chososbbyg - Tumblr blog

chososbbyg · 27 days ago

Text

I wanna ride!

Synopsis: You're the only daughter of a hard-edged rancher, raised on cracked earth, calloused hands, and rules that don't bend for anyone. You’ve spent your life keeping men and messes out of the family land—and your heart. Especially the smooth-talking kind.

Gojo Satoru was your first everything—first kiss, first heartbreak, the first boy to make you believe in forever. But forever didn’t last. Not when he left town without a word, chasing glory and leaving you with nothing but silence.

Years later, he rides back into town like a ghost in denim and white leather. A cocky grin, a sharp mouth, and eyes that still know exactly how to ruin you.

He’s hired to break in horses. He starts breaking you in again, too—slow, relentless, and filthy in all the ways you’d almost forgotten.

Your daddy doesn’t trust him. The town talks like it always did. And no matter how far you try to outrun what you had, Gojo keeps showing up—ready to ride, ready to stay, and maybe... ready to finish what he started.

Pairing: Gojo Satoru x fem!reader

Content: slowburn romance, rancher’s daughter!reader, cowboy!Gojo Satoru, overprotective father dynamic, enemies to lovers vibes, tension-filled banter, hired ranch hand Gojo, reader has sworn off cowboys, smut (later), oral (f receiving), outdoor sex, cowgirl

Wc:10k

The sun had already turned your shoulders pink by the time you wrangled the feed buckets into place. Dust clung to your neck like a second skin, hay itched your bra strap, and your hands smelled like molasses and leather.

Same shit, different morning.

You’d grown up on this ranch—your father’s ranch, and his father’s before him—carrying more than your share of weight since you were old enough to lift a saddle. The land had taught you two things: Don’t trust storms—they come fast and ruin everything. And don’t trust cowboys—they come faster and ruin worse.

The land is loud in the mornings. Birds shriek like they’re owed something, cicadas buzz like gossip, and the wind whips the corners of the barn with the kind of wildness you’ve never been allowed to chase. You wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your wrist and squint up at the sky.

Too blue. Too calm. That’s when trouble rolls in.

Right on cue, hooves crunch gravel.

You look down the dirt road leading to the front gate and see the silhouette of a man on horseback, cutting too clean of a figure for someone riding solo. His shoulders roll with each step of the horse like he's part of the saddle itself, and there’s something irritatingly leisurely about the way he rides—like he isn’t sweating bullets like the rest of you.

Your boots scuff hard against the packed dirt as you step out of the barn, arms flexed as you lean on the fence rail. The wooden slats are warm under your fingers, and you dig your nails into the grain as the rider gets closer.

Your daddy’s already on the porch, spitting tobacco into the grass.

“No way…” you breathe, squinting into the sun like it might be lying to you.

White horse. White hat. White hair. Like a ghost come back to haunt the living.

Your stomach flips before your brain can stop it.

He rides like he never left. Like he owns the whole damn road. Like he didn’t vanish without a word three years ago, didn’t tear a hole in you wide enough for half the county to whisper through.

“He said Megumi sent him,” your daddy mutters, not looking your way.

You snort, sharp and humorless. “Megumi didn’t say he was sending a ghost.”

Megumi Fushiguro had helped out last summer—quiet, reliable, sharp-eyed. The kind who noticed everything, even what you didn’t say. You should’ve known he’d still have opinions about your life. About Gojo.

The man dismounts like the world owes him a place to stand. His shirt’s half unbuttoned, collar open, and he looks tan, leaner, maybe stronger—but still him. Still trouble.

He walks with that same loose swagger, like he’s got all the time in the world and none of it belongs to you.

He tips his hat toward the porch. “Afternoon.” Then—slower—“Ma’am.”

Ma’am. Not “sweetheart.” Not “darlin’.” Not your name.

You cross your arms. “Didn’t think you’d come back.”

He pauses. Just a flicker. “Didn’t think I’d be welcome.”

Your father doesn’t say anything, but the set of his jaw is answer enough.

“Just here to work,” Gojo says after a beat, tone lighter. “Not here to make trouble.”

You nearly laugh. Like he ever had to try.

You turn on your heel and walk back toward the barn before your mouth says something your heart isn’t ready to mean.

That night, at dinner, he’s too at ease. Sinks into your father’s old chair like it’s still molded to his back, helps himself to the brisket without waiting, chews like he’s trying to swallow the last three years.

You don’t look at him. Not when he passes the cornbread. Not when he brushes your hand by accident reaching for the sweet tea.

You sure as hell don’t ask why he left.

Or why it still hurts.

“Food’s just as good as I remember,” he says, half a smile curling on his lips. “Didn’t realize I missed it.”

You stab a green bean with your fork. “Didn’t realize you missed anything.”

He goes quiet. Just long enough to feel like an apology.

But then he grins. That same damn grin. All sharp edges and secret softness.

“I missed a lot,” he says, eyes on you.

Your heart kicks behind your ribs.

You get up before you do something stupid—like meet his eyes too long. Out the screen door. Down the porch steps. Into the dark.

The night smells like honeysuckle and memory. Crickets scream like the silence is too heavy.

You sit on the tailgate of your truck, cigarette pinched between your fingers, looking out across the pasture.

You’re not lonely.

You’re not.

It’s just—there’s something about the way he looked at you. Like time didn’t pass. Like he still remembers everything. The taste of your skin. The sound you make when you're frustrated. The way you never cry unless you're angry first.

Like he saw you.

And that’s almost worse than being forgotten.

By day three, he’s everywhere.

Not in an obnoxious way—not loud, not clingy, not even trying all that hard to talk to you. That’s what makes it worse. Gojo’s always just… there. Fixing the eastern fence line before you can get to it, hosing down the troughs before you even notice they’re low, dragging hay bales like they weigh nothing while you stand with your pitchfork and silently grind your teeth.

You’d be more annoyed if he sucked at it. But he’s good. Real good.

Which is irritating.

It makes it harder to ignore the way his sleeves stretch when he lifts fence posts. Or how his sweat beads up like dew along his collarbone in the late morning sun. Or the sound he makes when he grunts under the weight of a saddle—low, rough, barely restrained.

You’re not thinking about it. Not really.

Except you are.

You’re thinking about how he never complains. How he never shows up late. How he hums old country songs under his breath and calls your horse by name. How your daddy’s already in love with him because the tractor’s finally purring like it’s twenty years younger.

You tell yourself it’s all surface. Just the heat, the sweat, the way the light catches on his forearms when he wipes his brow. Just dust and muscle and memories you’re too stubborn to drag up, too tired to swat away.

But the problem is—it isn’t just his body. It never was.

It’s his eyes.

They’re the same as before—ice-blue and impossible. But now, they carry something heavier. Something that makes your chest tighten if you look too long. Like he still remembers. Not just the fights and the nights and the way you used to laugh at his dumb jokes—but all the in-between things, too. The quiet mornings. The way you kissed him before coffee. How you always held your breath when you watched a storm roll in.

There’s something too knowing in those eyes now. Something softer beneath the lazy charm. A sweetness he doesn’t flash unless he’s caught off guard—glancing at you when he thinks you’re not looking.

And that’s the part that scares you most.

Because it means he’s not just back. He never really left.

And you always are.

You catch him behind the stables one afternoon, sleeves rolled to his elbows, elbow-deep in the belly of a stubborn generator. His mouth is full of curse words and copper wire, and you think—God help you—you want to kiss him.

Not like you’d admit it.

“You planning to fix that or romance it to death?” you ask from the doorway.

He turns, slow, dragging a hand through his hair to wipe away the sweat. “Could do both. Multitaskin’s a strength of mine.”

You smirk before you can stop yourself, but you don’t answer. You toss him a cold Coke from the cooler instead. He catches it with one hand, knocks the cap off with the edge of the generator, and takes a long, slow drink while holding your eyes.

It’s… indecent. The way his throat moves.

You swallow thickly.

“Careful,'Toru. That look might get you fired.”

He shrugs. “Ain’t the job I’m worried about losin’.”

You don’t let yourself ask what that means. You just nod at the fuse box and walk away before you say something stupid.

You pass your father on the porch, and he gives you a look like he knows something you don’t. You ignore it. You’re good at that.

Out here, it’s what women do.

It’s a quiet morning. The kind you’ve always liked best—where the sky’s still rubbed raw with sunrise and the whole world smells like dew and earth.

Your boots kick up soft dust as you walk the pasture line, fingers brushing over the fence rails more out of habit than need. The horses are grazing peacefully, and everything feels still.

Everything except your chest.

You’ve barely slept.

Something about the way Gojo looked at you yesterday—too soft, too direct. You don’t like it. Not because it’s unwanted. Because it is.

You spot him near the barn, shirt clinging to his back with sweat, pitchfork in hand, sleeves rolled to his elbows again. He hasn’t seen you yet. His hair’s a mess, just like it was when he first showed up at the ranch gate five days ago. A little too wild. A little too perfect.

You linger. Just a moment.

You can’t explain it. That pull. That ache. He hasn’t touched you. Barely speaks unless it’s a joke or a lazy flirtation. But it’s like something in you recognizes him.

Like your skin knows he’s supposed to burn it.

You almost turn around, almost flee back to the house, when your father calls out from the porch.

“Satoru, think you could check the well pump today?”

Gojo looks up, squinting at the sun, then grins. “Yessir.”

You grit your teeth.

Of course he says yes. Of course he’s fixing everything that’s needed doing for months. Of course he’s earning trust like it’s air and you’re just the rancher’s daughter, stuck in a town too small for the dreams you outgrew.

When you move, it’s with purpose—sharp steps, clean strides. You pretend not to notice him glance over when you pass, pretend you don’t see the way his gaze lingers just a second too long.

He doesn’t say anything. Neither do you.

But that night, you dream of him. Again.

This time, he’s leaning over you in the hayloft. Whispering something too low to make out. His fingers trace your hips through your dress, and your chest rises with every breath you can’t quite take.

You wake up hot. Frustrated. Throbbing.

You curse yourself in the mirror and splash water on your face until the shame ebbs.

A few days pass. The tension doesn't.

He’s around more. Always helpful. Always warm.

He makes your father laugh like you haven’t heard in years. He teaches your little cousin how to loop a rope and swears off-color jokes under his breath. He makes himself easy to like.

Too easy.

You’ve taken to avoiding him when you can. Staying out longer with the horses. Eating lunch on the porch alone. Letting chores pile up that would normally be done with pride.

But the guilt builds.

You’re not fifteen anymore. You’re not a girl with a crush. You’re a woman with a mind and a spine and a goddamn name.

So when he’s fixing the porch swing—again—you step out and toss him the wrench he forgot.

He catches it without looking and glances over his shoulder.

“Well, hey there, stranger.”

You fold your arms. “You know, there’s a limit to how charming one man can be before it starts to feel like manipulation.”

He grins. “And am I over or under that?”

You narrow your eyes. “You didn’t answer the question.”

“I didn’t hear a question, sweetheart. Just a warning.”

Your breath hitches.

There it is again. That switch in his voice. From lazy grin to velvet threat. Like he knows you’d crumble if he asked—like he wouldn’t have to beg.

You try to swallow it. “Why are you really here, Gojo?”

He frowns, just faintly. “The job?”

You shake your head. “This isn’t just a paycheck to you. You look at me like…”

“Like?”

“Like you’ve already had me.”

His mouth quirks, and for the first time, it’s not smug.

It’s something else.

“Maybe I think about it too much,” he says softly. “Maybe I’m just wondering how long I have to behave before you give me permission.”

You stare at him.

And he stares right back.

Your dad calls from inside, breaking the moment.

You step back like you’ve been slapped, heart hammering. He doesn’t follow. Doesn’t say anything else.

But when you turn in for the night, there’s something folded on the kitchen table. A note, scrawled in lazy, looping handwriting.

“Pump’s working. Porch fixed. Your swing creaks, but I left it that way—figured you’d like the excuse to sit still a while.”

No name. No signature. But you know it’s him.

And you hate how your smile comes easy.

There’s a thunderstorm in the distance when you catch Gojo in the stables late, tending to a mare that's been anxious for days.

You’d been checking on her every few hours—Maggie, old and grey-speckled with cloudy eyes. She wasn’t eating much, wasn’t moving right, and you’d been losing sleep over it.

So seeing him already there, stroking her mane gently, mumbling low under his breath like she’s something precious—yeah. That did something.

“You’re not supposed to be here this late,” you mutter, stepping into the amber lantern light.

Gojo doesn’t jump. He doesn’t even look surprised.

“Neither are you,” he says softly. “But Maggie seemed restless.”

You fold your arms across your chest. “She’s stubborn. Likes to suffer in silence.”

“Hmm,” he hums, then finally looks at you. “That sound familiar?”

You scowl. “Don’t start.”

But your heart’s not in the threat, and he knows it. You see it in the way he smiles—barely, gently—and leans down to brush a few strands of hay from her back.

“My sister, you remember her, don't you?” he says after a while, voice low. “She was gentle like this. Real quiet. Could make even the meanest horse go soft. Didn’t say much, but people listened when she did.”

You blink. He’s never talked about himself like this before.

“What happened to her?”

He doesn’t answer for a second.

“She died. When I was sixteen.”

The barn feels colder suddenly, despite the heavy summer air.

You step closer, watching the lines in his face, the way his jaw clenches even though his touch stays soft. Gojo Satoru talks like someone who’s never had a problem in his life, but this is different.

Real.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

He shrugs. “Life’s like that sometimes. Takes soft things first.”

You don’t know what to say. You want to touch him, but something holds you back. That tension again—thick and tight in the silence between words.

Gojo breaks it first.

“She loved you,” he says, a smile ghosting across his face. “You’re a bit meaner than she was, but you’ve got the same eyes.”

You want to ask what he means.

But instead you say, “She mattered.”

“She did.”

After that, things shift. Just slightly.

He still teases you. Still calls you "darlin’" with that lazy smirk. But now there’s a softness underneath it. Like he knows there’s more between you two than dry jokes and shared dirt.

You start spending time together in ways you didn’t expect. Fixing the old fence out by the southern edge. Brushing horses in companionable silence. Eating lunch under the awning when the sun’s too harsh.

Your dad starts noticing, you can tell. He doesn’t say anything outright, but the way his eyes linger on you when Gojo makes you laugh… it’s obvious.

He trusts him. You do, too. That’s not the problem.

The problem is how much you want to forget yourself when Gojo’s near.

How badly you want to throw away the quiet, stubborn life you’ve made just to feel something that isn't safe.

One night, you’re both caught in the rain.

You’d been out with the horses—trying to coax a newborn colt to nurse—when the sky split open and soaked the pasture.

Gojo came running with a tarp, yelling something about you being “wilder than the damn weather,” and dragged you under the old equipment shed.

Now you’re both dripping, clothes clinging to skin, breath short from laughing too hard. There’s barely any space in the tiny shelter. His shoulder brushes yours.

“You’re out of your mind,” you huff, pushing wet hair from your face.

“Me?” he grins. “You’re the one whispering lullabies to a baby horse like it understands English.”

“It does.”

He chuckles, but it fades quickly. Because you’re looking at each other again, and this time, neither of you looks away.

Your breathing slows. His hand twitches by his side like he’s resisting something.

You speak first. “This kind of life—it’s not what you want.”

He tilts his head. “How do you know what I want?”

“Because I’ve lived this. You haven’t.”

He’s quiet, then says, “I want peace.”

Your throat tightens.

He says it like a confession. Like maybe you’re the first one to ever ask what he really needs.

“You think you’d find it here?” you ask, softer now.

“With you,” he replies, so low you almost miss it.

Your breath catches.

But then your father’s voice echoes from the main barn—calling for you. And just like that, it’s over.

Gojo steps back, gives you a lopsided grin.

“I’ll fix the fence near the creek tomorrow,” he says, as if he didn’t just upend your entire chest.

You don’t sleep that night.

The next week is unbearable.

You avoid him again. Not out of anger—out of fear. Because if he says something like that one more time, you’ll break. You’ll kiss him. You’ll do something stupid.

And you can’t afford stupid. Not when your life is rooted so deep in this land, in your father’s name, in the damn legacy you promised to carry when Mama died.

But Gojo doesn’t push. He gives you space. Watches you from a distance, quiet.

Until the night of the fair.

It’s a tradition in town—barbecue, music, a little dancing under the stars.

You wear a dress. Not because of him. (You tell yourself.)

It’s simple—white with blue stitching, soft against your skin. You feel like someone else in it. Someone braver. Someone who might say yes to something reckless.

You don’t expect him to be there.

But there he is—jeans, white tee, boots that still smell like saddle leather. He’s got a toothpick between his teeth and his hair messily slicked back like he couldn’t be bothered to do it right.

He sees you. Smiles slow.

You almost walk away.

But then he says, “Dance with me.”

Not a question.

You swallow. Glance around. Your father’s nowhere near. The music’s picking up. And it’s just one dance.

You step toward him.

His hand finds your waist, the other catching your palm. His grip is warm. Gentle.

He holds you like you’re something fragile. Something he’s scared to want too much.

You let him.

One dance turns into two. Then three.

When the night ends, he walks you to your truck.

Neither of you speaks.

You reach for the door handle, but his voice stops you.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs, close now. “That night in the shed.”

You turn.

“I want peace, and I want you. But I won’t take either unless you give it.”

The silence feels like a gunshot.

You don’t answer.

You can’t. Not yet.

But when you get home, you lie awake for hours, tracing the memory of his hands on your hips.

The sun had dipped past the ridge by the time you got back from the neighbor’s pasture, your boots thick with red dust and the scent of late summer clinging to your clothes. Everything felt slow and hot. The kind of heat that made tempers short and silences long.

You didn’t expect to see him still there.

Gojo was leaned against the paddock fence, hat tipped low, shirt clinging to his back, sweat darkening the collar. His fingers tapped slow on the rail, eyes fixed on the far field like he was watching something only he could see. You didn’t have it in you to speak first—not after the way your dad had called him “just a hired hand” last night, not after Gojo’s jaw had ticked once and he walked out without another word.

He didn’t look at you when he spoke. “Think your old man’s ever gonna see me as anything more than dirt on his boot?”

You swallowed. “He doesn’t mean it.”

“He does,” Gojo said, tone light but tight. “And he’s right.”

You walked up beside him, gripping the warm rail. The wood burned a little against your palm, but you didn’t let go. “You’re not dirt.”

He glanced at you then. Just a flicker. “You’re the only one who thinks that.”

That silence returned. You counted fence posts just to keep from fidgeting.

“I should leave,” he said, almost too quiet. “Before this turns into something it can’t.”

Your heart gave a lurch. “Gojo—”

“I like this place.” He laughed, the sound low and bitter. “Like your family. Even when they don’t like me back. Hell, I like the horses more than I like most people. But I can’t keep… hangin’ around you like this. Pretending like I don’t see it all over your face.”

You turned to him sharply. “See what?”

“That you want me.” The way he said it wasn’t cocky. It was sad.

“I’m with someone,” you said, voice thin. “You know that.”

Gojo finally looked at you. Really looked.

“But you don’t love him.”

That knocked the air right out of your lungs.

“I didn’t come here to cause trouble,” he went on. “Didn’t come here to fall in love with a girl who’s got a ring waiting and a daddy who’d rather run me off with a shotgun than let me sit at his table.”

You clenched your jaw. “Then why are you still here?”

“Because I want to be good,” Gojo said. “I want to do right by your dad. By you. But every damn day I watch you laugh, and ride, and walk around in those damn cutoffs, I forget how to be decent.”

The silence after that wasn’t comfortable. It wasn’t unbearable either. It was heavy. Dense. Full of every thing unsaid in the weeks you’d known him. Full of late nights brushing horses shoulder to shoulder, early mornings at the trough, stolen glances at the water pump.

You didn’t answer him. You couldn’t.

Instead, you said: “Dinner’s on in an hour. He made stew. You stayin’ or not?”

Gojo looked back out toward the horizon. His fingers stopped tapping the rail.

“I’ll stay.”

Dinner that night passed under the weight of tight conversation and the clink of silverware against chipped porcelain. Your father didn’t say much—he rarely did when he was tired—but you could feel the questions burning behind his eyes every time Gojo reached for the salt, or nodded thanks when you passed him the bread.

Gojo didn’t talk much either. Just chewed slow, quiet. His movements careful, deliberate. He didn't meet your eyes, not even once. Not until you got up to clear the dishes and his hand brushed yours.

That fleeting touch nearly made you drop the plates.

Your dad retired early to the den, the way he always did after a long ride. You waited until you heard the creak of his favorite recliner and the static click of the old radio before you slid the screen door open and stepped out onto the porch. The night air hit your cheeks with its soft chill. August was giving way to fall, but summer clung like sweat to the skin.

Gojo followed not long after.

You sat side by side on the porch steps, the moonlight bathing the fields in pale silver. Crickets sang in the dark. You pulled your knees to your chest, arms wrapped tight around them, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

“You gonna leave for real?” you asked after a stretch of quiet.

Gojo stretched his legs out in front of him, boots scuffing the worn wood.

“Thought about it. Figured I could head out toward Amarillo. Get on with a new outfit.”

You stared out into the dark. “You always running, Gojo?”

That made him chuckle. “Only from things I want too bad.”

You swallowed hard. You could feel his gaze now, hot and heavy on the side of your face. But you didn’t turn to meet it.

“He doesn’t know me,” you said softly. “The man I’m with. Not really.”

That got him to look away. “Then why marry him?”

You shook your head slowly. “Because it’s safe. Because it’s easy. Because he doesn’t make me feel like I’m gonna come apart every time I’m near him.”

That silence came back. This time it wrapped around your throat.

“Do I make you feel like that?” he asked. Not teasing. Not even hopeful. Just quiet. A plea dressed up as a question.

You turned your head and looked at him for the first time that night.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “You do.”

Gojo leaned in then, slow like the sun rising. One hand came up to cup the side of your face, rough and warm. His thumb brushed just under your eye.

“I ain’t gonna kiss you unless you ask me to,” he murmured.

Your breath hitched.

“You gonna ask me, sweetheart?”

Your lips parted. The words sat on the tip of your tongue. But they wouldn’t come. Not yet.

Instead, you leaned forward, your forehead pressing against his. His hand slid back into your hair, fingers threading gently through the strands.

“Not yet,” you breathed.

Gojo nodded once. His hand stayed in your hair. “I can wait.”

The next few days passed like honey. Slow, golden, thick with tension that sweetened every glance, every touch.

You rode out together in the early mornings, before the heat rose too high. Gojo helped your dad mend the broken gate at the south end. You helped him patch the roof of the chicken coop while he teased you gently for being afraid of heights.

You didn’t talk about that night on the porch. But you didn’t have to. It lingered between you like smoke.

Then your fiance showed up.

He came in a rental car with city plates, tie loosened at the throat, shoes still shiny with office gloss. Your father greeted him stiffly, but with more warmth than he gave Gojo. You watched them shake hands, and felt something cold unfurl in your belly.

He kissed your cheek and told you he missed you. You told him you missed him too, but the lie felt chalky on your tongue.

Gojo kept his distance. He was polite. Civil. Offered to take the horses out so you two could catch up.

You watched him saddle up and ride out without a second glance.

That night, lying beside your fiance in your childhood bed, you stared at the ceiling while he talked about promotion offers and wedding menus. His hand slid under the hem of your nightshirt, and you gently took it and placed it back on your waist.

“Not tonight,” you said.

He didn’t ask why.

You found Gojo in the barn the next day, brushing down the palomino mare. His back was to you. The muscles in his shoulders tensed when you stepped into the space.

“He treating you alright?” he asked.

You nodded. “He’s not a bad man.”

Gojo didn’t turn around. “You love him?”

You took a long breath.

“I want to.”

Gojo stopped brushing. The silence stretched.

“But you don’t,” he said.

You stepped forward until your hand rested on the horse’s flank.

“I don’t sleep when he’s here,” you confessed. “I keep thinking about the way you said my name the first time we met. Like you already knew me.”

Gojo finally turned then. His expression was unreadable.

“If I kiss you now,” he said, “we don’t come back from it.”

You met his eyes, heartbeat a frantic mess.

“Then don’t let me go.”

The next morning came heavy with dew and a sense of something unfinished. You barely slept. The mattress creaked every time your fiancé shifted, and each time it jolted your nerves. You lay there, motionless, eyes fixed on the ceiling until the golden light of sunrise broke over the windowpane.

Your father was already outside by the time you slipped on your boots. You kissed your fiancé’s cheek—out of habit, not affection—and mumbled something about morning chores. He was half-asleep, murmuring your name like a question, but you didn’t turn back.

The barn was warm with the breath of animals and thick with hay dust. You found Gojo leaning against the stall door, eyes shadowed from lack of sleep, but still sharp, still too clear. Like he’d been waiting for you.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to. He handed you a bucket, and you fell into rhythm beside him like you always had—side by side, wordless, hearts beating too loud in the stillness.

“I didn’t sleep,” you said finally.

“Me neither.”

You set the bucket down. “I told him I wasn’t ready.”

Gojo turned slowly, lips parting, brows furrowed. You stepped closer, voice shaking. “And he said, ‘Ready for what?’ Like he didn’t even know what I was trying to say.”

Gojo didn’t ask. Just stepped closer. His hand came up, but it didn’t touch you. It hovered there, trembling.

“I think I’ve known you longer than I’ve known him,” you whispered. “Not in time, but in something else."

That was when he kissed you.

Not like he was claiming you. Not like he was trying to win. But like he was finally answering every question you’d been too afraid to ask.

His hands cupped your face like you were something fragile, something holy. His mouth moved against yours with slow reverence, breath ragged. The kiss deepened, and you gasped softly when his tongue swept against yours.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against your lips.

But you didn’t.

You pulled him closer. Fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt, nails scratching along the hem where it met his belt.

He pushed you gently back until your spine met the stall wall, lips tracing down your jaw, your neck. You tipped your head back, breath caught in your throat.

“Still not ready?” he asked, breath ghosting over your collarbone.

“I’m not marrying someone I don’t love,” you said. “That’s all I know.”

Gojo paused. His lips pressed once more to the base of your throat. “I won’t touch you again unless it’s for good. Unless you’re sure.”

You pulled him back to your lips. “Then don’t stop.”

You didn’t go back to the house that morning. Not right away.

Instead, you lay tangled in the hayloft, the sun painting stripes across his skin. He held you like he was afraid you’d disappear. Kissed your temple like he’d waited his whole life to.

When you finally did return, your fiancé was already packed.

He didn’t cry. Didn’t beg. Just stood on the porch with your father and said, “I always knew there was someone else. I just thought he was gone.”

Your father didn’t speak until the car disappeared in a trail of dust.

“I ain’t gonna tell you what’s right,” he said, voice low. “But I will tell you this. That man never made you look half as alive as you did walking outta that barn.”

You covered your mouth with your hand, the tears coming hot and fast.

Gojo stayed.

Every night after that, he came in through your bedroom window like you were still teenagers sneaking around. Only now, he kissed you like he had time to.

Only now, you let him unbutton your nightgown slowly, let him murmur sweet nothings against your bare stomach, let him make you feel wanted—not claimed, not owed—just wanted.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered once, lips between your thighs.

“I’ve never felt anything like this,” you confessed.

Gojo kissed you there, soft and slow, until your knees gave out.

“You don’t have to be brave for me, sweetheart,” he said, pulling you into his arms. “I already know you are.”

Fall settled over the ranch in golds and rust-reds. You painted the spare bedroom while Gojo fixed the back fence. Your father watched it all unfold with quiet acceptance, a rare smile tugging the edge of his mouth when Gojo offered him a cold beer after sundown.

Love, it turned out, didn’t have to be loud. Sometimes it was shared laughter over burned biscuits. Sometimes it was the way he pulled you closer when the wind howled through the walls. Sometimes it was knowing that the same man who used to run from everything, now stood beside you and said, “I wanna stay.”

And you let him.

It was in the small, silent places that life with Gojo began to settle. Not like dust, but like wildflowers rooting in hard ground—quiet, stubborn, steady.

You no longer flinched at the sound of a truck pulling up. Your mornings started with the warmth of his arm around your waist, the scrape of his stubble against your shoulder as he murmured good morning. Your daddy hadn’t said much more since the day your ex-fiancé left, but he’d taken to teaching Gojo things he hadn’t taught anyone since you were a kid. Fixing fences, calming spooked cattle, reading the skies like scripture.

Gojo listened. He always listened.

And when he looked at you across the pasture, it wasn’t like he was imagining someone else’s life. It was like he was memorizing his own.

You were painting the back porch one afternoon, sweat clinging to the curve of your spine, when you heard his whistle. That low, lilting note that had once gotten him detention for disrupting class and now made your knees go warm.

"You're gonna get lead poisoning if you keep licking the brush like that," he teased, hopping up the steps.

You rolled your eyes. "It’s water-based. And I’m not licking it. I’m concentrating."

"You concentrate too hard, sweetheart."

He leaned in and kissed your cheek, smudging a streak of white on your temple with the tip of his nose. You swatted him playfully, but he just grinned.

"Told your daddy I’d take the truck out to the southern fields. Wanna come ride along?"

You paused, brush still in hand. There was something in his voice—gentle, coaxing.

You smiled. "Lemme get my boots."

The truck rattled over the dusty road, windows down, your bare legs stretched across the bench seat. Gojo’s hand rested on your thigh, thumb tracing lazy circles against your skin. The sun dipped low, bathing everything in amber.

He spoke softly. "You ever think about leaving?"

You turned to him. "The ranch?"

He nodded.

"Sometimes. When I was younger, I used to think I needed to go to really live. But now... I dunno. I think real living started when you came back."

His fingers tightened slightly.

"I used to dream about you when I was overseas," he admitted. "Not in the way you might think. Not even dirty. Just—you, sittin' on that porch with a glass of sweet tea. Laughin'. Sun on your face. Like some kinda angel."

Your breath caught.

"I didn’t know you thought of me like that."

"Didn’t know it myself. Not until it was too late."

You didn’t say anything. Just leaned into him, heart aching with how much you wanted him to never feel too late again.

The southern fields were quiet. Unfamiliar. You'd only ever been out this far with your daddy or the hired hands.

But with Gojo beside you, it felt like a secret world.

He set up the water pump, checked the lines, explained things slowly like you hadn’t grown up here—like he was offering you something, not lecturing.

When the sun dipped behind the hills, you stood beside the truck bed, watching fireflies dance in the dark.

Gojo came up behind you, arms circling your waist.

"Cold?"

"No."

"Scared?"

"Not anymore."

He pressed his forehead to the back of your neck. "You ever get scared again, just tell me. I’ll take it on."

You turned in his arms. He looked at you like he was memorizing every freckle, every line.

"Kiss me," you whispered.

He did.

The bed creaked beneath you both, old wooden legs protesting softly under the heat curling in the space between your bodies. Blankets were half-kicked down, pillows in disarray, the window cracked just enough to let the summer night breeze in. The stars had come out, scattered like salt across the inky sky, and you could hear the cicadas humming outside, just faintly.

But in this room—there was only him.

Gojo lay back against the pillows, shirt long gone, his chest rising slow and steady as his hands slid up the backs of your thighs. You straddled him with quiet ease, knees braced against the sheets, his hands mapping every inch of your skin like he was learning you all over again.

You leaned down, brushing your lips over his. "Still okay?"

His breath was warm against your mouth. "I’ve never been better."

You kissed him—slow and deep, until your lungs ached—then sat back up, hands running along the broad plane of his chest, over scars and sun-warmed skin, down to where he was already hard and thick against your heat.

"Tell me you want this," he whispered, voice thick.

"I want you," you breathed, rolling your hips once, teasing the thick head of his cock through your slick folds. His fingers flexed on your thighs, eyes dragging up your body with a look so full of awe it made your heart skip.

"You’re gonna ruin me," he muttered.

You reached back, bracing one hand on his stomach as the other guided him to your entrance. He sucked in a breath the second you started to sink down onto him—slow, aching inches that made your thighs shake and your mouth fall open.

"Fuck, sweetheart…" he groaned, eyes fluttering shut as he filled you completely.

You stayed still for a beat, adjusting to the stretch. The fullness. The heady weight of him pulsing inside you.

Then you moved.

Your pace was steady, hips rising and falling in a rhythm you both fell into like instinct. Gojo’s hands gripped your waist, then smoothed over your hips, guiding you up and down like he couldn’t decide between worshipping you or letting you take the reins entirely.

“Just like that,” he gritted, watching the way you took him. “Goddamn—you feel like heaven.”

You rode him with slow, deep rolls, back arching, hands pressed to his chest for balance. He kept his gaze locked on you, even when his mouth parted with a low moan, even when he cursed under his breath at how tight, how wet, how fucking perfect you felt around him.

Your body trembled as you leaned forward, mouths brushing again, breath mingling.

"You’re so deep," you gasped, forehead resting to his. "You’re—fuck, Toru—"

“I got you,” he breathed, arms circling your back, holding you close as you moved together. “Ride me, baby. Take what you need.”

You did.

With every grind of your hips, every downward push, the coil inside you tightened, tighter, burning like wildfire in your belly. You could feel him throbbing inside you, jaw clenched as he held back, waiting for you.

"Come for me," he whispered, hand slipping between your bodies, thumb circling your clit in slow, purposeful strokes.

You shattered.

A cry tore from your throat as your orgasm rolled through you, thighs trembling, nails digging into his chest. Your walls clenched around him so hard he had to grip your hips to keep himself from spilling over with you.

He flipped you before your aftershocks had even finished, thrusting into you slow but deep now, chasing his own end with a kiss crushed to your mouth.

When he came, it was with your name on his tongue, voice rough and wrecked, burying himself deep and holding you tight, like he could pour every ounce of devotion into that moment.

And maybe he did.

You stayed like that for a while. Twined together, breath slowing, skin damp and sticky, heartbeats gradually returning to earth.

He kissed your temple.

"You feel it too, don’t you?"

Your voice was soft. "Yeah. I do."

Because it wasn’t just sex. It wasn’t just release.

It was everything you’d both been starving for—wrapped in the ache of missing years, and the promise of everything still to come.

The days after felt like honey poured over a wound. Sweet, warm, slow—but not without ache.

Gojo stayed. Not just in the house or in your bed, but in all the little spaces of your life. He helped your daddy mend the eastern fence, showed up to town early to beat you to the bakery, and washed the dishes even when you told him not to. He smiled at your neighbors, flirted with the old ladies at church to make them blush, and made the dogs love him more than they already did.

It was so easy to pretend that it had always been like this. Like you were already building a life. Like no one else had ever touched you, not even the memory of that ring.

But pretending only worked when you didn’t think too hard.

It was a Wednesday when the first crack showed. You were helping Gojo pack lunch for a long day on the fence lines, and he was quiet.

Not moody. Just thoughtful. Distant in a way that you recognized too well.

"Somethin' on your mind?" you asked.

He glanced up and smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Nah. Just tired."

You didn’t push. Not then.

But hours later, when you found his old army tags tucked into the side drawer of your vanity—not hidden, but not offered either—your fingers curled around them like they still held heat.

It made something twist in your chest.

That night, you found him sitting under the stars again, alone this time. The barn behind him cast long shadows, and the field stretched out black and endless.

You sat beside him, arms brushing. He didn’t look at you at first.

"Did you ever want to stay gone?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t move for a long moment. Then:

"Yeah."

That hurt more than you expected.

"But I didn’t. Not really."

You stared at him, waiting.

"I stayed gone because I didn’t think I could come back. Because everything here felt like it had already moved on. And maybe I didn’t deserve to take up space in it anymore."

You reached for his hand.

"But you did. You do."

He swallowed. "I know that now. I think. But every time I close my eyes, there’s this part of me that still thinks I’m gonna wake up in sand and sweat and blood. That none of this is real. That you’re not real."

You leaned your head on his shoulder. "I’m real. I’m here."

"Yeah," he whispered. "You always were."

The next morning, your daddy handed Gojo an old photo.

It was a faded shot of you, maybe nine or ten, sitting on the fence post, laughing so hard you were mid-fall. Gojo was in the background, arms already moving to catch you.

"Thought you might wanna keep this," your father said, voice gruff.

Gojo stared at it for a long time.

He didn’t say thank you. Just folded it up and slipped it into his wallet like it belonged there.

Nights were different after that. Not just about want. Not just about how well you fit together.

But about intimacy.

The way he murmured your name when he kissed your shoulder. The way his hands slowed when he undressed you, treating every inch of your body like something he missed even while having it.

The way he fucked you slow, almost reverent, eyes locked on yours like you were his anchor.

You cried once. Not from pain, not even from pleasure.

Just because it felt like he was trying to put you back together.

"I think I wanna stay," he said one evening, as you both lay tangled in your sheets.

You turned your head. "Stay where?"

"Here. With you. For good."

Your breath caught.

"You sure?"

He smiled, brushing a thumb over your bottom lip. "Yeah. 'Cause every time I leave, I come back feelin' like I've been missin' my whole damn life. And now that I got it again, I don’t ever wanna let go."

Your chest ached. You kissed him again, softer than soft.

"Then stay."

And he did.

Summer was nearly gone, but the heat stayed. Heavy, thick, sun-drunk heat that stuck to your skin and made everything slower—movements, thoughts, feelings.

And still, Gojo stayed too.

You’d expected something to shift after he said it, that he wanted to stay for good. You thought maybe he’d start making plans or—God help you—ask your daddy for permission or start hauling his things into the spare room.

But he didn’t. Not right away.

Instead, he just… made himself part of your every day. Quiet and constant. Without fanfare, without the kind of dramatics you once believed men like him would bring.

He helped at breakfast, kissed you like he had all the time in the world, took your horse out when yours pulled a shoe, and came home muddy and grinning, like the day never touched him.

You started sleeping better. Eating better.

You didn’t notice how often you said we instead of me now.

The ranch had its quiet hours. And in one of them, while you were down at the edge of the property feeding the colts, your daddy came to find you.

"He told me he wants to marry you."

You blinked.

Your hands were elbow-deep in feed grain, and the words barely had room to settle before your heart lurched in your chest.

"He did?"

Your father didn’t look at you. He watched the horses, voice even.

"Said he wasn’t gonna ask you yet. Said he wanted to make sure you didn’t feel pushed. That this was your choice, not somethin’ he took just ‘cause he came back."

You swallowed.

"And what’d you say?"

Your daddy shrugged. "Told him you make your own choices. Told him he better keep puttin' in the work. Told him I wasn’t givin’ away my girl to some pretty-faced cowboy who thinks he can ride in and charm everyone with that damn smile."

You smiled. Bit your lip.

"But," he added, with the kind of sigh that came from deep in a man’s gut, "I also said that if anyone was gonna love you like you needed, it’d probably be him."

It made your eyes sting.

"Daddy..."

"Don’t go thankin’ me yet. He’s still gotta prove it."

Later that night, Gojo didn’t bring it up. But you could tell something had changed.

He held you like you were made of glass. Kissed your wrist. Your forehead. Your stomach. Tucked you into bed even though he was half-asleep on his feet.

You curled against him and said nothing.

But your hand found his, and you tangled your fingers tight.

You were scared. Not of him. But of how big this felt.

And how much it might hurt if you lost it again.

You didn’t mean to cry the next time he touched you.

But you did.

It was slow again, so slow it made your skin burn. He undressed you one piece at a time, kissed your shoulders, your back, the curve behind your knee. Told you how good you looked. How soft you felt. How long he’d dreamed about this, even when he wasn’t supposed to hope for things.

He kissed between your thighs until your legs trembled, tongue warm and persistent as he tasted you like something holy. He didn’t ask for anything in return. Didn’t need to. His only purpose, in that moment, was you.

Every drag of his tongue was patient, deliberate—slow strokes that built and built until you couldn’t keep your hips still. He groaned against you when your thighs clenched around his head, like he liked the desperation, like it drove him deeper.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice low, reverent. “Tastin’ sweeter than I ever remembered.”

You whimpered, back arching as his mouth sealed over your clit, and then he sucked—just once, sharp and focused—and it shattered something inside you.

You came hard, crying out his name like a prayer, your fingers tangled in his silver-blond hair, holding him there as your body pulsed against his mouth. He didn't stop right away—kept licking through it, soft and slow, like he was savoring every last twitch, every last moan.

When you finally went limp beneath him, breathless and soaked, he kissed his way up your stomach, tasting your skin like it was his reward.

“Could spend the rest of my life down there,” he rasped against your throat. “And I still wouldn’t get enough.”

When he slid inside you, he didn’t move right away. Just held there, whispered your name like a prayer.

That’s when the tears started.

And he didn’t stop. Didn’t panic. Just kissed your cheek, your jaw, your chest. Moved slow and deep and careful until your tears turned to moans.

When you came again, it was his name on your lips.

And when he did, it was your hand in his hair and your voice in his ear, telling him he was home.

You didn’t talk about marriage the next morning.

But Gojo made the coffee.

He kissed you on the porch in full view of the sunrise.

And when your daddy asked him to help check the fence line, he said "yes, sir" without a pause.

You watched him go, heart warm and aching.

Because somehow, it didn’t feel like a maybe anymore.

It felt like a beginning.

You hadn't meant to eavesdrop.

It was just past sundown, golden light melting into peach over the ridge. You were walking back toward the house from the barn, dirt sticking to your boots, sweat dried into the collar of your blouse. You had meant to head inside, maybe wash up, sit with Gojo if he wasn’t still out on the fence line—but then you heard your name.

Your father’s voice. And Gojo’s.

They were around the side of the house, just past the porch. You paused. Not out of curiosity, but something deeper. Something wired into your chest.

"She’s strong," your father was saying. "Stronger than most men I know. But she loved big. And when you left, it damn near broke her."

A pause.

"I know," Gojo replied. His voice wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t sad either. It was sure. Steady. "And I carry that. I’ll carry that every day. But I swear, I came back because I know what I want now. I’m not running from anything anymore."

Your father didn’t speak right away.

Then: "I told you she makes her own choices. But I also told you, if you make her cry again, there won’t be a goddamn place on this earth you can hide."

Gojo huffed a laugh. Not mocking. Not cocky. Almost grateful.

"I wouldn’t expect anything less."

You blinked, turned away. Your heart felt like it was being wrung out like wet cloth.

That night, you lay in bed beside Gojo. Neither of you spoke.

You could feel he was awake. Could feel it in the way he touched your hair, combed his fingers through it slow like he was trying to quiet himself.

You turned to face him.

"You scared?" you asked.

He nodded. Barely.

"Yeah. Terrified."

"Me too."

He reached for your hand, brought it to his lips.

"But I want this. All of it. I want the chores and the mud and your bad morning temper and every Sunday dinner with your daddy where he glares at me for putting sugar in my tea. I want the whole damn thing."

You laughed. Wet, soft. A little broken.

"I don’t want to lose you again."

"You won’t. Even if we fight. Even if we fuck up sometimes. I’m here. And I’m staying."

You kissed him then, and it wasn’t gentle. It was raw, wanting. A little desperate.

He pulled you into his lap, let you straddle him under the sheets. His hands were everywhere—on your hips, your thighs, in your hair.

He slid inside you like he belonged there, like he had the first time, and every time since.

You moved together like you knew each other in another life. Like you never forgot. Like all the time in the world had just been leading back here.

He held your waist like he was grounding himself.

And you, you whispered things you wouldn’t remember later. Just feelings. Just breath. Just love.

When you came, he followed right after, clutching you tight to his chest, whispering your name like a vow.

Morning came too soon.

But you woke up in his arms. And he looked at you like there was no one else on the planet.

Breakfast came easy. Laughter came easier.

And when Gojo mentioned wanting to build a new shed out near the western edge, your daddy didn’t even blink.

"You know how to pour a foundation?"

"Guess I’ll learn."

You watched them walk off together, arguing good-naturedly over lumber and post holes.

And for the first time in a long time, you believed it. Believed this could last.

Believed it might be real.

It rained the next morning.

Big, soaking sheets of it. The kind that turned the red dirt to clay and made the horses restless in their stalls. You were supposed to head into town that afternoon, but the road would be too slick for the truck to handle. So you stayed in. Made bread. Lit the old wood stove even though it was barely cold, just to chase the damp from the walls.

Gojo was quiet that day. Not distant—never distant with you anymore—but thoughtful. You caught him watching you more than once, like he wanted to say something, and each time you raised your eyebrows, he just smiled and kissed your cheek like he’d never been caught.

By late afternoon, you’d taken to the old habit of sitting on the kitchen counter, barefoot, coffee in hand, listening to the storm. Gojo leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, watching the rain beat against the earth.

"You ever think about what happens next?" you asked quietly.

He glanced at you. "Next like what?"

You tilted your head. "After all this. When the seasons change again. When we’re not just waitin’ for the days to pass."

He was quiet for a while.

Then: "I think about it all the time."

Your breath hitched.

"You want details, sweetheart?" he asked, stepping closer. "’Cause I got ‘em. You and me—little house, maybe not far from here. You can have your horses, I’ll get a dog. We’ll fight about what color to paint the kitchen and kiss about it later."

You laughed. Quiet, chest-deep. "Sounds too perfect."

"Not perfect. Just us."

Gojo stepped between your knees, hands gentle on your thighs. You leaned forward until your foreheads touched.

"You still scared?" he whispered.

"Yeah."

"Me too. But I’m not goin’ anywhere."

The days passed like that. Slow, syrupy, full of quiet moments that felt louder than fireworks.

And then came the letter.

Your father brought it in with the morning mail. Thick envelope. Fancy script. You knew even before you opened it what it was.

Your cousin’s wedding.

In two weeks. All the way down in Austin.

You hadn’t seen that side of the family since Gojo left. Since the world felt like it flipped upside down. They didn’t even know the half of it—just that you’d gotten quiet, stayed home more, let your heart turn to stone while the rest of the world moved on.

"You should go," your daddy said.

You frowned. "You think?"

He nodded. "Take him with you. Let the family meet the man who made my daughter smile again."

You looked at Gojo across the room. He was feeding the cat. Totally unaware.

And suddenly, you wanted them all to know. Not just that you were okay—but that you’d been found.

The drive to Austin was long. Eight hours in an old truck, your boots on the dash and the windows down. Gojo sang along to the radio, made you laugh, bought you junk food at every gas station.

He wore your daddy’s old cowboy hat the whole way.

You didn’t talk about the wedding until the night before.

"You nervous?" he asked, brushing your hair back as you lay curled against him in the tiny motel bed.

"Terrified."

He kissed your temple. "You don’t have to explain anything to anyone. You’re here ‘cause you wanna be. So am I. That’s all."

You nodded. But your heart beat like it didn’t believe you.

The wedding was beautiful.

Too beautiful. You felt out of place even in the dress you’d carefully picked, boots polished, hair curled. Everyone looked perfect. Everyone knew each other.

But then he walked in.

Satoru Gojo, in a black button-down and that same hat, tipping it at every aunt who gave him a look.

He took your hand.

And you breathed.

"Hey," he murmured. "You still mine?"

"Yeah."

"Then let’s dance, sweetheart."

And so you did.

Slow song after slow song. Your hands on his shoulders, his at your waist. You forgot about everyone else.

Forgot the cousin who whispered behind her hand. The uncle who raised an eyebrow. Forgot the sting of memory that used to settle in your throat when people asked,��and what ever happened to that Gojo boy?

Because now, here he was.

He spun you once, caught you again, dipped his mouth to your ear.

"Marry me."

You froze.

He didn’t.

Just kept moving. Kept holding you.

"Not today. Not tomorrow. Not until you want. But marry me, darlin’. When it’s time. When you’re ready. I’ll wait forever."

You looked up.

His eyes were soft. Sure.

And suddenly, all your fear melted.

"Okay."

He grinned. Laughed against your mouth as he kissed you in the middle of the dance floor.

And just like that, the whole damn world fell away.

Back at the motel, things turned heated fast.

Maybe it was the adrenaline. The long day. The way he looked in that shirt.

The motel room was quiet save for the low hum of the air conditioning and the whisper of your breaths, still uneven from dancing, from kissing, from the promise hanging thick in the air.

He looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. Like every minute of longing, of aching silence, had led to this moment.

Gojo stood at the foot of the bed, shirt half-unbuttoned, the cowboy hat you’d loved so much hanging from the corner of the nightstand. The lamplight made shadows dance across his chest, and his eyes—bright and blue and burning—never left you.

You knelt on the bed, hands planted on the rumpled sheets behind you, watching him.

“You sure?” he asked softly, voice rough with restraint. “I mean really sure?”

You nodded. "Come here, Satoru."

He came to you slow. Crawling onto the mattress with the kind of purpose that sent goosebumps across your skin. His hands were careful when they touched your thighs, sliding up beneath the hem of your dress like he was unwrapping something fragile.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he murmured, lips brushing the inside of your knee.

You reached for him, fingers tangling in his hair. “Then show me.”

He kissed up your thigh, leaving a warm trail of open-mouthed reverence until he reached the soft cotton of your panties. He paused, eyes flicking up to yours—asking for silent permission.

You lifted your hips.

That was all he needed.

He slipped them down slowly, watching the fabric peel from your skin. He breathed deep, almost reverently, before leaning in.

And then his mouth was on you.

You gasped, head falling back as his tongue dragged a slow, deliberate stripe along your center. He moaned against you, like the taste of you alone was enough to undo him.

He didn’t rush. Didn’t fumble. He ate you like a man starved—like your pleasure was sacred and he wanted to learn every way to draw it out. His hands gripped your thighs, keeping you spread open, and when your hips bucked, he only groaned deeper, pulling you closer.

"You’re unreal," he whispered between kisses, his mouth shiny with you. "So fuckin' sweet."

Your fingers were in his hair, hips rocking up into his face as he circled your clit with slow, practiced rolls of his tongue. He sucked gently, then harder, finding a rhythm that had your thighs trembling.

“God—Satoru—please—”

He hummed against you, voice thick. “That’s it. Let go for me.”

You came with your hands tangled in his silver hair, back arched, mouth open in a silent cry as he lapped you through it—gentle, unrelenting, worshipful.

He didn’t stop until your thighs twitched from oversensitivity and you were pulling at his shoulders, breathless.

“Up here,” you whispered. “Want you inside.”

He came up, kissing your mouth, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. The kiss was slow. Messy. Familiar.

You pushed his shirt from his shoulders. He undid his belt, jeans shoving down just enough. And then he lay back, hands on your hips, gaze dark and reverent as you climbed into his lap.

You hovered over him, breath hitching as he lined himself up. His tip brushed your entrance, and you both groaned.

You sank down slow.

Inches at a time. Stretching around him, inch by inch, feeling every heartbeat, every tremble of restraint as he gripped your thighs like he might shatter otherwise.

“Jesus,” he hissed. “You feel like fuckin’ heaven."

You rocked your hips gently, still adjusting. He filled you completely, the kind of stretch that burned and ached and settled into a fullness that made your whole body sing.

“Ride me,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Take what you need. I’m yours.”

So you moved.

Slow at first. Letting him feel every roll, every clench. His hands never left you—thighs, hips, waist—everywhere at once, grounding you.

You leaned forward, hands planted on his chest. His name spilled from your lips like a prayer as you bounced in slow, steady rhythm.

“You’re killin’ me, sweetheart,” he groaned, eyes half-lidded. “You were made for this. Made for me."

Your nails dug into his skin as you sped up, the sounds of your bodies meeting filling the room. Skin on skin, the bed creaking, both of you gasping, cursing, praising.

He thumbed your clit between thrusts. Just enough to have you spiraling.

“Satoru—”

“I got you. Come on, baby. Let me feel you.”

Your second orgasm hit hard. Sudden and overwhelming. You cried out, legs trembling, thighs seizing as you collapsed onto his chest.

And still, he held you.

“Still with me?” he rasped, voice hoarse with need.

You nodded against his neck. “Want you to finish inside. Please.”

He grunted, rolling you to your back in one fluid movement.

This time, he was on top. Thrusting deep and slow, chasing his own release now, but still looking down at you like you were something holy.

“Love you,” he breathed. “So fuckin’ much.”

“Show me,” you whispered.

He did.

His hips stuttered, a broken moan ripped from his throat as he came, buried deep, shaking above you.

When it was over, he collapsed next to you, dragging you into his arms. You both lay there, sweat-slicked and breathless, the sounds of your heartbeats the only rhythm left.

Gojo pressed a kiss to your temple.

The morning after the wedding, you woke up tangled in a mess of limbs, bedsheets, and steady heartbeats. Motel light filtered through thin curtains, casting a soft haze over Gojo’s bare shoulders and sun-kissed skin. His hand rested low on your belly, thumb brushing unconsciously back and forth, like his body knew—even in sleep—that you were his.

You watched him breathe.

Not in the rushed, adrenaline-laced way of the night before, but easy. Steady. You used to wonder what peace might feel like.

Now it was here, wrapped around you in the scent of linen, leather, and something deeply his.

You pressed a kiss to his shoulder.

“You gonna stare at me all day, sweetheart?” he mumbled.

“Maybe.”

He cracked an eye open. Smiled. “Guess I’ll give you something to look at, then.”

You swatted his chest, laughing into the soft rise and fall of it. “Don’t start. We still gotta make it back before the road floods again.”

He groaned, pulling you closer. “Let it flood. Let’s just stay here.”

“Forever?”

“Damn right.”

Back home, summer faded into fall.

You went back to feeding horses before sunrise, back to days on the ranch that smelled like hay, dust, and hard work. Gojo found his rhythm, too—mending fences, teaching himself how to ride proper, laughing whenever you told him to stop talking to the cows like they were people.

Some nights you sat out on the porch, legs in his lap, old record player spinning something twangy and sad in the background. He talked about New York sometimes—how loud it was, how he never really breathed there.

“You ever gonna miss it?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Not like I’d miss this.”

You.

He meant you.

One afternoon, your father invited him out back.

No warning, just a tilt of the head and a “Walk with me, son.”

Gojo gave you a quick glance, a wink, and followed him without question.

You watched from the window, half an ear turned toward the frying pan. They stood at the edge of the corral, boots digging into packed earth, words too far to hear.

Then, your father patted his shoulder.

Gojo turned, found you through the window, and smiled so softly it hurt.

The proposal came again weeks later.

Not with flash. Not in front of anyone.

Just you, under a night sky, lying on the roof of the barn.

Gojo pulled a ring out of his jacket pocket, handed it to you like it was something ordinary.

“It’s my mama’s,” he said. “Only thing I kept. Figured… she’d like you.”

You blinked. Took it in your palm. The stone was small. Worn. But the silver band felt warm, like it had been waiting.

“You sure?”

“I’ve been sure since I walked back into that barn and saw you look at me like I wasn’t a ghost.”

Silence. Crickets. Your heart in your throat.

“You want a big wedding?” he asked.

You smiled. “Not really.”

“Then let’s do it our way.”

You married him under the oak tree out back.

The one that had stood on your land longer than your granddaddy’s bones. You wore a white sundress and your mama’s boots. He wore a smile that didn’t quit and a bolo tie your daddy had lent him.

Just a handful of people. Your father walked you down the aisle. The horses watched from the fence.

You cried. He didn’t. Not until the end, when you leaned close and whispered, “Home looks good on you.”

Then he did.

Nights after that were different.

No more sleeping in borrowed beds. No more uncertainty between sheets.

He touched you like you were something sacred, even after all this time. And you let him—again and again.

Sometimes slow.

Sometimes desperate.

Always like he couldn’t believe you were his.

“Say it again,” he’d whisper, hips grinding deep, voice wrecked.

“I’m yours.”

He’d bite down on your shoulder. Bury his moan in your skin.

You never got tired of hearing it.

Months passed.

The ranch bloomed with life. You started talking about building something—expanding the barn, maybe even turning that back pasture into a rescue. Gojo scribbled plans on napkins and kissed you senseless every time you smiled over them.

One day, he came in from the fields, dirt on his jeans, sun on his skin, holding a stray kitten by the scruff.

“She followed me,” he said, scratching her head.

“She followed the can of tuna in your back pocket,” you teased.

He grinned. “Guess I’m just irresistible.”

It wasn’t perfect. Some days were long. Some fights loud.

But every night, you fell asleep knowing he was there.

That he’d choose this again.

That he'd choose you again.

On the anniversary of your first kiss, Gojo rode you out into the hills on the old paint horse.

Brought a blanket. A bottle of wine. Lit a fire when the stars came out.

And there, under a sky that had seen you through everything, he kissed your ring finger. Kissed your collarbone. Kissed every inch of you like a prayer.

You laughed into his shoulder, half-drunk and fully in love.

“I ever tell you how glad I am you came back?”

“Every day,” he murmured. “But tell me again.”

“I’m glad you came back.”

He held you tighter.

“I’m never leaving again.”

#jjk #satoru gojo #gojo fanfic #gojo x you #gojo x reader #satoru x you #jjk satoru gojo #jjk gojo #satoru x reader #gojo satoru #cowboy gojo #gojo au #jjk x you #fanfic

46 notes · View notes

chososbbyg · 29 days ago

Text

Your father trusted him with your life. Knight Commander Fushiguro Toji— the most feared blade in the realm, stoic and brutal and built like the gods forged him for war alone. He was never meant to look at you. Never meant to let your soft hands touch his scarred skin.

But tonight, you pull him into your chambers anyway.

You're still in your ceremonial gown, silk pooling at your feet, eyes wide but burning with need. And Toji? He stares like he’s watching the world end. Like you are the end of him.

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” he grits, jaw clenched, back pressed to the door you locked behind him. His fists are balled at his sides, trying so hard not to touch. “I’m your knight, not your—”

You kiss him before he can finish. He groans, finally grabbing your waist — rough hands dragging you against the chainmail pressing into his thighs.

And when he fucks you, it’s like he’s at war with himself.

On his knees, armor half-undone, he licks you open like he’s starving — tongue deep, jaw grinding as your legs shake around his shoulders. You tangle your fingers in his hair, whimpering his name, and he mutters, “So sweet for a princess. Doesn’t even know how filthy she sounds beggin’ for her knight.”

When he finally thrusts into you, it’s brutal and reverent all at once. He holds your hips, kisses your neck, fucks you like a man ready to be executed for touching royalty.

“Say it,” he hisses through gritted teeth, hips slamming into yours. “Say you’re mine. Just once. I need—fuck, I need to hear it.”

You sob it out — “Yours, yours, I’m yours” — and that’s what ruins him. He fucks you harder, hand cradling your belly protectively, eyes drinking in your flushed skin like he’ll never get another chance.

He spills deep inside you, stays buried there, panting against your shoulder.

“This never happened,” he whispers, voice shaking. But his hand stays on your stomach, his lips stay on your throat, and he doesn’t leave until the sun starts rising.

#toji #toji jjk #toji oneshot #toji fushiguro #jjk oneshot #toji fushiguro oneshot #toji x reader #toji x you #jjk x you #royal au

52 notes · View notes

chososbbyg · 29 days ago

Text

You told me your new man don't make you nut, that's a damn shame

Synopsis: You divorced Suguru Geto because loving him felt like dying slowly — like watching someone choose the world over you one too many times. You moved out. You moved on. Or tried to. But obsession doesn’t care about closure. And when you see him again, months later, he still looks at you like his mouth remembers your every moan, like your body still owes him its truths. He says he’s changed. You don’t believe him. But your hands still reach for him in the dark.

Pairing: Suguru Geto × fem!reader

Content: fem!reader, ex-husband!Geto, obsession, emotional tension, mutual pining, unresolved feelings, exes to lovers (again?), smut, oral (female receiving), cunnilingus, possessiveness, pet names (baby, sweetheart, etc.), swearing, praise kink, crying during sex, desperate touches, soft dom!Geto, jealousy, late-night tension, minor angst with comfort, post-divorce regret, love that never died

Wc: 7k

The apartment is nice. Two bedrooms. Balcony. Southern light in the kitchen. It’s clean, tastefully decorated — the kind of place people describe as “fresh start” with voices full of approval.

You make your bed every morning. Keep your shoes by the door. Leave a candle burning on the stovetop when you work from home.

It’s quiet here.

You tell yourself that’s a good thing.

Elias is a good man.

That’s the phrase that loops in your head when your eyes wander at dinner parties, when you catch yourself zoning out halfway through his stories, when you blink up at the ceiling after sex and realize you don’t remember finishing.

He’s sweet. Considerate. He brings you flowers and remembers your favorite kind of tea. He likes structure. He talks about the future with a casual kind of confidence. He never raises his voice.

You know women who would kill for a man like that. You used to be one.

But lately, every time he says “I love you,” it lands soft and cold against your skin — like a feather dipped in snow.

You say it back anyway. Because it’s easier than saying “I don’t know if I mean it anymore.”

When he kisses you, it’s gentle. Predictable. His hands on your waist, lips soft, head tilting just enough to make it sweet. He tells you you’re beautiful. Worships your body in the way a man does when he’s still afraid to break you. You close your eyes. Nod when he asks if it feels good. You even moan sometimes — soft and practiced.

But you haven’t felt anything in months. Not really.

You used to feel everything. Too much.

With him.

With Suguru.

It’s been almost a year. No calls. No texts. No new voicemails — not since the last one, the one you still haven’t deleted.

You tell yourself it’s better this way. Clean cut. No drama. Just two people who stopped fitting.

But some nights, when Elias is asleep next to you — chest rising, arm flung across your hip like a claim — you lie awake and remember what it felt like to be wanted.

Really wanted.

Like breath. Like violence. Like he’d tear the world apart just to taste your name on his tongue.

You shouldn’t miss him. But some ghosts don’t need haunting grounds — they live in your body, in your hunger, in the way you press your thighs together when you think too long about the past.

When the wedding invitation comes in the mail, Elias opens it.

“Our table’s near the dance floor,” he says, reading off the RSVP. “Think you’ll wear that navy dress?”

You hum. Sip your tea. Stare at the gold-embossed names on the envelope.

You already said yes. Even though part of you knew the odds.

Even though you haven’t changed your number. Even though you felt that old familiar ache curl up in your chest the second you held the invite in your hands.

He probably won’t be there. He wouldn’t.

But the thought settles under your ribs anyway.

Because if he is — God help you.

You didn’t mean to put on this lipstick.

It’s stupid — a dusty mauve, half-worn down, something you’d tossed in the back of your drawer a year ago. It used to be his favorite. He’d kiss it off every time. He never said the color out loud, but he always noticed.

And today, without thinking, you reached for it. Painted it on with shaking hands.

You should change. You should scrub it off.

But instead, you just stare at yourself in the mirror. Dress zipped. Perfume soft. Eyes a little too wide.

“Ready?” Elias calls from the hallway, adjusting the cuff of his dress shirt.

You blink. Nod. Say yes before the word even touches your chest.

The ride to the venue is full of soft music and shallow conversation.

Elias talks about the guest list. Who might be there. What the dinner options are.

You murmur back. Smile when you’re supposed to. Pretend to scroll through your phone.

But your heart’s already racing.

Because it hits you — for real, for the first time — that he could be here.

Suguru.

Geto.

Him.

And you don’t know what you’ll do if you see him again. You don’t know what you’ll do if you don’t.

The venue is gorgeous.

All white marble and dusky roses and chandeliers hung low enough to make everything feel expensive. You know the bride — not well, but well enough. You two shared lectures back at university. You remember her talking about a boy with sleepy eyes and a beautiful mouth who never came to class on time. That was before you knew him too. Before everything.

People smile at you. Hug you. Comment on your dress. Say things like “You two look so good together,” and Elias beams, squeezes your hand.

You feel it like rope burn.

You smile. You laugh. You drink the champagne someone hands you even though it makes your throat tight.

And then someone says:

“Did you hear Geto’s back in town?”

Just a whisper. A casual drop. Like he’s nothing but a name in passing.

You feel it in your knees.

He’s not here. Not yet.

You check for him anyway. Scan every face. Look over every shoulder.

Elias doesn’t notice. He’s talking to someone from work. Probably telling them how you met — his favorite story. It used to be yours too. Before you realized you were trying to overwrite another one.

You excuse yourself. Head to the bathroom. Lock yourself in the stall and press your forehead against the cool wall.

You’re being ridiculous. You know that.

But your body knows things before your mind admits them.

And it knows — somehow — that he’s coming.

You reapply the lipstick before you go back out.

The same one.

You don’t even think twice.

Because some part of you still wants him to notice. Even after all this time. Even after everything.

Especially after everything.

You don’t see him walk in. But you feel it.

Something changes. The temperature shifts. The air pulls tighter across your ribs. And when you glance up — mid-conversation, mid-fake laugh, mid-numb — your body goes still.

He’s across the room. Standing half in shadow. Hands tucked in the pockets of a suit so well-cut it makes your mouth go dry.

Suguru Geto.

Hair slicked back. Broad shoulders relaxed like he didn’t just split you open five months ago with a goodbye you’re still bleeding from. There’s a glass of something amber in his hand. He’s nodding at the groom, listening intently. And he hasn’t seen you yet.

But God, you’ve seen him. And that’s enough to undo everything you’ve spent the last year stitching together.

He shouldn’t be here.

You weren’t supposed to run into him again. Not in this lifetime. He was gone. Out of the country. Out of your orbit. That was the deal, right?

You’d both walk away.

He with his quiet bitterness, you with your ring. He told you: “Don’t let me ruin you.”

You told him: “Too late.”

The room tilts when his eyes find you.

Like he’s been waiting for the moment. Like nothing else in the space exists anymore.

You don’t look away.

You can’t.

His gaze is heavy, unblinking. He drinks you in like it’s the first time and the last. The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Not quite anything soft.

You know that look. He used to give it to you in hotel doorways. At red lights. In bed, just before he said something that ruined you for hours.

Elias says something at your side. You nod, delayed, a half-second too slow.

Suguru notices.

Of course he does.

He doesn’t come over. Not yet.

But his presence floods every corner of your awareness. You hear him in every laugh behind you. Feel him in the air at your nape. The music fades in and out — you can’t tell if the bass is pounding or if it’s just your pulse.

You excuse yourself. Again.

Bathroom, terrace, hallway — anywhere. You need to breathe.

Need to think.

But when you press your palms to the marble counter and meet your own eyes in the mirror again, all you can see is him behind your shoulder.

Even if he’s not there.

You don’t hear him. You feel him.

Before a word is spoken. Before the silence shifts. He’s behind you — the mirror tells you that much.

He stands just outside the bathroom doorway, like he isn’t sure if he’s allowed to enter this version of your life. Like he’s trying to be respectful.

Like he remembers what it felt like to hold you and still not be allowed to keep you.

His voice is soft when it breaks the air.

“You still wear that lipstick.”

You freeze.

Slowly — too slowly — you lift your gaze to the mirror again. And there he is, reflected in pieces: collarbone, throat, tired eyes.

He looks older.

Not in a bad way. Just like time’s actually been passing for him, too.

You swallow. Grip the sink like it might anchor you.

“Didn’t realize you were watching me that close.”

He lets out a dry breath — not quite a laugh.

“Always did.”

The silence swells between you.

It’s not awkward. Not really.

It’s intimate. Dangerous. Familiar in that terrifying way that makes your stomach twist.

You don’t look at him directly. You can’t.

Because you know what’s in his eyes. The same thing that’s been waking you up in the middle of the night with your hand between your thighs and his name bitten into your pillow.

“You look good,” he says.

You snort, short and sharp.

“You always say that when you’re trying to mess with my head.”

“I meant it then, too.”

He takes one slow step closer. Not touching. Just filling the air.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” you murmur.

“Didn’t think you’d come with him.”

That makes your spine straighten.

You turn to face him. Finally. And he looks right at you.

Not at your mouth. Not at the curve of your waist or the ring on your finger.

Just you. Raw and real.

“He makes you happy?”

It’s not a challenge. Not even bitter.

It’s worse.

It’s genuine.

Your throat tightens.

“He tries.”

Suguru’s jaw clenches. His gaze drops, just for a second.

“But it’s work. Isn’t it?”

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

He steps closer. Just a breath away now.

“You still think about it?” he asks.

Your heart is in your ears. Your tongue is heavy behind your teeth.

He leans in — doesn’t touch you. Just speaks low against your cheek, voice wrecked.

“The way I touched you. The way you used to cum for me like it hurt.”

You inhale. Sharp. Feel the tremble in your legs.

“That night,” he continues, “you said no one had ever made you feel like that before.”

His breath ghosts your jaw.

“That still true?”

You should walk away.

You should. You know that.

But your body doesn’t move. Because what hurts most — more than his voice, more than the way he looks at you like he still loves you — is that part of you never wanted to stop loving him.

He pulls back — just enough to meet your eyes.

“Tell me to leave, and I will.”

You look up at him.

At the boy who broke you. At the man you still want to belong to.

Your lips part. No words come.

Because for once, your mouth can’t lie.

You don’t say it.

You don’t tell him to leave.

And that’s all the answer he needs.

Suguru doesn’t touch you at first. He just watches you—eyes flicking over your face like he’s committing you to memory again. Like the last year didn’t burn every version of you into his skin already.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he says quietly.

And you don’t disagree. You can’t.

Because your heart is pounding and your body’s already leaning toward him like it remembers the way he used to love you— with reverence, with ruin.

You whisper, “No. But you are.”

When his fingers brush your wrist, it’s feather-light. A test.

When you don’t pull away, he takes your hand—warmer than you remember, calloused from a life you don’t get to see anymore.

He looks down at your ring.

His thumb pauses on it.

Then, softly:

“Does he know?”

You almost laugh. It’s bitter.

“Know what?”

“That when you cum, you say my name.”

Your breath stutters out of you.

“That you still dream about me in your wedding bed.”

He steps closer, slow, like a tide rolling in.

“That he’ll never know what it’s like to have your legs shaking around his head.”

You close your eyes. Try to breathe.

It doesn’t work.

“I think about it, too,” he whispers. “Still. All the time.”

“That night in Kyoto. The look on your face. The way you begged.”

He leans in.

“You still beg like that?”

You kiss him.

You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t.

But your mouth finds his like it always did—desperate and greedy, heat blooming under your skin like you’re nineteen again and the world still ends with him.

His hands frame your jaw like you’re something breakable. You pull him closer like you’re already broken.

There’s no space between your bodies now.

No restraint.

No guilt, not yet.

Only the unbearable weight of finally.

He pushes you gently against the sink.

The marble’s cool against your back, but his hands are warm—one on your waist, the other in your hair.

He kisses you like he’s drowning and you’re the last thing worth saving.

“Say it,” he murmurs. “Say you missed me.”

You gasp against his lips, nails digging into his shoulder.

“I missed you.”

“Say it like you mean it.”

You say it again.

And again.

Until you’re not just whispering it into his mouth—you’re crying it into his hands.

His mouth trails down your neck, slow and reverent. You tilt your head back, baring your throat like something sacred.

“God,” he breathes, “I hated knowing he got to see you like this.”

He kisses the hollow of your throat.

“Soft.”

Another kiss.

“Vulnerable.”

Another, lower.

“Mine.”

Your dress is hiked up. Your lipstick is ruined. And the man you almost married is on his knees on the tile like it’s worship.

Suguru’s hands slide up your thighs, slow and steady like he has all the time in the world to relearn you. But his eyes—God, his eyes are starving.

“You’re shaking.”

You are. Not from fear. From want.

From memory.

From the way his breath grazes the inside of your thigh when he murmurs, “Still so sensitive for me?”

You thread your fingers through his hair before you realize what you’re doing. He looks up at you from between your legs— dark lashes, darker gaze, mouth parted.

“I dreamt about this,” he says, voice low. “Night after night.”

He kisses the inside of your knee.

“You, right here.”

Higher.

“Pretty and needy.”

His fingers press into your hips.

“Open for me, like you never forgot who made you cum the hardest.”

Your breath stutters.

You want to say something smart. Cold. Cruel, maybe.

But then his mouth is on you.

And nothing exists but the wet heat of his tongue, the way he groans when he tastes you—like he’s the one unraveling.

Your knees nearly buckle.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he breathes, mouth slick with you. “Let me make you forget him.”

He licks you slow, then fast. Circles that spot he always knew, right until your hips jerk forward and your hands fist in his hair.

“Still so fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters. “Still mine.”

He doesn’t stop when you cry out.

Doesn’t stop when your thighs tremble around his ears. If anything, he leans in.

Sucks.

Drags you apart with his mouth until you’re gasping his name—over and over—like it’s the only one that’s ever mattered.

“Please, Suguru—”

You choke on it.

He groans.

“Fuck, I missed that.”

He pushes two fingers inside— knows exactly where to curl them.

And you—

You cum so hard you have to bite your hand not to scream.

When your vision clears, he’s standing.

Panting. Wrecked.

And his thumb is wiping your tears away like he didn’t just drop you into a memory you swore you’d buried.

“You gonna tell him?” he asks softly.

You blink.

“That you let me put my mouth on what he thought was his?”

Your throat is raw. Your body is spent. Your heart is aching.

You whisper, “No.”

He nods once. That same ghost of a smile.

"Good,” he says. “Because I’m not done yet.”

He lifts you onto the marble counter like he’s done it a hundred times. Like it’s muscle memory.

Maybe it is.

You wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him hard—kiss him like you want him to feel it in his spine. Like you want to brand the taste of you back into his mouth.

He moans against your lips.

“Still sweet,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Fuck.”

You feel his hand between your thighs again—guiding himself through your slick, dragging the head of his cock against your folds like he’s savoring every second.

“You want me to stop?” he whispers.

You don’t answer. You tilt your hips forward instead.

He laughs softly. Bitter.

“That’s what I thought.”

He pushes in slow—achingly, possessively slow. Not because he’s gentle.

Because he wants you to feel it.

To feel him stretch you again, deep and thick and familiar in a way your body never unlearned.

Your nails dig into his back.

“Still tight,” he groans. “Still fuckin’ perfect.”

His forehead presses to yours.

You’re both panting.

“You think about this?” he murmurs. “When he’s inside you?”

You flinch. Just a little.

He drags his cock almost all the way out—then thrusts back in so deep your breath leaves your lungs.

“You think about me?”

It’s sick, what he does to you. How your body responds to him like it belongs to him.

How every thrust hits that spot he memorized with his mouth years ago. How you’re already close again, hips canting, teeth biting your lip to muffle the pathetic sounds clawing up your throat.

“Say it,” he pants. “Tell me you still want me.”

You can’t lie. Not like this.

“I do,” you whisper. “I always did.”

That breaks him.

He fucks you harder now—like he’s angry, like he’s punishing you for ever leaving, like he’s trying to carve his name into your ribcage with every stroke.

“You were never his,” he snarls. “You know that, don’t you?”

Your answer’s a choked cry when he hits deep, hands trembling as you hold onto him like he’s your last tether to Earth.

You come again—loud this time, broken. He swallows your moan with his mouth, like it fuels him.

“Gonna cum inside you,” he growls. “Let him taste me next time he touches you.”

You should say no.

You don’t.

You say, “Please.”

He fucks you through it, growling your name like a prayer and a curse all at once before he spills inside—deep—hips pressed flush, mouth against your shoulder like he wants to bite down and never let go.

For a second, neither of you moves.

You’re wrecked.

He’s shaking.

And you’re both still so in love it hurts.

You make it back to your fiancé’s apartment just before midnight.

Your hands still smell like him.

You throw your phone onto the kitchen counter and run the sink.

You scrub your palms raw.

You scrub until the skin stings and the memory fades enough to breathe.

But it doesn’t go away.

Not the ache between your legs. Not the tremble in your thighs. Not the hoarse way he said your name when he came inside you like he had every right to.

“You were never his.”

You stare at yourself in the mirror and don’t recognize the girl looking back.

Your fiancé’s asleep when you slip into bed.

His arm wraps around your waist like it always does, like he doesn’t feel the difference.

Like your body isn’t humming with someone else’s fingerprints.

“You okay?” he mumbles.

You nod. You kiss his shoulder. You lie through your teeth.

“Just tired.”

The next morning, Geto texts you.

It’s short. Simple.

Geto: You’re still mine.

You don’t answer.

You turn off your phone and try to make pancakes with your fiancé like everything’s normal.

But the eggs burn.

And your hands shake.

And when he wraps his arms around you from behind, your skin flinches before your mind can stop it.

Your fiancé leaves for work. You sit on the floor of the shower, head against the tile, knees to your chest.

Water rushes down your back.

You think about how Suguru looked at you like you were his salvation.

You think about how you came for him twice with your fiancé’s ring still on your finger.

You think about how he whispered, “Let him taste me next time he touches you,” and you moaned like it made you feel holy.

You loved Suguru Geto. You never stopped.

But loving him ruined you once.

And you can already feel it ruining you again.

The lie survives for three more days.

You try. You really do.

You laugh at your fiancé’s jokes, hold his hand at dinner, even initiate sex—if only to prove to yourself that nothing’s changed.

But it has.

His mouth doesn’t make your heart race. His fingers feel too polite. His voice doesn’t wreck you the way Geto’s did when he moaned your name into your throat.

When he asks, “Did you cum?”, you lie again.

You kiss his cheek and whisper, “Yes.”

You start dreaming of Suguru.

Of the way he used to hold you after. Of the way he kissed your temples and whispered, “You're my favorite sin.”

But the dream always ends the same:

He’s standing in the doorway, covered in blood. He’s smiling like he’s already lost you. And you wake up sweating, his name tangled in your sheets.

Geto doesn’t text again. He doesn’t have to.

He lives in your body now—planted deep, like rot under the floorboards.

You keep seeing him out of the corner of your eye: A silhouette in the reflection of a window. A shadow on the sidewalk across the street. A shape that feels too real to be imagined.

You turn your head, and it’s always gone.

But you know better.

It all cracks one evening when your fiancé is going on about wedding menus, hands scrolling through hors d’oeuvres on his tablet like everything’s perfect.

He doesn’t see the way your throat tightens. The way your chest caves. The way you’ve barely looked him in the eyes since you came back home reeking of another man’s love.

“What about fig and goat cheese crostinis?”

You blink.

“What?”

“For the reception. Your mom liked that idea, right?”

You stare at the screen. Little glassy toasts lined up like happy, tiny promises.

“They’re fine,” you say.

But your voice sounds wrong.

Too thin.

Too hollow.

“Hey,” he says softly, putting the tablet down. “Are you okay?”

You hesitate.

You almost tell him.

But then your phone buzzes.

Geto: Pick up. I won’t ask again.

You let it ring.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Your fiancé is watching you now, brow creased, that soft, thoughtful concern that used to make your heart flutter.

Now it just makes you feel sick.

You don’t answer. You silence the phone.

But he calls again.

This time, you excuse yourself. Say you’re not feeling well. Say you need a moment.

You go to the bathroom and lock the door with trembling fingers.

When you finally answer, your voice is barely a whisper.

“What do you want, Suguru?”

“You.”

The word is simple. Spoken without hesitation.

And it makes your whole body lock up.

“Stop,” you say. “Stop doing this.”

“Why?” he murmurs. “Because I make you feel something?”

Your breath catches. He hears it.

“You’re not happy,” he says. “I can hear it in your voice.”

“You don’t know anything about my life anymore.”

“Bullshit,” he growls. “I know you. That hasn’t changed.”

You press your forehead to the cold mirror and close your eyes.

“It has,” you lie. “I’ve changed.”

There’s silence for a long moment. Then:

“Yeah?” “Then why did your pussy suck me in like it missed me?”

You flinch. Your hand curls into a fist.

“Why’d you beg for it, baby?”

You hate him. You hate how much you loved it. You hate the way your thighs clench even now, just hearing his voice.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice low. “Right now. I’ll disappear.”

You hesitate. The silence says more than words ever could.

“That’s what I thought.”

That night, you can’t sleep.

Not next to the man you’re supposed to marry. Not when the man you still want is whispering sin into your ear from miles away.

You lie awake until the sun rises.

Suguru doesn’t call again.

But the damage is done.

You wake up sore in your chest and between your legs—bruised by memory, haunted by the fact that you didn’t tell him to stop.

It’s three days after the phone call when the envelope appears.

Unmarked.

Slipped under the door of your office like it was never meant to be found. Like it had to be.

You open it with careful fingers.

Inside: A hotel key. Room 815. Tonight. No note. No explanation.

But you already know who sent it.

You stare at it for a long time. Long enough that your assistant knocks and asks if you’re okay.

You lie. Again.

You tuck the key into your purse like a secret and tell yourself you won’t go.

You go.

You don’t knock at first.

You stand outside the door with your heart in your throat, staring at the gold numbers like they’re going to spell out liar instead.

Then: The door opens.

He’s already inside. He knew you’d come.

He’s in a black button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Hair half-tied. Eyes so dark they make your knees weaken.

Suguru doesn’t say anything.

He just looks at you like you’re the last prayer he ever said.

You step in.

He closes the door.

And everything after that comes fast.

“Say it,” he murmurs as your back hits the wall. “Say you missed me.”

Your voice cracks.

“I did.”

“Louder.”

“I missed you.”

His mouth crashes into yours like he owns it.

Clothes hit the floor like confessions. You’re breathless. Naked. Spread for him on the bed you swore you wouldn’t end up in.

But you don’t care anymore.

His mouth finds your thighs, slow and reverent, like worship.

“She still tastes like mine,” he groans, tongue dragging over your soaked folds.

You gasp his name.

His fingers press into you, knuckle-deep, slow and deliberate.

“You let him fuck you after me?”

You nod, shame flooding your chest.

“Did he fill this pretty pussy up too?”

You shake your head.

“No. No—he didn’t... I couldn’t—”

“That’s right,” he growls. “Because it’s mine.”

You come on his tongue, hips shaking, his name broken from your throat like prayer.

He flips you over. Fills you full.

Pushes deep, slow, brutal, like he’s carving his name into you all over again.

“Say you love me,” he whispers.

And you do.

You’ve never stopped.

When it’s over, he holds you like he never let go.

And for the first time in weeks, you sleep.

But the ring is still on your finger.

And morning’s coming.

You wake before him.

The curtains are cracked open—just enough to let in the gray dawn light. It paints the hotel room in soft, aching hues. Your body aches worse.

Your thighs. Your throat. Your heart.

Suguru lies beside you, one arm thrown carelessly over your waist, breathing deep. Peaceful, even. But there’s nothing peaceful inside you. Just a low, gnawing panic starting to bloom like rot beneath the ribs.

You slip out from under his arm.

Your clothes are everywhere. Your phone is still on Do Not Disturb. You check the lock screen.

Ten missed calls. Five from your fiancé. Two texts from your mother. A photo of wedding table settings you don’t remember asking for.

And beneath it all, the weight of what you’ve done curls like smoke in your chest.

You still haven’t taken off the ring.

Suguru stirs.

“Running again?”

You don’t look at him.

“I should go.”

“You always say that.”

You start pulling on your dress, the one that smells like hotel sheets and his cologne.

“He’s gonna know,” Suguru says, watching you from the bed, voice low. “You’re a shit liar when you’re guilty.”

You glare.

“I’m not guilty.”

“No?” He tilts his head. “So come back to bed.”

You freeze.

He sits up slowly, that lazy danger always simmering under his skin now sharp and focused.

“You said you loved me.”

You swallow. “I did.”

“Then stay.”

The silence feels like glass. You’re standing in the middle of it barefoot.

“Suguru,” you whisper. “You don’t get to make it sound easy.”

He rises from the bed. Doesn’t touch you. Just stands in front of you, bare-chested, beautiful, ruined.

“It is easy. You love me, I love you, and he’s not me.”

You hate how much you want to believe that.

But you also know the world outside this room is waiting—with judgment, with expectations, with a man who would never look at you the same again.

“I’m engaged.”

“And I don’t care.”

“We’re getting married in two months.”

“Then cancel it.”

Your breath catches.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I mean every word.” His voice drops, fierce. “You said he doesn’t fuck you right. You said you still think of me. You let me put my tongue inside you while you wore another man’s ring.”

You flinch.

He softens. Just a little.

“You can’t pretend I’m not yours.”

The room is still.

Your phone buzzes again.

You don’t look.

You meet Suguru’s gaze, and he’s not begging—but he’s asking.

And for once, he’s not the one haunting you.

You go home.

You tell yourself you can act normal.

You try.

But the house feels wrong. The walls are too clean. The bed too neat. The man in the kitchen smiles at you like nothing’s changed—because he doesn’t know it has.

You kiss him hello and hope he doesn’t taste someone else’s mouth on yours.

He wraps his arms around you. Tells you he missed you. Asks about your morning.

You smile.

You lie.

It doesn’t last long.

That night, you make love the way you used to—soft, sweet, slow. But you’re too quiet. Too still.

When he touches you, you close your eyes.

When he presses inside you, something tightens in your throat.

You almost say Suguru’s name.

You cum too easily. Too believably.

He looks at you differently after.

Later, you’re brushing your teeth, and he leans in the doorway.

“Did you go shopping?”

You blink. “What?”

“You smell different.”

You freeze.

“Like—perfume. Or… someone else’s cologne.”

Your stomach drops.

“Just laundry, probably,” you say too fast.

He nods, but you can see the question lingering in his eyes.

He doesn’t believe you.

He doesn’t say it.

But when he kisses you goodnight, it’s softer. Slower. Like he’s checking to see if you’ll flinch.

And you do.

The next morning, there’s coffee. Flowers in the kitchen. Your favorite breakfast on the table.

He’s trying.

He knows something’s off. He just doesn’t know what.

But he’s trying.

And the guilt starts to eat you alive.

That night, you find the hotel key again.

Still in your purse.

Still warm from your indecision.

You press it into your palm and close your eyes.

You hear Suguru’s voice again.

“You can’t pretend I’m not yours.”

You see him again.

You swore you wouldn’t. You swore he was the mistake—the one-night relapsed sin you’d bury beneath champagne toasts and wedding rings.

But Suguru is waiting.

Not outside your door. Not with flowers or fire. Just… waiting.

Like he knows you’ll come back.

And when you do, it’s not planned. It’s not a call or a text. It’s not a surrender—it’s muscle memory. It’s ache. It’s the hollow carved into your chest that only he knows how to fill.

You don’t kiss right away.

You sit.

You stare.

The silence stretches too long.

Then he says it.

“He knows, doesn’t he?”

You look down. Pick at the ring on your finger.

“Not yet.”

“He will.”

“I know.”

Suguru sighs. Drags a hand down his face.

“You don’t look scared.”

You aren’t.

You’re tired.

“I’ve been scared for months,” you whisper. “But I don’t feel scared with you.”

He blinks.

“So you came back.”

You nod.

And then, the break:

“You gonna lie to him forever?”

“I didn’t plan this—”

“You didn’t stop it either.”

His voice is harsh. Bitten.

“You didn’t have to let me kiss you. You didn’t have to come here. You didn’t have to beg me to—”

You cut him off.

“Stop.”

“Say it.”

“I can’t.”

His hands curl into fists. He doesn’t move toward you—but he’s shaking with it. Not anger.

Grief.

“You picked a ghost over a man,” he says, low. “You’ve been mourning me this whole time, haven’t you?”

You finally look up. Eyes wet.

“And you’ve been haunting me back.”

Silence.

Then—

“I’m not a ghost,” Suguru breathes. “I’m still here.”

He’s close now. Close enough to touch, to taste, to ruin you all over again.

“He doesn’t get to keep you just because he met you second.”

You kiss him.

This time it’s not about lust. It’s not about guilt.

It’s a desperate, aching plea to be known.

He presses you to the wall, breath hot, hands trembling. You wrap your legs around him like instinct. Your dress rides up. His mouth crushes into yours.

You gasp.

He groans.

“You gonna marry him still?” he hisses into your throat.

“I don’t know,” you pant.

“You gonna wear his ring while I’m inside you again?”

You choke on a sob. Not from shame—but from the sick, spiraling need to be ruined by this man.

The one who knows your worst parts and wants you anyway.

He lifts you up.

You lose track of time.

You lose track of names.

But one thing stays constant:

You don’t say his name anymore.

Only Suguru’s.

Only his.

It all comes apart the next morning.

You wake in Suguru’s bed—sheets tangled around your legs, his scent sunk deep into your skin, your thighs sticky with the memory of what you did. There’s a hollow ache in your stomach. Not from regret.

From reality.

Because your phone is full of missed calls.

From your fiancé.

And one message:

“Come home.”

You read it three times. You don’t answer.

Suguru is still asleep. Or pretending to be. His arm is heavy across your waist, his body curled around yours like a secret he’s unwilling to let go of.

You stay like that for ten more minutes.

Then you get up.

You don’t speak when you leave.

You don’t promise anything.

You don’t say goodbye.

Suguru doesn’t stop you.

But he watches you from the bed, eyes hooded and unreadable.

Not sad.

Just resigned.

As if he always knew you’d go back.

Home isn’t home anymore.

He’s waiting at the kitchen table—eyes red, hair a mess, the same clothes he wore yesterday. You wonder if he slept. You wonder if he could.

He doesn’t look at you when he says it:

“You’re in love with him.”

The silence confirms what he already knows.

“How long has it been?”

You swallow. “Since before we got engaged.”

He laughs. A sharp, brittle thing. “So that was a lie, too.”

“No,” you say quickly. “Not a lie. Just… a layer over something I didn’t know how to kill.”

“Did you try?”

You don’t answer.

Because no. You didn’t.

You wore the ring. You kissed another man. You said yes, then you fell apart in Suguru’s arms.

“Did you fuck him again?” he asks.

The words hit like a slap.

You don’t deny it.

His hands shake.

You watch the moment his heart breaks for real.

“Why him?”

It’s not a question about sex.

It’s about everything.

The years. The intimacy. The man who saw you first and still lives in the most hidden, tender parts of your body.

“Because I’m not whole without him,” you whisper.

And that’s it.

You’ve ripped the final seam.

You don’t cry until he leaves.

You don’t cry when he throws his key on the table.

You don’t cry when he says, “Don’t come after me.”

But you do cry when you see the picture frame he left behind.

You and him.

Smiling.

Believing.

Pretending it was enough.

You text Suguru.

You don’t say much.

Just:

“It’s over.”

And one more thing:

“Do you still want me?”

His reply comes back almost instantly.

“I never stopped.”

It all comes apart the next morning.

From reality.

Because your phone is full of missed calls.

From your fiancé.

And one message:

“Come home.”

You read it three times. You don’t answer.

Suguru is still asleep. Or pretending to be. His arm is heavy across your waist, his body curled around yours like a secret he’s unwilling to let go of.

You stay like that for ten more minutes.

Then you get up.

You don’t speak when you leave.

You don’t promise anything.

You don’t say goodbye.

Suguru doesn’t stop you.

But he watches you from the bed, eyes hooded and unreadable.

Not sad.

Just resigned.

As if he always knew you’d go back.

Home isn’t home anymore.

He’s waiting at the kitchen table—eyes red, hair a mess, the same clothes he wore yesterday. You wonder if he slept. You wonder if he could.

He doesn’t look at you when he says it:

“You’re in love with him.”

The silence confirms what he already knows.

“How long has it been?”

You swallow. “Since before we got engaged.”

He laughs. A sharp, brittle thing. “So that was a lie, too.”

“No,” you say quickly. “Not a lie. Just… a layer over something I didn’t know how to kill.”

“Did you try?”

You don’t answer.

Because no. You didn’t.

You wore the ring. You kissed another man. You said yes, then you fell apart in Suguru’s arms.

“Did you fuck him again?” he asks.

The words hit like a slap.

You don’t deny it.

His hands shake.

You watch the moment his heart breaks for real.

“Why him?”

It’s not a question about sex.

It’s about everything.

The years. The intimacy. The man who saw you first and still lives in the most hidden, tender parts of your body.

“Because I’m not whole without him,” you whisper.

And that’s it.

You’ve ripped the final seam.

You don’t cry until he leaves.

You don’t cry when he throws his key on the table.

You don’t cry when he says, “Don’t come after me.”

But you do cry when you see the picture frame he left behind.

You and him.

Smiling.

Believing.

Pretending it was enough.

You text Suguru.

You don’t say much.

Just:

“It’s over.”

And one more thing:

“Do you still want me?”

His reply comes back almost instantly.

“I never stopped.”

A year later.

There’s no ring on your finger.

No dress in a closet. No guest list. No “save the date.”

And yet, it’s the first time you’ve felt married.

To a man who knows your worst mistakes, and loves you louder because of them.

To Suguru.

You live somewhere new now.

Not the apartment you used to share with the man you left. Not Suguru’s old place with the too-small bed and the peeling ceiling paint.

This home is yours.

Big windows. Warm light. Plants that thrive because Suguru never forgets to water them. A little cat who sleeps in the curve of his back when he’s lying on the couch.

Sometimes you write.

Sometimes you just sit and exist.

He brings you tea when you forget to eat.

You kiss his forehead when he overworks himself.

And at night, when the lights are low and the world stops asking you to explain yourself— You curl into his side like a prayer finally answered.

You never expected a happy ending. Not one like this.

No revenge. No grand drama.

Just a slow, steady choice:

“I still want you.”

Suguru makes it every morning.

In the way he presses a kiss to your bare shoulder before work. In the way he reads your moods before you even speak. In the way he touches you—always like he’s asking permission, always like he already knows the answer will be yes.

Tonight, you sit on the floor in the living room, your legs thrown across his lap. The record player spins something soft. He has one hand on your calf, thumb tracing little circles.

He says, “Do you ever think about what would’ve happened if we never—”

“All the time,” you say.

“And?”

“It hurts.”

He nods.

But you lean over and kiss his jaw, press your forehead to his temple.

“But you’re here now.”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “I am.”

You never go back to the life you left.

Because there’s nothing there for you anymore.

Only this: A man who saw every version of you— The cruel. The coward. The liar. The lost.

And stayed.

Not out of hope.

Not out of pity.

But because when everything broke—

He still loved you.

And he always will.

#geto suguru #jjk suguru #suguru fic #i love him #jjk x you #geto suguru x reader #jjk x reader #suguru fanfic #geto x you #geto x reader #this is bonkers #fanfic

65 notes · View notes

chososbbyg · 1 month ago

Text

okay but yearner choso who grinds against you slow, like he's trying to memorize the way you feel—desperate, breathless, murmuring “just a little more, please” against your neck. he whines when your fingers tug his hair, hips stuttering, hands shaking on your thighs like he’s worshipping something holy. he doesn’t just want to fuck—he wants to melt into you, bury himself so deep he forgets where he ends and you begin.

#choso kamo #choso x reader #jjk #choso smut #i love choso #need him #YEARNING

137 notes · View notes

chososbbyg · 1 month ago

Text

Baby daddy!Choso who comes home just past two in the morning, blood on his collar, exhaustion clinging to every inch of his broad frame. But none of it matters the second he walks into the bedroom and sees you: glowing, round, and soft under the dim lamplight, curled on your side, one hand resting instinctively on your belly.

Baby daddy!Choso who swallows hard, something primal curling low in his stomach when his eyes trace the swell of you—the shape of your body, so familiar but different now. Fuller. Slower. His. He undresses quietly, reverently, watching your chest rise and fall in slow rhythm. You’re asleep, but even in sleep, you’re protecting the child growing inside you. His child.

Baby daddy!Choso who slips under the covers, bare skin to bare skin, and rests a large, warm hand on your belly. His thumb strokes over the curve of it slowly, and when you stir, half-awake, he whispers, “It’s me.” You hum and turn into him, trusting, still soft with sleep.

Baby daddy!Choso who can’t help himself. He starts slow, fingers trailing up your thigh, lips brushing your neck. “Need you,” he murmurs, voice thick with exhaustion and longing. “Can’t stop thinking about you like this. Look at you.”

Baby daddy!Choso who touches you like you’re sacred—because to him, you are. His fingers are gentle, careful, spreading you open and finding you wet already. He groans low in his throat. “This body… made to take me, huh? Even now?” You whimper, hips rolling toward him instinctively, needing more.

Baby daddy!Choso who doesn’t rush. He makes you look at him when he pushes in, eyes locked on yours, the stretch slower, deeper now. You gasp—the pregnancy making you even more sensitive, every inch of him dragging against walls that grip him too tight. “Fuck—always so good,” he growls. “But like this? You’re unreal.”

Baby daddy!Choso who moves with care but never holds back the depth—he knows how to fuck you just right: shallow when your breath stutters, deep when your nails dig into his shoulders. His hand stays on your belly the entire time, like he can’t stand to let go of what the two of you made.

Baby daddy!Choso who whispers filth between kisses: You look so pretty round with me. Can feel you gripping me harder ‘cause of the baby. You were made to carry my kids, weren’t you? And you moan for him, desperate, teary-eyed, overwhelmed by how full you are—of him, of love, of life.

Baby daddy!Choso who cums with a stuttering groan, forehead pressed to yours, hips snug against you, like he’s pouring everything he has into you. He doesn’t pull out. He won’t—not now, not when you’re already carrying his child and still taking him so beautifully.

Baby daddy!Choso who stays pressed against you, his hand drifting over the swell of your belly again. “Can’t believe you’re mine,” he murmurs, eyes soft now. “Givin’ me a family. Givin’ me everything.”

Baby daddy!Choso who kisses your stomach last before you drift off, whispering something to the baby that you can’t quite make out—but you smile anyway, because you know whatever it is, it’s laced with love.

#choso kamo #choso x reader #choso drabble #jjk #jjk drabble #jujutsu kaisen choso #jjk x you #choso x you

80 notes · View notes

chososbbyg · 1 month ago

Text

Girl you loud! - C.K.

Synopsis: When Choso, with his label of the geekiest anime nerd on campus, somehow becomes best friends with the loudest, hottest person on campus, everyone was confused—except them. Years of playful teasing, long stares, and late-night tension finally snap in a moment too charged to ignore. One touch turns into a kiss, a kiss into clothes on the floor, and suddenly, they’re not just breaking the rules.

Pairing: Choso Kamo x fem!reader

Content: fem!reader, friends to lovers, smut, first times, oral (female receiving), cúnnilingus, pet names, swearing, tummy bulges,

wc: 6.8k

Choso was the geekiest geek you’d ever met—and not in a cute, socially awkward “oh my god he likes Star Wars” kind of way. No, Choso Kamo was deep in it. He wore the same black hoodie like it was stitched to his soul, kept a Yujiro Hanma phone charm dangling from his cracked screen, and didn’t speak to anyone unless they spoke fluent anime references first.

You? You were loud. Loud in the way that filled hallways, group chats, and Friday night parties. People knew your laugh before they knew your name. You were the person who somehow sat at everyone’s lunch table, the one professors low-key tolerated because you were smart and had jokes. The kind of person who could walk into a room and make it warmer just by being there.

So when people saw you hanging around Choso—quiet, brooding, mysterious Choso—they blinked twice. Then three times. Then again when you waved to him in the quad and he actually waved back.

"What the hell is going on?" someone had whispered once in lecture, watching you pass Choso a candy bar like it was a love letter.

The answer wasn’t dramatic. You’d been paired for a group project in second-year psychology—something painfully dry about memory retention and dopamine levels. He’d mumbled maybe three words to you that first meeting, scribbled out most of the research in precise, blocky handwriting, and then disappeared when it was time to present. You’d carried the project on your back with your voice and charisma, he’d carried it with raw academic firepower. And somehow, it worked.

You didn’t stop talking after that.

Well—you talked. He mostly listened.

But he did start sitting closer to you in class. You noticed. And he did start replying to your memes. Not with full sentences, but with “LMAO” and sometimes even an emoji. And once? He sent you a Gintama reaction image and you nearly passed out.

At some point, it just became normal. You’d swing by his dorm with bubble tea and chips during cram season. He’d send you anime recs with time stamps and emotional warnings. You’d call him late at night to rant about people who couldn’t take a hint. He’d hum in response, or sometimes say something low and dry that made you laugh until you cried.

He was calm, steady, and weirdly good at remembering the small things. You were a wildfire. He never tried to put you out.

And maybe that’s why you never noticed when the tension started creeping in.

Maybe it was the way his eyes lingered when you sat cross-legged on his bed, flipping through a psych textbook and munching chips. Maybe it was how he never pulled away when your knees bumped, or how your teasing started getting more flirtatious—more like testing the waters than just messing around.

But there was a moment. A small one.

It was late—2 a.m., maybe. You were on his bed, scrolling through Instagram while he sat at his desk, sketching something. You’d kicked off your shoes, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, and you’d said, “You ever think about how weird it is that we’re friends?”

He didn’t look up.

“You say that like you’re slumming it,” he replied, pencil moving in slow, controlled strokes.

You rolled onto your stomach, chin in your hand. “Nah. Just saying it surprises people.”

“They think you’re too loud to be friends with someone like me.”

You paused. “You think I’m too loud?”

His pencil stopped.

He looked up, met your gaze, and said in that quiet, even voice: “I think you’re loud in a way that drowns everything else out. And sometimes… I like that.”

Something shifted in your chest. Something warm. Something dangerous.

But before you could say anything else, he looked back down at his sketchpad.

And just like that, the moment passed.

Or so you thought.

If anyone asked, you’d still say you and Choso were “just friends.”

It was easy to say. Easy to laugh off the looks when you shared your snacks with him during lectures or when he let you lean on his shoulder during anime marathons without flinching. You’d make a joke about adopting a local stray goth. He’d grunt and roll his eyes like he didn’t secretly enjoy the attention.

But under all the teasing, something heavier was forming—quiet and persistent, like fog creeping under a door.

You noticed it in the way he let you talk endlessly about dumb drama in your friend group, nodding along even when you knew he didn’t care who fucked who at last week’s party. Or the way he always had your favorite drink in the mini fridge, no matter how randomly your cravings changed.

You noticed it when you were at a house party, surrounded by music and bodies and energy, and your brain glitched when someone kissed your neck from behind—and it wasn’t him. You didn’t even want it to be him… right?

And you noticed it when you caught him watching you. Not in a creepy way. But in a focused way. Like he was cataloguing your habits, your smiles, the way your fingers curled when you were thinking.

One night, after a long day of back-to-back classes and even more back-to-back people, you showed up at his door, dropped onto his bed, and groaned into his pillow.

“I hate everyone,” you declared.

He looked up from his manga. “Everyone?”

“Everyone but you.” You peeked up. “I saved you from the purge.”

A pause. Then: “I’m honored.”

You rolled over, arms splayed wide. “Do you ever get tired of being the smart, mysterious loner?”

“No.”

“Do you ever get tired of being this hot?” you teased, shooting him a wink.

His eyes flicked to you over the edge of the page. “Do you?”

You froze. Just for a second. Then laughed it off, like always. But that warmth in your chest returned. Like it always did with him now. It wasn’t a crush. Not really. He wasn’t the type you normally went for. He didn’t chase. He didn’t flirt back the way others did.

But there was something about the way he looked at you—like he saw you and didn’t flinch. Didn’t try to make you smaller or quieter or easier to deal with.

Choso was quiet, but he wasn’t soft. He didn’t pretend to be clueless when you flirted. He just held it in that deep, unreadable expression, like he was deciding whether or not to answer a question on a test that wasn’t graded.

Still, nothing ever happened—not until one night, everything started unraveling.

It started normal. Netflix, takeout, some light roasting.

“Your taste in anime is garbage,” you said, pointing to Fire Force which was playing on his tv.

“And yet you watched every episode,” he deadpanned, biting into a spring roll.

“I was waiting for it to get good!”

“It never did,” he said. “That’s the point.”

You snorted, stretching out on his bed while he sat at the edge. Your foot nudged his thigh absentmindedly. He didn’t move.

“I’m bored,” you said, phone abandoned, eyes drifting up toward him. “Entertain me.”

“I’m not your jester.”

“Not with that attitude.”

You poked his side. He caught your wrist.

You both froze.

It was the first time he’d grabbed you. His fingers were loose around your skin, thumb brushing along the underside of your wrist without thinking. It wasn’t aggressive. It wasn’t even firm.

But it made your whole arm light up.

Your breath hitched. “You’re touching me.”

“You touched me first.”

You didn’t pull away. Neither did he.

“I do that a lot,” you said, softer this time.

“I know.”

Silence stretched. Your pulse kicked up. You weren’t sure when you started looking at his mouth instead of his eyes, but it was happening. It was definitely happening.

And then he let go.

And it was over.

But not really. Not for you.

You didn’t say anything the rest of the night. You just sat closer than usual. Let your leg remained pressed to his. Laughed a little too hard at his dry jokes. You watched the way his fingers twitched, the way his jaw tightened when you touched his knee to “adjust your seating.”

And he didn’t stop you.

That night, in your own bed, you couldn’t sleep. Your skin still buzzed from that tiny point of contact. Your mind wouldn’t shut up. It felt like a circuit had closed. Like something electric was just waiting to spark.

You picked up your phone. Opened the text thread.

You: So are we flirting or am I just hot and delusional

Three dots appeared. Then disappeared.

Then again.

And again.

Then nothing.

You stared. Heart in your throat.

Then finally:

Choso: Not delusional.

You stared at the screen, lips parted.

No emoji. Just a single sentence that made your brain short-circuit.

You: Cool. Just checking. Goodnight emo boy.

Choso: Night princess.

You turned your phone over and screamed into your pillow.

It wasn’t that anything changed between you and Choso. It was just that… more of the world faded when it was the two of you.

Like tonight.

You were sitting on the floor of his dorm, your back against his bed, legs stretched out and socked toes brushing against his knee. He was slouched in his desk chair, head tilted to the side, reading over some article about cognitive bias for a psych elective neither of you actually liked.

The only sound in the room was the soft hum of his fan and the occasional crinkle of chip bag plastic between your fingers.

“Confirmation bias is fake,” you muttered. “I know I’m right because I’m always right.”

Choso didn’t even look up. “That’s exactly what it is.”

You tossed a chip at him. He dodged it with barely a tilt of his head.

“God, you’re annoying,” you grumbled, mostly for effect.

He flipped a page. “You came over.”

You scoffed. “Because you have snacks.”

“You brought the snacks.”

“…Details.”

Choso didn’t smile. Not really. But the corners of his mouth curved just enough to make you feel like you won something.

This was how it always went. You made noise, he absorbed it. You sprawled, he stayed still. Like opposite poles of a magnet — no push, no pull, just a kind of quiet equilibrium. You’d never really had that with anyone else.

The silence returned. But it was a good silence. A comfortable one.

You glanced up at him — hoodie sleeves pushed up, legs crossed loosely, glasses perched low on his nose. The warm lamplight made his skin look softer. He looked… peaceful.

“Do you ever get tired of me?” you asked suddenly.

Choso blinked. “What?”

“I’m loud. And all over the place. You’re, like, zen. Doesn’t that clash?”

He shrugged, still reading. “Not really.”

You blinked. “Why not?”

“Because you’re not just loud. You’re also consistent.”

You stared at him.

“...thanks.”

He shrugged again.

You nudged his leg lightly with your foot. “Be careful. You’re sounding dangerously close to affectionate.”

“I’ll survive.”

You didn’t push it. Just smiled a little and kept eating your chips.

Later, you ended up stretched across his bed, half on your stomach, phone dangling in one hand as you scrolled through a shared playlist of Deftones and Frank Ocean. Choso was at the foot of the bed now, typing something for his assignment.

“Do you want music or silence?” you asked.

“Whatever you want.”

“You hate that answer.”

He glanced back at you. “No. I hate it when people say it and don’t mean it.”

“…But you mean it?”

He nodded.

You stared at the back of his head for a second, then hit play on Sextape, which filled the room like soft rain.

It felt… nice.

“Did you ever think we’d be friends?” you asked out of nowhere.

“Not really.”

“Wow. Rude.”

“I didn’t think you noticed me.”

You sat up a bit. “Of course I did. You were the guy who read Parasyte under the bleachers during spirit rallies.”

“And you were the girl who led the spirit rallies.”

“Balance,” you said with a grin.

Choso gave a half-nod like he agreed.

You settled back into the bed, watching him type in silence. There was something satisfying about it — being with someone you didn’t have to perform around. You could exist as you were: messy, loud, unfiltered. And he never told you to tone it down. He just… let you be.

And sometimes, you let yourself wonder why that felt like such a relief.

You left around midnight. He walked you to the elevator like he always did.

As you stepped inside, you glanced back at him.

“Hey, Choso?”

“Yeah?”

You raised your eyebrows. “This sounds dumb, but… thanks for always letting me be weird in your space.”

He blinked, like he wasn’t sure how to answer that.

Then he nodded. “You’re never weird.”

The elevator doors closed before you could say anything back.

But you were smiling the whole way home.

You didn’t plan on seeing Choso every day. It just started happening.

A shared class here, a library session there. Then it was lunch. A late walk to campus. Then suddenly you were texting him just to say, “I’m eating a bagel and it reminded me of you because it’s kinda plain but reliable” and he’d reply with, “I hope the bagel chokes you.”

It was your love language.

You found yourself moving through campus differently, like your internal compass now tilted slightly in his direction. You didn’t even realize you were scanning the quad for his hoodie until the rare days he wasn’t there.

He never really sought you out, not first. But he never said no when you showed up either. Just slid his laptop over so you could squeeze into the booth beside him. Or held out his water bottle without being asked. Or saved the last rice cracker snack for you even though you’d made fun of it the week before.

One Thursday, you caught him waiting outside your lecture hall.

He didn’t say he was waiting for you. Just handed you an iced matcha and started walking beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It wasn’t the drink that made your chest feel warm. It was the fact that he remembered you liked it “even though it tastes like grass.”

It wasn’t romantic. Not yet.

But you started to learn the shape of his silence.

Choso wasn’t quiet the way other people were. He wasn’t empty. His silences were full — like pages he hadn’t turned yet, thoughts he hadn’t shared. He spoke when it mattered, and when he didn’t, you filled the space with your noise.

It worked.

You talked about dumb anime tropes, weird professors, whether your resident advisor was a lizard person. He added one-liners here and there, deadpan but sharp. When he did laugh — really laugh — it was soft, almost like it surprised him.

You started collecting those laughs like rare cards.

You didn’t know when it started mattering this much. When the first thing you looked for in a crowded room became him. When the walk back to your own dorm after hanging out started feeling heavier.

You weren’t in love.

You weren’t.

You just liked the way his presence made you feel a little less scrambled. Like he grounded you — your chaos wrapped in his calm.

You hadn’t had that before.

One night, you showed up at his room after a crappy day. No warning, no reason. Just a hoodie, your keys, and a frown.

He opened the door, took one look at you, and stepped aside.

“You’re not going to ask what’s wrong?” you said.

“You’ll tell me when you’re ready.”

So you collapsed onto his bed, face first, groaning into his blanket.

He sat on the floor beside the bed, legs crossed, notebook balanced on his lap.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

Eventually, you said, “I bombed my presentation. Like, full system meltdown. Word soup. Panic stammering. One girl visibly cringed. I think my soul left my body.”

Choso turned a page in his notebook. “She probably has no soul of her own. That’s why she needed yours.”

You laughed into the blanket. “Why are you like this?”

“It’s a coping mechanism.”

You rolled onto your side to face him. “You ever mess up like that?”

“Once. In middle school. My voice cracked in the middle of a debate round and I still think about it when I try to sleep.”

“Trauma twins.”

He gave you a small smile.

You watched him work in silence for a while. You liked his hands. Not in a weird way — just how precise they were. Thoughtful. You liked the way he held his pen like it was an extension of his fingers.

You thought about asking him to stay quiet with you for a little longer. But you didn’t have to.

He already was.

Things blurred after that. You stopped noticing what day it was when you were with him. The hours just slipped past.

Once, he caught you staring off into space during a movie and handed you a pillow without a word.

Another time, you fell asleep at his desk while he was studying. You woke up to a hoodie draped over your shoulders and a single post-it stuck to your forehead:

“Drool doesn’t count as a contribution to the group project.”

You kept the note in your phone case.

You still weren’t touching. Not really. A knee bump here, a hand brushed there. Nothing anyone else would notice. But you were keeping track.

And he was letting you stay longer. Later.

One night, walking back from the dining hall, you told him, “You’re my favorite place to be.”

He blinked, looked away, and said, “You’re weird.”

But you saw the way his ears turned red under the streetlight.

You’d sent Choso something dumb — a meme about anime hair physics and a “this is you” comment. Normally, he’d reply with a dry “Blocked.” Or a timestamped picture of the manga shelf at his favorite store. Or even just a dot.

But this time, nothing.

An hour passed. Then three. Then the whole day.

You didn’t spiral — you weren’t that kind of person — but you did open your chat with him a few times just to stare at the read receipt that wasn’t there.

You tried to brush it off. People got busy. Maybe he was in the zone. Maybe he’d dropped his phone in ramen broth or was saving a cat from a tree. But still — it felt off.

The next day, he showed up at your table in the library like nothing happened.

“Hey,” he said, dropping into the seat beside you like he hadn’t gone radio silent for 24 hours. “You print the notes?”

You blinked at him. “...Yeah.”

He looked at you, waiting.

You passed him the paper without a word.

He didn’t mention the silence, and you didn’t ask. But something sharp curled under your ribs.

It happened again a week later.

This time, it was at a party.

You hadn’t planned to go, but your friends dragged you out. You wore something fun, drank something pink and suspiciously sweet, and spent most of the night texting Choso memes from across the room while trying to avoid some guy who kept mispronouncing your name.

You didn’t expect Choso to show up — parties weren’t his thing — but when you looked up and saw him leaning against the wall in his usual all-black hoodie, your heart did something weird and uncalled for.

You lit up, waved. He nodded.

You made your way over.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” you said, grinning.

“Didn’t want to come,” he replied.

“Then why did you?”

Choso looked over your shoulder. “My roommate said I never leave the dorm.”

You tilted your head. “So you’re here to prove a point?”

“No. I’m here because I thought I might find you.”

Something in your chest flickered.

But then someone called your name behind you — the mispronouncer. He was tipsy now, trying to shove a drink in your hand and make conversation you didn’t want.

You glanced back at Choso, but he was already turning away, heading outside.

You followed him a few minutes later, but he was gone.

The silence the next day wasn’t full. It was loud.

You texted him, simple: “You good?”

He replied hours later. “Yeah. Just tired.”

You stared at the screen.

You didn’t reply.

It was dumb. You knew it was dumb.

But it kept happening.

Small things. He’d stop replying halfway through conversations. Or show up late and not say why. You’d feel his eyes on you in class, but he’d leave without walking with you afterward. It wasn’t angry distance — just... murky.

You tried to tell yourself it was nothing. That you were imagining the shift.

But the thing was, you missed him. And he was still there, technically. Still in your orbit. Still showing up. But something about the way he held himself around you — tighter, quieter — started to feel like a door creaking shut.

It made you ache.

Not because he owed you anything.

But because this friendship had become your constant. Your soft place to land. And suddenly, it felt like the ground was tilting.

The conversation finally cracked open during one of your regular library sessions.

You were both half-distracted — you tapping your pen against your notebook, him staring blankly at his screen.

You glanced over. “You’ve been on that sentence for fifteen minutes.”

Choso didn’t look at you. “It’s not coming out right.”

You raised an eyebrow. “The paper or your brain?”

He didn’t answer.

You sighed, then said, carefully, “Did I do something?”

That got his attention.

He turned his head, eyes steady on yours. “What?”

“I just—” You hesitated. “You’ve been... off.”

A beat of silence.

Then: “I’m not mad at you.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He looked down at his hands.

You watched him.

Waited.

Finally, he said, “Sometimes it feels like I’m more important to you when nothing else is going on.”

That hit you square in the chest.

You sat back. “Is that really what you think?”

He shrugged, but it was stiff. “I don’t know what we are. Sometimes I think I do, and then we’re at a party and you’re flirting with some guy and I feel like I made it up.”

“I wasn’t flirting,” you said, too fast.

“I know,” he said. “That’s not the point.”

You didn’t say anything.

Because honestly? You weren’t sure what the point was anymore. Or where the line had gone between you two. Or if there ever even was one.

Choso ran a hand through his hair.

“I don’t want to fight,” he muttered.

“We’re not fighting,” you said quietly. “We’re just... finally saying stuff out loud.”

He didn’t reply.

You closed your notebook.

“Maybe we need to figure out what this actually is.”

Choso glanced at you. Not defensive. Just tired.

“Maybe,” he said.

That night, you didn’t text him.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t text you either.

It took three days of silence before either of you caved.

You thought about texting him more times than you could count. You even drafted a message once — “Want to talk?” — but deleted it before you hit send. The pause between you wasn’t angry. Just uncertain. Like both of you were standing on either side of something fragile, waiting to see who would step first.

In the end, it was him.

He didn’t send a meme or an apology.

He sent one word.

“Here?”

And that was enough.

You didn’t speak at first when you opened the door.

Just stepped aside and let him in. He walked past you like he always did, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair loose around his face, backpack half-zipped. You watched the way he dropped his stuff on your desk, sat on your bed like it was muscle memory.

It was.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Didn’t know if you wanted space.”

“I didn’t want space,” you said quietly. “I just didn’t know what to say.”

He nodded once, like he understood.

Because of course he did.

That was the thing about Choso. He always got the parts of you that other people missed. The parts you didn’t have to explain.

You sat down next to him.

Close — not touching, but closer than before.

“I don’t know what this is either,” you admitted. “But I know I want it. Whatever it is.”

Choso looked at you. His eyes didn’t waver. “I don’t want to be just a background character in your life.”

“You’re not,” you said. And this time, it came out certain. “You’re not.”

You didn’t reach for him. You didn’t need to.

The space between you shifted anyway.

You talked for hours.

Not about “us” or “what now” — just life. Stupid things. Childhood memories. What you thought college would be like versus what it was. You told him you used to think you’d marry a K-pop idol. He told you he thought Naruto was going to teach him how to make friends.

At one point, you were both laughing so hard you had nearly forgot about the events of the past three days.

Then the laughter faded, and the quiet returned. But it was the good kind again. Warm. Safe.

You were lying on your side now, facing him. The room glowed soft with lamplight. His hair was tied up messily, and you could see the little crease on his cheek from your pillow. His hoodie sleeves were pushed past his wrists, fingers curling gently into the blanket.

It would’ve been so easy to lean in.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you asked, “What changed?”

He looked at you for a long moment.

Then he said, “I think I realized I’d started needing you more than I meant to.”

You swallowed.

“That scares you?”

He nodded.

“It scares me too,” you admitted.

But neither of you moved away.

You didn’t kiss that night.

You didn’t even touch.

But when he stayed — not because he was tired, but because it felt like where he belonged — you curled up facing each other and whispered whatever thoughts came next. Little things. The kind of thoughts you only share in low light, when no one’s pretending.

And when you fell asleep, it was with the quiet understanding that something had shifted.

Not in a way that needed naming.

Just in a way that felt real.

The next few days were different, but not dramatic.

He still rolled his eyes at your chaotic texts. You still stole his fries when he wasn’t looking. But the edges had softened. The moments between you stretched a little longer. The silences weren’t full of questions anymore — just waiting.

He started sitting closer.

You started letting your knees touch.

One afternoon in his dorm, you were reading on the floor while he played something on his Switch, and you leaned your head back against his leg without really thinking about it.

He didn’t say anything.

Just rested a hand gently on your hair and left it there.

Like it had always belonged.

And one night — not planned, not dramatic — you kissed him.

Not because you couldn’t hold back.

But because it felt right.

Because you’d spent months learning his silences, earning his trust, and choosing each other over and over without needing to say why.

You were both lying on your sides again, this time in your room. His hand was next to yours, not touching, but close enough to feel the heat.

You looked at him. He looked back.

And you asked, “Okay?”

He said, “Yeah.”

So you leaned in, soft and slow, and kissed him like he was something you already knew by heart.

He kissed you back like it surprised him. Like he hadn’t let himself hope.

When you pulled back, he was still looking at you, eyes half-lidded, dazed but steady.

“I thought we weren’t doing this,” he whispered.

“Maybe we are now.”

He nodded once.

And then he pulled you closer — arms warm, hands steady — and held you like a truth he didn’t have to be afraid of anymore.

The room felt heavier than usual — not with tension, but with gravity. Like every glance, every breath, every shared silence between you and Choso was suddenly full of meaning.

It was late. Music hummed faintly from your speaker, soft synth chords that had long since faded into ambiance. You were both on your bed, side by side, shoulders brushing now and then. But neither of you pulled away. You hadn’t for a while.

Choso’s eyes flicked toward you, lingering. You met them.

And this time, you didn’t look away.

“Can I ask you something?” you said quietly.

He nodded, lips parting like he’d been waiting for you to speak.

“Do you want this?” Your voice barely carried the words. “Not just tonight. I mean… us. Me.”

Choso’s answer came in layers. First, a nod. Then his hand sliding slowly over yours. Then finally, voice hoarse:

“I’ve wanted you. For a long time.”

Your breath caught. Not from surprise — you’d known. You’d both known.

But hearing it now, said aloud, undressed something inside you.

“I want you too,” you said.

His hand tightened slightly on yours, thumb brushing your knuckles.

“I don’t want to do this unless you’re sure,” he said, brows slightly furrowed — not from doubt, but from the weight of how much he cared.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” you whispered.

A quiet beat passed between you. Then Choso leaned forward, slowly, deliberately, until his forehead rested against yours.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t a feverish blur of mouths. It was steady, unshaken — like he wanted to remember it. Like he was pouring everything he hadn’t said into the way your lips met.

You deepened it, and he didn’t hesitate.

Your hands found his hoodie. He let you pull it up and off, breath catching as your fingers ghosted over bare skin. He watched you like you were unreal, gaze fixed and reverent.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, like he couldn’t help it.

You smiled, pulling your shirt over your head too. His breath hitched at the sight, eyes dragging down slowly.

You didn’t rush.

You touched — carefully at first, like memorizing each other by hand. Choso’s fingers were tender, exploring your sides, your back, the dip of your spine. Every time you exhaled, he matched your rhythm.

When you leaned back on your elbows, inviting him closer, he hovered just above you, his hair falling around your face like a curtain. You reached up and tucked some behind his ear.

“I’m right here,” you whispered.

“I know,” he breathed.

He kissed down your throat. Across your collarbone. Each movement was intentional — like he was trying to worship you, not consume you.

When your hands slid to the waistband of his sweats, he pressed his forehead to yours again.

“Still good?” he asked, voice shaking a little.

You nodded. “Yeah. I want you.”

He kissed you once more, deeper this time.

And then — you gave in to each other.

Not clumsy. Not frantic.

Just real.

Choso’s hands moved with hunger now, trembling but determined as they found the hem of your shirt. He gripped it tighter than he meant to — like if he didn’t hold on hard enough, it’d slip away. In one breathless motion, he pulled it over your head, and when your bra-clad chest was revealed to him, he stilled.

His eyes darkened.

He swallowed hard.

He needed you. Not in passing. Not for tonight. He needed you like gravity — like something inevitable.

Fumbling slightly, he fought with the clasp of your bra, brows furrowed in frustration until it finally gave way. The fabric slid down your arms, and when you tossed it aside, he stared like he was witnessing something sacred.

He ducked his head to your chest, mouth open, eyes blown wide with wonder. His lips latched eagerly to one of your nipples, licking and sucking in clumsy, tender rhythm. He was clearly inexperienced — no patterns, no practiced finesse — just the overwhelming need to taste, to explore, to learn you.

When you sat up and pulled his shirt off in return, he paused. The sudden exposure made his breath catch. His skin was pale, unmarked — years of hoodies and shyness shielding what now lay bare before you.

“hot.” you whispered.

But he was already lowering himself down your body, eyes flicking between your face and your waist. He gently tugged your sweats down, slow and reverent, only to be met with black lace.

His breath hitched.

Those were the ones he’d once caught a glimpse of through the laundry bag. The ones he’d tried not to picture. Tried and failed.

“Fuck,” he murmured. “You’re… you’re so fucking gorgeous.”

He looked to you again for permission — and when you gave it, soft and sure — he slid your panties down, the cool air brushing against heated skin.

Choso hesitated just a moment. Then he dipped his head.

He didn’t know what he was doing — but he wanted to know. He kissed you like a prayer, tongue tentative at first as he explored your folds. But as soon as he found the spot that made your hips twitch, your hand tangles in his hair — that was it.

He moaned softly into you, the sound vibrating against your core.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered against your skin, voice breathless. “I’ve got you…”

When you arched, whimpering his name, he groaned — the kind of sound that came from deep in his chest, primal and undone.

“Say it again,” he begged, voice low and shaking.

“Choso—” you gasped.

“Good girl.” His praise was rough, reverent.

Every flick of his tongue, every suck, every shift in pressure — it was messy, a little desperate, but full of feeling. And when his snakebites dragged cold and hard over your clit, it was over. Your back arched. Your moans turned ragged.

The room spun.

The pleasure was relentless.

You could barely form a thought, let alone a sentence. But you managed one:

“Want you. All of you. Now.”

He lifted his head, lips and chin shining, eyes dark and wild. There was something feral in the way he looked at you — but underneath it, something soft. Overwhelmed.

He leaned forward to kiss you, messy and breathless, tasting you on your own lips. You could feel his heart racing through his chest. He kissed you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

Your fingers tugged downwards at the top hem of his boxers and sweats, pulling them just low enough to free his throbbing and twitching member.

Your hand slid down between your bodies, fingers curling around the length you’d only imagined — thick, flushed, and big. He twitched in your grasp, groaning against your lips.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

Then: “Are you sure?”

You nodded, locking eyes with him. “Completely.”

He shed the last of his clothes with a quiet exhale, skin flushed and chest rising fast. His hand trembled just slightly as he lined himself up with your entrance, nerves and anticipation flooding every inch of him. He looked at you—really looked—and found only trust in your eyes.

With a deep breath, he eased forward, sinking his member into you inch by inch. Your warmth pulled him in, slow and steady, until he was fully seated inside you.

“Ah—nghh, Choso…” you gasped, voice catching as he filled you completely. The stretch, the weight, the depth of him—it was unlike anything else. You clenched around him instinctively, and his mouth fell open in stunned pleasure.

He paused, panting softly, hands braced at your hips as he looked down at your body—at everything he was finally allowed to see, to feel.

Then his gaze landed on your lower stomach… and there it was.

A small bulge, subtle but visible, rising with each shallow thrust of his hips.

“Look…” he whispered, awe-struck, one hand sliding up to rest gently against it. He pressed down, just enough to feel the resistance. His lips curled into a grin. “Look how deep I am.”

Your breath hitched, eyes fluttering, the sight in front of you was one to behold, Choso, but he had hairs sticking to his,

He nodded, forehead pressing against yours briefly as he adjusted his grip—and then he moved.

Each thrust was deeper, harder, more confident than the last, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing between your moans. He gave you everything—every inch, every pulse, every ounce of emotion he’d buried for so long.

His thrusts were fast, a little uneven, but each one felt intentional—like he was thinking through every movement, trying to memorize what made you fall apart. You could see the focus in his expression, jaw tight, eyes locked on the way his cock disappeared inside you again and again, twitching with every clench of your walls.

“Feelin’ good, princess?” he asked, voice rough with a cocky little smirk.

As if he didn’t already know.

Maybe his rhythm wasn’t perfect yet—raw and unpracticed in some places—but he made up for it in every way that mattered. He was big, yes, but more than that… he was present. Watching every reaction. Learning you. Wanting to get it right.

And fuck, he was getting it right.

Within another minute, his pace had become frantic—desperate. Each thrust was rougher, deeper, like he was afraid if he let up, you’d vanish beneath him. His hips snapped forward with punishing rhythm, and his breath hitched in a ragged groan, loud and drawn-out, the kind that only came when he was teetering on the edge.

You grabbed his face, breathless and blissed out. “Inside, baby—cum with me,” you moaned.

And God, he listened.

The moment your walls tightened around him, fluttering at the base of his cock, he let go. A guttural, needy sound spilled from his lips as he buried himself deep, hips stuttering. Hot release flooded into you in thick pulses, his body trembling from the force of it, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he whined through the comedown.

The room fell into a hush, broken only by your ragged breaths and the faint thump of Choso’s heartbeat against your chest.

He stayed there for a moment—still inside you, forehead pressed to your shoulder, trying to catch his breath. His arms trembled slightly as they wrapped around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, like he wasn’t ready to let go just yet.

“You okay?” he asked softly, voice hoarse, words barely brushing your ear.

You nodded, lips curved in a dazed smile. “Yeah. You?”

He let out a quiet laugh—more exhale than sound—and nuzzled into your neck. “Better than okay,” he murmured. “I feel like… I don’t even know. Floating?”

You ran your fingers through his hair, gently brushing the damp strands off his forehead. He leaned into your touch like a cat, eyes fluttering shut.

Eventually, he pulled out with a soft hiss, careful and slow. He glanced down, cheeks flushed at the mess, and then looked at you like you’d hung the moon.

“I’ll clean you up,” he said, already shifting to grab a warm cloth and help you get comfortable. His movements were delicate, almost reverent, as he wiped you down and pulled the blankets over both of you.

You watched him in the dim light—shirtless, quiet, focused—and felt your heart swell.

Once everything was settled, he crawled back beside you and tucked you into his chest, one arm wrapped tightly around your shoulders.

You could feel him still breathing a little fast, and when you looked up, he was already watching you.

“What?” you whispered, smiling.

He shook his head. “Just… can’t believe this is real.”

You rested your head against his chest, listening to the rhythm of his heart as it slowly calmed.

“It’s real,” you whispered. “We’re real.”

And in that warmth, in that quiet tangle of limbs and safety, Choso held you like he never wanted to be anywhere else again.

Later, when the room had settled into silence and your skin had cooled beneath the sheets, Choso pulled the blanket higher around you and brushed a soft kiss to your temple.

You turned to face him, your limbs still tangled with his, and gave him a quiet smile.

He smiled back — small, tired, but real. The kind of smile that didn’t need to prove anything.

After a long pause, you said it, barely above a whisper: “I think I’ve felt this for a while.”

Choso looked at you for a beat, then nodded. “Me too.”

There wasn’t some grand declaration, no dramatic pause — just truth exchanged in the dark.

And it was enough.

#choso kamo #choso #choso smut #smut #jjk #jujutsu kaisen smut #choso x reader #choso fic

279 notes · View notes