sukunasun - Tumblr blog

sukunasun · 15 days

Text

WHERE OUR PIECES FALL IN PLACE | NANAMI KENTO X CHUBBY READER

instead of an expected reunion—imagines that he’ll meet you in the middle of the street randomly one day by fate. maybe in a garden among pretty flowers but you’d be the only thing he can’t take his eyes off. or by the ocean, no one else but a man confessing his sins that shall be buried below water and he’ll be anew, he'll be forgiven—nanami is only left with silence on your end.

a sequel to 'SAY IT'S HERE'

sometime in the middle of the twin's birthday party, when the candles are blown out and yuuji's tiger face paint starts to crack around the corners of his smile, geto hands nanami two slices of cake. nice thick wedges of strawberry and chocolate, alternating pink and brown towered high with rainbow sprinkles on top.

it isn't a surprise the twins couldn't decide on a cake flavour so geto layered them both, however, what does surprise nanami is that he hands it to him on a plate with ice cream on the side as well. he pokes his spoon into the melting scoop of vanilla and wonders how people have the appetite for something this insanely sweet. then looks up to see gojo gobbling down his fifth serving of cake, exerting himself in getting that last piece of boba at the very bottom of his milk tea, plastic cup contracting with these resounding pops they both ignore. not to mention that he's already gone through two pints of rocky road.

geto's face is stoic but reluctantly so, a crease forming between furrowed brows, "thanks for coming, and thank you for the gifts, the girls love them," is all he says, voice even. despite his loyalties to you, he doesn't forget that he's nanami's friend too.

which nanami could commend him for, he doesn't make it about himself, this is the day his daughters were born, he's meant to celebrate. call it common ground. geto's lips lift at the corners when he looks over to see the two of them slowly prying wrapping paper off the multiple boxes nanami had flown in. he'd been undecided on what to get because gifts are not his strong suit, he's never understood the need for such materialistic representations of love but he likes the twins, so he bought...everything under the sun. (yuuji helps them with the bigger ones and in the process, screeches so loud he almost breaks a window when it's revealed that nanako and mimiko have received not one, but two game consoles.)

"by the way, i'm not picking sides but i think you should talk to her," geto says warily, his hand clasped beneath his chin as he eases his way into the subject. to say that he's torn would be an understatement because he always does this. gets in his feelings and worries til grey hairs and frown lines appear yet, it shows. geto can't help but care for others and make it known, say it with words that don't get caught in his throat, and proves it through his many sentimental ways.

nanami almost dismisses the notion because it's not like he hasn't tried. it's been the longest time without seeing or hearing from you since...well, since you broke up with him via call, left your job, and stopped coming around the usual places. the cafe, the bakery. there had been a few missed calls in between (47 to be exact, all sparingly spaced out across weeks because he doesn’t want to seem too desperate. he's meticulous like that) some voice messages he's left in your chat that probably went unheard. he's even contemplated if he should show up at your apartment. (but he's not crazy. of course not.)

"i appreciate your concern, but this is neither the time nor the place," nanami's face is impassive, showing no signs of honing any hard feelings. not on the surface at least. "besides, what good will it do, she has moved on." a tugging in his chest is felt as the memories of you showing up at his favourite bookstore with another man come flooding back.

gojo interrupts his thoughts, "about damn time, she's liked you for ages, i tried warning her but who knows what she ever saw in you," he complains while geto clicks his teeth and shoots him a piercing glare because he's definitely not helping the situation.

nanami clenches his jaw, he doesn't need reminders. he of all people should be very well aware that he sits in geto's living room with pompompurin ears on his head feeling at his very lowest because he's lost you and he lives with that regret every day.

------------------------------------------------------

the tokyo museum hosts an exhibition on rodin sculptures. his life's work displayed in phases, epochs depicting the best and little-known, of stories centred around great heroes and lovers. their lives and feelings depicted in dynamic poses, down to the most intimate of embraces chipped and carved into bronze, alabaster, and marble. a preserved intimacy, a history behind every look and touch. haunting and somewhat forever living...just like the image of nanami in that bookstore haunts you.

"thanks for that," you say to the man beside you. voice travelling over the loud chatter among patrons. young and old and excessively rich. looking down, you peer over the pamphlet tucked by your elbow, stepping before different sculptures of varying sizes. you're stunned by the mastery of craft and precision but the emotions evoking within you are hesitant. like it was...wrong to be here with someone else. to be looking at these figures and having no relation to them. all that passion and yearning, why is it that you feel grief instead. a part of you missing.

"i saw it in his eyes, he's guilty," higuruma strolls next to you, bored out of his mind. “i mean, he looks guilty.”

“i’ve never seen him like that," you explain. not even when there were rumors about his past breakups floating around the office. nanami only seemed nonchalant. like it barely affected him. cutting someone loose a mere task he's checked off before it's back to work.

“what did you think he’d look like?” higuruma asks.

“relieved? happy?” he looked like a shell of himself, hollow, miserable. you wished you could relish in that, take pleasure in the way he seemed so empty, so dejected. payback, you think. for only loving you in silence, and thus, he suffers in silence too. but you find that you've been feeling just a brokenhearted.

hiromi shrugs, “from what i've seen, you’re entirely capable of making him as..." he pauses—tilts his head when you both come closer to a sculpture—then continues, "...afflicted as he is with you."

whatever hiromi means by that, you don’t know. his voice almost lost on your ears when he moves away from you to examine it closer. here, the sculpture portrays the man as a figure who is fully at the woman's disposal due to the adoration he possesses for her. 'The Eternal Idol' it reads. tenderness, sensuality, submission, and humility to the world in a woman's form.

you dismiss him, “please, you say that like he was head over heels in love with me, i think he just pitied me,” luring you in with the homemade bread and leatherbound jane austen. a voice so soothing and a face you see in every other man. an urge to place him next to them in comparison, hoping they’d shift and mold themselves to be the capable salaryman with blue shirts and a suit jacket that pools over your shoulders, smelling like tea and galettes and that they’d be just like him. only that they’d love you differently, loved you more, kiss you til your lips swell, and there wouldn’t be a need to hide or to fear or make you chase after the unknown, you’d know he loves you and only you.

"these accusations you make are unfounded,” higuruma merely states, "and it's also rather unjust to yourself." when he turns towards you, you expect to see a teasing, flirty glint in his eye. instead, you're greeted with nothing but his flat expression before he looks away. oh, he was just being factual.

“you should be his attorney," you try to joke.

his lips quirk up by the corners, “not even i could plead his case, the man reeks of remorse, even if he did deceive you, he’s not proud of it, which makes him less likely to defend himself..." his hands come up to brush over the engraved caption on the plaque. they're nice hands, rough, but a little too big, too gentle, like he could let you go at any moment if he wishes. nothing like nanami's. if nanami were to hold your hand he'd hold on for dear life.

“there’s no justice in that,” higuruma's decided he's done with this sculpture, picks his head up and moves away to the next one, he doesn't get attached. he doesn't linger. maybe that's why you never took things further, he's always seen things in black and white, like you were just another one of his cases. saw the teary look on your face, the long hours pouring over every detail leading up to the end and he couldn't leave it alone.

you sigh, wrapping a hand around his arm as you continue to walk down crowded corridors. "speaking like a true lawyer, one who's so distinguished."

he breathes out a rare laugh, not a real one, just these puffs of air he exhales along with a grin. "so depraved, haven't i told you the system's fucked?"

at that, you let out a laugh too, for the first time in awhile, "i'm afraid it's the same when it comes to matters of the heart." you look up, savouring him for now. he's just here right the wrongs, bring some perspective, and that was all there was to it.

------------------------------------------------------

by midnight, your phone starts buzzing by your side, jittering against the mattress. without looking at the screen, you have an idea of who it might most likely be on the other end.

ding. ding. you reach for it to see that it's nanami again. for the fifth time today. a new voice message he's recorded for you sitting there in your messages. waiting as always, for your recognition, for your reply. you wouldn't want to give him the privilege or the pleasure. you've broken up with him after all, but you're unable to pull away from him and his futile attempts. forget that you have yet to wake from the lingering bits of a dream, or that you've got an interview come morning.

nanami's voice fills the emptiness of your room, spine-tingling and molten hot. you almost miss the intros—hi, hello, please bear with me, all the usual. you've heard it in clipped and composed tones, as if he's rehearsed these lines, must have written them down on his legal pad before pressing record, his lines spoken awkward and uncertain way, tightly wound in guilt.

only now he sounds different. the exhausted drawl, the languid pulling of his syllables, slurring and seductive. "those hyacinths..." he starts, "don't over-water them." he had them delivered to your place and you had only accepted them because they were a gift, it would be sad to turn them down after he's paid for them. plus, it would be a shame to send them back, these florists have put in so much effort.

nanami pauses for a second, you hear him taking big gulps, no doubt the whiskey bottle is empty at this point before he continues, "am i any closer to getting you back?" after a short pause, the message goes silent, like he's realised what he's asked.

you press play on another where rambles on, or whatever is nanami's version of rambling. a deep voice rumbling from his chest, a heavy sigh, a string of words you can't tell decipher. if they're genuine or not with how needy he gets. nanami never gets needy. nanami never begs. it's just the alcohol talking, you wouldn't know what he's like when in the throes of proclamation...still, his voice curls its way into your heart, wringing it tight when he drawls, "tell me so i can be put out of my misery, or better yet, come back into my life."

------------------------------------------------------

geto and gojo sit across from you at the library. their bodies dwarfing the kid-size chairs and desks. close by, mimiko and nanako work on their math problems both with equal amounts of distaste but suguru's promised they'll get double the snacks as a reward for tackling their multiplication tables, hence they try their best, fingers counting down one by one.

on the other hand, you're busy colouring a page from a fairytale. a scene of a royal couple dancing at a ball, lingering by the edges is a crowd looking on happily as they twirl under glittering stars, a whole universe cheering for their union. you hold back the forlorn sigh as your hand involuntarily reaches for a yellow crayon, even here, you wish to colour in blonde locks below the prince's crown. you can't see it any other way.

"sorry about the party," you apologize, missing their birthday bash hadn't been the plan, but suguru had given you the heads up on nanami's appearance and you thought...it wouldn't be a good idea. things were still too fresh, too new, it would've been uncomfortable for everyone.

you know it was a selfish excuse, but suguru won't hold it against you. "i understand," he replies but his smile doesn't reach his eyes. 'i understand' doesn't mean the same as 'it's okay to miss out on a special day because you're afraid of conflict'. which is why you're trying extra hard to make up for it now. shifting focus to your friends instead, you avert your attention. dodging any discussion about the breakup, or nanami, or the fact that you cling on.

satoru however, doesn't fall for any of it and jumps into his interrogation. his honesty comes out sharp and biting albeit genuinely oblivious—"how long are you planning on avoiding him?" his voice is too loud for comfort and the librarian would shush him if it weren't for his charm. he's been flirting with her so they get to check out as many books as they want, plus, waiving late fees goes against geto's rules but he'll take it as a kindness for now.

you roll your eyes, he's way too good at reading you, or maybe you've just been so transparent anyone would've notice. "i'm not avoiding him, it's called moving on," you try to reason, although it's starting to sound exactly as gojo puts it.

nanami chases you down for reconciliation and nothing more, a settlement of sorts. you've already assumed it was because of guilt. he doesn't want to be the bad guy possibly. why else would nanami be leaving messages, making calls, and sending a million flowers if not as an act of atonement.

and when has he ever needed to repent, nanami's always been so aloof, you've seen him brush things off with a calm and cool demeanour, sorry is merely a word he gives to strangers he's accidentally bumped into on the train. he'll come out of this with that perfect head on his shoulders held high after the remnants of past memories have faded and no longer hold any significance to him. he could always bake more french loaves and there's more wine to be tasted. he'll continue siphoning his emotions into the separate little folders of his makeup. you've never taken up the space of his heart because that shall be reserved for someone else—"he'll get over me in due time," you say, loathing how the words taste, how it makes you hate yourself.

"geez," satoru shrugs off the tension from his shoulders, "melodrama doesn't look good on you," the jab strikes where it hurts the most.

your face falls, give it a few seconds and you'll start crying in the middle of the children's section, "i guess i wanted more," you swallow down the embarrassment, typical that you've ended up here. back to where you've always been. single, jobless, a few pounds heavier, a few more cracks in your aching heart.

"there's a lot going on—" suguru cuts in, hoping it'll make you feel better, "—it's okay to feel as you do." sympathetic as it is, you start to wonder if you've traded in a birthday for a pity party when there's a truth in what satoru says.

in the silence that passes, the scene you work on is full of colour, save for the stars you've left in white. the twins have completed their exercise sheet, and satoru stretches his limbs and yawns like a cat basking under an afternoon sun. suguru might give him a pep-talk after this and he might feel bad for bringing up the whole thing, but it has to be said— "talk to the guy, he's never looked worse."

------------------------------------------------------

on the walk home, the clouds start to gather. greying skies and thunder roaring above you. behind the clearing of mist and cold, you see him standing right outside your building. not knowing how long he's been there, but judging by the steady rhythm of his pacing feet, nanami's been waiting for a while. if anything, he's patient and—god help you—persistent.

the drizzle gets heavier and rain pours down over his body, soaking through the layers of fabric; his coat, his tie, his white shirt. golden blonde hair turning into a muddy shade of ash, strands clumping together, droplets hanging off and sticking to his skin. to his foggy glasses, thin-rimmed and shining. although drenched and dishevelled, he is every bit the man you love, and you hate that you can't look away, turn him down and kick him to the curb, pretend he doesn't exist.

taking him in, your heart clenches when the light of a lamppost next to you cuts a glowing line across his sullen face, highlighting the deep depths of his cheeks. you see that he looks exhausted, more so than usual, and he's lost a little bit of weight. you think to say something, ask him if he's been skipping meals, that it's no way to deal with his remorse. anything that would break the tension but kento beats you to it.

"we need to talk," he says in a low voice but it takes almost every fibre of his being to say it, "i thought this was the only way we could do so." he recognizes what he's doing, he's being invasive, he's being desperate and when was that word ever associated with him. not til now he supposes, not before you.

“don't you know it’s embarrassing to chase after an ex?" the bite won't be drowned out by pitter-patter, it stings, but he doesn't move an inch. swallows that lump in his throat and prepares himself for the words he's about to utter.

"i am not the best with words, but believe me when i say i am not ashamed of you–" he pauses. waits for your reaction but chooses to continue, nothing will come in between, not here and now, "forgive me—for my ignorance, for my restraint, it is because of me that you felt our relationship was one-sided."

that should do it he thinks, he's laid it out on the table, he's said what he came to say. placid and concise. and at first, he's relieved, he professes and proclaims without expectation. he didn't come here hoping for more, that part of him has been tampered with and put out by his own self-doubt. he only wishes to let you know. he'll force himself to be content with solely acknowledgement.

but he starts to worry when he sees the anger seep into your features. “you’re upset,” he states, unsatisfied, "i thought it would be best if we got closure—"

“did you come all this way just for closure?" your question hangs in the air. each passing second filled with the sound of raindrops and the million thoughts bouncing off his brain. you shouldn't put him through this anymore, it's practically ruining him from the inside out. “you’re forgiven, let it ease your conscience,” you say, ready to turn away and leave him for good this time.

he sucks in a breath, frustration prickling all over, “i am a man that’s lacking, trying to convey to you the things that cannot be conveyed, i have never been a passionate person and you knew this." you can see it so obviously in his expression that you've made him this way, twisting him up into knots over the need for verbalization, for definitions and arguments he can't give.

your eyes narrow, getting defensive. you always thought you could be the exception, that you'd be the one to experience it firsthand, his fervent need for you, whatever version of it you could get. "you denied me in front of people you cared about, you were always so cautious and constipated, like you couldn't bear it, i get that you're not into big girls but—"

"that's not true!" he says quickly, voice rising with tension. his hands come up to hold your face in them, thumbs rubbing over damp cheeks and warm skin before realizing...he's neevr actually felt it. how does a man concede, he's scared, fearful of an inevitable end, "i didn't want to lose you," he admits softly. lips less than an inch away, breaths a hair's width apart.

you try to pry his hands away, shaking your head, there's no use when "you can't love me the way i want you to and maybe i'm not the one who's meant to be loved by you."

nanami doesn't let go, "i can only love you the only way i know how, it was never my intention to make you feel less than—" with no more hesitance, no more weighing speeches and consequences, he tells you the truth—"my love for you...has made me selfish. it has consumed me, i want you so much that i don't know what to do with it. why should i put you through that, burden you with me."

"you were never a burden 'ken," his name sounds so bittersweet, as if there's still a fondness there, the way you gently hold those syllables without spite but he hears the longing, the hurt. "i didn't want you holding back for my sake, i've liked you for so long, i was ready for it all, even when it came to losing you, i don't need you to be something you're not."

he's never had that ability, despite his efforts, he isn't capable of detachment, with all his distractions and defeats, he's ultimately bound to you, too well tangled in his soul. "you shall move on but i cannot do the same—my life starts and ends with you, do you understand?”

you nod silently, looking up at him with widened eyes and catching the specks of dew on his lashes when his eyes travel toward your lips, his thumbs caressing them tenderly, benevolently.

"despite my shortcomings and the fact that you are now seeing someone else, i would like to try again, please allow me to do my best." nanami opens up to you as a flower blooms, petals blossoming, coming apart to reveal the innermost parts of himself. red spreading across his skin from the tips of his ears to his lips when he parts them under yours. he wasn’t made to hide it, all that restraint keeping him from you, from what he knows is his deepest desire. made to love, loudly and forever. there, where two lives meet again, coming together and converging.

#'i am not the best with words' proceeds to pour his heart out in the rain #go look up the sculpture its one of my faves !#sunpiece #jujutsu kaisen #jjk fic #nanami kento fic #nanami x chubby reader #chubby reader fic

51 notes · View notes

sukunasun · 2 months

Note

I loved mma geto… what an asshole (affectionate)

READ PART 1 HERE

...what an asshole (ardently)

here's what a regular morning for geto looks like; at about five when it’s still dark outside and the sun has yet to rise, his alarm beeps. wearing nothing but sweats and house slippers, he checks on the girls while they're still asleep, then walks slowly with shuffling feet and half-opened eyes towards his kitchen. he throws a couple of fruits, some boiled chicken, and protein powder into a blender, then mixes it up while he brushes his teeth at the same time.

if for whatever reason he’s having a particularly bad start—dry skin, frizzed ends, terrible headache—he’d spend more time on prepping for the rest of the day, drink more water, listen to an old song, maybe try that moisturizer this nice stylist once recommended or apply a jelly mask, but thankfully he feels perfectly fine, pimples have been a no-show in months.

he detaches the blender and brings it to his lips, chugging down liquid breakfast in one go because if he stops he’ll gag at the taste. said blender sits in his sink to be washed later on, not now when he’s still thinking about crawling back into bed and retiring early. he grabs his car keys, extra socks in a duffel bag, and is out of the house on his way to the gym by six.

like clockwork, the routine works and it sticks. so it stays.

which is why it's a little disorienting that morning when things don't go according to plan. like how he's out of toothpaste, or that his breakfast sludge tastes extra unbearable.

or that he gets an email with the subject line ‘URGENT—PR Meeting @ 10 am.’ before he's even stepped out the front door.

——————————————————

they've gathered in a fancy boardroom. sitting across from him, his PR manager ijichi looks in ill-health as always, stress and the works. he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, forgoing formalities before stating "geto-san, you should know your image is of utmost importance."

it's how he starts every conversation with geto these days and judging by the lack of reaction, he clears his throat tensely, swallowing the nerves down before continuing, "i'm sure you've seen the footage, of your..." he trails off, thinking of the right word, "—altercation with the fangirl, it's been garnering plenty of backlash."

'UFC Fighter Geto Suguru Bullies Fan' reads the headline. geto's eye twitches then. should've known you'd come back to haunt him. he's failed miserably at ridding his thoughts of that infamous incident, no thanks to his daughters and their pestering to apologize and make amends.

"we understand laying low for the time being would be impossible given your schedule and upcoming projects, but you don't have the best rep right now—" to emphasize, ijichi points to a large projector screen displaying an onslaught of angry comments loading in real-time. unsurprisingly, most of them are in defense of you. oh just look at that poor thing, how dare he disrespect a fan! dragging his name through the mud, his reputation tarnished over a thirty-second clip.

ijichi pipes up again, "—but fear not, we have a plan! all you have to do is make a public apology, we'll do more fan events, and play up the good guy role until all of this blows over."

the damage's already been done, nothing he could say would play well in his favour, the video does what it needs to. so he merely rolls his eyes at the suggestion, "sounds like bullshit." it's way too blatant and obvious, what a setup. no one's falling for it.

and he supposes it'll be the last thing you'd wanna see after being humiliated online. despite getting the most heat, he'd survive this, scandals blow over in a matter of weeks. but you'd forever hold on to this memory with hurt. that and maybe hatred too. he's not betting his chances on your continued support as his 'number-one fan'.

ijichi clears his throat, avoiding geto's intense gaze, "n-nonetheless, we'll try to give our best options moving forward, incidents like these are rather common occurrence with clients like you." what he means by that of course, is geto's now placed within the same category as the prissy, self-entitled c-list influencers they represent. his blood boils just thinking about it. even more so when ijichi adds fuel to the evergrowing fire, chaos unleashed—"it's also worth mentioning that the board is calling for your suspension from all competition until further notice...they're concerned about how it might look having a 'bully' on their match roster."

there’s an eerie silence that follows and geto realizes that they're serious. having the courtesy to cover their faces while hunched over stacks of papers. he means piles of white that’s filled with legal jargon and whatever else.

at that moment, it sinks in. he's in deep shit. absolutely fucking screwed. "what does she want?" he snaps, his patience growing thinner by the second. what he's learned from years of experience is that people are predictable. selfish. fame and fortune have done a number on him. hiding behind a carefully crafted persona, geto knows the game and plays it well. initially, it had been about survival. never letting them see who he really was. no weaknesses, just a cursed curation subjected to these frivolous, insignificant things.

attend the photoshoots, get the sponsors, sit on sukuna's podcast for an hour talking about his wins, his losses, promote his latest films—alongside gojo in a remake of baywatch and his highly anticipated villain role in the new bond film. the appeal of a sexy, evil man dodging bullets and throwing punches in a suit is universal—but it's a lot less glamorous than it seems.

ijichi waves a hand to calm him, "best we shouldn't try to escalate the situation, reaching out to her will only cause more trouble, let's stick to the plan—"

geto ignores them completely. grabbing his belongings—albeit too forcefully—before making his way toward the exit. he feels all eyes on him, expecting some brilliant idea that would magically fix his problems. if it's monetary compensation you want, the idea isn't foreign to him. he's had run-ins with stalkers and greedy ex-girlfriends asking for the same thing. "fuck this—" he says, sternly, stubbornly, "—i'll speak to her myself."

——————————————————

"any objections?" geto asks from his seat across from you, rubbing the last bits of strawberry jam from the corner of his lips with his thumb. frosted cream he licks off the healing cut on his upper lip without so much as flinching from the sting. you bet he tastes the metallic blood too.

unsurprising that the most mundane actions get you hot and bothered. turns out all it takes is an all-black fit and a nasty attitude. if only this weren't a crepe cafe, if only there weren't a table between you and the sweetness on his tongue. the dessert is all but gone, but seeing him suck the remnants off his finger makes you want to jump his bones. sit atop his spread thighs and kiss that sexy smirk off his face.

"plenty," you tell him, "i have no interest in being your girlfriend," you turn your nose up, feigning disinterest. you tell yourself you're practically over him at this point, who cares that he's so irresistible. you've got much more of a backbone than that! gone are the days of fawning over him now that you've seen the man hidden beneath the very shiny surface.

geto laughs, loud and brash. "as if," his sardonic reply agitates you even further. "listen, i don't know how to break this to you but...you're not my type." for effect, his eyes boldly trail down your body, not trying to be subtle and his grin widens after seeing your face contort with irritation, those teeth cheekily biting down on his straw like he's got a secret. like he knows he's getting under your skin.

you feel the hairs on your arms bristle like a cat in defense. "stop that," you warn, arms crossing over your body, doing no justice in hiding it. "just tell me what you want."

“i wanna get to know you more, as friends—” he says calmly, adding that last bit just to be sure and you scoff in disbelief. he wants to get to know you apparently. whatever that means. god help him, he actually continues "—and you sorta owe me, your little stunt is costing me my career, i'm sure you've heard about the suspension."

"my stunt?! i had nothing to do with that!” you exclaim. it's not your fault that video went viral, and if he's so concerned with his oh-so-precious career he should've thought about that before he delivered those off-handed, off-ensive words!

"regardless, we’re in this shitshow together, best we make the most of it," he reasons. leaning back in his seat, he takes off his hoodie before tossing it over his lap. he's getting comfortable, stretches his arms out, and rolls his broad shoulders under that sinful black t-shirt. borderline provocative. it stretches over his chest and hugs his biceps tight. your eyes widen at the veins running down his forearm, oh sweet rivers of blue, what you'd do to have a feel.

averting your eyes back to his, you challenge him on the matter, "and if i say no?"

ever the arrogant man, his lips curve into a self-assured smile. happily admitting, "you wouldn't."

it sounds like the perfect opportunity on paper—a dream come true. exactly as you pictured it. to be by his side, to earn his favour, his undivided or however-much-provided attention. but where you fit in is still uncertain, it feels more like an elaborate plot leading to your downfall, one that involves him making your life a living hell. if anything's certain, he's not to be trusted. "not precisely," you spit out.

geto inches closer, resting his forearms on the table and tilting his head. "you have every chance to say no," he says, making it sound honest but that deceptively genial expression stays.

the thing is, you have friends. none of whom had fallen into place like geto has. selectively, by your own doing. you already know his favourite colour, his date of birth, all his records and achievements, where he likes and dislikes to get his soba— his favourite meal by the way, a piece of him you've once shared on your very popular fan account while the other fans were still speculating, second-guessing—hah! you patted yourself on the back for being so knowledgable, as if you were so much closer to him, but completely delusional as you've left out the fact that it wasn't proven and he said no such thing.

but when you decided he was going to have a space in your heart, your life, separating fact and fantasy was never part of it. this wasn't a spark of fate, you were merely one in a sea of millions latching on to the end of his red string. and yet, it all feels so destined when the same...or the real geto suguru sits before you now. "what's your favourite food?" you ask, breaking the silent pause.

he's taken aback at the sudden question but he ponders, "dumplings," it's definitely not the answer you were expecting, but it's the answer you want. the first of many you hope he shares with you.

he asks in return, "what about you?"

"soba," you reply. a glimmer in his eye sparks at the sound of it.

"i know a really good place," his face softens. "maybe we could check it out sometime."

"as...friends?" you question.

"friends," suguru concludes with a self-satisfied smile.

—————————————————

he's invited you over the next week. 'i need you to look after the girls while i'm away.' is reason enough for him to let you into his fine abode. it's smaller than expected, something a celebrity like him would usually scoff at, opting for big mansions and penthouses. instead, his apartment is reminiscent of just about every other apartment in tokyo. no fancy furniture or frilly accents. cozy, simple, and in desperate need of more space.

he greets you by the door along with the girls. they tug on his sweater, reaching up for him to carry them in his arms. it makes your heart melt to see how he obliges their every request. "i'll be home as soon as i can," he tells them, "it's not fun without you." he hates going away. most days are filled with missing them, worrying about schedules and well-beings with every slow second that ticks by. he talks of movie sets and going over countless scripts, but promises to bring them back a souvenir or two.

you'd like to relish in the warmest parts of him for a little longer, how nice to be on the receiving end of his doting, kind eyes. gently creasing with every smile, every breathy laugh that pours from him. saved only for his daughters it seems.

geto leads you toward the laundry room and strips out of his sweater as he continues to pack, handing it to you. "don't ruin the wool, it was expensive," the instruction almost flies over your head when you see his shirtless body up close.

the tattoos are new. coloured scales and deep blacks lining them. so detailed and symbolic. curving over his neck, his solid pecs and squared shoulders, down the dips of his biceps, stopping short by the crease of his elbow. still shiny and vibrant under a transparent adhesive wrapped tight around the skin.

"sure," you reply and try not to gawk at him, telling yourself to be patient because you'd have fun with this image later on in private when the dishes are wiped dry and the soft plush of his guest bed calls to you ("your bed," he refers to it without correcting himself.) only then would you indulge in the imagery of fearsome creatures painting his body, monsters and beasts with claws and scales—all for what you'll think, is it merely just a way for him to scare off opponents? to seem intimidating? prideful thing that he is.

does he sit there and groan in pain when the needle strikes deep into dermis, or does he think of you. of your wide eyes admiring the art, admiring his tolerance for the pain. the healing process is just as much of a test of strength, of control, and he won't admit just how much he longs to give into your gentle fingers brushing over the raw, sensitive skin. "ive cleaned my hands!" you'll assure him, before rubbing the ointment over the pockets of tightness, urging him to never peel the flaking, itching bits.

he goes over the specifics, which products to use, how he likes to separate the fabrics by colour and material, a symbols chart that's printed and taped to the wall for reference—"school uniforms are a priority, make sure you iron them, socks and undergarments should be washed every day, don't bother with fabric softener, it builds up over time," he explains with such familiarity. like he's gone through this exact script plenty of times. it makes you curious as to why he didn't bother hiring a housekeeper.

"i'm not letting a random stranger into my house," he says, a little insulted you would even ask. which makes sense when you remember he's filed for multiple restraining orders in the past. but you force yourself to not burst at the seams with raging pride when you realize you're no longer in 'random stranger' territory. "and the girls like you," he adds softly, barely audible above the humming machines but you hear it loud and clear.

it's then you notice it for the first time when his duffle is thrown carelessly atop the dryer, forgetting to zip it shut. tucked inside amongst a sea of items, you find the condoms there.

your eyes grow wide, cheeks heating up. he's got them in three different colours too, a variety. were they for different types of sex? you don't actually know, because a virgin like you can't even look at them on the shelves let alone actually read what's on the box.

was he using them? is he dating someone new? you won't ask, it's none of your business. jealousy knotting in your stomach when thinking of his escapades. all those women who got to see a foil packet in his hands, watching him tear it open with his teeth like some barbarian, so hard and eager. what chance does the thinnest bit of latex have when up against his hardness. springing forth and spreading the material wide. snug and tight.

or course he'd be sexually active. he's a virile, hot-blooded man with needs, and you...well, you're happy with the plenty of orgasms you receive from your toy. you have no choice but to be optimistic. it takes years of self-pleasure sessions to learn one's body. and those years of fantasizing were saved for him, there was no one else. all the failed dates and one-night stands. leading up to nothing. the awkward conversations and uncomfortable trysts at foreplay just won't do, you need the only person that would satisfy you. no man could live up to it.

picturing geto is the only thing that gets you there—tossing you around, folding you in half, those large hands fitting into every crevice perfectly, looming atop you every night as you slide your toy deeper, fast strokes hitting your spot with perfect accuracy, over and over, a stray hand reaching towards your throat and holding your breaths hostage—

still, you shake yourself rid of those thoughts, geto's made it clear you're not his type. he isn't attracted to chubby virgins who have a fanatic past. least of all when he's got his choice of any woman he wants.

"you okay?" geto asks while he puts his hair up in a bun. the sight alone makes you want to scream in frustration and claw at the walls.

"fine," you shoot him a forced smile. you'll have a hot shower tonight, use you toys til the batteries run out, til his sheets are a soaked-through mess, it'll be fine, you'll clean them well, h'es taken you through the process after all. you're convinced by then the soft pang in your chest shall fade and you won't think about those stupid condoms anymore.

—————————————————

by the time summer arrives, you find yourself stuck in between two greek gods. geto and gojo stood towering on either side of you basking in the heat. their skin hot, tanned, kissed by californian sun and sand. their laughter caught in between the space above your beach hat-covered head. you don't catch the conversation when all you think about is the one, two, hundred drops of sea water trailing down sculpted muscles. your eyes zeroing on the dips of geto's neck as he takes large swigs of water, gulping down. your teeth itching for a bite, tongue urging for a taste of his salty, sweat-damp skin.

"okay, take five!" the director's rusty voice sounds through the megaphone and it's your cue to hobble back to your makeshift area of shade and little comforts. like your books and your endless supply of mojitos. omitting the fact that you ogle suguru the entire time from behind said books, biting your lip at the way he saunters out the water.

rule number one of being geto suguru's friend—don't stare.

because you don't hide the sexual frustration very well. two long weeks of imagining him in place of the leading men between the pages as well as the sheets—regency rakes on horseback, a professor in a library, a priest disciplining you for being oh so sinful—you're desperate for the lifeguard this time. "fuck me sideways..." you curse under your breath, watching suguru over the edge of your sunglasses. his body does all the right things, tempting back muscles calling out to you, shining broad shoulders that slant lazily in his laidback stance, hands over his narrow hips, and an ass sculpted to perfection under swim shorts so tight. you imagine what it'll look like flexing with every hard thrust inside of you, keeping your legs locked behind him...

gojo's grin widens over geto's shoulder when he's caught you. and you don't look away in time before suguru's head turns to catch you in the act as well. shooting you a playful wink and a smile that makes your heart beat double time, the curve of it turns you into this hungry, greedy thing. to feel it against your shoulder if he were spooning you, would he kiss you there while he fucks you slow and deep, holding you safe and secure, making you feel like the most beautiful woman in the world.

and his body does half the job when he’s got one of those faces too, the gaze of every woman entrapped. salivating and staring at him with expectation, anticipation. gets stopped every few seconds by random girls to take selfies, or to ask if he was so very kind to help apply sunscreen on their backs, not to mention he’s real chummy with the ladies playing extras. their familiarity with one another leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

compared to the rest, you stand out wearing just an oversized t-shirt and bikini bottoms. modest, plain, abut geto knows you hide enticing curves underneath. much is left to his imagination but your thighs peeking from below the hem is all he needs.

“you’re staring,” says gojo pointedly, smirking at his best friend drooling over you. “so this is what you've been up to?” gojo’s just trying to rile him up but geto’s eye twitches at the thought of him speaking about you. like he's watching you with the same heated gaze.

"she's sweet" gojo adds, his grin widening "i like sweet," his eyes stay fixated on you, lifting his sunglasses up to get a better look now that you've resorted to lounging on your side.

"don't even think about it," geto tries to play it off as light teasing but even he hears the warning caught in his voice.

as you reach for the third glass of the day, you feel geto's presence behind you. "are you reading porn—" he asks, you're about halfway through your book, somewhere in the middle of a sex scene featuring a pirate and his royal captive at sea. "huh, didn't think you were the type," he gets a whiff of mint on your breath, the smell of old paper, and sunscreen goodness by the crook of your neck.

you choke on the first sip, "it's a romance novel!" you sputter.

he smirks, "ah, forgive me, i couldn't tell from all that filth."

"i-it's not filth!—" your voice rises in pitch.

"i'd say a princess doing anal on a pirate ship is pretty filthy." yes, absolutely yes it is. and don't you know it. but he doesn't get to make fun of you.

"s-she...she trusts him! and he's gentle with her, he's the only one who understands her needs, she's not just some princess—" why should you be defending yourself. sure, there's no denying these books are erotic, marketed for the lonesome and horny, but you are anything but ashamed. "these books are written by very talented women! reducing it to just porn would be a disservice!"

when he all but takes it as a sign to walk away, you decide to turn away from him, "you don't get it," you spit out.

he's still chuckling to himself. "you're right, i wouldn't know, i've never been the romantic kind," he says, choosing then to sit cross-legged beside you. he's been doing it more often these days, spending his free time with you.

you narrow your eyes suspiciously, pursing your lips "how unfortunate, i love romantic men, i want a man who treats me like a goddess and worships the ground i walk on." you sigh, just thinking about it makes you yearn.

geto's face cringes, "men like that don't exist," he says. his will to protect stirs within, something about this hopeless romantic before him. doesn't help that his initial impression of you was just that. a damsel, helpless and scorned. a princess in need of rescuing. tells him you've never been saved before, never been touched and handled with care.

you stiffen at his reply, often you've heard it from the people around you, nothing unfamiliar about a harsh reality check, "well they do in my books and that's enough for me."

——————————————————

"care to explain what you were doing out so late? bad date? or...did you get stood up?" geto asks. leaning against the doorframe of your bedroom with one hand stuffed into his bontan pants and the other mindlessly jangling his car keys about.

"if you don't mind, i would rather not talk about it," your voice comes out stuffy, waning between frustration and hopelessness. he's watching as you hurriedly rid yourself of the tears. maybe if you were better at hiding your emotions, then you'd be safe and sound, away from his judgemental, cocky smirk.

"i went out to this club—" you finally explain, not noticing the tick in his jaw. "—thought it was gonna be fun, i'd dance a little, have a few drinks, maybe get lucky.” it was a stretch to think so but you had to stay optimistic, this was meant to be the first step in moving on! finding love is hard enough in the wild, even harder when the man you have feelings for doesn't want you back but still manages to take up every corner of your life.

plus, you dressed up and he didn't even mention it, didn't even say you looked nice. how pitiful, no amount of makeup or designer dresses could hide the rejection you feel. and under geto's scrutiny, it weighs heavier than ever.

geto thinks it's pure torture seeing you by your vanity, platform heels tossed by the side and a velvet dress so tight your cleavage spills over, the fur jacket is a nice touch and so are the earrings. "is that why you're dressed like a stripper?" he doesn't intend for it to sound the way it does, but it comes out through gritted teeth thinking about that last part. about some sleaze putting his hands on you, buying you a drink, sweet talking you into his bed when you didn't belong there. were you giggling like a teen at every compliment? biting on your straw and looking past your shoulder at the most mediocre men?

"w-what, no!" instantly, your pride is knocked a few notches down at his comment, "i was trying to look pretty! is it so bad to wanna be noticed?" you have that pout on your face and it takes everything within him not to kiss you, here and now, show you just how much he's noticed you.

"i highly doubt you wouldn't be noticed," he says. what he means, of course, is that you couldn't be sexier if you tried, glossy lips and glittery eyes, how the fuck was he able to withstand the drive back. white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel as he forces his erection away when your dress hikes all the way up, thick thighs calling out to him. he could spread you here and eat you out, make you lose your mind, but he stays put instead, geto won't give you a reaction, steels himself after taking deep breaths, you can wear whatever you like, he concludes, you wouldn't need his approval or opinion.

"yeah, well, no one did," you mutter, taking off your makeup and releasing your hair from its do, geto sneaks a glimpse at your reflection, watching as your hair releases into wild tresses, cascading across your shoulders and framing your face in that regal way.

looking around, he notices the soft bedding, the sheer curtains, everything about this room juxtaposes his, so soft and...girly. finds the empty spaces on the walls and atop the shelves, where his image would rest. it should feel daunting, knowing the lengths of your obsession but as he watches you now, he can't help but feel a tugging his chest. like he's fond. you're so...endearing.

"what's that?" he points to a small photo tucked by a corner of your vanity mirror. standing by the center of an octagon cage, a seventeen-year-old geto's smile is hindered by a mouthguard, however, joy and triumph are evident on his face. blood splatters across his skin but you both know it belongs to another, an opponent he's knocked out flat without any scruples—

"your first win," you note, a youthful face and bangs tucked behind his ear, so fresh they have yet to scar and bloat into the ears he owns now. "don't worry i threw the rest out the day we met but this photo is special." because you spent many nights as a moon-eyed teen, sighing and singing, wishing him into your life as more than just an idol. and because it was the start and ironically, the end too. the last moments before he'd got caught up in everything.

at that moment you move towards him, the straps of your dress start to fall down your shoulder and you're emboldened by heated cheeks and wobbling steps from all those caipirinhas, “um...i need some help,” you whisper, forgetting that your dinner pudge is showing and you've got layers of shapewear underneath. fuck it, the worst he could do is say no. you want to feel the warmth of his presence, to have him pull this dress off you, watch his pupils dilate, his mouth parting as he tastes you for the first time on your bed, feast on you in this very room.

surprisingly, geto's eyes darken with every step you take, his hands reaching out towards your hips instantly, "turn around," he obliges, and you obediently follow after his call. his breath shudders as he gently pulls the zipper down the delicious curve of your back, revealing smooth skin and all the flesh he’s dying to taste. his fingers merely hovering, too afraid to touch but he slips then and you gasp at the feel, a slight brush of his skin just above your waist.

"you're...not bad y'kno," he whispers, low and almost...painful. like it takes everything within him to admit. the weight of his words is heavy, too much for him to shoulder, but he needs you to know it.

"not bad?" you ask. you don't know why it hurts, why it doesn't feel as good as it should, he's fucking with you. that has to be it. so capable of pulling you in and spitting you back out as he did the first time, toying with your feelings however he so pleases.

"i'm just trying to make you feel better," he lies and it's the worst thing he's ever tasted on his tongue, "isn't that what you wanna hear?"

"dont pity me," you sigh. it stings in the worst places. all those internal wounds ready to open up again. you throw away any hope that he'd ever like you that way. he never made any promises and you were foolish to think he'd want more. friends. you remind yourself. just friends.

"i think you should leave," you say without hesitation. fast enough to pull away from the burn, to release yourself from this...longing.

geto swallows the urge, reluctantly pulling himself away just as you willed it. you've had a long night and he's done nothing but make things worse. his feelings muddled with lust, he's so uncertain, so unworthy, "i'm sorry," he says, because it's all he can offer you. and as the door shuts on his way out, the resounding echo does nothing to hide the sob that breaks from you.

——————————————————

"you're kidding me," he groans, crossing his arms while leaning against the archway by the kitchen with an exasperated look plastered on his face. furrowed brows etching a fold between his narrowed eyes when he sees you.

not wanting to stir up an argument first thing at such an early hour, he tries to ask about the commotion. yet you're currently bent over searching for god knows what. metal clanging around nosily, it does nothing to distract him from the view of your ass. the moment you rise from below the counter does he see you sporting his white t-shirt. "it was all you had lying around, and since things will get messy..." you trail off, avoiding his gaze shifting from the top of your head, down your ample chest, halting right atop your thighs, most likely examining your shorts...or what seems to be a lack thereof.

"you trying to distract me?" he would fight you on it. tell you how inappropriate, how...tempting you're being. but he'd be dead before stepping into the ringer with you. geto is convinced you've got a vendetta against him, out to kill him with your perfect ass and juicy thighs hugging those shorts, they fit like a glove in the best sense. shit, he can even see your perky tits hiding underneath his shirt. his, he wants to reiterate.

would you like to be ravished here? wonders if he should use that strength he's honed over the years to pin you down and keep you there—not that it would be required, you'd fold immediately in his arms, bending you over this island—but he's meant to get the breakfast sludge started, this is neither the time nor place. don't you know he is a depraved and desperate man with zero self-control.

"i'm much more than just my body," you say, turning around and putting your hair up in a bun. giving him a view of that tantalizing slither of skin, baring the nape of your neck and shoulders, flesh calling out for his lips, his teeth, "could you get started on the dumplings?" you add, gesturing to the ones you've kept in the fridge last night.

geto eyes the frozen homemade dumplings you've left out to thaw. to his surprise, his cock goes fully hard at the sight. a raging hard-on that tents and throbs and teeters him on the edge of breaking when he remembers you working on them; mixing the meat filling, folding the skin messily, lips that quirk up every time your wonky, imperfect wraps split down the middle. geto pressed up against you from behind as he guides your hands masterfully, pleating the edges around a spoonful of pork and chives, “gently now,” he instructs, it’s not meant to be as hot as it sounds but you don't protest, “your hands are amazing,” you gasp when it comes out perfect.

and when you're out of meat filling, you dust your hands rid of flour. then place them over the apron snug around your belly, and suddenly he's drawn...so enticing the way they sit atop the swell of it, bringing them up to your face just as round and full, your forehead damp with sweat. he feels pride at being able to teach you something new, wonders what else he could teach you, with more than his hands, this primal side of him awakened. all that pent-up frustration seeping from him. it’s the final straw, fuck the dumplings.

"you're doing this on purpose aren't you," he corners you then, lifting and setting you down on his counter. looking into your eyes staring at him shocked, like you've been caught. he continues, "well i'm not falling for it." he's so assured when he says it aloud, but his willpower slips more and more. so close, so desperate for it.

he doesn't remember the last time he's kissed, let alone fucked a woman as beautiful as you. how did he get here, inviting a fan into his house, his life. the infamous meet-ugly is never mentioned but you've caught his interest, his attention. who dares to peel back the layers and delve within the deepest parts of him. doesn't say he's sorry or that he'd regretted it. these words won't do enough. repentance feels so unfamiliar. still, he wishes to kneel by your feet, begging for you to release him from all that discomfort. the need to prove himself outweighs his need for self-preservation. setting aside his own ego for the chance that you'd see his heart hidden beneath.

who is he to touch you, why does it feel so good, why does it ache so bad? you'd do better not to trust him, he's not a real person but a jumbled mess of things he led the world to think—

"i don't know what you're talking about," you challenge him, your voice rife with arousal and desire. his large arms caging you in, eager hands grasping at your thigh and flinching at the mere brush of your skin, scorching hot and scalding. inching their way across your body. those fingers so curious and deft, he slides them up the opening of your shorts, finding nothing underneath but the heated core of you. when he raises an eyebrow in lieu of asking, you charge in. pressing your soft lips against his and feeling his resolve break in return.

#bad boys bad boys cant run away from em !!!!!#steepling my hands and smirking...theyre so horny for each other #also geto getting suspended for being mean is the funniest thing when that literally makes up 90% of mma fights. im doin it for the plot!#do give part 1 a read!#i was on that beach yelling at geto with my own megaphone: SLUT!#dw the drama shall ensue but for now im feeling fun and frisky #might edit later #sunpiece #jujutsu kaisen #jjk fic #geto suguru #geto suguru hcs #geto x chubby reader #chubby reader #jjk fanfic #saturated

58 notes · View notes