#dilfism is an epidemic ... and im only making it worse

[sukunasun]

begging you to pls elaborate on dilf geto.

more dilf geto. 

"you have a tattoo," you say when you see his bare back under fluorescent lights, exposed and gleaming with sweat. it's a late night at the gym and geto's getting in the last few reps of his set. you're meant to drop by for...something you didn't remember because nothing is as important as watching a shirtless geto do pull ups. 

he’s in the middle of his routine and it never gets old no matter how often you get to this part; muscles no longer as defined but they're there, filled out in just the right way, a little thick around the biceps, trading in washboard abs for toned lines and a nice bit of chub around the sides. adonis belt be damned, he doesn’t need one, geto's waist is perfect as it is, so sturdy you could watch him do hip thrusts all day. (...bare shoulders square and resting against a bench, hips rising and falling to a steady rhythm as he breathes through it, huffing, puffing. a drop of sweat rolls down his chest and you forcibly block out any ideas of what it would taste like on your tongue) 

"i was really impulsive back then," he explains, sheepishly grinning as he eyes it in his reflection. still stark black and fearsome, the memory of him laying flat on his front for eight hours while his old headmaster rhythmically tapped and pierced a dragon into his skin is fresh. so is the pain he endured for a roaring face over his deltoids, sharp claws and scales leading down the middle, dipping, flexing under his shoulder blades, bending and moving along as he completes the last of his workout. "although, a lot of people were put off by it," and you wonder why.

gojo offers his input, "it's intimidating? he looks like he's in a gang," and he's not wrong considering geto's fashion taste is...questionable to say the least. closet consisting of oversized t-shirts he’s picked up from the vintage store, the kind with faded graphics and tacky script, animal print button-ups that are two sizes too small—thus, said buttons become redundant when he only manages to get three of them clasped—and these silk floral shirts he’s bought in bulk from a tourist shop. over the top sure, but it’s something else too, that which lies beneath the clothes because nothing ever wears geto, he makes it work, all the time.

"don’t tell me you’re into bad boys." you hear the smirk in gojo's voice. his best friend definitely looks the part of a yakuza boss. although, it's not that either, because geto's not a boy, he's wild and sexy and just the right amount of a rebel, a man no one fucks with. comfortable in his skin, playing by his own rules. who makes your knees go weak with every new cigarette he lights, every black strand of hair that fades into silver, only getting better with age, and he embraces all of it.

its the way he carries himself, matured, confident, unapologetic. even when he’s hurriedly grabbed something of yours by accident and finds himself at a bake sale with it pulled taut and stretched over his chest, cinching around his bulging arms. ‘I’M A HOT GIRL’ it reads, and his brownie recipe has never failed him but he gives your clothing some credit, after all, he’s raised over a thousand dollars. which is quite a feat given that most of these private school snobs wouldn’t ever think to consume anything that wasn't gluten-free or low in carbs.

while in comparison, geto always cooks by taste, whether cold soba noodles and steaming white rice among an array of dishes he’s prepared by hand, he's come to realise that "a recipe is only a suggestion," he shrugs, smiling when the braised pork and tempura turn out better now that he's more generous with the seasoning. a stew boils on the stove and it makes your stomach grumble when he’s placed it before you at his dining table. he chows down, big huge clumps of rice clasped by his chopsticks, the spinach he’s blanched and mixed with the stir-fry is almost gone before you can get a taste of it, but he saves extra pieces of meat for you. the tilt of his head when he relishes in the flavour, the groans he lets out, "mhm...thats good," his voice grits behind a mouthful. his savagery on display, hunger, and pride at what he's made, that he's now sharing it with you.

gosh, you don't know how long you can stand this, here with legs spread wide on either side, geto leans back into the chair that's dwarfed by his tall frame, his whole chest out collecting the crumbs that fall, caught in the fabric of his apron with white rabbits lining the hem, jaw clenching, unclenching as he chews, fuck...does he know how beautiful he is, geto looks the picture of perfect health. who eats whatever he wants and enjoys it. all the salt and sugar, the extra bits of garlic. even when he would come off messy, sloppy, your heart clenches every time he so much as blows the spoonful of soup before feeding it to you, or that he reaches out to rub at the sauce left at the corner of your mouth, licking it off his thumb.

the act is innocent, nothing more than a kind gesture on his part. but seconds later, it sets something off in him when it dawns on him. feels that desire bubbling up, suddenly self-conscious and so aware that your bodies are so close. only separated by a feast and an unnamed...thing; an overwhelming burst of longing, heart slowing down because you can only focus on each other, he could inch just a little closer, kiss and suck that corner tasting of balsamic vinegar and sweet surrender.

"what does he have that i don't?" says every guy who tries and fails to impress, to charm. geto finds his old records one day as he's clearing out the back room. a few hundred of them nestled in a beer crate, worn from age and use, dusty, but holding all the memories in the grooves and scratches of the vinyl. decorated with the fingerprints of a younger geto in high school picking it up as a hobby not knowing how to actually hold one or care for them. now he's learned to hold them by the edges, that they should be stood upright instead of getting stacked on top of one another, keeping the pressure and weight off them. so wary of everything, gentler, patient. 

sifting through them he comes to find one that has an old and worn-out cover, running his fingers over it he relishes in the feel of the wrinkles and texture underneath, the smell so inviting and long-lasting, waxy and yellowed on the edges, only getting better with age. slipping the record out he places it gently through the center spindle, before dropping the needle on it. when the beginning sounds of a soul tune ring through the speakers, he takes a moment to relish it, crackles and all, basslines vibrating through the house.

geto pulls you closer by the hand. "dance with me," he smiles, and so do you. "forget about them," he whispers, lips pressed to your ear, holding you close, holding you tight, swaying. forget about all the other boys who make you run circles around them. you're tired of it, to say the least, of going through the talking stage, the pointless hookups, and all the ways these dates will never live up to a moment spent in his presence.