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, but 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—

although you wouldn't call yourself a fan when devotee sounds more accurate given the countless hours you've dedicated to research and impulse buying—scrolling through wiki pages, analyzing old interviews, watching late-night matches on a glitchy livestream, catching a tiny glimpse of his figure from a shitty seat in a stadium, or buying an ugly t-shirt from his online store when the one made by a fan artist is cheaper and looks way better in your opinion—still, you'll do it now and again because he isn't like everyone else, he is a perfect being, untouchable, you'll love him from afar like this, settling for whatever bit of scraps you can get hoping to get closer, and yet...

"you don't know me," geto simply says when he's come face-to-face with you. well, technically he's looking down at you from where he stands tall, heads above you. he's every bit as handsome as you'd expect, the kind no injury or scar could hide. you think to say something, gush over him, the man of your dreams in the flesh, a long-awaited meeting now realized but it's all too much. 

his sweat-glistened skin, his flushed cheeks, the soft panting breaths, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, and the way he ever so gently flicks his hair away, not to mention that dripping line of red that seeps from his nostril shouldn't make him look as sexy as he does, something about a bruised and bleeding man practically makes you swoon. oh how you'd always dreamed of this image, your imagination supplied you with multiple scenarios of him atop you and most preferably inside you too. 

to be this close to him, so close you could reach out and touch. but a bigger girl always takes the temperature of a room before walking into it, only now you've made the crucial mistake of forgetting where you are, and who exactly could be listening. "um...i didn't mean–" your eyes scan across a sea of judgemental eyes taking you in, contempt written all over their faces. there's a heat pooling in your eyes, a lump caught in your throat, visibly constipated would be the word to describe it, but geto doesn't feel pity for you. 

instead, his expression contorts into scorn, rolls his eyes at your desperate attempt to explain when you're choking on your words and flittering around like a headless chicken. he must think you're so awkward, so lame, just another one of those people with nothing better to do with their lives. "you should leave, you're taking up space," he says, pushing past you with a shove like you were merely a nuisance to him, your shoulder bumping into his torso. but it doesn't hurt honestly, not as much as the disappointment, the humiliation he's left you with. 

——————————————————

back home, you dismantle the shrine. an altar made with the labour of love, and many long nights spent crafting this holy site. suguru is a name you can't look at the same way, now riddled with sour definitions. mean, rude, arrogant, and all the synonyms bundled into one. suddenly, the pictures on your wall stare back at you differently, geto and his camera-ready poses, in designer pieces, perfectly curved happy smiles and sultry smirks turning against you. "he brushed me off like i was nobody, like i was nothing," you sniffle. 

with shaky hands, you tear them down hastily, omitting to start from the corners or to roll them back into tube containers. making it quick so it'll hurt less, like tearing a bandaid off. "psh, taking up space..." you shake your head in disbelief, "what a fucking asshole." 

stuffing the bins with crumpled magazines and the journal entries you were enthusiastic about, another collage you've put together, the pencil writings have faded, laser stickers peeled from the edges. however, the binders and photo cards have been kept well, pristine even, and you consider if there are notes and letters you wrote to him tucked into the spine, believing you'd send them someday, but you refuse to keep them.

flipping through, you can't help but cringe at the thought of a man being this famous as an athlete. you understand sponsorships and brand deals, but turning into a celebrity, a commodity...maybe it was an act all along, a persona he's crafted. there was no underestimating the man's capabilities, the ease and precision with which he strikes a punch or spews cutting words are unmatched, why would it be different when it came to your first meeting. 

"you've idolized him, it was a parasocial relationship at most..." you say. given the circumstances or the 'end of an era,' as you've put it, there'd be no other way to comfort yourself but with the hard truth. 

and it shouldn't feel this...hollow. an empty space left behind without any notice, like it ended too abruptly. you'd always known the phase would come to a close, but you had pictured meeting him at the end of an aisle, twirling in his arms under heavy rain, or a bittersweet goodbye at an airport maybe. anything resembling a whirlwind romance that would replace the daydreaming. anything but this. 

people meet all the time, people fall in love, was it too much to believe you'd be one of them. and you tell yourself you'll get over him, it wasn't meant to be anyway, what did you expect, that he'd see you and fall in love? you wouldn't know any different, the closest you ever got to love was...obsession really, he was never a real person to you. "all this for a man who never knew i existed." you're sure wherever suguru is, he'd be absolutely fine, happy even, and not the least bit gutted about what he'd done. 

——————————————————

the rest of geto's day plays out like usual—he fights, he wins, then tends to the nosebleed. nowhere in those allocated time slots for cryotherapy and post-match interviews does he think about you. or the way your eyes fell. or that he instantly regretted it the moment he left you standing there. 

across the gym, nanako calls from where she sits on a boxing ring,  "that wasn't nice, papa!" perching her head against ropes, her legs swing off the edge. beside her, mimiko nods in agreement, cuddling her dolly closer to her chest, "you were being mean..." she mumbles. the sandbag crushes and swings to the rhythmic, muffled beats of bandaged fists meeting leather. resounding, familiar, enough to tune out the disappointed tone in their voices. 

his punches come to a halt, "i know," he sighs exasperatedly. pressing his forehead to the sleeve and watching the sweat pool by his feet. drip, drip, he takes a deep breath in. willing himself to think of something else, anything that could ease the tightness in his chest, the grinding of his teeth. the guilt that bubbles up becomes unbearable, itchy and prickling all over his skin. heat creeping up his neck, to his ears, he's embarrassed, ashamed. he should know better, he'd been better. a part of him grieves, long gone were the days of geto suguru and his straight As and pressed uniforms, always thanking the teachers and using honorifics in between. 

geto learns that he doesn’t react to it as smoothly as he would like—your wobbling lips and puffed up cheeks, teary eyes shining, lashes clumping with tears, an expression he can't seem to forget, like your world was crumbling before your very eyes—he knew it was wrong, knew you were vulnerable and he did it anyway. 

when was the last time he got this hung up over a couple of badly chosen words, all for some fangirl?  you've got him giving away easy hits and fucking up his game-plan, ruminating. he's supposed to be training, working on his form, looking up the next guy he's meant to beat to a pulp and analyze his moves, all that and eating these tiny meals he abhors, the ones made up of bland chicken breast and broccoli. 

bottom line, he's meant to brush these things off as he always does. but the urge to get on his knees and beg for forgiveness is almost as strong as the urge to punch something. he only settles for the latter because geto never gets on his knees, and he never begs, the thought alone is enough to send a shiver down his spine, why does he even think of it as an option.

"she got to me didn't she?" is less of a question, and more of an admission but the twins giggle as if they know he's already done for. 

——————————————————

geto sits across from you at a crepe place a week later. famous for its strawberry sauce and the whipped cream they make from scratch, it's a good choice for a first date spot. the tables are covered in red and white checkered linen, there's an upbeat pop tune playing in the background, and sitting right between the two of you is a centerpiece made up of fresh daffodils. 

but this isn't a date. there's nothing romantic or intimate about it and how he's even managed to find you is still a mystery let alone what his intentions are with choosing such a scene. "my daughters like this place," is the only explanation you get. 

he's wearing what can only be described as undercover chic. greeted you by the door dressed in black head to toe. along with sunglasses and a face mask, but the earrings give him away. well, that along with the cut on his lip and the stitches over his eyebrow. "you got my letter," he merely states, without a 'hello' or 'thanks for meeting me on such short notice'. he doesn't mention why he's sent actual mail to your office instead of texting or calling like a normal person—how easy it was for you to recognize those familiar black inky lines scribing a time and place on paper with zoo animals decorating the edges—you might have ignored it, reported it, if not for the part of you that wholeheartedly gives into him, the infatuation still hasn't worn off. 

"so um," clearing his throat and keeping his voice low, geto's arms fold across his chest. it makes him look too big for his seat, bulky and broad, "about what happened the other day—" he chokes out.

"it's fine," you cut him off immediately. the last thing you need right now is to be reminded of it. took forever to wash away the embarrassment, to scrub off the eerie feeling of his dismissive gaze, his cold stare, a shining vaseline-lined face that would forever haunt you the rest of your days. "i don't even remember it," you wait for him to continue but he just..sits there. 

head tilting curiously, suddenly interested. "not even the part about me being...what was it you said...legendary?" he teases, laughing to himself. it sounds lovely, bright and clear. almost so good you think he's rehearsed it but you know it's just another one of those things geto does, that adds to his charm.

your cheeks puff up as you chew, the jam is sweet and so are the little slices of fruit. you munch and chew, growing annoyed by the second, "it's not that funny," you mumble.

geto brushes off your offended expression, "relax, it's nothing i haven't heard before, let me guess—you love me, you're my number one fan, and you want to ride me and have my babies," he lifts an eyebrow, a self-satisfied smirk appearing.

your fist clenches tight around your fork, "y-you don't know that for sure, in fact, you don't know me at all."  

geto scoffs, actually scoffs in your face, "i know what you're like, you're just another groupie who wants to get close."

"groupie?!" you exclaim, "as if i'd ever sleep with you after the way you've treated me—" your nose turns up at him, anger flaring up to the max, "i wouldn't want to be chucked around and felt up anyway, besides, you wouldn't be able to," you lie again, throwing the final jab to his overinflated ego for effect, to put him in his place. now emboldened by fury, by the urge to prove him wrong. 

you're so loud the other customers turn their heads, somewhere in the back a plate drops to the floor, the shock is evident. mainly because of how explicit you're being but....anyone would be crazy to think so. to say such a thing. how blasphemous. suguru is so physically strong that he forgets not everyone can split wooden blocks into halves with their bare hands like it were the easiest thing, hooking sandbags up to a rig with one arm, you've seen him breaking doors down with a mere shove in movies, and how could you ever forget that one picture of him holding two litre water bottles in his hand and having it look so out of proportion, dwarfed by their massive size.

there's no doubt about it, not only could geto lift and toss you around like a ragdoll, feeling you up any way he desires, but it would be effortless.

he starts grinning, "is that a challenge?" geto quips, smirking and suddenly interested in the half-eaten crepe. he gives it a once over, lightly jabbing it with his fork. contemplates if he should try it when he's been off sugar for years but maybe he'll make an exception now. he could always just burn the calories later, maybe do an extra sparring session with gojo over the weekend, but just for the occasion, he thinks he could indulge a little because he makes a decision then. 

you get woken up when he returns home from a trip abroad.

in the dark and half asleep, you've gotten used to the way he moves around the house with muffled steps, how undeniably sukuna they are. heavy-handed when he shoves through the front door, a rolling luggage bag following after. tired and lethargic, he drags along, bounding up and down the hall in a pair of old house slippers.

he's sure to be quiet when he enters the bedroom. carefully stripping off what is no doubt his favourite sweater, the one he always wears on long flights, before tossing it into the hamper. there's the rustling of his pockets, taking out his passport and the clinking keychains, he sets them on the nightstand. there's some more thudding and thumping around but it's soothing, familiar enough to lull you back to sleep if not for the anticipation you feel, the excitement bubbling up when you know what comes next.

you feel his knees dip into the mattress. coming closer towards you like a practiced dance, he knows just where your form curls underneath the bundle made up of sheets, duvets and a warmth he's dying to bury himself in.

oh, you've been so patient waiting for his return. "hey stranger," you whisper, voice croaking out into the night. eyes peeking open lazily to see him hovering above you, his thighs caging you in. he's in need of a shower to wash off the jetlag but he can't be parted from you for a second longer, not when he's missed you this much, and judging by how you've been hugging onto his pillow, so have you. 

“missed me?” he smiles, your skin feeling the curve of it like a reward, his hands trailing over your figure. a sensitive spot here, a dimple there, moaning at the feel of his weight atop you, so comforting as he leans in to plant a kiss on your cheek. he'll savour this. go slow and steady, save up on the stamina so it'll last longer. maybe he'll get sappy and hold your hand through it.

...however that thought is thrown aside and abandoned the moment he makes a swift tug at the covers and notices you're not wearing any panties. revealing just two glorious thighs rubbing together with nothing in between but a hungry, greedy little hole waiting to be filled.

you see his expression turning into something dangerous, fighting back the urge to punish you here and now. his large hand leaves a sharp spank on your ass, squeezing at the flesh and holding it there til you start grinding into it, loving the pinch. "you shouldn’t do that, my boyfriend wouldn't appreciate it,” you tease, and he gets the hint.

“yeah? what kind of boyfriend leaves you in a bed alone like this?” he's spreading your thighs apart while inching closer to the softest part on the inside. where you start getting slick, glistening, and so lewd. staining the sheets you've spent all afternoon getting cleaned in preparation for him, only for them to get soiled all over again.

"the kind that has more important things to do," you use the words that will rile him up, hips bucking upwards to get a feel of his hardening cock in his sweats. he's gone for the grey ones, they're comfy, but you know he's chosen them deliberately so he'd have no trouble taking them off. as if he already had it planned and thought out, that he knew he was going to fuck you as soon as he got home.

"if you were my girl, i'd never leave this bed. must have been so cold, so empty all those nights," there's a truth there, that he still feels guilty for having to leave you. it's only been a week but he can't last a day without seeing you, touching you, hearing the sweet moans you let out. just like the ones you sing when he watches your clit throb in between your slit. pussy lips delicate and puffy you gasp as he spreads them with his middle finger, dipping in and out slowly. thumb moving upwards to your clit and flicking with skilled precision. back and forth he lightly teases before pressing down hard just the way you like it.

"it wasn't too bad, i played with myself thinking about him..." you purr, hand coming up to stroke a vein by his bicep, trailing down a river of blue to his forearm. his other hand tightens its grip on your hip as a warning at your admission. he'd made it clear you were to wait, but he should have known better, you would only scoff at his rules. must have started touching yourself before he even left just to challenge him.

"i know he gave me orders but what's a girl to do. you won't tell him, right? you're gonna take care of me, gonna show him how much better you fuck me,” it's just an act. a romantic effort, an attempt at seduction, a twisted, fucked up game you both play where you pretend to be strangers. just to be reminded how amazing it feels that you've found one another.

there's that glint in his eye when you say it. loves when you get a little frisky, a little bit desperate, urging for his resolve to break. he swears he's not the jealous type, why should he worry over losing what's already his, but it's enough to make him lose his mind. you don't want him to go slow, you want him to fuck it out of his system, all that's been pent up. use me, own me, i'm the only one who gets to have you like this.

——————————————————

he starts to drift the moment he plops himself next to you. a final pleasure-filled groan leaves his lips, sounding guttural and oh-so satisfied, not surprising given that he just came twice. he's worn out, head in the clouds with this dopey smile on his face, mirroring the one you try to hide as you take in his exhausted form. you feel giddy all over, woozy, because you did that to him.

"i missed you," you say, not knowing if he's actually listening, but he rolls over and wraps his arms around you. locking tight and secure.

"i'm still missing you...even after i've just fucked you," he laughs and kisses the back of your neck languidly, tasting the sweat that sticks. nosing and rubbing the back of your ear like a needy thing...gosh, you love when he gets this affectionate, this touchy, clinging and craving for more.

you feel him breathe out a question then, something that's been weighing on him for awhile you suppose, sukuna has found that the post-sex haze happens to always be the 'right time' to say the things he's afraid of saying. maybe since he's already so exposed, it's the only time he can breach his feelings, when he's assured enough that he has you, that you wouldn't run away—"what would you do if you found out i wasn't who i really am? like what if i did something unexpected?"

turning around to face him, you think about it. pondering on whether he'd ever be so different from who he is now. if he changes so much that he became unrecognizable. "you finally decided to go back to black?" you joke, running your fingers through his messy hair. he's been contemplating it recently, something about how the bleach is beginning to take a toll on his ends. it earns you a soft chuckle from him, a breathy one.

you admire his pretty lashes that droop and get heavier by the second, sleep taking over and seeping in. "i guess we'll just have to save this conversation for the morning," you whisper, kissing him goodnight as he lulls off to slumber.

—————————————————

"i'm taking a break in the summer, have some fun before i cut the weight," he says, leaning against the fridge while you're busy chopping up ingredients for lunch. giving him a noise of approval in return because you know he's dreading having to camp out and starve himself rid of 20 pounds once the season starts.

it's also the time he finally decides to unpack, albeit a month too late but he's always been a terrible procrastinator outside of meal plans and weight lifting regiments. groans at the monumental task at hand like a kid throwing a tantrum before pulling out travel-sized shampoo bottles and sweat-damp tshirts from his luggage. the smell is horrid, and you've already left several notes around the house reminding him to disinfect the lining.

beep, beep, beeeep, he forcefully presses the buttons on the washing machine. making sure it rings out loud so you'll know he's done it. maybe then you'll quit nagging at him. (screw that. he likes it when you nag, seeing you get so demanding turns him on.) (and you still wonder why he leaves these tasks to the very last minute.)

and he also indulges himself. sleeping in and eating whatever he likes. all the carbs and salt he can have, sometimes he goes as far as getting dessert after meals.

and other times he gets his dick pierced.

this blowjob is like any other blowjob. at least at the very start of it. moving your lips lower and licking over his ridged muscles, down to the place where they cut into a glorious deep v-line. you'd been nervous about these deep grooves once, about what you were supposed to do when faced with it. but you don't hesitate now, leaving soft smooches trailing behind, his skin warm under your parting lips, your tongue licks a stripe along that stunning ridge of his hip.

you see it for the first time then. the shining metal piercing sitting pretty on the tip of his cock, a circular ring with a bead where the ends meet. catching more than light but the slipping, slick pre that dribbles the more he waits in anticipation for your soft lips. how you admire him now with wide eyes and that slight fascination. his cock big and hard and straining.

you stare down his length, stunned and mouth-watering as you consider it. did you ever think he was capable of it, or is it that you're on the turn, the initial feelings of uncertainty dissipating now that you've seen it up close. blood pumping and coursing, his shaft grows thicker with every passing second, throbbing and twitching.

leaning forward, you press a soft kiss just beneath the head, letting your breath wash over him. instantly his hips buck, bowing off the bed and arching toward you. "fuck—" he gasps. he liked that way too much. no, he loves it. and you've barely started.

a bead of precum dribbles out, watches the way it runs down, no thanks to your grinning face looking up at him, finding his half-lidded, heated gaze and keeping him there. without looking away, you dart your tongue out and lick that salty-sweet drop from him, loving the way his eyes roll back, lids sliding closed as he fists his hand in your hair. "you're going to kill me."

you doubt it'll be that easy, but then again, he looks about ready to explode. "you never told me about this," you tease, gently wrapping your fingers around his shaft. it's a sight he'll burn in the back of his brain forever, saliva and pre cum spreading across your tongue, pooling there in a drooly mess, the gossamer thin strands connecting each time his cock taps lightly against your flattened tongue.

god...he doesn't think he'll come out of this alive. "why'd you think i asked you—" he lets out a groan then as your mouth closes over his cockhead warmly, lips pursing halfway down the shaft. his piercing is an unfamiliar part of the act, but the moment it bumps into the soft spongy muscle, your tongue swirling in rapid circles around the bulging head, it sends his teeth sinking into his bottom lip.

"hmm?" you hum curiously, head tilting to the side like you were innocent in all of this, he had never once mentioned it, so why was it your fault that he now braces himself, slowly feeding you his length.

"the night i came home," he elaborates, which isn't much, but he's too occupied with guiding your mouth, trying to resist drawing his release out too quickly. "if i did something you wouldn't expect me to," he grits out finally, right as you start jerking him, holding him at his very base in a tightly formed fist and taking his cock in deep, powerful thrusts down your throat, each one leaving him wet with your spit and throbbing desperately against the tight fit of your mouth.

it clicks then, you begin to realize what he meant, popping your lips off him reluctantly for a second to clarify, "i didn't think you were talking about getting a new piercing."

sukuna nods, albeit in that sheepish way whenever he gets shy. you think it's cute the way he flushes from cheek to cheek despite already having your mouth around his cock.