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night-of-the-living-thiccness · 6 days ago

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Infatuation (Part 2)

geto x fat!fem!reader

cw/tw: so much body talk, insecurity, internalized misogyny, flawed reader, minor suicidal ideation (talked about in a non serious/joking manner), bullying, very minor violence, gender heavy implications, mild obsession

It takes a bit for you to get back to a normal routine.

Most of it was your own perception, thoughts mixing and muddying together until you couldn't separate the real from the fantasy anymore. You felt Suguru's fingers on your skin in your sleep, smelled the familiar scent of him, heard his heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Then you'd wake up, alone, and the reality of the situation would buzz around in your head once more. Nothing had changed about your relationship with Suguru, except it felt like everything had. You’d allowed him to get too close, see too much of you. Both physically and otherwise. You wondered if he'd look at you with pity or disgust, and which one was worse.

You craved him like sunshine, you always had, but this had to stop now before you dug your hole any deeper. His attempt at being a good friend had only furthered your obsession. You didn't trust your hands to stay at your sides around him. The cold metal of his chain was the only thing grounding you. It felt like a noose, but you couldn't take it off.

You’d missed the last three days of school. There was no way to go to class and still avoid him, and you had no logical answer for him if he were to ask if you were okay. You didn't know. Part of you hoped the boys didn't care. You roll over in your bed and try to convince yourself they weren't concerned, but your phone buzzes with impeccable timing.

You click the screen on, squinting through the dark of your room at a screen that seemed to glow entirely too bright. Suguru.

you dead?

Boy language is laughable, but you know the sentiment behind it. You type back a reply.

yep!

You throw in a couple ghost emojis and hit the send button, almost tossing your phone back into the sheets beside you before deciding that wouldn't be good enough to get him off your case.

seriously, dude. im fine, just sick.

You’d settled back into your sheets and almost slipped back into the comfort of slumber when your phone buzzed again.

You ignored it.

Until it happened a second time, and then a third-

You snatch your phone again and read the series of messages that had been sent to you.

i don't believe you.

look i know i probably did too much the other day

i didn't mean to piss you off. i think we need to talk.

You don't reply, and roll back over. No more opened doors.

xxx

The week finishes and you’re glad to have the weekend to yourself. Slowly, you were starting to feel a little better about the way things had gone. You didn’t think it would ever fully cease, the embarrassment of the whole situation, but you’d hoped your absence had at least drilled it into Geto’s thick ass skull to take you more seriously when you said you were uncomfortable. Maybe the boys would even learn that not everything is a joke.

The only one you’d spoken to was Choso. Sweet, angel baby Cho. He was always the nicest of the group, a tender hearted individual who wore his feelings on his sleeve like a badge of honor. He didn’t fight you when you said you wouldn’t be attending the benefit, he seemed more concerned about your well being. You’d decided to buy his lunch on Monday to try and make up for it.

Reality TV was helping, reminding you that people had it rougher on the daily. For majority of the day you’d been glued to the couch, trying your best to remain immersed in the lives of rich scumbags who had nothing better to do than lie about which plastic surgeries they’d had and cheat on their partners.

Plastic Surgery.

It was a thought, honestly. If you had the funds to do so, you’re almost positive you would do the same. Tummy tucks and facial lifts and reconstruction until you are no longer what you are. You wanted more than the nepo babies of the world. More than just minor adjustments. You wanted to walk back into school on monday unrecognizable, sit and Barbie and Midge’s table with them, gossip about… whatever it was they talked about and act like you didn’t notice the wandering eyes of other people. Maybe Gojo would try and get Suguru to be his wingman. Maybe this time, Suguru would see you and-

Stop it.

You didn’t have the funds anyway, plastic surgery wasn’t and end all to feeling better, and Suguru– You didn’t want to think about Suguru anymore, or his dazzling smile, or his silken hair, or the way his hands felt wrapped around you. In fact, life would be better if you could find a way to never see him at all, at least that way you could grieve without the ghost of hope sneaking it’s way around your mind every time he stood just a little too close.

Destiny had other things in mind, it seems.

The turn of your lock has you jolting up from the couch, frozen in surprise for just a moment before your favorite dream and worst nightmare is pushing his way through your door.

He looks good. A little too good. His hair is half up, which isn't entirely uncommon but the sides are braided back out of his face, every flyaway perfectly tucked into twisting rolls of silken onyx, and the pieces left hanging look like they've been blown out in loose waves. He's carrying armfuls of bags, one from a department store you know all too well.

“What are you doing here? Did Gojo give you my spare key?”

You don't even attempt to get off the couch and help him. He can suffer.

He drops the bags in your living room and kicks the door shut behind him, huffing. He's irritated, you realize. He’d never been one to wear his emotions on his face, at least not permanently. He was always trying to pull himself back down to a state of disinterest, but Suguru was sensitive, and at times quick to anger. You’d seen it time and time before.

“Picking you up for the benefit?” He scoffs like you're stupid “Also, you should know better than to trust Satoru with anything, much less the keys to your apartment.”.

A scowl graces his face for just a fraction of a second before he's back to his stone charade, rifling through the bags which you now assumed contained things for him to get ready with. Studying him closer, you notice he's still dressed in loungewear, sweatpants and an old white t-shirt.

“He lives the closest, it makes the most sense.” You defend yourself, completely unshy about the discontentment that plays on your own face.

“I have a car. I could be here just as fast and I’m way more trustworthy.” He’s not looking at you, but from the sound alone you know the words are coming through gritted teeth. Something is really gnawing at him, and from his cold behavior you could endeavor that something is you.

“Are you mad at me right now?” You laugh humorlessly while rising to your feet, a habit of yours you know pisses him off but you can't care “You're breaking into my house because you knew I wouldn't answer the door and you're mad at me?”.

He shoots a mean glare up at you from where he’s crouched on the floor, fire blazing in his eyes before he sighs and takes a deep breath. Once he's collected himself he rises to his feet again and crosses his arms in front of him, white knuckle gripping the crooks of his elbows.

“I’m not mad.” Liar “I just don't understand why you wouldn't ask me to hold your emergency key– this is stupid. Get dressed.”.

“I already told Choso I’m not going.”

“Oh, so we can talk to Kamo. Funny, I thought you weren't answering texts this week.” He returns to the bags, reaching for the one from the department store earlier in the week “Not good enough to hold a key, not good enough to talk too. Great. Remind me again which one of those pricks is your personal chauffeur? Which one of them is it that your family takes on vacations? Was it Satoru or Kamo who bailed you out when you got pulled over with weed in your car-?”.

“Stop it.” You spit, teeth grit and shoulders tense.

The two of you didn't fight often, not really. Sure, he would spit awful jokes and you would call him a dick. He’d playfully shove you and you’d playfully pull his hair. ‘You’re an asshole’ had become layman's terms for expressions of affection over the years, but this?

He almost sounded jealous.

And he had no right to be. How many times had you watched him slink off to the bathroom with some bimbo at a party? How many times did you keep your calm while he and Gojo gossiped about their casual hookups? How many times did you stand beside him and smile politely while girl after girl hit on him?

You know it's not the same type of jealousy, which is maybe why it burns all the worse when he freezes in place and dares to look at you like he's soft and sorry. He had no idea what all he needed to be sorry for. Every night you’d cried yourself to sleep over one of his shitty jokes or complete lack of awareness when it came to you. Every way he’d rejected you but never directly. For shoving you into a fitting room and making you face every part of yourself–

“I’m sorry. I just…”

He shakes his head and rises to his feet, closing the distance between the two of you while he speaks. Every step winds you tighter, and tighter, and you can feel the temperature rising to a boiling heat–

“It doesn't matter. I brought the dress and some hair and makeup stuff so–”

He wasn't listening. He never listened. He didn't listen when you told him the first time. Or the second. Or the third.

I’m just as unimportant to him as I am to everyone else.

“I’m not. Going.” The words come out quieter and shakier than usual, dug out of the pit of your gut from somewhere deep.

Suguru furrows his brow, his eyes scanning your face and mind undeniably working overtime. You know what he's doing, looking for a de-escalation tactic. Little did he know you were far beyond that.

He reaches forward, and you can hear your heartbeat thrumming in your ears as he speaks “Yes, you are. Are you really so mad at me that you–”.

His hands meet the cloth of your tshirt on either side of your arms and you snap.

“Don’t fucking touch me!!” You voice comes out high pitched and shrill, crackling under the pressure and Suguru jumps backwards, showing you open palms in a soothing gesture, and it only serves to hurt you more. All six foot three of him, acting as if you could do any real damage. Would he startle so easily if you weighed one hundred and fifty pounds? One twenty? One ten? You doubted it. If you were anyone other than you, he'd laugh, grab your wrists, tell you how cute and silly you were being. But fat girls don't get exceptions, understanding. You're supposed to know your place and stay firmly in it.

“I’m not mad at you! I was never mad! I just can't, okay?!” You're slowly regaining control of your volume and he seems to relax a little, though whether that's due to your declining noise level or his own tendency towards self control is for him to know and for you to forever wonder.

“I just fucking can't. That dress looks ridiculous on me and I don't know what to do with my hair or my face and I just feel so fucking disgusting I–”

“Disgusting?” His question slices through the air like a blade, leaving a heavy silence in its wake “What do you mean?”.

He knows what you mean. He always knew. There was rarely a question he needed to ask you, and yet he asked them anyway. You stand tense and frozen, feeling like a cornered dog.

“Don't make me say it.”.

After a few seconds, he sighs and re-attempts approaching. Instead of touching you, he reaches out his hand for you to take, and after a brief moment of hesitation you do. Like always, he's warm, soft skin caressing your fingers with a sickening kind of sweetness, a mixture of skatole, benzaldehyde, and acetone. The kind of sugary bitter notes that make you nauseous, the ones you’ll never forget.

He sits on the coffee table in front of you, examining your fingers like he might find something incredible there, his eyebrows furrowing slightly as he looked for a way forward.

Finally, finally he finds a way to sum up whatever was going on in that stupidly attractive brain of his:

“I’m sorry I don't understand. But I want to.”.

He kills you when he does that fucking thing with his eyes, pinning you in place with a piercing gaze. It makes you want to melt into him, to hide from it by coming closer, but it's off limits. It always has been. You were a recovering alcoholic staring into a locked display case. You wanted to run, before you did something stupid and shattered the glass.

“I’m fat, okay?” The admission burns your throat. You know it's true, and you know he's already aware of that fact, but hot shame sets fire to your cheeks anyway. Still, he has to get it through his thick skull.

“I’m fat, and I always have been, and it's never once been cute. That dress fucking exposes every roll and flab and pudge I have and I don't fucking like it.”

You don't understand it, but his expression softens, eyes warming up despite the pain in your voice.

“I just wanna sit here in my pajamas and watch tv and not worry about it. Is that too much to ask?”.

“Thank you for telling me.” He says, his tone honey soft and intentionally gentle, like he’s some sort of pastor, squeezing your hand reassuringly, “But you’re fucking going–”.

“Suguru, please-”

“No, y/n. You're going. And you're gonna wear the dress. Because I told you–”.

You attempt to pull your gaze away from him, turning your head to the side like a petulant child, bottom lip jutting out almost despite your own will, but he follows the movement, dipping down to stay in your line of vision, his hair swishing dramatically as he does so. When he knows he has your attention again, he smiles.

“--you look incredible in it. I meant that.”.

You can feel tears welling in your eyes. Fuck, what is with him making you cry recently? And why does it feel like you have no choice?

He squeezes your hand once more and you attempt to return his smile. You’re certain it looks painful. He switches to a flat palm against your own, and then slowly intertwines his fingers with yours, rubbing his thumb in soothing circles against your flesh, attempting to comfort you.

“You're my date to this thing and I’m so excited to have you hanging off my arm. If you need me to hold your hand the whole time, fine but I’m not letting you talk yourself out of it just because you're insecure. I'm sorry, but then again, I’m absolutely not.”

His what?

He can’t say shit like that, he has to know he can’t just casually say shit like that–

“Is that was this is to you? A date?”

Your brain is short circuiting. You can’t think about anything else. Not the way he just casually called you out, not the way his tone was one of a modern mom-fluencer explaining to her toddler why he can’t have a cookie in front of millions for clout– Your heart is racing. He can’t be serious.

“Is that not what it is to you?” His smile softens a bit, eyes narrowing as he slips into analytics mode, trying to see through your forehead directly into your mind.

Part of you thought he always could.

“I–” You start to feel lightheaded and have to remind yourself to breathe “I don’t know. Did you– do you want it to be?”.

He chuckles, more air than sound, and rolls his eyes at you, like you did exactly what he expected of you.

“Go put the dress on and meet me in the bathroom, dumbass. You’re gonna make us late.”

xxx

By the time you make it to the bathroom, Suguru has a makeshift beauty salon set up in the cramped space, makeup stacked along the cheap faux-marble of your counter, a curling iron heating on a towel. He’s waiting patiently, leaned against the wall tapping away on his phone looking bored, until he sees you.

Warmth and pride swirls in his eyes, the corner crinkling as the corners of his mouth turn up. You can only look at him for a short moment before you’re freezing in place, hands moving to cover your face with an exasperated groan. You’re flanked by your two worst enemies; the bathroom mirror and Suguru. Neither you could face. Neither you could ever see yourself eating in front of–

And then a hand is tugging at your arm, guiding you until you’re sitting on the closed toilet seat. The godforsaken dress rides up with the motion, and your hands quickly fly to correct it, gripping the fabric with white knuckles and doing your best you recover yourself, which causes an amused giggle to escape Suguru.

“How the hell am I supposed to sit in this thing?” You pout, and he shrugs.

“Very carefully.”

You could murder him.

You would be baffled by Suguru’s hair and makeup expertise if you didn’t know exactly where it came from. You remembered when he was learning.

Early Highschool hadn't been easy on Suguru, even less so with the untimely passing of his aunt, leaving two cousin-turned-sisters two look after, to feed, to nurture, to teach. Suguru's parents weren't great, but they were next of kin.

You remembered him watching makeup tutorials in the public library, studying intently and taking notes like he was a pre-med student. He wanted the girls to know how to dress, how to use things no one in their lives had taught them to use before. He read parenting books, kept up with the latest trends via instagram. Hell, at one point he'd joined a facebook group for single moms just to ask for advice from time to time. Initially, the administrators didn't want to let him in, but after a few initial messages and some award winning selfies with Nanako and Mimiko, they relented. He was, like in any other social setting, the shining star of the group. He still had about seven different middle aged white women leaving comments– no, letters of devotion on his page every time he updated his profile picture.

He's gentle, soft hums escaping him as he works on your face, little chuckles when he touches you with something cold or wet and your face scrunches up in displeasure.

You’d be lying if you said it wasn't nice though, being fussed over by him.

What was also nice was the way he kept inching closer. His knee sliding in between your own, his hair toppling forward and tickling your exposed cleavage. At one point he grabs your jaw, angling you a certain way and the pressure lights you on fucking fire. You can’t even help the way your hands fly to the front of his shirt, gripping the fabric there, knuckles scraping against the washboard abdomen beneath.

You're convinced you'll never make it out alive, and the shit he says is worse than any physical action he takes.

“You're so tense. Relax for me, y/n–” As he works on your eyes.

“Open up. Mmhmm, just like that–” As he applies something to your lips.

“Bare with me, good girl–” He purrs while he applies your mascara, cooing at you when he finally releases you and watches you blink rapidly at the new sensation.

It isn't until he steps back to assess his work that you can finally breathe again, lips parted and panting lightly as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, and then uses the tips of his fingers to angle your face back and forth, double checking his work.

“Perfect.” He smiles, and all you can do is nod pathetically. The air is too dense for words.

part 1

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night-of-the-living-thiccness · 7 days ago

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Chubby Goodness

A/n: Chubby fat Geto does something to me now, I swear. I have a soft spot for Geto cause of S2 of course so that helps. Another spur of the moment piece, yas indeed.

Chubby!Sub!Geto x Dom!GN!Reader. SFW and 🔞 content inside.

NO REPOSTING, COPYING, EDITING. Like, reblog and follow if you enjoy. Thnx u!

Kneading the fatty plushness of his belly flaps had you ogling his velvety mushy skin. Your eyes welled up with sparkling wonder at how he looks so freaking cute. Caressing and playing with his face cheeks made seeing his bashful blushing face all worth it.

Brushing his back length inky strands got you spotting his pink cheeked smiling self twiddling his sleeve covered hands in the mirrors reflection while waiting for you to finish compelled you to braid his locks like a Rapunzel do before taking his face in your hands to lather lipstick marks all over his beet red self; borrowing the makeup from his stash.

Watching his robed, socked, sandal wearing-self waddling here and there throughout his temple with adoration. Seeing Mimiko and Nanako cuddling either side of Geto as they lounge and nibble on sweets as Geto's lips and cheeks are smeared with sugary goodness tempted you to lick off such said goodness. And you did. To the twins amusement and to his flushed embarrassment.

Whether dressed in his robes, regular clothes, or even cross dressing, seeing his radiance stretch out his attire to the point where skin peaked out had you pining hard. Skimpy tops and shorts especially just to ogle his back rolls and big fat dumpy jiggling as his hefty hips swayed to and fro.

And the lingerie. FUCK the lingerie. Definitely the see through, bra and thong combo. The fact he willingly lets you dolly him up and you get to watch while seated down as he swayed, sashayed and spun about while modeling got your heart racing and your core pulsating. Wiggling his plump giant ass in your face gets you. Every. TIME! Yep, your phat angel is getting railed for this.

Stripping him of his clothing left him rosy cheeked and shy as his tubby glory laid bare beneath you. Fondling his pecs turned breasts always had him moaning like the sensitive, needy man that he has become. Stroking his hanging jugs and sucking on those utters just to watch with lidded eyes at his squeezed eyed, mewling expression. Peppering bite marks and bruised sucks all over his drooled layered mounds and nipples brought a sharp toothed smile to your face.

Nuzzling your face into that smooth bulging tum tum made him jiggle with giggles. Wringing your paws into his jelly belly had him laughing and shaking his meaty arms. Raspberry blowing in his roundness had his tubby thighs nearly hitting you in the process to get you off, kicking to accentuate his high-pitched squealing. And so, straddling his stretch marked hips, you pinched and wriggling into those plump thighs and calves had him cackling unhinged. Yet you knew deep down he enjoyed these ler and lee bouts amiss the sex as much as you do.

Finally satiating your tickle need for now, you spun around to properly ride him. It always brought you two to tears of unbridled amor. Your hands clawed into his stretch marked hips for support as his meaty hands hook into your hips. Seeing that sweat sheen shine to your beloved Suguru's round swelling beauty made you gushing to his endowed relief. His throbbing burning staff always filled you to the brim in your gooey tight grip. Bopping up and down his shaft had him cumming at least a dozen times in you as you came all over his abdomen.

You always doted on your chubby hubby, pulling out of him, and rolling him onto his plush cum coated belly, as his sausage fingers and toes curl into the tainted sheets while you ate him out between his ginormous stretch marked peaches. His cacophony of swears and carnal whines had you teething and marking every inch of those hills. Seeing his heaving red cheeked face had you brushing aside the strands stuck to his face, being his big spoon, following his already exhausted self in deep sleep.

Giving him butterfly kisses in the morning gets him tiredly smiling as it stirs him awake. Prepping the bathwaters for a gentle warmth to contrast the cool early sunrise, you helped him into the massive tub, watching him settle in lax enjoyment, before joining him. The next half hour left you two pruny but melded into one as you cuddled your round cutie baby.

Most of all, your smug smirk always grows whenever you cross paths with that certain sorcerer, eyeing Gojo's strewn lipped expression at you being the one carrying his ex bestie turned your chubby cultist lover in your literal cursed fueled arms yourself. Not him. Him waving and teasingly calling out Satoru in that light elated tone only made you huff in envy before bolting you two away, leaving your curse user allies and sorcerer foes in your dust, as every time your Sugu reacts to your one and only competition ergo Toru, you feel the need to remind your man who he belongs to. He knew what he was doing. Just for this exact end result. You two stayed in your shared private room in the temple the rest of the day.

Conclusion? A chubby Suguru Geto is a whole new kind of addiction. One you could never forget.

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