“Plush, brown, and written like a love story.”

“Built like love. Wrapped in melanin.”

Nanami x chubby black reader

Blind date series

Warnings: Mild angst (past fatphobic breakup and body insecurity), self-esteem struggles, hurt/comfort, slow-burn romance, fluff, detailed descriptions of a plus-size Black woman’s body and experiences. No explicit smut in this chapter. All characters are adults. Jujutsu Kaisen AU where Nanami is a high-earning financial advisor living in the US.

You stared at your reflection in the full-length mirror of your Phoenix apartment, tugging at the hem of your deep burgundy wrap dress. The fabric clung to your full breasts, draped softly over the generous curve of your belly, and hugged the wide swell of your hips and thick thighs before stopping just above your knees. Your deep brown skin glowed from the shea butter and highlighter you’d carefully applied—cheekbones shimmering, full lips painted a bold matte red that complemented your rich complexion. Your hair was in fresh wash-and-go curls, thick coils bouncing around your shoulders with every movement. Gold hoop earrings and a delicate layered necklace finished the look.

You looked beautiful. Powerful, even.

But the old wound still ached.

“It’s not you, babe. I just need someone who matches my lifestyle more. Someone… skinnier. More active.”

Jamal’s words from three months ago still echoed. He’d said it so casually over overpriced lattes, like he hadn’t spent two years telling you he loved your body—right until he found a thinner girl who posted gym selfies and “clean eating” reels. The breakup shattered something in you. You’d retreated into your cozy one-bedroom, surviving on DoorDash, sad playlists, and too many glasses of wine while Tasha tried to drag you back into the light.

Your best friend had finally reached her limit.

“Baby girl, I love you, but I refuse to watch you dim your light for that trash-ass nigga any longer,” Tasha had said two days ago, hands on her hips in your living room. “I set you up. Blind date. Tomorrow. Eight o’clock. Italian place downtown. He’s a friend of a friend from my corporate job—fine, stable, and explicitly not into the toothpick type. You’re going. No excuses.”

You’d argued. You’d cried. But Tasha was a force of nature. She sent outfit inspo, booked your hair appointment, and threatened to show up and dress you herself if you bailed.

So here you were—strappy black heels making your calves pop, vanilla-amber perfume on your pulse points, heart hammering like a drum.

The restaurant was upscale but warm: exposed brick walls, soft golden lighting, linen tablecloths, and the rich scent of garlic and basil. The hostess led you to a tucked-away corner booth. You ordered a glass of cabernet sauvignon, fingers tapping nervously against the stem.

He arrived exactly on time.

Kento Nanami was tall—easily 6’0—with broad, tailored shoulders filling out a perfectly fitted beige suit. His blond hair was neatly styled with a precise fade, that signature longer strand falling over his forehead. Sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and calm, observant honey-brown eyes behind thin-rimmed glasses. He moved with quiet confidence, like a man who had faced worse things than first dates and still chose composure.

His eyes found you immediately. No flicker of surprise, no quick scan up and down with hidden disappointment. Just a small, genuine smile that softened the serious lines of his face as he approached.

“Y/N?” His voice was deep, smooth, carrying the faintest British lilt beneath a Japanese cadence. He extended a large, warm hand. “Kento Nanami. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

You shook it, noting the firm but gentle grip, the way his palm engulfed yours. “Hi, yeah… that’s me. Nice to meet you too.”

He pulled out your chair before sliding into his own across the table. For a second you were hyper-aware of how your belly rested against the edge, how your thick arms filled the sleeves, how your full figure took up space in a world that often punished it. But Nanami’s gaze stayed respectfully on your face—appreciative, curious, steady.

“I apologize if this feels sudden,” he said once the waiter poured wine for both of you. “Your friend Tasha was quite insistent. She spoke very highly of you.”

You let out a soft, nervous laugh. “Tasha’s been known to strong-arm people for my ‘own good.’ I hope she didn’t oversell me.”

“Not at all.” He studied you for a moment, then continued, “She mentioned you work in marketing. Creative campaigns for local businesses and nonprofits?”

The conversation flowed easier than you expected. You told him about your latest campaign for a Black-owned skincare line, how you loved finding ways to make everyday people feel seen. He listened intently, nodding, asking thoughtful questions. In return, he shared that he was a financial advisor who had left the high-stress sorcerer world years ago (a detail that made your eyebrows rise—apparently he still consulted occasionally). He preferred order, good bread, and quiet evenings with a book.

Halfway through appetizers—bruschetta for him, calamari for you—he set his fork down.

“May I be direct?” he asked.

Your stomach tightened. “Sure.”

“You’re nervous,” he observed gently. “And I suspect it’s not just first-date nerves. Your posture suggests someone who’s been… hurt recently. If I’m overstepping, tell me.”

The honesty startled you. You took a sip of wine, fingers tracing the rim.

“My ex… he broke up with me because I’m fat,” you said bluntly, the words tasting bitter even now. “Told me he needed someone ‘better’—code for skinnier, more ‘fit.’ Someone who looked the part when he posted couple photos. It’s been three months and I’m still… working through it.”

Nanami’s expression didn’t shift to pity. It stayed calm, but his eyes warmed with something protective.

“I’m sorry he treated you that way,” he said quietly. “That kind of cruelty says everything about his character and nothing about your worth. You’re beautiful, Y/N. Radiant, actually. The way the light catches your skin, the confidence in your smile when you talk about your work… it’s striking. I noticed it the moment I walked in.”

Heat flooded your cheeks. You looked down at your plate, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” he replied simply. “I’ve never understood the obsession with shrinking women. Bodies are meant to be lived in—soft, strong, full. Yours looks like it holds warmth. Like it could comfort someone after a long day.”

The words settled over you like a weighted blanket. For the first time in months, the knot in your chest loosened.

Dinner stretched into dessert—tiramisu you shared, forks occasionally brushing. Conversation turned lighter: favorite Phoenix hikes (he preferred early morning ones for the quiet), music (you bonded over old-school R&B and jazz), and how he secretly loved cooking elaborate meals on weekends.

When he walked you to your car afterward, the desert night air warm around you, he paused.

“I’d like to see you again,” he said. “If you’re comfortable. No pressure.”

You looked up at him—this tall, handsome, composed man who hadn’t once made you feel like an inconvenience or something to be tolerated.

“I’d like that too.”

He smiled, small and real, and brushed a curl behind your ear with careful fingers. “Good. I’ll text you. Drive safely, Y/N.”

As you drove home, windows down and music playing, you caught yourself smiling in the rearview mirror.

Maybe Tasha had been right.

End Notes:

Reblogs and comments appreciated!

The breakup hit like a freight train you never saw coming.

You were curled up on your couch in the dark, phone still glowing with the last text from Marcus: I just need space. You’re too much sometimes, babe. The weight of everything… I can’t carry it anymore.
He didn’t even have the guts to say it to your face. The “weight” line wasn’t about your body—at least not out loud—but the way he’d started picking at your softness for months had made it clear. The way he’d sigh when your thighs touched in bed. The way he’d “jokingly” ask if you were really going to order dessert again. The way he’d scroll past your photos on his Instagram stories like he was embarrassed to claim the beautiful, thick, brown-skinned woman on his arm.

You read the text three times, then threw the phone across the room. It cracked against the wall and went black, just like everything else.

That was three weeks ago.

Now your apartment smelled like stale takeout and the vanilla candle you kept forgetting to blow out. Your 4c coils were shoved under a silk bonnet that hadn’t been washed in days. You lived in the same oversized hoodie (the one Marcus left behind like a final insult) and your favorite black biker shorts that used to make you feel powerful. Now they just reminded you how your belly spilled softly over the waistband, how your hips and thighs took up space like they always had—like they were never going to shrink for anyone.

You hadn’t left the house except for work-from-home Zoom calls where you kept your camera off. Your best friend Aisha had been blowing up your phone with voice notes that started gentle and were now full-on threats.

“Girl, if you don’t open this door in the next five minutes I’m using my spare key and dragging you out by those edges. I love you but this depression nest has got to go.”

You groaned into your pillow. The knock came anyway.

Aisha let herself in like she owned the place (she basically did), arms full of grocery bags and her signature “I’m not playing” face. She took one look at the mess, the empty ice-cream pints, the pile of tissues, and sighed the longest, most loving sigh you’d ever heard.

“Baby… Marcus was trash in designer shoes. We knew that. But you? You’re out here acting like he took your whole glow with him.” She sat on the edge of the couch and pulled your bonnet off, fluffing your coils with gentle fingers. “I let you mourn for three weeks. Now I’m intervening.”

You tried to pull the blanket over your head. She snatched it.

“I set you up on a blind date.”

Your eyes widened. “Aisha, no.”

“Aisha, yes. His name is Geto Suguru. He works at the little bookstore-café on 7th and Pine—the one with the plants everywhere and the jazz playlist that makes you feel like you’re in a movie. He’s tall, calm as hell, long black hair he usually keeps in a bun, and he’s got this voice that sounds like warm honey and bad decisions. He’s friends with my coworker and mentioned he was tired of shallow people. I showed him one picture of you from the beach last summer—the one where you’re laughing in that yellow sundress with the sun on your skin—and he actually smiled. Like, real smile. Not that polite customer-service one.”

You sat up slowly, heart doing something traitorous in your chest. “You showed him my picture? Without asking?”

“Desperate times, bestie. You’ve been calling yourself unlovable for twenty-one days straight. I’m not letting that man’s weak-ass energy live rent-free in your head anymore.” She poked your soft belly affectionately. “You’re a whole snack, a whole meal, and a whole dessert. And Geto? He looks like the type who appreciates every course.”

You wanted to argue. You wanted to say no one was going to want the chubby Black girl who cried over rom-coms and stress-ate plantain chips. But Aisha was already pulling out a dress from her bag—a deep emerald green wrap dress that hugged your waist, flared over your hips, and made your brown skin look like it was glowing under moonlight.

“Tomorrow night. 7 p.m. The café. He’ll be wearing all black because apparently that’s his brand. Just… show up. For me. And for the girl who used to dance in the mirror before Marcus dimmed her light.”

You stared at the dress, then at her hopeful face.

“…Fine. But if he sucks I’m blocking you for a week.”

She grinned. “He won’t.”

The next evening you stood outside the bookstore-café feeling like your stomach was doing backflips. The emerald dress fit perfectly—snug around your full chest and soft belly, flowing over your thick thighs like it was made for you. You’d done your makeup light but glowing: glossy lips, lashes, and a little highlight on your cheekbones that caught the golden hour light. Your coils were out in a full wash-and-go halo, defined and shiny with shea butter. You felt… pretty. Scared, but pretty.

The bell above the door chimed softly as you stepped inside.

The place smelled like fresh coffee, old books, and something warm and spiced. Low jazz played. Plants hung from the ceiling in macramé holders. And at a corner table by the window sat the most unfairly beautiful man you’d ever seen in real life.

Geto Suguru.

His long black hair was half-tied back, the rest falling over one shoulder like ink. He wore a fitted black turtleneck that stretched across broad shoulders and a relaxed black cardigan. When he looked up and saw you, his dark eyes softened in a way that made your knees feel traitorous. He stood—tall, graceful, unhurried—and the small smile that curved his lips was gentle, almost reverent.

“You must be her,” he said, voice low and smooth like it had been aged in oak barrels. “Aisha wasn’t exaggerating. You’re breathtaking.”

Heat flooded your cheeks. You waited for the usual awkward “you look nice” that really meant “I’m being polite.” It never came. He said it like he meant it.

He pulled your chair out for you, fingers brushing your lower back for just a second—warm, steady. “I got here a little early and ordered you a lavender oat-milk latte with extra honey. Aisha mentioned it was your favorite. If I got it wrong, I’ll fix it immediately.”

You sat, heart hammering. “You… remembered that?”

Geto settled across from you, resting his chin on his hand like he had all the time in the world to look at you. “I pay attention when people talk about things that matter. Especially when they talk about someone who sounds like sunshine wrapped in melanin and curves.”

The compliment landed soft and heavy in your chest. You laughed, a little watery. “You’re smooth. I’ll give you that.”

“Not smooth,” he corrected gently, eyes never leaving yours. “Honest. I’ve had enough fake conversations in my life. I don’t want to waste any more time on them.” He tilted his head, studying you the way someone studies a painting they want to remember forever. “Tell me about the worst three weeks of your life. Or don’t. We can talk about books, or music, or how the sunset looks like it’s trying to compete with your skin right now. Whatever you need.”

You blinked. No one had ever given you the option like that.

So you told him.

Not everything—not the ugliest parts yet—but enough. The breakup. The way Marcus had chipped away at your confidence until you started apologizing for taking up space. The way you’d cried in the shower so many times you ran out of hot water and just stood there cold and numb. The way you’d started believing maybe you really were “too much.”

Geto listened like the world outside the café had disappeared. His thumb brushed slow circles on the back of your hand when you started tearing up. When you finished, he was quiet for a long moment, then spoke.

“People who make you feel like an inconvenience were never worthy of the gift of you in the first place.” His voice was calm, but there was steel underneath. “You’re not too much. You’re not ‘heavy.’ You’re full. Of laughter, of feeling, of softness that this world tries to punish women for having. I like full things. They last longer. They feel better in your hands.” His gaze dropped for half a second to the way the dress hugged your waist and hips, then back up—respectful, appreciative, hungry in the softest way. “And I happen to think your fullness is one of the most beautiful things I’ve seen in a long time.”

You let out a shaky breath that felt like three weeks of tension leaving your body.

He smiled again, smaller this time, almost shy. “Too much?”

“No,” you whispered. “Just… exactly enough.”

The rest of the night unfolded like a dream someone had written just for you.

He ordered your favorite pasta and didn’t bat an eye when you asked for extra garlic bread. He told you about his own quiet life—running the bookstore-café with his best friend Satoru (who apparently kept trying to set him up and failing spectacularly), his love for late-night stargazing, the way he practiced calligraphy when his mind got too loud. He asked about your job, your dreams, the playlists you made when you were sad. He laughed—genuine, low, warm—when you told him about the time you tried to twerk in the mirror and knocked over a lamp.

At one point he reached across the table and tucked a stray coil behind your ear, fingers lingering on your cheek. “You’re glowing tonight,” he murmured. “Not just the makeup. You. I think the real you has been waiting to come back out and play.”

When the café started closing, he walked you to your car like it was the most natural thing in the world. The night air was cool on your arms; he shrugged off his cardigan and draped it over your shoulders without asking. It smelled like sandalwood and him.

At your car he stopped, hands in his pockets, looking at you under the streetlight like you were something precious he didn’t want to break.

“I’d like to do this again,” he said simply. “Not because Aisha set it up. Because I want to keep learning every version of you—the soft ones, the loud ones, the ones that think they’re too much. I want all of them.” He stepped closer, thumb brushing your jaw. “And I want you to know that the next man who makes you feel anything less than wanted… won’t be me.”

You looked up at him—tall, calm, devastatingly sincere—and felt something crack open in your chest that had been sealed shut since Marcus left.

You rose on your toes and pressed a soft, grateful kiss to the corner of his mouth. Not quite on the lips, but close enough that you felt him inhale sharply.

“Thank you,” you whispered against his skin. “For seeing me.”

Geto’s hand found your waist, gentle but sure, thumb stroking the curve of your hip through the dress like he was memorizing the shape of you. “Thank you for letting me.”

He waited until you were safely in your car and driving away before he turned back toward the café, a small, private smile on his face that no one else got to see.

Your phone buzzed at the first red light.

You smiled so wide your cheeks hurt, thumbs flying across the screen.

You drove the rest of the way home with his cardigan still around your shoulders and something warm blooming in your chest that felt a lot like hope.

For the first time in three weeks, you didn’t cry yourself to sleep.

You fell asleep smiling, already wondering what tomorrow’s text from Geto would say… and how many more soft, slow, healing nights you were going to get with the man who looked at your chubby, brown, radiant self like you were the only thing in the world worth paying attention to.

18+ minors dni

You’d been with Kirara for almost a year before Hakari ever showed up, and those first months were pure, filthy heaven.

Kirara had always been your perfect match—tall, pretty, with that sharp jawline softened by long black hair she kept tied back in a loose ponytail, glossed lips, and the kind of body that made your mouth water. She was trans, he-to-she, hormones giving her soft tits and a round ass while keeping that thick, heavy cock you’d fallen in love with the very first time she’d let you ride it. You were her bimbo princess: big tits spilling out of every tight top, wide hips and a fat ass that jiggled when you walked, glossy lips always popped, lashes long enough to cast shadows, and an attitude that screamed “brat.” Kirara loved it. She loved bending you over the kitchen counter after you’d been mouthing off all day, hiking up your mini-skirt and sliding that fat dick into your dripping pussy while you whined and called her “mommy.” She loved making you choke on her while she played with your braids, telling you how good her pretty little slut took it. The sex was constant, nasty, and perfect. You never got tired of her stretching you open, filling you up until cum leaked down your thick thighs.

Then Hakari happened.

He was Kirara’s best friend—loud, cocky, always grinning like the world was his personal casino. One night they got drunk, one thing led to another, and suddenly Kirara was asking if you’d be open to letting him join. You said yes because you loved Kirara and you were greedy, but the second Hakari stepped into your shared apartment with that smug smirk and those sharp eyes raking over your body like he already owned it, you hated him. Hated the way he called you “princess” in that lazy drawl. Hated how he lounged on your couch like he paid rent. Hated how his presence made Kirara’s eyes light up in a way that felt like competition.

The first time they tried to include him in bed, you made it crystal clear where you stood.

Kirara had you on your back, legs spread wide, her cock buried deep while she fucked you slow and sweet, whispering how pretty you looked all stretched around her. Hakari was kneeling beside you, stroking his own massive dick—thick, veiny, easily an inch longer and fatter than Kirara’s, the head already glistening. He reached out to squeeze one of your heavy tits, thumb brushing your nipple.

You slapped his hand away hard. “Don’t fuckin’ touch me.”

Kirara paused, blinking. “Baby…”

“I said don’t touch me,” you snapped, glaring up at Hakari even as your pussy clenched greedily around Kirara. “This is for me and her. You can watch if you want, but keep your hands to yourself, gambler boy.”

Hakari’s grin only widened, dangerous. “Feisty. I like that.”

You turned your face away and tugged Kirara down by her hair, kissing her deep while she started thrusting again. Hakari stayed on the sidelines that night, stroking himself while you came twice on Kirara’s dick. He came on your tits only because Kirara asked you to let him, and you rolled your eyes the whole time, wiping it off like it was nothing.

It became a pattern. Every time the three of you ended up in bed, you were a fucking menace. You’d sit on Kirara’s face, grinding your wet pussy on her tongue while Hakari tried to slide his cock between your lips. You’d turn your head. You’d crawl onto Kirara’s lap and ride her reverse cowgirl so your ass bounced right in front of him but never close enough for him to touch. You’d moan extra loud for Kirara, calling her “mommy” and “my good girl” just to twist the knife. Hakari would laugh, low and dark, telling you he’d have you begging one day. You’d flip him off and cum on Kirara’s dick instead.

You never sat next to him on the couch. You’d squeeze between him and Kirara if you had to, but you always pressed your thick thigh against Kirara’s, never his. When they kissed, you’d kiss Kirara harder, like you were marking territory. You were the biggest brat in the world, and you wore it like a crown.

Until the day Kirara left you alone with him.

It was a Saturday afternoon. Kirara had a quick errand—something about picking up a new wig and some lingerie she wanted to surprise you with. She kissed you deep at the door, hand squeezing your ass under your tiny silk robe.

“Be good while I’m gone, baby,” she murmured against your glossy lips. “Hakari’s just gonna chill on the couch. Don’t kill him.”

You smirked, popping your gum. “No promises.”

The door clicked shut.

Hakari was already sprawled on the couch in gray sweats and a black tank, scrolling on his phone, legs spread wide like he owned the place. You ignored him completely, strutting into the kitchen in your tiny robe that barely covered your fat ass, heels clicking. You bent over to grab a soda from the fridge, knowing the robe rode up and showed the lacy black thong underneath, but you didn’t care—he could look all he wanted. He wasn’t getting shit.

You felt his eyes on you the whole time.

When you straightened up and turned around, he was staring, phone forgotten. That cocky smirk was gone, replaced by something darker, hungrier.

“You done playing games, princess?” he asked, voice low.

You popped your gum louder. “I don’t play with you at all, Hakari. Stay on your side of the couch.”

He stood up slowly. God, he was tall—broad shoulders, tattoos peeking from under the tank, that dangerous grin creeping back. “Kirara’s been gone ten minutes and you’re already testing me. You’ve been testing me for months.”

You rolled your eyes and tried to walk past him toward the living room. His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your thick waist, yanking you back against his chest. Your soda clattered to the floor.

“Get the fuck off me—”

“Shut up,” he growled, mouth right against your ear. His other hand slid down, palming your ass hard, squeezing the soft flesh until you gasped. “I’ve watched you bounce on her dick for months. Watched you cream all over her while you glare at me like I’m nothing. I’m done being patient.”

You tried to shove him, but he was solid muscle. He spun you around and backed you up until your thighs hit the arm of the couch. Your robe fell open, heavy tits spilling out, dark nipples already hard from the cool air and—fuck—his voice.

“You hate me so much?” he taunted, pushing you down so you sat on the wide armrest, legs forced apart. He stepped between them, grinding the massive bulge in his sweats right against your thong-covered pussy. “Then why are you already wet, huh?”

“I’m not—” you started, but he yanked the thong to the side and dragged two thick fingers through your folds. You were soaked. Embarrassingly, shamefully soaked.

Hakari laughed, low and mean. “Liar.”

He shoved his sweats down in one motion. His cock sprang out—fuck, it was huge. Thick as your wrist, long, heavy, the head flushed dark and already leaking. Veins ran up the shaft, pulsing. It was bigger than Kirara’s by a noticeable amount, and the sight made your bratty mouth go dry even as your pussy clenched hard.

“Bet you thought you could keep ignoring this,” he said, stroking himself once, twice, smearing precum over the fat head. “Bet you thought you’d never have to take it.”

You opened your mouth to snap something back—something nasty, something bratty—but he grabbed your braids in one fist, yanked your head back, and shoved the head of his cock past your glossy lips in one smooth thrust.

Your eyes watered instantly. He was so thick your jaw ached, stretching your pretty mouth wide. He didn’t give you time to adjust—just started fucking your throat in shallow, filthy thrusts, groaning at how hot and wet your mouth was.

“Fuck, that’s it. Choke on it, brat. All that attitude and you still suck cock like a pro.”

Tears smeared your mascara, but you couldn’t stop your tongue from swirling around him, sucking harder. He tasted salty and masculine and wrong in the best way. You hated how much you loved it.

He pulled out suddenly, strings of spit connecting your lips to his cock. You gasped for air, glaring up at him even as your thighs rubbed together.

“On the couch,” he ordered. “Ass up.”

You didn’t move fast enough. He flipped you over the armrest like you weighed nothing, your chubby body draped over the back of the couch, fat ass high in the air, tits squished against the cushions. He ripped your robe the rest of the way off and yanked your thong down your thick thighs.

“Look at this pretty black pussy,” he muttered, spreading your ass cheeks wide with both hands. “All puffy and dripping for me. Kirara’s been spoiling you, huh?”

He slapped your ass hard—once, twice, watching the jiggle—then lined up and pushed in.

You screamed.

It burned in the best way. He was so much thicker, stretching you open wider than you’d ever been. Inch after inch sank into your tight, wet heat until his hips were flush against your ass and his heavy balls rested against your clit. You were stuffed full, pussy fluttering wildly around the invasion.

“F-fuck—too big—” you whimpered, bratty tone cracking.

Hakari laughed darkly and pulled back only to slam in again, harder. “You can take it. You’re gonna take every fucking inch until you forget how to talk shit.”

He set a brutal pace, hips snapping, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the apartment. Your ass rippled with every thrust, tits bouncing against the couch. You tried to stay quiet, tried to keep some dignity, but he was hitting spots Kirara never could, grinding against your g-spot on every stroke.

“Say it,” he growled, reaching around to rub your swollen clit. “Say my dick’s better.”

“N-no—”

He pinched your clit and slammed in deep, holding himself there, grinding. You came instantly, pussy gushing around him, a broken sob tearing from your throat.

“Say it,” he repeated, still buried to the hilt.

Your voice was wrecked. “Y-your dick… fuck… it’s so much bigger… feels so good—”

He rewarded you by fucking you even harder, pounding you into the couch until your legs shook. You came again, squirting messily down your thighs, mascara running, lip gloss smeared, braids a mess in his fist.

“Gonna fill this bratty pussy up,” he snarled. “Gonna pump you so full Kirara’s gonna see my cum leaking out the second she walks in.”

You moaned like a whore, pushing back on him now, all pretense gone. He fucked you through another orgasm, then buried himself deep and came with a guttural groan. Thick, hot ropes of cum flooded your pussy, so much it immediately started leaking out around his cock, dripping down your thighs in creamy white streaks.

He stayed inside you for a long minute, catching his breath, then finally pulled out with a wet pop. You collapsed fully onto the couch, ass still up, face buried in the cushions, completely fucked out. Cum poured from your stretched hole in slow, obscene globs.

Hakari sat back down on the couch like nothing happened, legs spread, cock still half-hard and shiny with your juices. He smirked, satisfied, and picked up his phone again.

The front door opened ten minutes later.

Kirara stepped in, shopping bags in hand, and froze.

There you were—her pretty Black bimbo, face down on the couch, thick ass up in the air, legs trembling, pussy gaping and leaking Hakari’s cum in a steady stream onto the cushions. Your makeup was ruined, body covered in handprints and bite marks.

Hakari looked up from his phone, that same cocky grin on his face.

“Hey, babe,” he said casually. “Told you I’d get her eventually.”

Kirara’s eyes flicked from you to him, then back to the way your pussy still fluttered, pushing out another thick glob of his cum. A slow, dangerous smile spread across her glossed lips.

“Well… looks like my princess finally learned how to share.”

You didn’t even stir. You were already fast asleep, ass still presented, cum dripping, completely wrecked—and for the first time, you didn’t have a single bratty thing to say about it.

Just making this before I post another part for blind date series


Pairing: Gojo Satoru x Chubby Black Female Reader


Genre: Fluff, Slow Burn Romance, Blind Date AU (modern Jujutsu world but Gojo’s just a ridiculously hot, overpowered teacher who loves sweets more than fighting curses)


Warnings: None. Pure tooth-rotting fluff, body positivity, sweet tooth solidarity, Gojo being Gojo (teasing, dramatic, zero filter). Reader is explicitly chubby, brown-skinned, natural hair, melanin-popping beauty.


Word count: 5.8k (I went LONG for yall 💕)


A/N: For my Blind Date Series! This is part one—after the mess with your ex, your bestie drags you out and sets you up with the strongest (and sweetest) man alive. Enjoy the sugar rush

You stared at the cracked phone screen, the last text from him still glowing like a fresh bruise.

“You’ve let yourself go. I can’t keep pretending this works.”

That was it. Three years. Three years of you shrinking yourself—your curves, your laugh, your love for extra frosting on everything—just to fit the version of you he wanted. And the second you stopped starving yourself for his approval, he bailed.

The breakup wasn’t loud. No screaming, no thrown vases. Just a quiet “I think we should see other people” over lukewarm takeout, followed by him sliding the key to your apartment across the table like it was nothing. You sat there in the booth, brown skin prickling with heat, thick thighs pressed together under the table, and felt every inch of yourself suddenly too much. Too soft. Too wide. Too… you.

You didn’t cry until you got home.

Then the dam broke.

You curled up on your couch in the oversized hoodie he left behind (the one that used to swallow you but now barely zipped over your chest and belly), natural curls tied up in a messy pineapple, and sobbed until your throat felt raw. Your phone buzzed nonstop—your best friend Mia blowing it up—but you ignored every call. The only thing you reached for was the emergency stash of strawberry mochi in the freezer. You ate three straight from the pack, tears mixing with the sweet red bean paste, and whispered to the empty apartment, “Guess I really am unlovable like this.”

Depression hit like a truck the next two weeks.

You called out of work (thank god you worked remote as a graphic designer). You wore the same hoodie for four days straight. Your melanin-rich skin looked dull under the blue light of your monitor; the cute freckles across your nose and cheeks faded under puffy eyes. You ordered Uber Eats every night—extra caramel drizzle on the cheesecake, double chocolate chip cookies the size of your palm, those limited-edition matcha KitKats you hoarded like treasure. Every bite tasted like comfort and punishment at the same time.

You avoided mirrors. When you did catch your reflection in the bathroom, you sucked in your stomach on instinct, then let it go with a bitter laugh. “Why bother?”

Mia showed up on day fifteen with no warning, banging on your door like the apartment was on fire.

“Open up, bestie, or I’m using the spare key you gave me for emergencies!”

You shuffled over in fuzzy socks, hoodie zipped only halfway because your boobs and belly refused to cooperate anymore. The second the door cracked open, Mia’s eyes softened. She took one look at your swollen face, the crumbs on your hoodie, the empty mochi boxes on the coffee table, and pulled you into a hug that smelled like vanilla body spray and unconditional love.

“Girl,” she sighed into your curls, “he was trash. Capital T. You deserve the whole damn bakery, not some low-carb fool who couldn’t handle a woman with actual curves and taste buds.”

You laughed wetly into her shoulder. “I’m never dating again. Ever. I’m just gonna… be the cool auntie who brings dessert to every family function and dies surrounded by cats and cake.”

Mia pulled back, hands on your shoulders, thumbs brushing the soft roundness of your upper arms. “Nope. Hard pass. You’re getting back out there. And I already set it up.”

Your eyes widened. “You did WHAT?”

“Blind date. Tomorrow night. 7:30 at that new dessert café downtown—The Sugar Veil. He’s tall, stupidly hot, loves sweets more than breathing, and I told him you’re a goddess who deserves to be worshipped like the snack you are.”

You groaned, trying to close the door on her. “Mia, no. I’m not ready. I look like I’ve been stress-eating my feelings for two weeks straight—”

“Exactly why you need this. And before you say no again, I already paid the reservation fee and told him your favorite color is anything that matches strawberry frosting. You’re going. End of discussion.”

She left a dress on your bed before she bounced—an emerald-green wrap dress that hugged your waist and flared over your hips and thighs like it was made for a chubby Black girl who actually had hips. Paired with your favorite gold hoops and a slick edge on your curls, you almost felt cute again. Almost.

The next evening you stood outside The Sugar Veil at 7:25, heart hammering, stomach doing flips that had nothing to do with hunger (okay, maybe a little—your sweet tooth was screaming). The café glowed through the windows: fairy lights, pastel booths, glass cases full of macarons, mochi towers, and cakes that looked like works of art. You tugged at the hem of the dress, smoothing it over the soft curve of your belly, and whispered, “Don’t embarrass yourself, (Y/N). Just eat dessert and leave.”

Then the door chimed and he walked in.

And the world tilted.

Six-foot-five of pure chaos wrapped in a black button-down that strained deliciously over broad shoulders. Snow-white hair that somehow looked effortlessly styled and messy at the same time. A black blindfold pushed up into his hair like a headband, revealing the brightest, most electric blue eyes you’d ever seen—like summer sky meeting ocean. And that grin. That infuriating, cocky, heart-stopping grin that said he already knew he was the strongest… and the sweetest.

Gojo Satoru.

He spotted you immediately (because of course he did) and his entire face lit up like you were the last slice of cake at the buffet.

“(Y/N)?” His voice was smooth honey with a mischievous edge. He strode over, long legs eating up the distance, and stopped just close enough that you caught the faint scent of his cologne—something clean and sweet like vanilla and cotton candy. “Damn. Mia wasn’t lying. You’re even prettier in person.”

Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “You’re… Gojo?”

“In the flesh.” He winked, then dramatically swept an arm toward the hostess. “Table for two, please. The one with the best view of the dessert case—my date has excellent taste.”

The hostess blushed and led you both to a corner booth tucked behind a wall of hanging plants. Gojo waited until you slid in first (gentleman behavior? from him?), then folded his long body across from you. His knee accidentally brushed yours under the table and he didn’t move it. Neither did you.

“So,” he leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin in his hands like a kid at story time, “tell me everything. Favorite dessert. Go. Don’t hold back—I already know you’re a fellow sugar fiend.”

You blinked, caught off guard by how easy it felt. No awkward small talk. No sizing you up. Just pure, unfiltered Gojo curiosity.

“Strawberry shortcake with extra whipped cream,” you admitted, cheeks warming under your brown skin. “And those mochi that are filled with red bean and dusted with powdered sugar. And honestly? I could destroy an entire tray of macarons right now.”

His eyes sparkled like he’d just found his soulmate. “Marry me.”

You laughed—actually laughed—for the first time in weeks. “Slow down, Six Eyes.”

He gasped theatrically, hand over his heart. “You know the nickname already? Mia really did tell you everything. Traitor.”

The waitress came over and Gojo ordered like he was on a mission: the strawberry shortcake tower (extra whipped cream), a flight of six different mochi flavors, two slices of matcha tiramisu, and a chocolate lava cake “just in case we need backup.” He glanced at you with a playful smirk. “Anything else, princess? Don’t be shy—I’ve got the metabolism of a curse-eating machine.”

You added a caramel-drizzled cheesecake and felt zero shame for the first time in forever.

While you waited, he didn’t stop talking. He told you about his students (“They’re menaces but I love them”), his obsession with Digimon (“Don’t judge me, the nostalgia hits different”), and how he once ate an entire wedding cake by himself because the bride was late. Every story was delivered with wild hand gestures and that ridiculous laugh that made the whole café turn and smile.

And through it all, his eyes never once left your face. Not your body in a creepy way—just… looking at you like you were the most interesting thing in the room. Like your round cheeks and full lips and the way your curls framed your face were exactly what he’d been hoping for.

When the desserts arrived, it was basically a sugar explosion on the table. Gojo’s eyes went wide like a kid on Christmas.

“Okay, rules,” he declared, picking up a fork. “We share everything. No ‘that’s mine’ nonsense. And if you steal the last mochi, I’m fake-crying until you give me a bite.”

You raised an eyebrow, already digging into the shortcake. “You’re on, Gojo.”

The first bite of strawberry shortcake melted on your tongue—light sponge, fresh berries, clouds of whipped cream. You let out an involuntary happy hum. Gojo’s head snapped up.

“That sound,” he said, voice dropping an octave, “should be illegal. Do it again.”

Your face burned, but you laughed and scooped another bite, this time offering it across the table on your fork. “Here. Taste and stop being dramatic.”

He leaned forward without hesitation, lips closing around the fork. His eyes fluttered shut for a second. “Holy—okay, yeah. We’re getting married. I’m calling the bakery right now.”

You snorted, covering your mouth with your hand. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously into you,” he shot back without missing a beat, then stole a bite of your cheesecake in revenge. “Mmm. Caramel drizzle? Bold choice. I like a woman who commits to the bit.”

Conversation flowed like melted chocolate. You told him about your graphic design job, how you loved drawing chubby characters who looked like you—soft bellies, thick thighs, glowing brown skin, natural hair in every style. He listened like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever heard, chin in his hand, blue eyes soft.

“I need to see your work,” he said seriously. “Right now. Pull it up.”

You hesitated, but he gave you the most earnest puppy-dog eyes behind that blindfold-slash-headband. So you pulled up your Instagram art account. He scrolled for ten straight minutes, cooing over every piece.

“Look at her,” he pointed at one drawing of a curvy Black girl in a sundress. “She’s got your smile. And those hips? Chef’s kiss. You draw yourself so beautifully, (Y/N). Like… you get it. The softness. The power in it.”

Your throat tightened. No one—not even your ex—had ever looked at your art and seen that.

Gojo noticed the shift. He reached across the table and gently flicked your forehead. “Hey. Eyes on me, princess. That ex of yours? Total clown. Anyone who makes a woman like you feel small doesn’t deserve the sugar high you bring to the world.”

You blinked back sudden tears. “How do you even know about him?”

“Mia gave me the SparkNotes. Said you’ve been in a sweets-and-sadness spiral. Figured I’d bring the sweets and kick the sadness out.” He grinned, but there was something softer underneath. “Plus… I saw you walk in and thought, ‘There she is. The girl who’s gonna ruin me for regular desserts forever.’”

The lava cake arrived and you both attacked it with two forks, chocolate oozing everywhere. Gojo got a smear on his cheek and you reached over without thinking, wiping it with your thumb. He caught your wrist gently, eyes locking on yours.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice playful but warm. “I might get used to you taking care of me like that.”

Your heart did a full flip.

By the time the bill came (which he insisted on paying, dramatically slapping his black card down like it was a battle technique), the café was closing. You stepped outside into the cool night air, stomach full of sugar, cheeks hurting from laughing. Gojo walked you to the curb where your Uber waited, hands in his pockets, white hair glowing under the streetlights.

“So,” he rocked back on his heels, “this was the best blind date in the history of blind dates. Fact. I’m already planning date two—there’s this mochi-making class next weekend. You in?”

You bit your lip, feeling shy and bold at the same time. “Only if you promise not to eat all the red bean filling before I get a chance.”

He laughed, bright and loud, then stepped closer. Not enough to crowd—just enough that you felt the warmth of him. “Deal. And (Y/N)?”

“Yeah?”

His voice softened, the teasing edge melting into something real. “You’re not ‘too much.’ You’re exactly enough. Soft, sweet, strong, and I’m kinda obsessed already. Text me when you get home safe, okay? I’ll send you a goodnight mochi emoji.”

You smiled so wide your cheeks dimpled. “I will.”

He waited until your Uber pulled away, waving like an idiot until you were out of sight.

Back home, you kicked off your heels, flopped onto the couch still in the emerald dress, and opened your phone.

One new message from an unknown number (Mia had clearly given it to him).

You laughed softly, the depression that had clung to you for two weeks finally cracking open like over-baked sugar crust. For the first time in forever, you didn’t suck in your stomach when you looked in the mirror. You just saw yourself—chubby, brown, curly-haired, sweet-toothed you—and thought maybe, just maybe, someone saw all of that and wanted seconds.

You set the phone down, stomach full, heart fuller, and for the first time since the breakup, you fell asleep smiling—dreaming of white hair, blue eyes, and an endless table of strawberry shortcake shared with the strongest, silliest, sweetest man alive.

A/N: ITSSSS FINALLY HERE THIS TOOK ME SO LONG, IM SORRY FOR THE WAIT.


Blind Date Series continues… next up:Geto x chubby black reader Stay tuned besties~