#pocoloco x reader

"You run like the wind," you say, ears perked forward. "I can hear it in your stride. We should race sometime."

He doesn't smile he rarely does but something in his eyes softens. You see him as a runner

Soundman is quiet, deeply connected to the earth. You're loud, expressive, built for speed and spectacle. He finds your energy overwhelming at first, then addictive. You remind him of the mustangs back home wild and proud, impossible to tame.

He starts running beside you during training. Not to compete, just... to match your pace . He learns your rhythms the way your ears flatten when you're pushing hard, the little whine you let out when you hit your stride, the way your tail streams behind you like a banner.

You teach him to read your ears like mood signals. Flattened back is angry. Perked forward is excited. One ear back, one forward you're probably scheming. He memorizes them all.

Soundman doesn't touch easily. His culture, his history, his very name everything was taken, everything is guarded. You nudge him with your shoulder when you pass, bump him with your hip when you're excited, press your forehead to his

The first time you do it forehead to forehead, sweat-slick and breathing hard he freezes. Then, slowly, his hand comes up to touch your ear. Just the tip. Soft. Reverent.

"You run like you have somewhere to be" he whispers. "Somewhere important."

"I do" you breathe back. "I'm running to you."

During the final stretch of a storm-crossed stage, you're both flagging. The mud is deep, the wind is screaming, and you can feel your legs burning. Soundman looks at you

He reaches out. You take his hand. And for one impossible moment, you're running together , his bare feet and your hooves striking the earth in perfect sync, the sound like thunder, like a heartbeat, like home.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧୨

Pocoloco.

Pocoloco finds you literally falling out of a tree, having climbed it on a dare from yourself. You land in a heap of leaves, tail puffed, ears ringing, and look up to see this guy with the biggest grin you've ever seen staring down at you.

"Hey! You okay? That was awesome! You went really high!"

You stare at him. He's not mocking you. He's genuinely impressed. Your ears perk forward despite yourself.

"I was trying to see the race route from above," you admit, brushing leaves from your mane.

"Oh! Good idea! Lucky you didn't break anything!"

Pocoloco is pure, unfiltered sunshine. You're competitive, sometimes downright ferocious when you're racing. He should annoy you. He doesn't

He thinks your horse features are the coolest thing ever. He asks if he can touch your ears He wants to know if your tail helps with balance, He offers you apples he "found" because "horses like apples, right?"

"I'm not a horse," you remind him, crunching the apple anyway.

His luck is ridiculous and you hate it. He'll trip, fall, roll, and somehow end up ahead of you. You'll train for months, perfect your form, push your limits and Pocoloco will yawn, stretch, and beat you by a nose because he "had a good feeling about today."

You challenge him to a rematch. And another. And another.

You tell yourself it's because you want to win. It's not. It's because when he wins, he grabs your hands and spins you around, laughing, and your heart does something stupid.

Pocoloco is physically affectionate in a completely unselfconscious way. He'll sling an arm around your shoulders, ruffle your mane

"I don't need luck when I have you," he says once, casually, like it's nothing. Like he didn't just crack your chest open with six words.

You spend the rest of the day trying to get your ears to stop burning.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧୨

Mountain Tim.

Mountain Tim finds you stuck in a ravine. Not because you fell because you saw a shortcut, went for it, and got your hoof caught in some rocks. You're cursing colorfully, tail lashing, ears flat with frustration.

He ropes you out with that easy cowboy charm, all drawl and confidence. But when he gets a good look at you his expression shifts.

"Well, hell," he drawls, coiling his rope. "Ain't you somethin'. Horse girl, huh? My ma used to say the best mounts got spirits too wild to break. Reckon that applies to you too."

You snort at his comment

Mountain Tim is old-school charm meets genuine decency. He opens doors for you, tips his hat, calls you "miss" and then catches himself, grinning sheepishly when you glare.

"Sorry. You just... you bring out the gentleman in me. And the fool, apparently."

He's fascinated by your speed. Not just running everything . The way you eat, The way you sleep, The way you fight

He starts carrying sugar cubes in his pocket. "For emergencies," he claims. The emergency is usually you having a bad day and him wanting to see your ears perk up.

Mountain Tim is a toucher hand on your shoulder, arm around your waist, fingers brushing yours when he hands you something. But he's careful with you at first

You show him. You lean into his hand when he cups your cheek. You nudge your head under his chin when you're tired. You wrap your tail around his wrist when you're feeling playful.

He learns. God, does he learn.

One night, camped under stars, he's telling stories by the fire. You're half-asleep, head on his thigh, ears relaxed. His hand finds your mane, fingers combing through it slow and hypnotic.

"You know," he murmurs, "back home, we'd say a horse chooses its rider. Ain't never been chosen before. Reckon it's an honor."

You flick your ear against his palm. "I'm not a horse, Tim."

"No," he agrees softly. "You're better. You chose me anyway."

Mountain Tim isn't a front-runner. He's steady, reliable, the kind who finishes strong because he never burned out early. You explode off the line, all fire and fury.

He finds you at the halfway point, flagging, having spent too much too soon. He pulls up beside you, easy as breathing, and holds out his hand.

You take his hand. You let him set the rhythm. And somehow, with him beside you, you find a second wind.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧୨

Ringo Roadagain.

Ringo finds you at the edge of a river, washing blood from your hooves. You lost a race. Badly. You're shaking not from cold, from rage, from the unfairness of it, from wanting to run until the world blurs.

He watches from the trees. You know he's there.

"You're the one with the true man's world" you say, not looking up. "I've heard of you."

He steps out. Pale and eerie, those dead eyes fixed on you. But there's something... interested.

"And you're the horse that lost" he replies. No malice Just fact. "Why do you run, if losing makes you bleed?"

You look at him. the same need to prove something, the same loneliness of someone who chose a path that isolates them.

"Because stopping would hurt worse."

Ringo is unsettling. You should be afraid of him.

He finds you after races, always at the edge of things, always watching. He doesn't cheer. He doesn't comfort. He simply observes, and somehow that's enough. His presence is a weight you learn to carry.

You start seeking him out. Not for conversation he's terrible at that but for the silence. For the way he doesn't expect you to be cheerful, or brave, or anything other than what you are. You can be exhausted around him. You can be angry. You can be sore .

He starts bringing you water. Cold, from streams, in a canteen he doesn't need. He leaves it where you'll find it. He never stays to watch you drink.

Ringo doesn't touch people.

So you touch him

You fix his collar when it's crooked. You brush dirt from his pale hair. You stand close enough that your tail brushes his leg, close enough that he could reach out and touch your ear if he wanted.

He doesn't, Not for a long time.

Then one evening, after a particularly brutal stage, you find him sitting alone, staring at his gun. You sit beside him not close, but close enough. Without looking at you, his hand finds your hoof. He traces the shape of it, the hard edge, the softness of the frog.

"You run on these," he murmurs. "Small things. Fragile things. And yet you cross continents."

"So do you," you point out. "On two legs. Just as fragile."

He looks at you.

"I would not mind," he says carefully, like the words are foreign, "if you were beside me. At the end. When I find my true man's world."

You squeeze his hand with your hoof. "I'll race you there. And I'll win."

He almost smiles..

The final duel. You know what he wants to die proving himself, You refuse to let him go alone.

You stand beside him. Not behind, not ahead Your ears are flat, your tail is raised, every line of you screaming fight .

"This isn't your duel," he says.

"Make it mine," you challenge. "Or are you afraid I'll win?"

He draws. And you run

The bullet doesn't find him. Your speed, your chaos, it throws off his opponent's aim. Ringo fires and he scores his target But when he lowers his gun, he's looking at you, and his eyes aren't dead anymore.

"You cheated" he breathes.

"I won" you correct, breathing hard, hooves dug into the dirt. "And so did you. Now you have to live with it."

He stares at you for a long moment.

Pocoloco

Racing through America was never really something you saw yourself doing as you grew up, but when you saw the price money? It all changed. Who could resist such temptations? And who knows? Maybe you'd get lucky.

It wasn't long into the race itself you met him - in the first leg of it actually, - and as soon as you did, something in your chest churned. It wasn't hate or resentment, you wouldn't call it that, but it was definitely not too pleasant either. It tickled in a way that made you second guess yourself and your decisions, and you did not enjoy that at all.

You came to learn of his name pretty quickly, and the sound of it was stuck in your head since then.

Pocoloco... how ridiculous.

Whenever he'd spot you already looking, he'd flash that easy smile that never failed to make your heartbeat quicken. His grin was wide and held no worries, and you could tell exactly by his posture he wasn't too far off from what you were feeling either. He simply... expressed it differently.

Every time he would advance past you, all you could think of was how good it would feel to watch his expression falter as he'd watch you win. You couldn't wait for that day, your expectations of his untimely disappointment making you giggle into the open air.

"Hey! It's you! I've been looking for you, you know." He took three long strides across the road, stopping right in front of you.

"Is that right?" The smirk on your face was difficult to keep down, and the butterflies that danced in your stomach were becoming increasingly impossible to ignore. The laughter that escaped him then was warm and filled with the kind of sincerity you could only have hoped for, and his happy go lucky attitude certainly didn't help.

"You're quite good. I can tell you're not gonna be easy to beat." His face distorted in pure unadulterated amusement, his eyebrow arching as he was clearly enjoying himself and the reaction he got from you. Were you that obvious?

"I could say the same about you." You mirrored his emotions, your body involuntarily leaning towards his as you spoke. "Say, you won't get in my way, will you? If you do, I won't go easy on you." Your smile was light, and that competitiveness in you you couldn't shake off shone brightly.

The rough and grainy sound of fabric was all you could register, before the feeling of a warm hand against yours took over your senses. "I wouldn't expect you to. You don't look like the kind to disappoint."

As he raised your hand and slowly brushed his lips against your knuckles, the softness of his lips left your mouth dry. Was this guy serious right now? You hated how much power he held over your composure, but what you hated even more was how surprisingly good it felt.

"You'd better keep up. I'd hate to see you fall behind!" He simply said, flashing that easy grin and eliciting that knee buckling snicker again, as if everything was just a big game. As he turned to leave, the breath you didn't know you were holding in finally escaped, the roll of your eyes almost painful as the sigh when you watched him trot away.

"You can bet on that." Your voice was smooth despite the turmoil in your stomach, your composure finally rebuilding as your breath evened out.

"Trust me, I will."

Johnny Joestar

You'd heard of him, of course you had. The tragic tale of the noble jockey, fallen from grace. It amused you to see him in the race, a sight so deplorable you'd almost felt bad the first time you witnessed his attempt on getting on his horse.

But it didn't end there. In fact, it only got worse. Seeing him actually redeem himself lit a fire in you you couldn't stop, the burning in your chest turning unbearable as each day went by. Something in you shifted the first time he looked in your eyes, his sky blue lips twitching at the way you were already staring at him.

The fire in your chest was fuelled by the desire to outrun him, and the little voice in the back of your head became almost unbearable. Sometimes, you'd even start looking for him out of nowhere. Every time, right on cue, he'd show up, his eyes finding your form immediately.

How humiliating... if there was one man you wanted to beat in a race, it'd definitely be this guy.

From that day on, the two of you unwillingly began to cross paths more often than you'd like. It almost became routine, until one day he actually approached you. It seemed even he could get impatient in a race like this.

"Hey there. I'm Johnny, Johnny Joestar." He extended his hand toward you, waiting patiently for you to shake it. You stared at his hand in complete disbelief, until an involuntary lopsided lazy grin formed, replacing your former confusion and irritation.

Your hand rose to his, the touch you shared feeling a tad bit too electric to be ignored by either of you. A low chuckle escaped him, a sound that traveled to the inner chambers of your heart, somewhere it definitely had no business of being.

You gave your name, despite every thought in your head telling you not to. "You're quite the spectacle, Joestar. I've been waiting to see you up close." Your fingers tightened ever so slightly around his hand, giving him the expression you meant business.

He looked at you for a long while, leaving you to wonder what was going on behind those blue eyes of his. Before the thought became dangerous, his back straightened and his eyes closed in what seemed like satisfaction.

"I'll be seeing you around." His voice was smoother than before, and his eyes held an unmistakable amount of interest now. "And if I don't, I'll come look for you myself." He winked, throwing your already crumbling composure out the window entirely. Had he always been this smooth?

"You'll be seeing me crossing the finish line before you. Take that as a warning." You said coolly as he rode away, before he stopped his horse to look back at you over his shoulder, that single action of his making your cheeks heat up in a subtle flair.

"I'm looking forward to it." His annoying little smirk made you roll your eyes, heart once again betraying you.

Gyro Zeppeli

The first leg of the run was over, and all everyone seemingly talked about was a certain Italian man with a taste for flamboyance. Though you hated his grin and wanted to wipe his name through the mud, you'd be lying to yourself if you said you weren't amused by his less than interesting tactics.

You'd just about had enough of the sound of his name, when the bartender in front of you suddenly uttered it. You looked up, your eyes lidded in annoyance and your eyebrows subtly furrowed. Even his name alone had this effect on you, imagine how you would react had he been in front of you.

You barely had time to develop the thought, when you heard an irritating, drawn-out sound of pure delight coming from behind you.

"Nyo-hooo~ What do we have here? Are my eyes deceiving me or did I just stumble across an angel?" His flirtatious words sent a shiver down your spine, one you would soon come to wish you'd ignored completely.

"I think you're blind. This seat's already occupied." You spat out harsher than intended.

"Ohooh, you bite. How lovely." He sat down anyway, and tapped the bar table twice. The bartender poured him a drink, and as Gyro took the glass, lifted it to his lips and took a long sip, you came to the realization that his eyes had never left your face.

"What can I get you?" He took off his large hat, placing it on the table between the two of you as he ran his fingers through his hair. Only then did you look at him properly, only to wish you hadn't. His hair was prettier than you'd initially thought, and you cursed yourself out mentally from the mere thought. "Whiskey? Or do you prefer something fruity?" His voice was smooth, clearly practiced.

"My drink is just fine, thank you." You took a sip yourself, his low chuckle settling deep in your mind like a thorn.

"Don't be shy. We can be here all night if that's what you desire. I'm all yours until the sun rises again." He leaned back slightly, somehow flexing the muscles under his clothes just right. Was he doing this on purpose?

"You're not as modest as you seem. Or did the desert sun get to your head?" He laughed at your question, his own amusement rising by the minute at each word you uttered.

He downed his drink in one big gulp, his eyes still lingering on you. "Who knows? Maybe the desert sun just works in my favor." He said, and winked before he stood up. "The offer still stands. Until you come find me again, I'll be thinking about you." He tossed a coin to the bartender, and left.

Your eyes drifted to the lone glass he left behind, the faint smudge of green lipstick on its rim. Your hand reached for it slowly, your thumb touching the sticky gloss as your lips formed into a tiny smirk.

Johnny Joestar 

Johnny was already questioning life after all the corpse parts and dinosaurs. You saying this while dead serious? Yeah, he short-circuits.

“What… the hell are you talking about?”

You repeat it. Slower.

“Why is Kansas Kan-sas, but Arkansas isn’t Arkans-ass?”

Johnny: “...I… I never thought about that before. What the fuck.”

He now randomly mutters “Arkansass” under his breath for weeks afterward.

Starts blaming you whenever he questions the world. “This is your fault. You broke my brain.”

But secretly, he loves how you say the most cursed things while completely sincere.

Gyro Zeppeli 

You say it at the campfire and Gyro freezes with a piece of bread halfway to his mouth.

“Wait. WAIT.”

Throws his food down, whips out a stick, and starts sketching the word “Arkansas” in the dirt like a madman.

“WHY THE FUCK IS THIS ‘AR-KAN-SAW’!? THERE’S AN S. TWO S’S. WHERE IS THE LOGIC!?”

You have created a monster. He’s now on a personal crusade to “fix American language.”

Next town you stop in, he literally stops people to ask how they say “Arkansas.”

When you’re laughing uncontrollably, he pauses and goes:

“You confuse me. And yet, I think I love that about you.”

(Later teaches you how to pronounce things in Italian to cope.)

Diego Brando 

You: “Why is Kansas Kan-sas and Arkansas not Arkansass?”

Diego: blinks slowly “Do I look like a linguist to you?”

He tries to act like he’s above the conversation, but you catch him whispering “Arkansass…” later while feeding his horse.

He cannot stop thinking about it. It becomes a personal itch in his brain.

“Your brain is a wasteland and I’m stuck in it. How dare you.”

The worst part? He starts testing your nonsense questions to see how far your weirdness goes.

“Alright then, genius. What about ‘bologna’?”

You: “That shit says ba-log-na. America’s a lie.”

Diego: facepalms so hard his hat falls off

Pocoloco 

“YO THAT’S WHAT I BEEN SAYIN’!!”

He legit jumps up and high-fives you like you just solved a conspiracy.

He’s 100% on board and starts calling Arkansas “Arkansass” out of spite.

“If you say it with confidence, people start second-guessin’ themselves, girl!”

You and Pocoloco create an entire dictionary of cursed pronunciations.

At one point, he tries to freestyle rap about the betrayal of English phonetics.

His horse is so done with you two. Everyone else is, too.

But he just throws an arm around you like, “This one? This one’s a thinker. I like that.”

You're his chaos soulmate.

Sandman

He is stunned. You just say it so… passionately.

“I am… confusion. Why is… Kansas pronounced Kansas… but Arkansas is not Ark-ans-ass…?”

He looks at you like you just spoke a spell. Like you broke the laws of Earth with your words.

He tries to answer it logically: “Arkansas is derived from a French interpretation of a Quapaw word- ”

You: “BUT THEN WHY ISN’T KANSAS ALSO SAW?! CANSAW!?”

Him: staring in existential dread “...I have made a grave mistake befriending you.”

Still, he finds your questions fascinating. 

But he’ll never admit out loud that he thinks about “Ar-kans-ass” when he’s supposed to be scouting terrain.

Funny Valentine 

You bring it up while he’s deep in philosophical thought, staring dramatically out a window.

“Mr. President? Why is Kansas Kansas… but Arkansas isn’t Arkans-ass?”

Valentine: slowly turns his head like a horror movie character

“Excuse me?”

You repeat it. With full conviction.

He looks genuinely offended. Like you just desecrated the Constitution in front of him.

“This is a sacred land, and you-  YOU-  are questioning its linguistic integrity?!”

Now he’s on a whole tangent about state rights and pronunciation tradition.

But you notice he never corrects you after that.

- This dude is the equivalent of a puppy. If he had a tail, it would be wagging at the sight of their partner. Doesn't matter if they're doing nothing at all, he's gonna worship them like they're God's gift to Earth.

- Being a very extroverted means that he's the type to show off his partner to anybody he meets. He doesn't care if it's corny, he wants everyone to know how lucky of a man he really being with the most amazing person in the whole wide world.

- Pocoloco would spoil his partner rotten. They want a mansion? He's signing there, signing the mortgage papers a day later. They want a barn full of the finest horses? Say less, he's on his way for the delivery. They want the moon and stars? He's somehow gonna find a way to fly up there to grab them. There is no limit to what Pocoloco would do to make his S/O happy.

- He probably has a list of nicknames for his partner, each of them being more corny than the last. Oh yeah, he's that guy calling his S/O his blueberry muffin or his popeyes biscuit with no drink 💀

- Peppers his partners with kisses, in private AND public settings

- He would just stare at his partner for hours at a time, appreciate every single detail, curve and expression. His hand would be resting on his cheek with a giddy look on his face, sighing blissfully without a care in the world.

- Celebrates his S/O's successes as if it's also his successes as well. Pocoloco would invite the whole family over for a big party to share the happiness. If aren't their partner isn't into that, no problem! He'll throw a small, quiet celebration just between him and his S/O.

- He's not great at making the most romantic poems or gestures, but he makes up for it with his constant presence, his acts of service, and unwavering loyalty.

- To him, making his S/O smile is already winning the lottery. The memory of it would keep him goimg even through the toughest situations

<𝟑 .ᐟ Too solemn an action to sully with a joke. Let them worship you.

Hot Pants’ religious hangups have left her with a need to take it slow when unbuttoning your shirt, and undoing her own. An act that she shouldn’t have access too. Yet her lips on your neck seem so natural, as if ordained to be— she lets you, and only you, get to see this side of her, and please understand her vulnerability prevents her from getting too playful. But it doesn’t make her hands on your hips or chest any less loving.

Sex isn’t necessarily a “big deal” for him, but Sandman would still take it seriously when he’s got you below him. His hands grip your thighs firmly, but not overly tight as he brings you over the edge, barely speaking, but softly groaning in your ear once he feels you finally let go. Your pleasure is something to pursue relentlessly, not to play with; To find someone who shares his vision is not something he takes lightly and he’ll show you how much it means to him.

Though he could begrudgingly understand humor in the situation in some circumstances, Johnny’s focus is you and only you when his head is between your thighs, lipstick smearing on the soft flesh. If he wants stress relief like that, he’ll talk to Gyro. You, though? Just lay pretty for him and let the pleasure drag soft whines from your lips. He isn’t opposed to making you beg for it once or twice, though— you look really good when you tear up a little.

Even if it took a little to get to this stage, Gyro intends on making the most of it: his hand sliding into your drawers, letting one finger slip between your folds before pulling back, teasing just enough to make you squirm before he kisses you; it’s half an apology, and half a reminder that he’ll always be the one to make you feel good. You’re that wet? He’ll take care of it, don’t worry. Let him have a little fun while he does it.

It’s almost too mean to call a tease. Diego insists on making it a bit of a challenge no matter the situation, taunting you while your wrists are tied back. You can barely get out a response before his nails— when did they get so sharp?— are raking down your sides, stealing your breath. He doesn’t want it soft, your ecstasy in panting breaths; he wants it in teeth, breathless cries for mercy, heads shoved into the mattress. Cmon. He’s just joking. Don’t look at him like that.

As much of a tease as Diego, but in the opposite direction: Pocoloco is almost too playful and sweet to handle. He kisses you all over, his hands occasionally turning caresses to tickles for just enough time to make you jump in his lap. Laughs, apologizes, but he would never stop doing it. Everything is spontaneous and full of the love you have for each other, how he leans into you so much that you fall back on the bed, giggling when he wraps his arms around you once more.

He took a deep breath, straightened his patterned vest, and sauntered over. he moved with the rhythm of a man who knew the universe was rooting for him.

"You know," he chirped, leaning one arm against a nearby tree trunk in a pose he’d practiced in his reflection more than once. "A person with your kind of spirit shouldn't be doing all the heavy lifting. A person like you deserves to be sitting on a throne of gold, watching the sunset while someone else handles the dirty work."

You looked up, soap suds dotting your nose, and gave him a bright, supportive nod. "You’re so right, Pocoloco! Ambition is important. I’ve been telling Johnny the same thing if we work hard now, we can all afford much better equipment later. It’s good to see you’ve got such a solid five-year plan!"

Pocoloco’s arm slipped an inch down the tree bark. "Five-year plan? No, no, I’m talking about the now. I’m talking about... luxury. I’m talking about a man who’s got a winning streak a mile long wanting to share that luck with someone special." He lowered his voice, dropping it into a smooth, gravelly register. "Someone who’s been on my mind since the first mile marker."

You paused, leaning back on your heels with a look of sudden realization. Pocoloco’s heart leaped. Finally, he thought, the message is landing.

"Oh! I get it now," you said, your eyes widening. "You’re worried about the prize money distribution! Don’t worry, Pocoloco, even if you win the whole race, I’m sure everyone will still be your friend. You don't have to feel guilty about being lucky. We’re all happy for you!"

Pocoloco let out a long, slow whistle, his shoulders dropping. Behind him, he could practically hear Hey Ya! doing a literal backflip of laughter. "They're a tough nut to crack, Pocoloco! Keep swinging! The stars are on your side!"

"I'm not talking about the money!" he blurted out, moving closer so he was standing right in your personal space. He reached out, plucking a stray leaf from your hair with a flourish that was meant to be deeply romantic. "I'm saying that when I look at you, I feel like I've already won the fifty-thousand-dollar grand prize. I’m saying I want to take you out to the finest dinner in New York once this is all over. Just us. Alone. Under the moonlight."

You stared at him for a long beat. The silence was heavy. Pocoloco held his breath, his "smitten" expression locked in place.

Slowly, a sympathetic frown clouded your face. You reached out and placed a hand over his, squeezing it gently. "Pocoloco... that is so sweet of you. Truly."

"Yeah?" he whispered, hope surging.

"Yeah. It’s so kind of you to want to include me in your celebrations because you know I’m a student on a budget. You’re such a thoughtful friend! But you really should take your family instead. They’d be so proud to see you at a fancy restaurant!"

Pocoloco’s head hit the tree trunk with a dull thud. He stayed like that for a moment, forehead pressed against the bark, as you went back to your scrubbing, humming a cheerful tune to yourself.

"Hey, Poco?" you called out after a minute.

"Yeah?" he muffled into the wood.

"Coming right up," he groaned, hauling the bucket over. "Just don't be surprised if I accidentally win you a bouquet of flowers by tomorrow morning."

"While you're standing there, can you grab that heavy bucket of water? Since you're so worried about me doing the 'heavy lifting'?"

Pocoloco sighed, a small, defeated smile tugging at his lips. His luck was still holding he was getting to spend the evening with you, after all even if he was currently the only person in the entire Western Hemisphere who knew it was a date.