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a-kaash-me-outside · 2 months

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˚₊‧ ᴡɪʟʟ ɪᴛ ʙᴇ ᴄᴀsᴜᴀʟ ɴᴏᴡ? ‧₊˚

♡ ft. geto, toji, gojo, higuruma, nanami ♡ total wc: 10.9k // nsfw minors dni! // ♡ contents: ౨ৎ 𝑎 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑢𝑡𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 ౨ৎ, afab reader she/her pronouns, no smut in gojos or tojis im sorry, emotionally stunted men kinda but they grow isnt that nice (not talking abt higuruma and nanami god no), the aftermath of fwb caught feelings, consolation, emotional aftercare ig, lotta domestic fluff for higuruma and nanami's!!!! (everyone say ty @noosayog for nanami's bc she is the only reason i wrote his) ♡ listen along: casual by chappell roan ♡

- ᡣ𐭩 time passes and people change, and just because you fell first doesn't mean you don't get a happy ending + bonus continuation of higuruma's and nanami's ᡣ𐭩 -

ᯓᡣ𐭩 ɢᴇᴛᴏ [ 3 ʏᴇᴀʀs ]

on the list of people that you thought you’d see tonight, geto isn’t even in the top 100, not because of probability or likelihood, but solely based on the fact that you have not thought about this man in years. if you were asked the question from your future self, “holy shit, guess who we saw tonight?” you would’ve listed old friends, distant relatives, exes, minor celebrities, other flings, teachers from high school, people from stories you’ve only heard of, and then geto.

after that night, you really didn’t see barely any of him. a few posts on your feed: one 2 weeks after and another 2 months after that one when you remembered that you forgot to unfollow him. once on campus: him across a million tables getting lunch with some girl too long after your little thing for you to care about who she was to him at all. once at a mutual (though you didn’t know was mutual at the time) friend’s party close to graduation: you ran into him grabbing a drink from the cooler and neither of you said a single word to each other, just exchanged a very knowing glance.

fast forward a handful of years, with geto not on your mind during a single one of them, and you’re stunned, nearly speechless, as you recognize him across the bar. the track of which your mind is racing takes you stop after stop to thoughts and feelings you didn’t really ask to experience. they follow a curving roadmap in your mind of: why is he here? ↝ wow, he looks great ↝ does he live nearby still? ↝ that’s weird ↝ no, it isn’t weird, i still live here ↝ then what are the fucking chances that he’s here ↝ no, seriously he looks so good

he looks different though, you realize about 3 minutes into sneaking glances in his direction, in some way that you just can’t put your finger on right now. in your slightly tipsy state, you barely stop to ask yourself how you even clocked that it was him so quickly, how there was no hesitance in the recognition or questioning in the placing. he looks really fucking good.

in fact, now that all of the obligatory thoughts have come to a heed, that’s really the only thing that you can think about. how good he looks.

the events that happened that ended your situationship all of those years ago are nothing but outlines now; whatever you said or he said just sounds like underwater conversations. you can see the way that you left and you remember being dumbfounded, but everything else has lost its sting, like a story you’d recall to a friend of a friend in a setting much like the one you’re in. time has handled the memory the way that time does and as a result, when the two of you finally make eye contact after what feels like an hour of missed mutual glances, you offer a small wave. a wave that says, “i remember only knowing you in past tense. we are such different people now, i wonder what it would’ve been like if we met now instead.”

the wave was the first step, technically, sure, but he makes the literal first step. he departs from the conversation he’s been enthralled with for as long as you’ve been stealing glances and he weaves between people in the middle of their own stories before ending up in front of you.

when he does, he asks, as if he’s just randomly bumped into you rather than intentionally coming over, “shit… is that you?” he puts his hand on the back of your chair, thumb brushing your shoulder.

the friend that you’re with cocks their head, furrows their eyebrows, has no idea who this is or their connection to you, the timelines of their interactions with you spaced too far apart for one to know the other. geto notices this look, addresses it. “we used to…,” he pauses, “see each other? for a little bit.”

you can’t help the laugh that bubbles up from your chest at the way he describes it. “yes, yes we did,” you nod. “back in college,” you explain a little further, “been a while.”

the interaction quiets, the two of you exchanging soft smiles instead of words, and your friend knows where this thing is going before either of you even do, so they bow their head, offer their seat to geto, and take their leave in the name of some bullshit excuse. he takes it without a second thought, asking you how you’ve been, laughing about the time that you saw each other at that party, and after an hour of just talking he says, “yeah, i actually thought about you the other day.”

you nearly choke on the drink he’s bought you. you rush to put it down. “you did?” you ask.

he nods. “i don’t even remember what prompted it. i think, maybe, i saw a photo of myself from college and how different i looked and how different i feel now and then just, out of nowhere, remembered how shitty i was to you.”

you don’t say anything in return, running your finger around the lip of your glass as you stare at him. you don’t know how to say that you don’t care anymore, that you haven’t thought of those days in years, that the surprise that you displayed a few seconds ago was completely genuine, because you were so convinced that neither of you had. it comes out something like a shrug and, “we were practically kids.”

he answers so quickly, “well, kids or not, i’m sorry.”

you laugh, gently so he won’t think you’re laughing at his apology. really, you’re laughing at the notion of apologizing for an act that no longer warrants forgiveness. you laugh at the thought of giving it anyways. you place your hand on top of his on the edge of the bar. “thank you,” you nod. he nods back.

when you let him take you back to his place for old times sake, you’re half-expecting the same person from the ghosts of memories from years ago, like all of the things he said at the bar were just a last ditch effort to usher the night in the exact direction that it’s heading in.

but he’s different now, just like he said he was before he apologized, and you can feel it in his movements and his actions. more confident, more intentional. he kisses you first and it doesn’t taste selfish. it doesn’t feel rushed to get to the main event. he savors it, holds your head in his hands, and doesn’t touch a single other inch of your body until he’s found the right combination of fingertip pressure and tongue that has you melting into his palm.

your mind flickers to the notion that these actions might be pre planned because they feel so meticulous and thought out, but that impression quickly dissolves when he sinks inside of you, slowly, keeping his eyes locked on yours as he does, his hand reaching down to cup your cheek, fingers nearly trembling against your jaw when he presses his hips completely against the insides of your thighs.

“shit,” he hisses, hands moving down to your waist, fingers light like feathers practically crawling against your skin, as if each print was so grateful it got to make contact with the softness below. when he grips into the fat of your hips, he’s careful, intentional or not, pressing his thumbs into the bone, but not letting his nails leave a single mark. it’s pressured, but comfortable.

he holds you in place, slowly pulling his hips back and he can’t help but look down between your legs, watching himself disappear inside of you, a creamy mess at the base, shallow breaths recycled in his chest.

“hey,” you say, eyes locked on the tenseness of his jaw and the way that he stops himself with sharp inhales. he finds your gaze in a second. “don’t hold out on me here.” you rest your arm on his bicep, fingers curling around wherever they can reach.

you can feel it under your palm, his muscle tensing as his pace picks up, rhythm consistent, but unrelenting. the breaths come out of you quickly and you’re unable to hold any sort of facade. “ah- shit, f-fuck,” you cry, “holy shit.” you squeeze your eyes shut, swallowing harshly as strangled noises leave you without vetting a single one.

“n-no,” you shake your head, regretting it instantly as he slows down in response. you shake your head harder, “no, don’t stop, but- ah,” you groan, “your- you were- i meant,” you exhale a laugh, “let me hear you.”

his eyes widen slightly as he processes what you want from him, and then he listens. he leans down to kiss your lips and then your cheek and then your jaw and then your ear. yes, he’s fucking you better than you’ve ever been fucked in your entire life, but that’s not what makes you crumble. no, it’s his grunts and pants and breathy groans pressed right up against your skin.

you thread your fingers into his hair, twirling the ends of the locks between the tips, raking your nails down the base of his neck to the front, and then smoothing them down his chest. “more,” you mumble against him, and you’re not sure exactly what you mean, but he gives it to you, whatever it is. you’re certain he’d give you anything in the world right now if you just asked for it.

there’s a moment after when you’re lying there with him, shoulder pressed up against his, chest heaving, barely recovered, that you find yourself back in that college dorm. you don’t know why the tightness is rising in the hollow below your sternum, but it is. you remind yourself that you weren’t expecting anything from this anyway, so it doesn’t matter, but it does. you’re not sure if you just don’t want to be treated like that again or if it has something to do with geto being the one lying beside you.

when you turn your head to face him, he’s already looking at you. he doesn’t shy away in embarrassment, like it’s wrong that he’d be gazing at you after all of that. his features are steady, confident, strong. he smiles softly, brings his hand up to cup your cheek. “should we get breakfast in the morning?”

in the morning, you repeat in your head. you wait a beat, trying to come up with something to say, to proceed with caution or to discern his intentions or to at least not sound desperate, but all that comes out is, “in the morning?”

he nods, turning on his side so he can stare at you without his neck getting sore. he inches closer to you, kissing the top of your shoulder and then your temple. he drapes his arm over your stomach. “if that’s okay with you,” he says and then kisses you again.

“okay,” you nod back, lazy smile on your lips, eyelids heavy at the warmth surrounding you now as he pulls you closer to him. “yeah, sure,” you affirm, voice so soft and airy that the tightness in your chest is lifted away with the words, all that’s left is a hope you feel comfortable letting stick around.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 ᴛᴏᴊɪ [ 3 ᴍᴏɴᴛʜs ]

you are not expecting anyone. you have resigned yourself to a nice pair of pajamas and comfy socks and a warm cup of tea and a spot in the living room that you will only leave for a refill and bathroom breaks. you are tucked into the corner of your couch, back pressed up against the sturdy arm, legs crossed, and a throw blanket over your lap.

you are not expecting anyone, so the sound at the door should have felt a lot more jarring. well, it is jarring for a second, a few seconds actually, the echoing disruption bouncing off of the walls of your living room and back to you, but then the noises repeat themselves, like they’re on a looping track, and you realize that-

you know that knock. heavy-handed with a tight fist, back of the knuckles, not the tops. almost pittering out by the end of the three successions, like the first one is direct and assured, but the second and third don’t really bother keeping up. that knock almost makes you run to the door. if it were 3 months ago, you’d be skipping to the door.

but you hesitate for a few reasons. firstly because when the connection hits that you know that knock very well, you remind yourself to proceed with caution. secondly because it sounds the same but with a difference as small as a hairline fracture. you heard that knock far too many times during the span of a year and a half, and this one sounds almost completely identical, but there’s a half second pause between the first knock and the second knock and the raps feel less impatient.

you don’t have to look through the peephole to know who’s standing on the other side of the door, but you’re glad you do anyway. if for nothing else, it gives you a slight edge, you’re convinced, like you’ve seen him first, you have the upperhand now. at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

toji hadn’t contacted you since he left that day. no texts. no calls. no showing up at your apartment at 3 am. nothing. you kept telling yourself that you’d hear from him. when that didn’t happen, you started telling yourself that you didn’t care if you heard from him. you’ve actually been waiting for this moment, replaying what it would look like if he came back, the things you’d say to him and how you’d say them.

now, looking out at him just standing there, you’re frozen. every scenario you’ve replayed in your head, all of the emotional venting and blow out screaming that you’ve rehearsed and you can’t recall a single scene. you think about leaving him out there, about telling him to go away through the door or just pretending like you’re not home.

“i can see the shadow of your feet under the door,” toji calls out, muffled by the barrier between you guys, and yet it still rings out through your entire body.

you slowly open the door. though, even if it took an entire hour to open the door, you’re not sure it would’ve mattered. you don’t think time is something that could’ve prepared you for seeing him. seeing him didn’t even prepare you for seeing him. you don’t know what to say, so you don’t say anything, folding your arms over your chest. you just wait.

“i-,” he starts, but then immediately stops, half sighs/half scoffs as he leans his chest forward, eyes scanning the inside of your apartment, for what exactly you’re not sure.

“what, toji?” you ask, voice stronger- and more annoyed- than you anticipate it being. you’re grateful for that. “why are you here?”

“shit, this is already hard enough for me t-,” he says, shaking his head, corner of his mouth tugging upward in frustration.

you narrow your eyes, cutting him off, “sorry, this is hard for you?” you feel like laughing or strangling him more than you do crying, which is a desired outcome in this situation, you suppose. “you know that you haven’t talked to me in three months, right? you haven’t talked to me?” you ask, and you can feel your pulse in your wrist and your chest now, because the lines are coming back to you slowly, one by one, circling your brain, fueling your confidence.

“yeah, no, of course i know that,” he combats, like you’re the one that’s being an asshole right now.

you smooth your fingertips against your eyes, blocking the sight of him out for just a second before gesturing with your hand as you ask, “are you going to answer my question or…?”

“look, i said that this is hard enough as it is for me to just be here,” he snaps, and if you were a little less annoyed, if he hadn’t come at this whole thing exactly how he was, you might’ve clocked the desperation in his voice or the uncertainty in his pupils.

“do you know how fucking stupid you sound right now?” you ask. it’s a rhetorical question.

one week after he left, you were certain he was going to come back. you and toji had gone a week without seeing each other or even speaking. you had even gone two weeks. sure, the conversation felt much more serious and, sure, really deep down you knew this time was different, but still, you held out dumb hope.

one month after he left and you realized this was not just him being weird and distant. this was something brand new that you had never had to deal with before. you were still trying to figure out how to navigate it when the two month realization hit: that maybe he wasn’t coming back at all, ever, maybe you had done something wrong. if he had shown back up on your doorstep during that time this conversation would’ve gone very differently you think.

but he didn’t. he showed up at month three when your reaction to random memories of toji were no longer tears and guilt, but laughter and bitterness. there weren’t many things that toji could say right now that would warrant anything more than you standing in your doorway for 4 minutes or less.

“i-,” he starts, but then sighs. he looks left, down the hallway of your building, eyes shifting from object to object out of your view.

“please don’t waste anymore of my time,” you reply and it’s softer than you intend. you thought it’d come out angrier. that seems like a theme for you tonight: everything sounding different in your head. when he doesn’t reply, you start a countdown, promising yourself that when you make it to 15, you’ll close the door in his face. you only make it to 13.

“i’m not here to waste your time,” he says, with no air of disgust or annoyance, the first halfway decent thing he’s said to you tonight. “i-,” he huffs again, “i’m here to say sorry. and-,” he hesitates.

you wait, just listening. the longer that he hesitates, the more time you have to think about what he might say and how you’re standing with your door open for the entire floor to hear your conversation. you’re not sure what’s worse, having this conversation in the confines of familiar grounds or the openness of neutrality.

“and ask… are you already seeing someone else?” he finishes.

you’re dumbfounded, blinking at him slowly before responding in the only way you can think of right now, “goodnight, toji.” you shake your head, cursing yourself for expecting anything more.

“no,” he rushes to say and then stumbles over the rest, “i- i tried to see somebody else, quite a bit of other people actually…”

you scoff, squinting at him, saying more sternly this time, with an added attestation of closing the door in his face, “goodnight, toji.”

he reaches out with a quick reflex, grabbing the door before you’ve barely even moved it. “wait, no, i- fuck,” he mutters, scrambling, “can i just come in?”

“so that was your plan then?” you drop your hand from the door. “to come back here unannounced, be shitty to me, ask if i’m sleeping with anyone, tell me that you’ve slept with lots of people, and then ask if you can come inside?” you ask.

“i didn’t have a plan-,” he replies.

“clearly,” you interject.

“but i’m trying,” he finishes, and you’re waiting for there to be more, to explain exactly how this constitutes as trying, because you don’t really see that here.

“fucking christ, toji, you’re going to have to try harder than whatever the fuck this is,” you sneer.

“we- we had a good thing,” he tries again. you don’t understand how every time he opens his mouth it gets worse and worse. why are you even entertaining this anymore?

“fuck you, man,” you scoff, and it feels like all of the anger has left your body, and in the void where it once was present is nothing but disinterest.

“no, not like that,” he backpedals. maybe if he would say more than four words at a time, or four better words at a time, then you wouldn’t have to keep filling in the blanks or being pissed off or- “for the last six months of our relationship, i didn’t sleep with anyone else,” he admits like it’s the answer to all of your problems. the word relationship burns at the forefront of your mind so hard that you don’t realize what he’s said for 10 whole seconds.

“i, so what?” your voice is unconvincing even to your own ears. you had slept with other people even 2 months before that last day. that wasn’t the issue. you guys were allowed to sleep with other people. you had an explicit conversation about the fact that you could sleep with other people, something along the lines of, hey, we can see other people right? yeah, we’re not fucking dating. okay, just checking.

the so what, you had already answered for yourself, inner voice replying to your own question, screaming, you guys were exclusive, unknowingly to each other, for 2 whole months before you confessed and he left.

his answer is much different. he says, “so nothing really. i just- i needed you to know that.”

“well, what the fuck do you want me to do with that?” you ask, and it comes out bitter and discouraged, but what you really mean is, please tell me what you want, please, can you just tell me that you missed me.

“whatever you want,” he answers instead.

you take a deep breath, a million emotions coursing through your veins and up your throat. “you know what?” you say, and it doesn’t sound angry, it sounds playful, “no, seriously,” you smile and then you laugh, “fuck you, toji.” you close your mouth like you’re done talking, like that’s all you needed to say, but your heart disagrees, forces more words out into the air no matter how hard your jaw is clenched shut.

“you show up here and you’re an asshole and then you’re decent and then you say shit like that and then- then i ask you what you fucking want from this, what you’re trying to play at here and you tell me whatever i want?” you say, exasperated.

“what i wanted was for you not to leave me three fucking months ago. that’s what i wanted,” you spit, “i wanted you to tell me this shit three fucking months ago before i sat alone, by myself, sad and then angry, and the entire time, fucking missing you, you fucking asshole. that’s what i wanted.”

and then it’s there, out in the open, airing for the two of you to witness and to face, and no matter what happens, you know you’ve done everything and said everything that you’ve needed to. he’s quiet for a few moments and you let him be, not tapping your foot or rolling your eyes or being pissed off, but just letting it play out. if this is the last time you ever see toji, why not just let it play out?

“okay,” he says, and it’s soft in a way you’ve only ever heard from him one time in your entire relationship. “i’m sorry.” he pauses. “i really don’t know how to do this,” he admits and you believe him. it feels different from when he told you something along those lines earlier, but you have a feeling that this is what he was trying to say all along.

“do what?” you push, because your mind is making assumptions, but if he’s going to prove anything to you, he needs to start now.

“ask for forgiveness?” he says, like he’s thinking out loud, “apologize? date someone?” you don’t say anything. you’re looking for something more concrete than that. it takes a handful of uncomfortable seconds before he says, “actually care about someone.”

“and do you?” you ask.

his lips press into a thin line, his eyes shift from left to right again. you can feel him getting antsy with the conversation and he’s barely said one vulnerable thing. you look at him, eyes soft and pleading, silently begging him that if he’s grown from this, you’ll let him back in, you swear, but you’ve been hurt before and you know what you’re worth, so you’re going to need some sort of evidence as collateral. “yeah,” he mumbles, but it’s audible. “you,” he says like it isn’t obvious, and it’s quiet and daunted, but you really appreciate the effort.

“okay,” you say, and that’s all you say.

“okay?” he questions, confused. “that’s it?”

“yup,” you say, but your small smile and the fact that you’re not slamming the door in his face again gives away a bit more than that.

“can i… come in?” he asks, hesitant, like he’s still being tested.

you shake your head, hand gripped onto the edge of the door. “no,” you say, scrunching up your nose and furrowing your eyebrows. “because if you come in here, we’re going to have sex,” you admit, half because it’s the truth and half just to see the look on his face. (it’s worth it.)

“wait,” he says, placing his palm flat against your door, but not moving it. his hand is now inside of your apartment, the only part of his body that’s made it past this invisible barrier of hallway and your place. “that sounds like a great thing. why am i not allowed in?”

“because this is me having self-control,” you explain, placing a hand on his shoulder and pushing the small portion of him that’s crossed the division back into the hallway. when you feel his skin against your pinky, soft fabric of that familiar shirt underneath your palm, you almost make a fool of yourself right after you say the word self-control, but you remind yourself what’s at stake here, what you really want.

“i came all the way out here to see you-,” he starts, but he doesn’t make a move to replace his hand on your door, letting his arm fall back to his side. it’s for the better, too, because you’re not sure how much more self-control you have already, no matter how much you tell yourself about longevity and whatever.

“if you really care,” you interrupt him, using his few vulnerable words against him, “and you weren't just trying to sleep with me tonight,” you pause, letting those words sink in, “you will go home and you will call me tomorrow morning and we will get breakfast- the least sexy meal of them all- and then maybe coffee if i enjoy hanging out with you outside of just having sex with you, and then we will go from there.”

“i-,” he starts to protest, but you cock your head. the truth is, if he said another word, reached out and touched your cheek or your hip or really anywhere on your body, if he kissed you, or just walked inside of your apartment and sat down on your couch, you wouldn’t have stopped him. you might even have gotten breakfast with him anyways. he doesn’t know that, you don’t think, but even if he does, he doesn’t act on it. he bows his head slightly, conceding, and says, “okay. i will just… talk to you… tomorrow… then.”

you nod. “goodnight, toji,” you say, hand on the door, closing it as slowly as you opened it.

“uh, yea, night,” he says back. you won’t tell anyone, and neither will he, about the stupidest small smile you see on his lips as he leaves your apartment that night or the fact that he wakes up extra early the next morning, muttering under his breath about how ridiculous dating is before he calls you at 9:30 on the dot.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 ɢᴏᴊᴏ [ 3 ᴡᴇᴇᴋs ]

being away from ɢᴏᴊᴏ feels like detoxing. not from like hard drugs or alcohol, but… coffee.

like you know it’s not necessarily good for you, drinking it every day, but it’s a habit you’ve had for a while now and you just can’t seem to break it. it’s not really hurting anything in your day-to-day and you’ve been doing it for so long that it’s probably fine to just keep doing it.

but out of nowhere it hits you that maybe drinking coffee as much as you do is a waste of money and even if you don’t feel the negative effects constantly in your daily routine, you remind yourself of the times where you could distinctly feel the thump of your heart and the unsteady of your hands. you recall the time that you stayed up all night for the promise of a cup of coffee to get you through the day. in every memory that you’ve ever had in your entire college career, you’re holding a cup of coffee.

so one day you make the choice to stop. you stop buying coffee from coffee shops and pods for your coffee maker and cups from diners and accepting free ones from friends. you don’t really need a good cup of coffee as badly as you think you do. and it’s stupid, you think, because it’s just coffee. it doesn’t mean anything. just because you’ve been drinking it consistently for quite awhile doesn’t mean it has any sort of hold over you. it’s just coffee.

but then the headaches come and the irritation sets in and nights are hard, but for some reason mornings are unbearable, and you feel antsy all the time and you haven’t left your room in the past three days and the only thing you want is a cup of fucking coffee and you can’t relapse with coffee; it’s fucking coffee.

yeah, being away from gojo feels a lot like detoxing from coffee.

you try to just not see him. it’ll be easier for you if you just don’t see him, you tell yourself. you go out of your way to avoid his walking path on campus and you refuse to leave your dorm when you don’t absolutely need to in fear of bumping into him or worse, just seeing him from afar, and god forbid you even come within three streets of the corner where his apartment resides. you block his number and you delete social media off of your phone for the time being, too many mutual friends to make casualties, and you do not let yourself think about him. not falling asleep, not when you wake up, not while you’re doing homework, not in your dreams or in the shower, not when something reminds you of him, not when you see his favorite show on your recently watched, not when you really need a good cup of coffee.

and it works for a while.

but not forever.

three weeks into your detox and you’re doing such a good job at not thinking about gojo that you mix up his monday schedule with his tuesday schedule and on your way back to your dorm, you see him. if you keep walking at the same pace that you’re walking, you will collide with him. if neither of you do anything, one of you will get hurt.

you look down at your phone, hoping, in the forefront of your mind, that he didn’t see it was you. (in the back of your mind, you’re hoping that he’s the one to break the longest bout of silence the two of you have had since you met.) when you sneak a glance, he’s already almost reached you, jogging to catch up with you. “hey,” he calls out, just in case you haven’t seen him.

“hi,” you say, stopping in place and letting him approach you.

“i’ve been trying to get ahold of you,” he offers, like you wouldn’t have known that.

“oh, sorry, haven’t been on my phone,” you lie. he knows that you’re lying. he can tell that you’re lying, so you don’t really know why you lie in the first place. maybe to prove a point. maybe to make him feel bad.

“look, about��,” he trails off, trying to remember how long he’s been without you, “about that… day…,” he opts for instead.

you put your hand up, waving the topic off. you mean to say something like, don’t worry about it, see you later, but it comes out like, “we don’t have to talk about that here.” here. fucking here. if you would’ve left those four letters out, it would’ve been a perfect line to walk away with, but you don’t. your stupid coffee-craving brain tacks it on, hopeful.

“right,” he says, nodding, “should we get coffee maybe, then, or?”

it’s not out of the ordinary, or it didn’t used to be, but now it feels taboo. you want to snap and ask him if he’s sure, because coffee sounds a bit too much like a date for people that aren’t together, but you realize very quickly that the irritation from your coffee detox is maybe a little bit too much to hold in without any closure. “sure,” you agree, “i just got done with class so we cou-.”

“i know,” he says, because three weeks hasn’t erased your schedule from his brain either.

you order an iced tea. you’re still convinced you’re done with coffee for good. he looks surprised at your choice, like he’s never seen you order an iced tea before, because he hasn’t, but he doesn’t say anything. you sip on it throughout unpleasant pleasantries and it’s refreshing, but it’s lacking something. in fact, the longer that you drink this stupid drink that has caffeine anyways and isn’t as good, the irritation bubbles higher and higher until- “can i start?” you ask, tapping your fingers against the table in rhythmic succession.

“yeah, sure,” he says, bringing his coffee to his lips and taking a sip.

“if at any point in this conversation your answer to anything i have to say is that we weren’t together, i don’t think we should have this conversation,” you reason, and you mean it, but his reaction takes you aback. you notice the smallest flinch when you say weren’t.

“i wasn’t-,” he shakes his head, sighing, “no, i wasn’t going to say that.”

“okay,” you say, dragging your fingertips along the condensation on the side of your glass. “then what were you going to say?”

he thinks for a minute, like he didn’t assume that he’d get this far when he brought up the idea of coffee. “i wanted to stop you from leaving,” he says.

“but you didn’t,” you rebuttal.

“i didn’t,” he affirms. it’s quiet again. you can hear the scrape of the cups against the table as they’re picked up, drank from, and put back down. the chatter in the coffee shop drones over the sounds of hesitance and nerves. “i’m sorry,” he says after a while.

“so, do you think we were together?” you ask, “and be honest. i’ll know if you lie.” you search his face as he answers, and the only thing that comes up is another flinch when you talk in past tense again.

“yeah,” he says, honest. “being apart from you these past three weeks has been one of the shittiest things i’ve ever been through.”

“ever?” you ask, quirking your eyebrow, as if it isn’t somewhat true for you too.

he nods in response, continuing, “it’s been hard.” he pauses. “i’m sorry i was so shitty.”

“pretty shitty, yeah,” you agree, but you can’t hide how nice it feels to just talk with him again, to call him shitty and to sit across from him at a coffee shop table. “i’m sorry i ghosted you these past few weeks,” because it deserves to be said too.

“i really missed you,” he says, and he doesn’t hide from it. he looks you directly in your eyes and you can tell that he wants to reach across the table and hold your hand. you want that too.

“me or just, like, sleeping with me?” you ask, somewhat terrified of the answer, scanning his face for the truth once again.

he laughs softly and, try as you might, you can’t stop the fluttering in your stomach or the warmth in your cheeks hearing that for the first time in too long. “please, i haven’t thought about sleeping with you once,” he jokes.

“oh, no? not at all?” you ask, scoffing lightly, a tiny smirk threatening to break.

he forces a thoughtful frown, shakes his head dramatically and says, “can’t say that i have.” you’re laughing now, but through smile-squinted eyes you can still tell that he’s actually being genuine. “not really,” he says.

“so just me then?” you ask to make sure.

“just you,” he affirms. “a lot of just you.” you hum, content with his answer, but he gives you even more than thought he ever could, “i don’t want to just go back to the way things were. i don’t think that’s enough for me anymore.”

even though you’re sure a response like this would’ve sent waves of shock through your entire body, it doesn’t. it just feels right. you reply quickly, “good. i don’t think it’s enough for me either.” you reach across the table. the back of your hand brushes against his, and then past it. you wrap your fingers around the handle of his coffee cup and bring it to your lips.

he doesn’t protest or snatch it away from you or make a snarky comment. he places his chin in the palm of his hand, elbow against the surface of the table, and smiles at you. you take a sip from his mug, warmth spreading through every bit of your body.

why would you deprive yourself of coffee when it brings you so much comfort?

ᯓᡣ𐭩 ʙᴏɴᴜs! ʜɪɢᴜʀᴜᴍᴀ [ ɴ/ᴀ ]

you’re not exactly sure how many times something has to happen before it becomes a theme.

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

“do you -huff- want to -huff- have kids someday?” higuruma asks from beneath you, palms resting on the tops of your knees, thumbs massaging up to the insides of your thighs.

you slow your bounces and then you stop them completely. you blink at him once and then twice. “that is a really wild thing to ask while you’re inside of someone,” you scoff, searching his face for any kind of tone indicator. is he being serious? is he just saying something to get a rise out of you? is this a kink thing?

he smirks, placing his hands on your hips, coaxing you to continue your movements, and you do. you lift yourself off of him, slowly at first, but then picking up speed as you chase the feeling you lost when he asked the question. you’re breathless when he asks again, the repeated question no longer stilling you. the second time around it feels almost normal. “do you?” he asks on his exhale.

you shake your head and then tilt it side to side, closing your eyes so all of the conflicting fast paced movements don’t dizzy you. “i- don’t- know-,” you huff, “maybe- conversation- for- a- different- setting.” each word is punctuated by the slap of your thighs against his hips. he nods, completely okay with that answer, and then just drops it.

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

“shit,” you say in realization, hips circling, fingers combing through his hair. you pull your head away from his shoulder, pushing yourself up to look him in the eyes. “wait, how did your meeting go today?” you ask, and this time neither of you miss a beat.

when he slows to think about it, you pick up his slack, rolling your hips, feeling the drag of him inside of you, a breathy moan floating up your chest. he answers over your noises, “really good actually.”

“everything as planned?” you ask further, genuinely just as invested in this as you are in the act.

he nods, smiling. “yeah, to a t,” he says, wrapping his arms around your lower back and pulling you against his chest. he kisses the side of your temple, holding you in place with a tight grip as he lifts his hips off of the bed, thrusting into you. “surprised you didn’t ask as soon as i came through the door.”

you shake your head against his shoulder, placing a soft kiss against his collarbone. “was thinking about it all day,” you explain. he fucks into you faster in response and it feels like a reward for caring about the things that are important to him. “but when- shit- when you got home…,” you grunt, “it completely- ah, fuck- completely slipped my- ah- mind, s-sorry.”

“ts alright, pretty.” he nudges his nose against your cheek, peeling your attention to his face. your cheek rests against his shoulder and you blink at him, focus dipping from the topic at hand as you feel that familiar tightening in your core. he can see it written all over your face, so he drops his head to kiss you, silently communicating that you don’t have to worry about finishing the conversation right now. he’ll bring it up again in a bit.

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

“should we get married?” he asks, back up against the headboard, looking you directly in your eyes, gaze following yours as you rise and fall.

“you are not proposing to me while i’m riding you,” you say, shaking your head, but you don’t still or slow. conversations like this in a setting like this just don’t phase you anymore. honestly, it wouldn’t surprise you if he did propose right now. you’re not even sure you’d say no.

the corner of his lip tugs upward and he exhales a laugh as he leans forward the smallest bit to kiss you. “i’m not, i’m not,” he assures, “why? would you say no?”

you’re quiet for a minute, not because you don’t know the answer, but to keep him on his toes. you won’t lie to him, you don’t think, but you don’t want to come right out and say it. his questions are rhetorical anyways, half-jokes that he’s not expecting serious answers to; you’ve known higuruma well enough and long enough to be confident of that. you could’ve replied with an eye roll and a scoff and nothing else and he would’ve dropped it. instead, however, you answer, “course not. i’d say yes in a second.”

he nearly comes inside of you right there.

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

maybe it becomes a theme when someone points it out.

you can’t tell if it’s intentional or not, the way that the two of you keep having these serious conversations during sex. you know that you don’t do it on purpose; things will just hit you during the repetitive motions and you worry you’ll forget them and you know that higuruma won’t judge you for just saying them, so you do. whether this is the case for him, you’re not sure.

but the interruptions just keep getting more casual. it starts with big conversations: weddings and promotions and thoughtful decisions, and then it’s like you just start remembering things in this position: work drama and mundane did you knows. it’s almost as if starting with big topics just made it seem so easy to talk about anything like this.

it didn’t help, you think, that it’s just always easy to talk about anything with higuruma. you guys have been together, officially together, for over four years now, and conversation, no matter the topic or severity or setting, is something you’ve never struggled with. you continue to not struggle with it, inside of the bedroom and out.

you’re not sure what about the position and the moment makes you so susceptible to remembering little things that you want to tell higuruma when he’s not around, and vice versa. in fact, you’re not even convinced that it’s something about the action that jogs your memory anyway, it’s probably just a really weird and common coincidence.

and then one night you can’t find your keys.

you’ve searched everywhere for them, in your car, in your bag, every nook of your room, the places where they normally are, higuruma’s coat pocket just in case, and then everywhere else in your guys’ apartment. they’re nowhere to be seen.

when higuruma walks through the front door, even from where you’re searching in the kitchen, you hear him let out an elongated, “woah.”

you pop your head into the doorway, “don’t say anything about the mess.” you can see his eyes resting on the overturned couch cushions and then on the various opened drawers. “hey,” you warn, pointing towards him as you walk quickly into the living room. you throw your arms around him tightly and give him a small greeting peck. it’s routine at this point; if you don’t do it your whole night feels off. “i said don’t say anything.”

he lets you hang off of his neck as he puts both hands up in surrender. “i didn’t say shit,” he says, pressing a kiss into the side of your neck, then moving his hands to your waist, “the fuck happened here though?” he laughs against your skin and you can feel the vibrations travel to your fingers and toes.

you pull away from him, shaking your head. now that you’re back in the living room, it’s like you have to start this room’s search over too. you start checking under the couch and in the hall closet. “lost my fucking keys,” you grumble, smoothing your palms over your face, “i swear i’ve looked everywhere. i just can’t remember where i left them when i got home.”

“did you check th-,” he asks, walking into the kitchen, grateful that you’re not in there with him or he knows you’d yell at him for the way his eyes go wide at the clutter and chaos everywhere.

you cut him off, “wherever you’re about to say, probably yes, ughhh. i’ve retraced my steps, i’ve looked in places that are fucking stupid to look in like every pair of shoes we own and in the fucking guest bedroom pillowcases. i’ve looked everywhere.”

from where he’s stood in the kitchen now, he can see you scrambling as you vent. he leans against the wall, “well, not everywhere or you would’ve found it by now.”

“i’ll kill you,” you say, eyes snapping up to meet his to show how serious you are.

he just laughs, “i’ve got a pretty good lawyer, you might not want to do that.”

“good legal can’t help you when you’re dead,” you snap, almost completely joking. he meets you back in the living room, helping you check all the places you’ve already checked.

15 minutes pass and then 35 and then he stops abruptly. “oh my god, i have an idea,” he says, and you look at him, hopeful. “you know when you usually remember things?”

your first reaction is joking annoyance, picking up a throw pillow and sending it his way. he catches it and sets it back down on the couch. “i’m serious!” he yell-laughs.

you throw another pillow at him as your second reaction sets in. “that’s not going to fucking work,” you say.

“how do you know?” he asks.

“because,” you say, trying to come up with a good answer other than just blind doubt, “because i don’t remember things while i’m riding you. it’s not a fucking superpower.”

“you don’t know that,” he jokes back and braces to be hit with another pillow. “okay, okay, but i’m being serious! besides, what’s the worst thing that can happen? you don’t remember and we’ve had sex, how horrible,” he reasons.

you let your arms fall, pillow in your hands resting against the tops of your thighs. you look at him, thinking, which, in hindsight, was a dumb thing to do, because higuruma can see the contemplation on your face.

eight minutes later and he’s inside of you and you’re the most embarrassed you’ve ever been.

“this is so stupid,” you mumble. you haven’t moved an inch after slowly lowering yourself onto him. you’re fully seated against his hips, hands smoothing over your face and then lingering there, covering.

he reaches up, fingers soft and kind as he wraps them around your wrists, pulling them away from your face. “ts not stupid,” he reassures, but you’re not convinced. you groan, turning to look away from him, but that just won’t do. he reaches up again, soft grip on your chin coaxing your gaze back to his. “hey,” he says softly, “just focus here, angel.”

you listen, somewhat, mind still flickering back to why you’re even riding him in the first place. “just enjoy yourself, okay,” he tries again, rolling his hips upwards, pressing himself inside of you as deep as he can. you close your eyes, and it’s quite easy to just focus on the feeling of being as full as you are right now. “good,” he whispers, “just like that.”

it doesn’t take long for you to lose yourself completely, moving on your own, letting the whimpers and whines take over any other thought you might think to say, chasing that feeling rather than worrying about whatever you’ve lost.

it all kinda clicks at once: where your keys are and why you always remember shit when you’re like this.

in the midst of everyday noise, so many things get lost: important and unimportant thoughts alike. but now you’re not worried about anything else. you don’t care about anything else right now. you don’t have to. you don’t want to. and in this state of letting everything go, mindless and blissful, some things slip back through the cracks.

you collapse onto higuruma’s chest, spent and happily aware of this new revelation that you have not, for once, shared in the middle of sex, but kept quiet as a come down surprise. you hum softly as he rubs up and down your back, hum again as he presses a kiss into your forehead. “m sorry it didn’t work, angel,” he murmurs.

you turn your head, ear pressed right against his heart as you gaze up at him. “i left them in the fridge,” you reveal, and he knits his eyebrows together.

you assume that he’s going to say something about how did you leave them in the fridge? or why are they there? but instead he questions, “what? and you didn’t tell me until now?” like you’ve harbored a life long secret. you laugh softly, snaking your hands up and scratching your nails against his scalp, playing with the ends of his hair. “don’t think this is going to get you out of it,” he says, “‘ts my favorite thing when you just blurt shit while you’re on me.”

you can feel the warmth in your cheeks and your chest as you breathe a laugh. “you’ve never told me that before,” you murmur.

“think it’s cute when you just can’t wait to tell me things,” he says, “feels more intimate than being inside of you.”

“ew,” you say, scrunching up your nose, even though you weirdly agree.

he just laughs in response. a few seconds of quiet comfort pass before he backtracks, “wait, why the fuck are your keys in the fridge?”

and you tell him all about it, about the day that you’ve had and how you remembered you hadn’t drank enough water so you were refilling your bottle from the pitcher in the fridge as soon as you got home from work, but your hands were full so you set your keys on top of the leftovers from yesterday, but then you had to go and set everything down and the fridge closed and by the time you left the kitchen you remembered you needed to do something else… and it just keeps going.

you tell him as you’re taking a shower and as you’re eating dinner together and as he’s brushing his teeth and you’re washing your face and laying in bed and setting your alarms. every room in the house is a mess, but you’ll deal with that later, you decide. you rest your chin on his shoulder. “and how was your day?” you ask, even though the clock reads much later than it should for how much sleep you both should get before you’re up early for work tomorrow.

nevermind that, he decides, and tells you all about it anyways.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 ʙᴏɴᴜs! ɴᴀɴᴀᴍɪ [ ɴ/ᴀ ]

“can i ask you something and when i ask you, you’ll know i don’t mean anything bad by it at all because i love you more than everything in the world?” you ask, putting down your phone only after you’ve finished your sentence.

you wait a few seconds for nanami to take in what you’ve asked. he reaches over to the night stand for his bookmark and sticks it between the pages. he shuts it with an audible shuffling of paper and a sharp thump.

nanami has been with you long enough to not typically be surprised by your out of the blue… questions. (dronings? is there a word like droning but the connotation is more positive? like you talk at him a lot and he loves to hear the ramblings in your brain, but sometimes he is just trying to read his book before bed. whatever that word is.)

he places the book on his lap and then turns his chest towards you completely. you now have his full attention. “is that a yes?” you ask.

he inhales deeply, “if i say no, will you still ask it?”

you think on the answer to that question, really mulling it over before shaking your head. “no, i don’t think so.”

“then yes,” he smirks, “i suppose i have to say yes then.”

“great,” you say, tossing your phone onto your bedside table with a clunk. you sit up straighter, rocking forward to fully adjust your position on your side of the bed. you put your hand on his thigh and cross your legs, letting your knee rest on the side of his comforter covered hip. “do you ever regret not dating more?”

it definitely takes him by surprise. he thought you might drop another weirdly specific hypothetical about would he love you if… or request a glass of water even though you already told him tonight when he was getting into bed and he asked if you wanted one, that you did not.

now he’s the one mulling over your question and despite how nerve wracking it could be to wait for an answer to a what if that involves not you, you’re not anxious in the slightest. you’re quiet, just waiting for his answer, and when he finally speaks, you know exactly why you weren’t scared in the first place, “i’ve honestly never thought about it since i met you.”

“really?” you ask, and you’re mostly feeling very lucky that nanami is yours and you are his, but there is an underlying feeling of guilt that he’s unintentionally caused with this statement.

he nods. “sounds like you have though,” he says, and it’s not even a little bit judgmental. it sounds like he’s imploring you to keep talking, like he wants to hear exactly what you’re thinking, why you brought it up in the first place.

“i wouldn’t trade this security, this love, exactly what we have, you for anything in the world,” you start to explain, and it’s nothing but the truth, “but sometimes i just think about that first night when we were in that bar. the flirting, the risks, that feeling of not knowing where the night is going to end up. sometimes i think about that a little bit.”

he hums, thinking about that night, and after a few seconds of silence, he speaks up again, “first date nerves,” he nods, “now that i think about it, i miss those.”

you cock your head at him. that’s a weird part of dating to miss, you think, but then he explains further, “like when we went out on our first date and i didn’t know what you were going to wear or if you liked the restaurant i picked or if you’d let me pay for your food.”

“or if i’d take you back to mine,” you joke, raising your eyebrows at him, but really you’re burning inside. your cheeks feel warm just hearing about these feelings he’s never mentioned to you before.

“yeah, that too,” he laughs, getting back on track, “like, i’m still finding out new things about you all the time, but back then i was discovering who you were every second we were together, and that- that felt like…”

“like finding out soulmates were real?” you ask, because that’s what it felt like to you, that same exact phenomenon he’s describing. he smiles at you warmly, like you’ve just put to words what he felt he could only experience. “i know what you mean,” you smile.

he leans forward, cupping your cheek with his hand and guiding you towards him. he kisses you softly, placing his other hand on your other cheek and kissing you harder. “should we go on a first date again?” he asks against your lips, barely pulling away to speak.

you laugh, but when you pull away, you can tell he’s not joking. “what?” you ask, “what do you mean?” you’re already blushing though, already feeling the exact first date nerves he was just talking about.

“let’s go on a first date,” he repeats himself. “i’ll pick you up at your front door and i’ll choose the restaurant and it’ll be a surprise and i’ll ask you questions that i’d ask you on a first date even if i know the answers to all of them and more at this point.”

you’re smiling so big that your cheeks are sore as you nod fervently at the concept. “okay, yeah,” you agree.

“right, so we probably shouldn’t kiss or make out or sleep with each other until then to really play into the whole thing?” he teases, and you roll your eyes in response.

“you’re very funny, kento,” you say, leaning in, brushing your nose against his. he doesn’t even last a second, closing the gap with a small peck and then another and then another and then a much longer one and then he’s putting the book on his nightstand so he can pull you into his lap.

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

you get a text 5 minutes before 7 that nanami is going to be 3 minutes late picking you up. the text looks a little weird underneath a thread of:

>> nami <3 >> how’s work baby

<< read << if you love me you’ll come and pull the fire alarm to get me out of here early :) :) :)

>> nami <3 >> fine but that’s a class four felony in some cases. will you be providing legal assistance or should i look elsewhere????

<< read << how do u know that?? nerd!!!

>> nami <3 >> google tbh.

<< read << wow. first i have to stay at work all day alone and sad and now i get to know my bf isn’t sexy and off the dome smart about everything. :(

>> nami <3 >> goodbye.

<< read << :(

>> nami <3 >> i love you

<< read << :)

you bite back the urge to reply with something you’d say to him after knowing him for years. rereading the text and thinking back to your first date, it makes you giggle. actually, it makes you kinda nervous. you text back a polite no worries! take your time! and he replies with a heart and you truly feel like you’re dating for the first time again. you feel honest to god giddy.

arriving to the restaurant, you are genuinely surprised. you thought after knowing him as long as you have and having gone to as many restaurants with him as you have, you’d go back to somewhere nice you’ve already been. but that isn’t the case.

he drives you to a pop-up restaurant 20 minutes out of town that you’ve never even heard of, but is the cutest place you’ve ever been, and the entire time he can’t stop sneaking respectful glances at you. he won’t stop telling you how nice you look. he even apologizes for it by the sixth time, pushing your chair in at the restaurant saying, “i know i keep mentioning it, and i’m sorry, but if i said it every time i thought it, it’d be a never ending string.”

if he keeps this up, you’re going to feel like you’re cheating. this seriously feels like a first date, like you’ve been in a relationship for over 5 years and you’re also going on a first date and it’s really messing with your head, but you never want it to stop.

he stays true to his word, asking you questions he already knows the answers to, but hearing them again, they sound brand new. he doesn’t know if he’s just forgotten some of them or if the testaments of time have weathered your answers just enough to sound unfamiliar, but either way, he’s hanging on to every word.

by the end of the night, you’ve truly convinced yourself that there are stakes to this date, like if you play your cards wrong, you won’t get to keep seeing this incredible guy. he pays the whole bill, even though you insist on getting your meal or at the very least dessert. he says, “you can try next time too.” and you can’t breathe, you feel so lucky.

“i’m sorry if this seems forward, but i’d really like to keep seeing you tonight,” you say as the waiter takes away the paid bill, and your heart is thumping so violently against your chest, you swear he can feel it too.

he shakes his head, “perfectly forward,” he smiles, “your place or mine?” you break character for the first time tonight, giggling at the reality of the question, hiding behind your hand as you do. “what’s so funny?” he asks, but he’s grinning just as big as you are.

“just thinking about how dreary my life would be if i hadn’t gone on this first date,” you say, and it’s a little too meta, but he’ll let it slide, because he’s a bit flustered at the sentiment. “mine is great,” you answer, placing your hand on his, rubbing the tips of your fingers against his knuckles.

everything about the rest of the night feels like a first too. it feels like your first kiss in front of your front door. it feels like he’s seeing “your” apartment for the first time. it feels like you’re making out on your couch for the first time.

it feels like the first time he’s ever been inside of you.

when he pushes deeper into you, eyes on yours shut tight, you tell yourself that you want to pretend you’re on a first date every single day of your life. you can’t stop whimpering, pleading for him to never stop fucking you ever, please don’t stop, please never fucking stop.

you break character for the second time when you’re right on the edge. he keeps looking down at you with so much love in his eyes and his hands all over you feel like they know every inch of you, and you can’t stop yourself. you grab his face in your hands, “kento, baby, please, ‘m gonna- ‘m sorry, i- fuck, please. i love you, fuck,” you whine, and he can’t stop himself either, hips stuttering, head falling against your shoulder as he feels you clenching around him as he empties himself inside of you, murmuring how much he loves you right back.

the way you’ve been feeling all night: blissful and coy, it’s not because it’s a first date, it’s because he’s nanami. it’s because he’s orchestrated the entire night and no matter how “new” everything feels, the underlying foundation of that newness, and the reason everything feels so good, is familiarity and safety.

“i’m sorry that i-,” you breathe, but he stops you, reaching his hand up to drag his fingertips against your lips, and you laugh, pressing a soft kiss into them. “okay, okay,” you say, and he places his hand back down by his side. “done with the first date stuff, just want to be yours again,” you murmur.

he scoffs, light, and you can hear his smile in it. he falls over onto his back, pulling you into his chest and kissing the top of your head. “never weren’t,” he mumbles against your hair. “always will be,” he mumbles again, holding you tighter.

“good,” you say back, settling into his arms like that’s the only thing you know to be true in the entire world. you wouldn’t trade that truth for a million first dates.

sure, holding your breath at quick witted flirts and stolen glances is nice, but it’s a lot nicer just knowing that you will never be loved better and you will never love harder.

♡ ʀᴇʙʟᴏɢs ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴs ᴍᴇᴀɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ♡ no bc the yelling really worked very well idk yell at me more to write a continuation for toji (maybe also gojo bc hes the only one i havent written even an inkling of smut for) idk i'm just thinking of so many scenes idk throw hcs at me in my inbox IDK! toji dating for the first time? got me fucked UP

ᡣ𐭩 ᴛᴀɢs ᡣ𐭩 @igocrazyeveryday @vernasce-blogs @minty86 @abrielletargaryen @pompompompompompompom @mysticrays @lilolpotato @thisisew @pnkoo @optimisticsandwichgladiator @ryumurin @cisseadven @multi-fandom-fanfic @noosayog @anxious-chick @mintleafwrites @(tried to tag some other folks but couldnt!!)

#jjk x reader #jjk smut #toji x reader #gojo x reader #geto x reader #geto smut #toji smut #gojo smut #nanami x reader #nanami smut #higuruma x reader #higuruma x reader smut #higuruma smut #nanami x reader smut #jjk x reader smut #actually not really tbh theres no smut in tojis or gojos cant even lie #toriwritesshit

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a-kaash-me-outside · 2 months

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˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ɪs ɪᴛ ᴄᴀsᴜᴀʟ ɴᴏᴡ? ˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚

♡ ft. choso, nanami, toji, higuruma, gojo, geto ♡ total wc: 5.3k // nsfw minors dni! // ♡ contents: afab reader she/her pronouns, reader referred to as "girl" in geto's, some of these are cute and some are horny and some are angsty, refer to the icons in front of their names for happy ending or not, shit's not as nasty as i normally am ngl, basically wrote each of these based on a lyric from casual ♡ listen along: casual by chappell roan ♡

-୨୧ ( ˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈♡) aka how long fwb lasts & who breaks first (｡•́︿•̀｡) ୨୧-

ᯓᡣ𐭩 ᴄʜᴏsᴏ [ 8 ᴍᴏɴᴛʜs ~ ʏᴏᴜ/ʜɪᴍ ] >> 𝑘𝑛𝑒𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑒𝑎𝑡 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢’𝑟𝑒 𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑒 𝑜𝑢𝑡 / 𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑡 𝑐𝑎𝑠𝑢𝑎𝑙 𝑛𝑜𝑤?

“baby?” ᴄʜᴏsᴏ breathes, fingers digging into the fat of your thighs and you hum in acknowledgement, but you don’t ask him what he wants, blissfully content with him murmuring into your pussy instead of hearing whatever he has to say; there will be time for that later.

he picks his head up, blinking at you slowly as he calls your name. you open your eyes. guess there will be time for it now. “yeah? yes, what, choso?” you ask, hand reaching to cup his cheek, thumb smoothing over the mess on his jaw.

there isn’t a single time that you’ve had sex with choso in the entire 8 months that this thing has been going on that he hasn’t eaten you out, and yet, you still can’t get enough. it’s like he was made for it, destined to be between your legs forever. it’s at least half of the reason that this arrangement has lasted as long as it has, but you’d never tell him that.

his eyes are flitting between yours, unsettled and quick as they bounce from your steady pupils to your questioning pout to your softly knitted eyebrows. “hey, cho, what’s wrong?” you ask, coaxing him up to place a half-way caring kiss on his sheened lips. he tastes like you, so you kiss him again.

he sinks back down once your fingertips have fallen from his skin. “are we still casual?” he asks and the scene of it all has you grinning. him, between your thighs propped up on the car door and the cup holder, kneeling before you in the passenger seat of his car.

you push his hair out of his face. “what do you mean, pretty?” you ask him, but you know exactly what he means. you’re just giving yourself extra time to think of a good answer, giving him extra space to elaborate or backtrack, whichever. a soft pink tinge blossoms on his cheeks; the breathlessness of being smothered by your thighs faded moments ago, so you know the cause of this coloring is the silly endearment that fell off your tongue.

“just-,” he kisses the inside of your thigh once and then again and then he rests his chin there. “sometimes i feel like we’re more than that, more than just casual friends with benefits.”

“i don’t know,” you shrug, pausing. you let your hand fall down the back of his head, a soft fist of hair forming by the base of his neck. “like, friends with really good benefits?” you joke and he laughs to be nice, but he doesn’t shy away from the sentiment.

“or like not that at all,” he tries again.

“then what?” you ask, shaking your head the smallest amount, eyes narrowing in thought. “like enemies with no benefits?” you’re still joking and you’re not sure if it’s to give yourself extra time anymore. maybe it’s just because your heart is beating out of your chest and you’re not sure the exact cause.

the breath that leaves him now is just barely a laugh. it’s mostly dejected, somewhat frustrated. shit, you feel like you’re really ruining everything, but this is something that he’s gotten to sit on for days? weeks? months, even, maybe? this is all brand new to you. he was eating you out seconds ago and now you’re having an impromptu discussion about what you guys actually are?

“you eat me out like you’re in love with me,” you blurt, hoping that it communicates what you want it to communicate, even though you’re not really sure what that is. when you can see the confusion forming on his face, you rush to finish a thought you didn’t know was unfinished, “that’s why i like it so much, i think.”

“oh,” he says, the blush returning in full force. “i-,” he starts, like he’s about to admit something to you, but stops because maybe this isn’t the space to do that. “so…?” he trails off.

“sooo, no,” you shake your head, “no, i don’t think we’re still casual. i think we’re past that now.”

he grins, but you only get to see it for a few seconds. after that, you can feel it. you can feel it against you the entire time that he’s eating you out; he’s beaming.

you’re gone in less than a minute.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 ɴᴀɴᴀᴍɪ [ ɴ/ᴀ ~ ʏᴏᴜ/ʜɪᴍ ] >> 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚 𝑜𝑓 𝑢𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑎 𝑦𝑒𝑎𝑟 / 𝑚𝑎𝑦𝑏𝑒 𝑤𝑒’𝑑 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑎𝑛 𝑎𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡 / 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢’𝑑 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑚𝑒 𝑜𝑓𝑓 / 𝑡𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑖𝑒𝑟

you had every intention of ɴᴀɴᴀᴍɪ and you becoming friends with benefits. every intention. you told yourself you weren’t ready to date again, that you didn’t need to date again, that you just wanted someone to relieve stress, see on weekends and late nights, someone to call at 2 in the morning that’d be gone by 4.

when you saw nanami at an optional work bonding outing dressed no longer in business-casual, but dressy-casual, a tight sweater that went half-way up his neck and three-quarters down his arms and sleek black pants with a gold-buckled belt; when he kept throwing subtle hints your way all night like “it’s really nice to see you outside of the office finally” and “no, seriously, let me buy you a drink, yeah i know the company’s paying for everything, but let this one be on me”; when he let you lean back against his shoulder teaching you to throw darts, not letting go of the soft hold he had on your fingers even after the dart left your grip; when the two of you found solace at a small table in the corner of the bar away from any and all coworkers and he kept asking you about anything other than work, kept playing with the charms on your bracelet against your wrist, kept fucking smiling like that, like he was so interested in who you were and what was important to you and all the things he didn’t know about you yet.

with every tiny little detail and event, you were convinced he was the one; you wanted him to be the one. and at the time, you thought, he wanted you to be too.

he asked you so nicely if you wanted to come back to his, whispered it in your ear even though the noise of the bar was dying down anyway. you nodded, your cheek rubbing against the smoothness of his clean shave, and then you kissed his jaw without even looking to see who was watching.

when you got back to his apartment, he let you set the pace. he kept the same distance that he did in the bar, gave the same feathery-soft intentional touches, but you kissed him first. you scooched closer to him on the couch, the two of you practically sharing a cushion. you draped your legs over the tops of his knees. you placed a hand on the back of his neck and you pulled him in for a kiss.

every progression that night was initiated by you, not for control, but for courtesy.

and even when you thought you had given up the role of initiator, you knew that the only reason for that was because he knew you no longer wanted it. besides, at that point there were no other boundaries to ask for permission to push past. by that point, he was inside of you, hands roaming your body, dragging across your skin before a soft grip was placed on your shoulder to pull you back onto him.

he didn’t stop kissing you all night, it’s like he couldn’t. and he wouldn’t stop telling you things like, “fuck how did i get this lucky?” and “holy shit no one’s ever made me feel this good please don’t stop.” and “you’re so fucking incredible.”now, looking back on it, you’re not sure you were ever friends with benefits. from all the way in the future, sitting on a pier with nanami’s arm flung around you and a very secure label to describe your relationship, thinking back to 2 years ago when you slept over after your first night together and he made you breakfast in the morning, you’re quite certain it was always something more.

ᯓᡣ/𐭩 ᴛᴏᴊɪ [ 1.5 ʏᴇᴀʀs ~ ʏᴏᴜ/ʜɪᴍ ] >> 𝑚𝑦 𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑒 𝑎 𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑟 / 𝑐𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑖𝑚 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 / 𝑖’𝑣𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑠𝑜 𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑟𝑢𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑠 / 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑖’𝑚 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑎 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑏𝑎𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑐ℎ

“ᴛᴏᴊɪ,” you call towards the front door, throw blanket clutched around your chest despite the fact that he was inside of you just a minute ago, that the evidence of that is seeping out of you and onto the fabric of the cushion below you right now.

his shirt is already on. his pants are sitting loosely on his hips, unbuttoned, as he reaches down to grab his belt that was flung across the room. he snaps his head up to look at you, corner of his mouth tugging upward in a soft smirk. he walks towards the couch, two strides and his hand is placed on the side of your neck, thumb tilting your gaze upward at him.

“what, mama? you really wanna go again? m’ not sure i’ve it in me right now. could come back in an hour or so, though,” he says, like it’s not even a thought that he would stick around until then. before you’ve even answered, his left hand is mirroring his right, your stomach fluttering as he presses the pad of his thumb against your lower lip, sliding it onto your tongue. “fuck,” he grunts, leaning down to kiss you. “suppose i could help ya out anyway too. god knows i probably owe ya one,” he sinks down to his knees, nudging your legs open with his chin, “or ten or twenty.” he grins like it’s funny.

that’s not what you wanted to say, you didn’t necessarily want to go aga- fuck. you throw your head back, neck resting on the edge of the sofa, eyes closing softly as your fingers thread into his hair on instinct. “ngh, n- fuck,” you whine. “toji,” you say, trying to get his attention, but you’re very aware that’s not what your tone is conveying.

you squeeze your eyes shut hard as he spreads your lips with his thumbs. “shit, i made a fuckin’ mess of you, didn’t i, doll?” he asks, but doesn’t give you the chance to respond. he’s devouring you, tongue prodding at your hole, swallowing the mixture of your juices and his come, holding you in place two strong arms against your stomach, crossed over one another to grip into your hips, like he’s trying to pay back those debts as quickly as he can.

“sh-shit, t-toji, wa-wait,” you say, breath heavy, not really wanting him to stop, but the longer that he’s between your legs, the more times he makes you come, the less resolve you think you’ll have to say what you’ve been trying to say for the past 3 months.

you and toji have been friends with benefits (really good benefits) long enough to have stronger words in place to signify actually stopping while you’re fucking. wait and shit and toji are definitely not them. you had only ever used your safe word 1 other time, that fateful day when you got to experience the softest side of toji that you’ve ever seen, the one that prompted you to even want to bring this topic up in the first place, the one that made you… hopeful? maybe delusional.

“toji,” you say, more strength this time, but he still doesn’t stop. you push on his shoulder to try to disrupt him, but he doesn’t move an inch. in fact, he gets rougher, fingers pressing so hard into your hip bones that you’re sure bruises will bloom where they once were rooted before he even leaves. you squirm in his grip, but to no avail.

in a final attempt to get his attention, you thread both hands into his hair and tug hard, forcing his gaze. “toji,” you say again. he looks up at you, half-lidded eyes settling on your lips.

the look that he’s wearing is so obscene, so fucking lewd, tongue lolled out of his shitty grin before wiping the lower half of his face with the back of his hand; you almost chicken out again. you almost bite your tongue and let him resume without another word, because for the first time tonight, you’re remembering all of the consequences you’ve previously conjured up that come with saying this thought aloud.

“what, mama?” he mumbles, resting his chin on you as he catches his breath. “got something to say? or you just wanted to tug on my hair? what is it?”

you swear you’re silent for an entire two minutes, which doesn’t help how hard your heart is beating when you realize that toji is being nothing but patient as you try to find the courage or the words. you swallow, then open your mouth to speak, like the words will fly out on their own any second now as you look down at him.

he tilts his head, leaning his cheek against the inside of your thigh. “hey, what’s up?” he asks, “you’re scaring me. you’re never this fuckin’ quiet.”

fuck, why does he have to say things like that? why do his eyes have to show some semblance of concern? why does he have to know you enough to know that you’re acting off right now? deep inhale and then on your exhale, “do you ever think we could be more than this?”

you’ve phrased it a hundred different ways in your head. should we go out on a real date? i think i might want to actually get to know you. do you think about me after you leave? maybe we could try this out? you know me better than some of my friends. sometimes i call you just for the few minutes after sex where you stick around.

you’re not sure if this one was the best of them all, but you think it wouldn’t have mattered anyway.

“shit,” he says, grumbles even, as his whole demeanor changes. he sits back into his heels, trying to figure out how exactly to respond before realizing it doesn’t matter. he stands up, shaking his head, “fuck, fun while it lasted, i guess.”

“wait, what?” you ask, sitting up straight, chest forward as you go to follow after him. you know that when the adrenaline and fear wears off, you’ll feel like a loser for the words you’re about to say, but right now, they’re crawling at your throat trying to make things right, “you don’t- it doesn’t have to be anything.”

“nah, nah, i know when something like this is done, been through it plenty of times before,” he says, shrugging his shoulders as he slips on his shoes, gathers his belt, thinks quickly about all of the things he has in your apartment and if he’d be okay with never seeing them again. “i don’t know, thought you’d be different though.”

huh, you hoped you’d have been different too.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 ʜɪɢᴜʀᴜᴍᴀ [ 10 ᴍᴏɴᴛʜs ~ ʏᴏᴜ/ʜɪᴍ ] >> 𝑖𝑡’𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑏𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑐𝑎𝑠𝑢𝑎𝑙 / 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑚𝑦 𝑓𝑎𝑣𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑏𝑟𝑎 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑟

“fuck,” you exclaim as you lower yourself onto him, but it’s not the normal type of exclamation that you’d usually let slip in this scenario. and ʜɪɢᴜʀᴜᴍᴀ can tell.

he slides his hands, splayed out on the tops of your knees on either sides of his hips, up to your waist, helping to steady you as you sink lower and lower until you’re fully encompassing him. he grunts, feeling you adjusting to him for the millionth time, but the sensation truly never gets old. “what?” he questions, holding you in place as he releases a shaky exhale. “fuck what?”

“ugh,” you say, throwing your head back. you brace your hands on the center of his chest as you begin to raise your hips. “no, i just forgot my fucking… my fucking black bra… the one with the lace and the not completely uncomfortable underwire… the one that fits perfectly and makes my boobs look insane,” you huff, “i left it back at your place. shit. i knew there was a reason i wanted to go over there instead of you coming over here.”

you think nothing of it, really, how in tune he is with the cadence and tone of your fucks and the way that he starts nodding along the second that you mention your black bra, like he didn’t even need any other descriptors to identify exactly what you were talking about.

he brings his hips up to meet you, the sharp slap echoing in the room alongside your strangled whimper. you tilt your chin to the ceiling, fists closing around nothing, heel of your palms digging into his sternum and then dragging down his stomach as you circle your hips. “fuck, that sucks,” you say, eyes closed tight, knowing full well that you’d be much more upset about it if you weren’t in a state of bliss right now.

“might be- pant- might be easier if you don’t have to go back and forth,” he says, lifting off of the bed and letting you fall back onto him repeatedly.

all of your movements come to a halt. your eyes snap open and you look down at higuruma who looks much too unphased for the implications he’s just set out. you ask, very quickly, in one string without hesitation, “did you just ask me to move in with you?”

he doesn’t stop moving, though, continuing to thrust up into you like nothing happened, like he didn’t just cross a line neither of you have even come close to since you started this friends with benefits stunt. “it’s closer to your work,” he exhales sharply, digging his fingers into your hips, “you’re there all the time anyways,” he grunts, “your lease it almost up.”

“i- what-,” you’re stunned. the only reason that you’re moving is because of him, because he’s acting like this conversation is completely normal bedroom talk. “how- wait- hiromi, stop.” he does, instantly. letting you settle into his lap as he looks up at you, almost confused why you made him stop.

“how the fuck did you know all of that?” you ask once the movements have fully stopped, your furiously beating heart taking over for the previous repetition.

“i just know you,” he says, plainly, and then he doesn’t say anything else, just waits for you to respond or to react in some way. you blink at him softly. your cheeks feel warm, but you swear you feel lighter.

“fuck,” you exhale, one with different implications again, “o-okay.” you can’t blame your stutter on anything else. maybe you shouldn’t have made him stop.

“okay to what?” he asks, just to be sure.

“are you seeing other people?” you ask, just to be sure.

he laughs, scoffing, “i don’t have time for that.”

“should we date first?” you ask, not because you necessarily believe it, but because you feel like maybe you should at least ask.

“what do you call this?” he asks.

“you think we’re dating?” you furrow your eyebrows. you’re laughing now, but he’s not taking it to heart. no, honestly, there aren’t many reasons for your laughter that he wouldn’t welcome, thinks they can’t be bad if they’ve caused something that makes him feel so much comfort.

“shit, i don’t know,” he pushes himself up, wrapping his arms behind your lower back and kissing your chest. “sure, yeah, why not,” he laughs, lips making a trail to your jaw. your laughter erupts into soft giggles, because that’s exactly the level of assurance you think your situationship warrants for that question.

“fine, yeah, i’ll move in with you,” you smile, combing your hands through his hair. “if you’re gonna be all sentimental like this over a bra, geez.”

“maybe i just said it to shut you up,” he says, pushing forward, laying you down on your back, palms pressed into your hip bones as he kisses you.

“psh,” you say, raking your nails down his back softly, “or maybe because sleeping with me is so incredible, you couldn’t stop yourself from falling in love with me.”

he shakes his head, folding it slowly until his forehead rests above your heart. he pushes into you with one leisurely stroke. “whatever, same thing,” he mumbles against your skin.

ᯓᡣ/𐭩 ɢᴏᴊᴏ [ 3 ʏᴇᴀʀs ~ ʏᴏᴜ/ʜɪᴍ ] >> 𝑖 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟 / 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑𝑛’𝑡 𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑒 / 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑎𝑖𝑑 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑡𝑜𝑔𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 / 𝑠𝑜 𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑤𝑒 𝑘𝑖𝑠𝑠 𝑖 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑖𝑠��𝑢𝑒𝑠

whatever the friends with benefits equivalent was to college sweethearts, that’s what you and ɢᴏᴊᴏ were. the same intensity. the same vulnerability. the same naivety. the same notion of finding yourself alongside another person. fuck, even the same connection, you’d argue. the same air of being best friends and something more.

you met in sophomore year when you were both past the point of freshman, like you each thought you were completely different people, completely transformed and very mature and nowhere else to grow. still, you did grow, with the help of each other and the distance from home and the fact that every time you thought you had the hang of something, life proved to you that you did not.

very soon after you met in sophomore year, you had a strongly established, completely mutual label: casual fuck buddies. though, by the end of junior year, you had an inkling, though it was never discussed, that that label upgraded to casual fuck best friends.

and being best friends meant that you knew that gojo was the textbook definition of unavailable, at least in a romantic sense. even if he told you straight to your face that he was, or could be, available; even if he kept flirting with you outside of the confines of your dorm room, during lunches and after classes; even if towards the end of it, he kept letting you sleep over and started keeping your toothbrush in his bathroom; even if he told you, in the heat of the aftermath of a very unforgiving night, “i can’t believe we’ve never made this thing official.”; even despite all of that, you knew that this would be all he was for you forever. you knew that.

so why did it hurt so bad when he answered so quickly that you weren’t together? was it so unbelievable to think about? it wasn’t, at one point in time, even to him, you knew that, but he answers this girl he’s invited to your lunch date from a class you don’t have with him so fast that you can feel the paper thin split down your heart in the same instant.

“well, you guys are together, right?” she had asked, tilting her head, breeze blowing the hair out of her face so you can get a perfect view of the hope of denial scrawled all over her expression.

maybe it was your fault for letting him answer. though, you’re not really sure how you would’ve put your relationship with gojo into words anyway. “no, we’re not-,” he laughs, “not like that, no. just friends.”

it’s interesting, really. the way that he so quickly labels you guys as just friends when there is only an 8 minute walk to his apartment off campus and a 2 minute delay from the moment you step foot through the door before his lips are on yours. his hands are on your cheeks and then your waist and then your hips and he’s stepping into you, guiding you backwards towards his bedroom, as if you needed to be led there at all. the route is practically engraved into your mind: forwards, backwards, blindfolded, crawling, carried, it didn’t matter.

it settled into your heart as sadness, the words just friends and the speed at which they left his lips. and you thought it would stay like that throughout this hookup and the next one and the next, over and over until graduation; you thought you’d just be sad forever, but the second that he kisses you on the familiar door mat in this living room that used to feel like a second home, it morphs into anger.

after 3 years of knowing somebody so well, so closely, after yes, being together, how did he answer so instantaneously so incorrectly?

you fall back onto his bed, remembering the softness of the sheets like it’s the last time you’ll let yourself have the pleasure of feeling them, and you say, breathy and uncertain, “why did you do that?”

“do what?” he asks, one knee placed on the outside of your thigh, one palm placed right next to your shoulder.

“tell that girl that we aren’t together,” you answer, swallowing harshly because a million other words are fighting to come out right now too.

“we’re… not together?” he says, slowly and questioning, like he’s combing through every memory for the source of this miscommunication. “wait,” he pauses, standing up. “you know that we’re not together, right?”

“right,” you mumble and then scoff, “we just act like a couple and we have sex like a couple and we’ve practically been together for 3 years, but right, no, of course, we’re not together.” you push yourself up, legs hanging off the side of his bed, fingers gripped onto the edge. if you’re honest with yourself, you can’t believe this is the first time that this conversation has come up.

sure, you’ve made drunken passing comments and have laughed it off when you’ve made jokes about being a couple before, but it’s never been like this. though, he’s never blatantly denied that you were essentially anything to him right in front of you.

“i’m confused,” he says, and he looks it.

“shit, sato, fuck, i don’t know,” you stand up now, walking past him to grab your bag from the entry way, from the place you always leave it. he follows right behind you. you turn to face him. “i feel like if you’re confused about why i’m upset like this, there isn’t really anything left to say.”

“no, wait,” he grabs your wrist as you reach for the door handle, “no, there is.” you look at him, waiting. “i-,” he starts, eyes darting everywhere other than you. “i’m sorry that i said that.”

he lets go of your wrist. you don’t go to reach for the handle again. “but you still don’t think we’re together?” you ask.

“we’re not together,” he answers.

you grab the handle, flinging the door open, shaking your head. “right,” you say. “i’ll see you around, probably, i don’t know.” a soft breath of a laugh leaves your lungs, past your lips, quiet and defeated, but gojo hears it.

it’s never felt bad, you leaving, not ever, and he’s not used to this feeling in his chest; it’s suffocating. he thinks to tell you that, to call you back in, to beg for forgiveness or apologize again, anything to stop this feeling of regret that’s sowing inside of his stomach and his heart. by the time his brain catches up with itself, you’re halfway down the street, and he feels like he has to make a completely different decision. his feet aren’t moving and by the time he finally decides to shuffle forward, you’re nowhere to be seen.maybe he just had to know what it was like being apart to notice that, huh, maybe you were together.

ᯓᡣ/𐭩 ɢᴇᴛᴏ [ 3 ᴍᴏɴᴛʜs ~ ʏᴏᴜ/ʜɪᴍ ] >> 𝑖 𝑡𝑟𝑦 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙 / 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑠 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑢𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑝𝑎𝑐𝑒 / 𝑖 𝑡𝑟𝑦 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙 / 𝑏𝑢𝑡 ℎ𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑙𝑦 𝑖𝑚 𝑛𝑜𝑡

three months into your… relationship? friendship? casual hook-ups? friends with benefits? situationship (you finally settle on after taking a handful of quizzes on the internet and reading an infographic on the top 10 signs that you’re in a situationship and talking to four different friends who all enthusiastically agree that that is the correct terminology for what’s happening) with ɢᴇᴛᴏ, you realize that you’re not built for this.

you want to be, you think, or at least… you try to be. you try to train yourself to be the type of girl that wants to be. the fun girl. the chill girl. the cool girl that comes around when she wants to and when she’s wanted and it’s nothing to her, to be distant and to be near all at the same time.

but you really are not.

because you’ve texted him every other day for the past week with no response, nothing too needy, nothing too crazy, just prospects for hooking up, and you were met with nothing each time. he texts you once and then a second time and then a third and a fourth and then he’s calling you and you’re picking up and before you know it you’re in his bed and you’re not even thinking about how stupid it is until after.

not until you’re lying in bed, shoulder pressed up against his, chest heaving, barely recovered, and he says something so fucking dumb that it reminds you how fucking stupid you should think that this is.

“‘ve got work tomorrow early, can you lock the door on your way out?” he asks, rolling over. you swear he almost reaches for the light. but he doesn’t, what a gentleman.

“oh my god,” you say, staring up at the ceiling.

“what?” he says back, turning over to face you, but you don’t do the same. you bring your hands up to your face, smoothing your palms down past your chin.

“oh my god,” you say again, laughing this time. “oh my fucking god, this is so fucking stupid.” you swing your legs off of the bed, planting your feet on the carpet below. you’re still laughing as you stand up and search the room for all of your missing clothing.

“what?” he asks again, eyebrows furrowing like he’s actually confused about what he’s done wrong. “what’s stupid?”

“you! this! i don’t fucking know, everything,” you scoff. you put your underwear on. you put your pants on. you feel gross. you slide your t-shirt on over your head, your bra in your hands. “i texted you all week and you ignored me. you text me on a random wednesday night and i respond. i come over. i sleep with you. and then you kick me out of your apartment before i’ve cleaned your come out of me. i mean, come on, dude. that’s-,” you scoff again. “it’s not even fucking funny,” you laugh. “it’s just fucking stupid.”

“hey, wait,” he says, moving to sit up, but not with conviction, no, like he’s waiting for you to tell him that it’s fine, he doesn’t need to move, like he’s only doing it because he thinks he has to, like he’s giving some half-assed attempt at saving whatever this is for his sake.

“it’s-,” you take a deep breath, “it’s fine. i just- i don’t think i’m cut out to be with you like this.” you feel lighter now that you’ve admitted it. “besides, it’s only been 3 months, not like i wasted a year or something on you.”

“maybe we could-,” he starts, but it’s lost gumption after the first word, so you let him spare you the bullshit. you wave your hand at him, shaking your head.

“it’s… really, it’s fine,” you say. “i’m sure you’ll find someone else that is totally cool with whatever the fuck you’re expecting from them.”

“i- okay,” he says, but you don’t expect him to say more than that. you’re not exactly sure what else anyone could’ve said to that.

you leave his room and then his apartment, making sure to lock the door on your way out.

♡ ʀᴇʙʟᴏɢs ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴs ᴍᴇᴀɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ♡ idk maybe i'll write a part two, like a continuation because shit definitely goes down after these scenes in my head idk yell at me?

#yoooo reblogging this bc p2 comes out in an hr ♡

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