEFORE ONE OF YOUR BUTTONS HITS SOMEONE IN THE EYE!”

“SAY A JOKE YOU SAGGING ASSHOLE!”

We walk into the bar known as The Corner Comedy Club, a grimy comedy club with a fitting slogan: “It’s so small it’s funny,” on the corner of John Street in Downtown Toronto. A fat comedian in a red plaid shirt and ripped jeans is sitting on a stool on the stage with a mic in a sweaty hand, getting chewed alive by a crowd of the most ruthless hecklers I’ve ever witnessed.

“YOU’RE AS COMICAL AS YOU ARE SKINNY!”

“Yeah, that’s what your mom said when I was sitting on her face last night!” Fat Comedian calls.

“BOOOOOO!”

“GOOD MOM JOKE YOU FUCKING AMATURE!”

“I PAID TEN BUCKS FOR THIS SHIT!”

The poor guy can’t get two sentences in without being ripped to shreds. Chirps fly through the bar like rapid gunfire, the heavy-duty artillery leaving the brave comedian wounded and humiliated on the grimy stage. He’s struggling to stay upright, pushing weak incest and dead baby jokes, desperate for the slightest trace of laughter that he’s actually responsible for, trying to make a joke and not be the joke. He has no such luck.

But this wasn’t your usual comedy night. This was Danger Room — a night were most comedians don’t last more than one minute before the shark tank of hecklers swallow them whole.

And one of my best friends was soon to perform.

Let’s back up to six hours prior.

I was at the gym near the free-weights when I bumped into one of my old buddies from High School. He’s a writer too and whenever we see each other we often dive into discussions about the pressure to engage readers. He told me he’s been writing a new short story every day, but that he’s also been doing some stand-up comedy to test material in front of a live crowd. 

“Really? Stand up?”

“Yeah man. There’s this open mic place I go on Sunday nights on Danforth and Broadview.”

“How’s the crowd?”

“Depends on the night. Sometimes there’s silence, but it’s a good crowd to go to for your first time. Everyone’s pretty open and positive.”

“I’ve got a friend who I’ve been wanting to get on stage for a while. He’s a born comedian! I would love to get him on.”

“You guys should definitely come by!”

My friend Phil is the funniest guy I know. Not only can he spit out any accent with cunning precision, he can also spiral into rants of improvised comedy as if he wrote the stuff down and rehearsed it for weeks. He can play any role. Become any character. He’s quick. Spontaneous. And damn right hysterical. But here’s the problem: he’s nervous about getting up on stage.

Here’s why.

Phil and I are fraternity brothers, and a couple years ago I convinced him to do some stand up for a sorority’s philanthropy event. I had helped him prepare his set, making sure to throw in some of his signature stuff. His Frat Bro PC character he not-so-loosely based off of South Park was one of his best rants, and we decided it would be fitting for a Greek life gathering.

But were we ever wrong.

The audience of sorority sisters, children, parents, and distinguished philanthropists were not prepared for a set screaming about how “PC DOESN’T STAND FOR PUSSY CRUSHING!” 

Though his material was comedic gold to my buddies and I, it wasn’t the right time or place, and it left a sea of mothers and daughters staring at him with lowered jaws and wide eyes — all in deafening silence. 

Phil’s been rightfully nervous to get back up on stage ever since. I figured tonight would be the perfect opportunity to get him back on that horse.

I shot him a quick message: “We’re going out tonight.”

After meeting up with Phil and some buddies for a quick pre-game, we all hit the road in my buddy’s soccer mom van and drove twenty-five minutes to Danforth and Broadview. This was the night of Thanksgiving Sunday and most of us had dinners with our families that delayed our departure time, so we were running a little late. Actually we were running very late. By the time we arrived at the bar, the show was over and everyone was gone.

Giving up, we considered the alternatives of going to another bar, racking in some shots, and maybe getting Phil a mic anyway. But then my buddy Bernie came up with a final idea.

“There’s another comedy club not too far,” says Bernie, scrolling through his phone. “It’s just on the corner of John Street. Ten-minute drive from here. Some show called ‘Danger Room.’”

“Is it open mic?” Phil asks.

“I think it’s for actual comedians. And I think there’s cover.”

We agree to check it out. Nothing else was happening anyway.

When we get to the bar, we ask the guy running the door — a bearded man in a leather jacket, sporting a red bandana around his head — if our buddy can get up on stage. “You done this before?” he asks Phil.

“This is my first time,” Phil replies, not counting the sorority event.

“First time? And you’re fucking stupid enough to come here!”

In that second, as if on cue, we hear from inside: “GET OFF THE STAGE MAN BOOBS!” 

We shuffle through the crowd and find seats near the front of the tiny bar. The place reeks of beer and tobacco smothered clothing, with faint lighting illuminating a small wooden plank constituting a stage. Drunken chirps are firing from a group of guys scattered all around the grubby place; the poor comedian currently up is being publicly decimated. He struggles to squeeze in some of his prepared jokes until one of the drunkest hecklers literally rips him off the stage.

“YOU ARE FUCKING AWFUL!”  

“PLEASE! NEVER COME BACK HERE!”

More comedians step on, and nobody does any better. The drunker the hecklers get, the more shameless they are with their heckling. This results in comedic desperation: comedians resort to new levels of vulgarity in hopes of cheaper laughs. Jokes about sex become jokes about overdosing on drugs, which becomes jokes about being fucked by dads, which spirals into jokes about being a child predator. The laughs never come. Well, besides the laughter deriving from shameless heckling. The cycle continues.

One guy is heckled so badly, he tries to avert the attention to the Muslim sitting in front of him, hoping to use pathetic racism to weasel out of the ambush. (Yup, a real stand-up piece of shit.) He’s proven weak and unfit, and this only amps-up the insults.

“YOU LOOK LIKE A GERMAN SKATEBOARDER THAT ALSO DJ’S!” one guy screams at a comedian in a bomber jacket with a big man-bun dangling from a backward cap.

“AND YOUR CAP LOOKS LIKE IT’S TAKING A SHIT OUT OF YOUR HEAD!” another heckler adds. (Not all of them were so clever.)

“I THOUGHT THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE COMEDY, NOT A SPECIAL-ED ASSEMBLY!”

Why would anybody stand up before such a merciless crowd? Simple. To battle the most vicious monster there is, and survive to tell the tale. Most of the guys who go up are actual comedians, who come to Danger Room to test their skills against the worst crowd you could possibly encounter. After a Danger Room attack, silence would feel like a compliment.

But even these guys were used to getting up on stage. Phil was up next. 

He sits on the stool and raises the mic to his mouth.

“WHAT’S THIS PUSSY GOING TO DO? SING HIGHSCHOOL MUSICAL?”

“GET OFF THE STAGE PEDRO!”

“YOU LOOK LIKE YOU WATCH CHILD PORN AND JERK OFF IN PUBLIC SWIMMING POOLS!”

Despite these initial heckles, Phil starts off strong by faking weak. He begins with a quaky, loud and high-pitched voice, playing the character of someone terrified to perform — like a voice-cracking thirteen-year-old about to read the Torah for his Bar Mitzvah.

“H-high g-guys, my n-name is Ph-Phillip and I’m s-super n-nervous t-to perform t-tonight in front o-of all o-of y-y-you…”

Before the next heckle can fire, he jumps up, snaps into a booming southern accent — blaring with confidence and authority — and ascends into an incredible rant about the astonishing diversity of the crowd which he “ain’t used to in ma neighborhood back in Virginia!”

Everyone erupts into laughter.

A heckler screams a dumb Jew joke.

He switches from his southern accent to his Gay-Nazi-German-accent. “Vhat nobody veally knows is zhat vee vere all gay!”

His set is completely improvised. He rolls with the punches and starts introducing all his classic characters that were once confined to the frat house living room: Puerto Rican drug dealer, Australian pervert, Chinese businessman — those that were previously only available to the boys at the end of a drunk night with pizza boxes scattered on the floor. For the first time, Phil’s contagious humour is completely unleashed. And nobody could get enough of him.

When the heavy chirps start flying, unlike the other guys, he doesn’t revert to desperate comedy by raising the vulgarity or trying to deflect the cruelty towards people sitting in the crowd. He’s genuinely funny, and not desperate to make the crowd think so. He simply is.

And if you think I’m just being biased, even the drunkest hecklers gave him a big round of applause. It was the first and only applause of the night. None of the boys could believe it. But I’m gonna be a huge cheeseball and say I knew he had it in him all along. 

As we walked out, the owner told Phil he could come back anytime. Two comedians gave him their business cards as they hacked darts outside the bar. People who were in the audience asked him where his next gig is. He was the newly-emerged celebrity of the night. 

People often feel like they need to ease into challenges. They prefer slowly moving forward, gradual development, and keeping their dignity intact throughout the process. But sometimes your dignity has to be compromised. Sometimes you need to dive headfirst into the trenches of difficulty in order to come out stronger. Sometimes you need to go all in.

Failure has a way of holding people back — the silence of the sorority is something that may’ve stopped Phil from further performances, but the bravery to move on was the key that popped open the door to the night’s success.

Now, allow me to be sincerely-naked-honest for a second: There’s a lot of assholes in the world. 

There’s a lot of people who are going to give you every reason possible to stay safely buckled to your seat. They’ll take pride in ripping you down, in laughing or shaming you for even trying. But that’s all part of the system of growth. When you make yourself vulnerable and try to pursue something scary, chances are you’re going to eat shit sometimes. And most times, people will shit on you.  

It’s one of the biggest risks of starting a blog — hell, about writing in general. Not everyone is going to agree with the things you’re writing about, and a whole lot of people will make the effort to make their disagreements heard loud and clear. They’ll so much as bombard you with novella-long comments about how you don’t have the right to say the things you’re saying. They’ll send you hate emails. They’ll even straight up say that you don’t have what it takes and that you should just give up — the equivalence of a heckling reaction to a punchline. 

When I was the opinion editor for my university paper, it was a hard pill to swallow: the acceptance that not everyone will like or agree with my stuff. But I eventually began to see flack as a necessary part of my development, similar to the way comedians who come to Danger Room see ruthless heckles. It’s part of the process, and the more accustomed you get to the horrors of people protesting against your stance, the taller you eventually stand. 

In summary, there’s two ways of approaching assholes who love to shit on you like it’s their day job. 1) You could play victim and cry about being verbally assaulted, complain about feeling unsafe, or blame all lack of success on the pricks that walk the earth. 2) You could suck it up and use those same assholes to make you stronger. 

We may bomb it. We may kill it. But until we try, we’re letting the hecklers win.

We all live in a Danger Room. So let’s use those pricks to our advantage.  

Let’s raise our red solo cups (or cheap glasses of wine if you think you’re classy or something) to the assholes that make silence feel like a compliment — and who make our worst fears a fucking joke.

Sincerely,  Mr. Naked.

[italianbark]

After sharing with you my small bathoom makover, today I’m telling you how about my living room restyling.

The living room remodel was for sure easier than the bathroom makeover because it was just about changing the floor, re-painting and changing the furniture layout, plus having fun in adding accessories. But I’m really happy with the result if compared with the before, and most of all I’m happy because I was able to do a massive decluttering. Getting rid of those things you do not want anymore is good for the interior space but above all for the soul.

I’m telling a bit about the design choices, then I’ll show you the living room before and after with all the specifications.

PS: this blog will have a restyling too…see you in a week with a new dress and lots of news ^_^

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[ ITA ]

Dopo avervi mostrato il restyling della stanza bagno oggi vi racconto come ho trasformato il soggiorno di casa. 

Il restyling del living è stato decisamente più semplice rispetto a quello del bagno perché si è trattato solamente di cambiare pavimento, ridipingere e cambiare la disposizione dei mobili: il risultato però, paragonato al prima, mi ha davvero dato soddisfazione. La cosa più bella poi è che finalmente mi sono liberata di un sacco di cose che non volevo più: il decluttering fa davvero bene agli spazi, ma soprattutto allo spirito. 

Vi racconto prima un po’ del progetto, poi vi mostro le foto del prima e del dopo con tutte le specifiche.

PS: il restyling riguarderà anche le pagine di questo blog. Ci rivediamo tra qualche giorno con un bel po’ di novità ^_^

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Living Room Remodel | Moodboard 

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As I told you in this post, the goal was to make the living more spacious and brighter. I wanted a cosy and light space and I chose natural colors, as whites, wood, green, few accents in black.

There were several things I didn’t like about my previous living, because I actually never planned the design. There were definitely too many things, furnishings and accessories, in a small space. I was also tired about the colors and did not like the floor, definitely too dark and cold.

The moodboard brings together Scandinavian mood, natural green, some quotes and random things I like – an old photo at Serralves Park in Porto, a Tokyo map, and casual and comfortable outfits.

. Come vi raccontavo in questo post, l’ obiettivo era quello di rendere lo spazio luminoso e più grande. Volevo uno spazio accogliente, chiaro, dove possa essere un po’ sempre estate. Per questo, ho scelto tonalità del bianco, del beige, del legno naturale, del verde, solo qualche piccolo accento in nero.

Del mio living non mi piacevano molte cose perché in realtà l’avevamo arredato con l’idea di starci un periodo breve in questa casa…e invece, sono trascorsi anni. Intanto, c’erano decisamente troppe cose, tra arredi e oggetti, in uno spazio limitato. Mi avevano stancato inoltre i colori e non amavo il pavimento, decisamente troppo scuro e freddo

La moodboard di progetto mette insieme atmosfere scandinave, verde naturale, frasi , ricordi ed ispirazioni. Una mia foto al parco Serralves a Porto, una mappa di Tokyo, outfit casual e confortevoli. Insomma, tutto quello che volevo per il mio living.

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Living Room Remodel | Layout

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After the decluttering, I changed the furniture layout: I just turned the sofa with the back to the kitchen to gain more space for the sitting corner, without closing the kitchenette. The couch is the one we had in the basement, maybe we’ll change it in the nearest future.

I then turned the table I already had to get more space in front of the staircase, using an old recovered bench instead than the chairs.

Actually, the only furniture I bought were the TV cabinet (IKEA PS) and the small coffee tables/stools, so we can say this was again another makeover in a budget!

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Dopo il decluttering, ho cambiato la disposizione dei mobili: girando semplicemente il divano con lo schienale verso la cucina ho guadagnato spazio per l’angolo soggiorno, mentre la cucina è rimasta comunque parzialmente aperta. Il divano è di recupero (ce l’avevamo in taverna!), magari lo cambierò tra un po’.

Ho poi girato il tavolo che avevo in modo da liberare anche l’angolo davanti alla scala (che porta in taverna), recuperando una vecchia panca che occupa meno spazio rispetto alle sedie.

Gli unici arredi nuovi sono il mobile tv (IKEA PS) e i vari tavolini, insomma anche questo è stato un restyling a basso costo!

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Living Room Remodel | Finishes and Materials

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The new materials and finishes really makes the difference in the remodel and in the whole feeling, now the living looks bigger and brighter thanks to:

New flooring:

For the flooring I chose an oak wood ListofloorGarbelotto Gold, thickness 1 cm, color Tre Cime painted wax effect (actually it looks raw and supernatural, as I was looking for)

In the kitchenette I preferred to cover the wood with a vinyl flooring, just layed over not glued. In this way it protects the wood, it decorates the kitchenette but also it can be removed or changed whenever I want and cleaned super easily. I chose Moor di Atrafloor

Wall Paints:

After years of bright colors I want now to enjoy this clear and clean space, maybe in the future can add some pop of color again, probably in the hallway. On the walls I chose two neutrals by Farrow &Ball: 

Wevet n°273: a white with a bit of gray

Cornforth White n°228: despite the name, it is a light gray with some beige inside, changing a lot according to the different daylight

as we did in the bathroom, we painted the windows and the doors

on the exposed bricks I used a simple white paint

The fun part of course was the decorating one. I worked by different corners: tv wall, dining corner, staircase wall, sitting corner.

Enjoy now the before, after and all the specs ^_^

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Le nuove finiture hanno fatto davvero la differenza nella luminosità e nella percezione dello spazio.

Pavimento: 

Per il pavimento ho scelto un legno in rovere Listofloor di Garbelotto Gold, spessore 1 cm, colore Tre Cime verniciato effetto cera (in pratica sembra grezzo e supernaturale, ovvero l’effetto che cercavo io )

Nell’angolo cottura ho preferito coprire il legno con un vinile semplicemente appoggiato a terra, che posso togliere quando voglio ma protegge e allo stesso tempo caratterizza l’angolo cucina. E superfacile da pulire. Ho scelto Moor di Atrafloor

Pareti:

Dopo anni di colori accesi mi voglio godere questo spazio chiaro e pulito, magari tra un po’ penserò ad integrare qualche colore, ad esempio nel disimpegno. Alle pareti ho alternato perciò due colori neutri di Farrow &Ball: 

Wevet n°273: un bianco con una punta di grigio

Cornforth White n°228: nonostante il nome è un grigio chiaro con una punta di beige, e cambia molto in base alla luce 

anche qui, come in bagno, abbiamo dipinto noi gli infissi e le porte

sulle colonne in mattoni a vista ho usato un semplice bianco lavabile

La parte più divertente è stata però ovviamente quella della scelta degli accessori e dell’allestimento delle pareti, che ho fatto procedendo per angoli: parete tv, angolo pranzo, parete scala e angolo soggiorno. 

Vi lascio con le foto del prima, del dopo e con i vari dettagli. Enjoy ^_^

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living room before

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living room after

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Tv Corner || Wall Prints: Canvas Pop, Vissevasse, The Posterclub; Vases holder: IKEA Satsumas; TV Cabinet: IKEA PS; Table lamp: Kundalini

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Dining Corner || Wall lamp: Sklum; Hook: Muuto; Bench pillows: IKEA + 1kertaa2; Boxes IKEA; Hanged Frame: MOEBE ; Chair Cover: Luxzura

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Staircase Corner || Table: Sklum; Table lamp: My Cinema Lightbox;  Wall Prints: Mapiful, Vissevasse, Grafomap

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Sitting Corner || Rug: Sukhi; Lamp: IKEA Sinnerlig; Large Print: The Posterclub; Wall lamp: Creative Cables; Pillows: IKEA + Maisns du Monde; Coffee table: IKEA Ypperlig

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living work in progress

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After ph Aurora Scuderi

Special Thanks to all the brands which took part in the project :

Garbelotto | Farrow&Ball | Sklum | The Posterclub | Mapiful | Grafomap | SukhiRugs

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#myhomerestyling | Enjoy the bathroom before after here

CONTACT ME HERE FOR AN INTERIOR DESIGN CONSULTATION

  #MYHOMERESTYLING | LIVING BEFORE & AFTER After sharing with you my small bathoom makover, today I'm telling you how about my living room restyling.

[puppet-purgatory]

you won't post 1 headcanon for every puppet. you wont

i WILL. AND i'll do it in chronological order from appearance (more or less). but it will be under a readmore after the first season so i dont interrupt anyones scrollin

The Professor: i think in addition to growing a bit from Dino DNA(tm) he also has feathers now. just some feathers in there with his fur. maybe even molts and is miserable about it

Death: he plays guitar And piano, but just as a hobby. he's like a salaryman who had a garage band as a teenager and never fully gave up on the dream

Propeller: propeller SADSTUCK: i think he legitimately had to go to therapy for the britannica shit that happened. PH feels like it would be that realistic about mental health tbh

Big Pile of Diamonds: his mustache is fake. his greatest secret. his greatest shame.

God: he actually really likes to dance! unfortunately next 2 no one will do it since... The Incident

Train: does he not have a better name... maybe put a mr. in front of there... anyway he feels betrayed by the U.S. since they gave up the train model for highways/interstates and the motorcar industry. gets REALLY heated about it

Mt. Vesuvius: has a bunch of speeches given by famous latin authors and orators memorized, but sometimes he mashes them up without realizing/misattributes which one was written by whom. old man moments

Hatshepsut's Goose: can't remember what their gender was in life. that's fine, they love being a nonbinary icon. AMAB (Assigned Mummy at (em)Balming)

Clipped Coin: dodges the spool's wrath by being unflappable and so down to earth despite his apparent success. truly the king of staying in his own lane

Olympic Torch: hes a cranky piece of shit and only really enjoys sporting competition. he was complaining about being in the group puzzle photo so god just picked him up and he went ffffffffffine. okay. ill smile for 2 seconds

Gay Oars: i think they Also went to therapy, mostly relationship counseling, and now they are back and better than Ever. unbreakable bond. im abt to pen a whole ass comic series about them getting married in purgatory

Policarpa's Spool: still thinks of himself as a spy type, but there's only so much spying he can do in... purgatory. of course, his primary nemesis is the treasure chest.

Lake Donner Snowman: idk if this counts as a headcanon per se but in my very short list where i recast the puppets as famous singers, he is ABSOLUTELY voiced by Weird Al Yankovic.

St. Nick's Wet Bones: sort of taking the whole purgatory thing in stride. he kinda feels like he's in retirement! now he's a minor agent of chaos who's looked after by his darling Pickle Boys

Beast of Gevaudan: i was so sad when the infinitiger wasn't real, i wanted them to have a cooking show together so badly and destroy the horse's self-esteem. i love him. hes so abominably french

Stool of Gold: well-traveled, well-read, literally just as sensible as the Book or the Oars, but finds the chaos entertaining to spectate.

Ziryab's Oud: I think that the puppets have divvied up the whole Wondrium Arena and all have designated Living Areas, and he has a whole dressing room filled with shitty costumes he can't even wear. every time someone knocks he answers like hes on MTV's Cribs.

Bye Bye Brothers: they live in the orchestral pit and treat it like a secret lair. only other Murderer Puppets are allowed in. EXCLUSIVE club

Flower Boat: GNC Icon. this is a flower boat stan account. jenuinely a wholesome, emotional vessel doing their best to pitch in.

Molasses Horse: you can wash him as much as you want, that shit always just comes back somehow. the book theorizes it's psychosomatic at this point, since they're technically only souls at this point.

Tiny Piece of Wheat: bro i bet they went through SUCH phases after finding out about the professor's death. like all five stages of grief and then four more that have not yet been discovered by humans. dw kiddo, u got Grandparents incoming

Emu: the type of guy to fistfight you and then help you up. laid back but ready to throw down at a MOMENT'S notice. has no beef with the Wheat, but generally avoids them to keep from any Upsets.

Treasure Chest: has a little list of get-rick-quick schemes he wants to test, but has no way to in purgatory. he has one braincell bouncing around in his head like the DVD logo

Scabs & Pus: they get to hang out with the Bye Bye Brothers in their little club :) they're gross dudes to look at and be around. but they are ultimately harmless and friendly and just happy to be included.

Book: i love da book. I think he lives in the music library backstage and finds librettos for stageplays/musicals to pitch to the group to put on, as well as produces their little TV shows.

Birch Trees: since they share a root system, they have a telepathic link and communicate without even speaking, which is fucking creepy as hell when one or both of them just start laughing out of nowhere. they probably enjoy acting sinister

Asmodeus: he worked HARD on his song for the show!!!!! i think he's a bit of a ham sometimes when he gets the chance. also his goat head bites literally anything that comes close on reflex.

The Devil: while everything he does is to get souls, it also feels like he wants for positive and is less an Enemy of God and more an Irritating Coworker. in my brain they have a whole Tom and Jerry thing going on.

I don't have anything for the Fake Puppets the Substitute impersonated, but im planning on drawing some infinitiger soon bc he was my fave for sure

The Substitute: this is PURELY crack but i think it would be hilarious if he had voice commands like some tech does. i want him to climb back in the window and ryan just yells XBOX TURN OFF and he vanishes.

Dino Dad/Dinosir: i think even after he gets to the present and learns about all kinds of rocks and gems and crystals he Still just loves a big old rock he can lay on and sun himself with. like a dad and his armchair. doesnt gotta be fancy, just has to be comfy.

Dino Mom/Dinosara: i think she would be REALLY into the fake tv shows the puppets in the Wondrium Arena make. and they'd probably Love to have her as a fan. i think both the professor's parents are Hella popular.