Work Text:
Takeshita Street covers the whiteboard in large, red letters, surrounded with grainy snapshots of a familiar black-haired figure. Maps of each Tokyo district are strewn across the office with pins jabbed into them, labelled with the names of restaurants and cafés situated across the urban sprawl. Years and years of documenting has led to this moment, and finally, Gojo has found somewhere that’s been visited more than once. Sloppiness is fair game, in love and war.
He snatches the two polaroid pictures from the crêpe place, one from today and from the first time he caught Geto and pockets them to review later tonight.
Luckily, he knows that none of the faculty will come into his office out of fear that he will spot their residuals, and so he can covet this little investigation he’s put together for himself. The higher-ups instructed him to keep an eye on the curse user, and to strike when the iron is hot.
And as long as he can cover up the murders on his end, there’s no need for that guillotine to fall.
Gojo looks over the dragon’s hoard of information he’s collected about the curse user, from receipt stubs to fabric scraps. He knows by scent alone that they belong to his former best friend. There’s even a button or two rattling around in a discarded candy tin one of his girls had dropped outside of the temple Geto had monopolised. The tin had no leftover candy inside, and so the buttons became the next best thing.
The school doesn’t know about the occupied temple. He doesn’t stop by for that reason. A lesser sorcerer than himself would not be as magnanimous towards Geto’s behaviour and would allow themselves to lower their guard once they’d seen how he’s softened since his defection several years back. They would have earned their slaughter, but it would guarantee Suguru’s.
It’s under control. Monitoring the worst curse user in the history of modern Jujutsu sorcery is more than enough to placate the institution, and if they decide that the cost-benefit analysis is no longer in their favour, the old council will have to answer to Satoru Gojo directly.
His thumb brushes over the polaroid pictures burning a hole in his pocket. He can’t wait to go home and scrutinise them further for the information he so desperately needs. The walk towards his dorm room takes twice as long as it did that morning, and he bypasses his usual nightly check-in. Megumi’s cursed energy flickers in his peripheral vision, so he knows the tween is holed up in his own bedroom. An extra training session will make up for it tomorrow, and a night without a verbal lashing from his treasured ward would be appreciated by the both of them.
An oppressive miasma of solitude lingered throughout the Gojo estate after Geto left, and Satoru now chose to inhabit his old dorm room to stay close whenever he was needed. The cursed energy signatures were comforting, like fresh pillar candles arranged around the altar Satoru can’t help but scorn.
The memories of the nights they’d spent together sneaking out of their dorm to visit Gojo’s main house grew hollow and would haunt him through the halls during each visit to address the family. Their rebellious days found them desecrating every room they found empty – hopped up on teenage hormones and cheap alcohol they stole from Yaga’s office – like the two of them were displaying a very literal ‘fuck you’ to the stifling life they could not outrun.
The door scarcely hangs onto its hinges as Gojo kicks it open, letting it swing wide and slamming shut behind him. He’s the only one who uses this floor of the dormitory unless there’s an overnight mission, so he can be as loud as he wants the whole evening. Not that anyone else would deter him, judging by how often he’s put the fear of God into Utahime before she started refusing Tokyo missions.
It's not like they were losing out on much since they have the strongest on their doorstep.
A sour taste builds up in Gojo’s mouth, and he swallows it down, briefly wondering if swallowing a curse is a similar sensation. He shucks his jacket off and lets it fall to the floor with a light thump. It’s like he’s controlled by a motor, and beelines for the small, metal tin he keeps on his desk drawer. The box is wrapped in a cursed talisman – a weathered yellow paper with a deep, crimson scrawl – that would alert Gojo if it was tampered with. Such measures are undoubtedly overkill, but Satoru’s desire to covet gnaws deeply at his core like a third-rate curse hungrily leeching from his energy.
“Come on, come on,” he mumbles, unravelling the fetish from the box.
Its contents rattle under his hands; a promise of Satoru’s fantasies waiting for him to leer over like he hasn’t already burned each image into his mind’s eye. He could draw every piece of his collection from memory with his hands tied behind his back, blindfolded, and holding a pen between his teeth.
The box falls free from its confines, lid bursting open and unable to hold back the contents stuffed inside. A seemingly endless collection of photographs spill out onto the bed. A hundred versions of the same elegant face look up at Satoru in different stages of blossoming; some features are softer than others and he arranges them similarly to a time-lapse.
Geto’s signature sharp features blur into a motherly roundness, lips upturned into a smile that emphasises his apple cheeks and hidden jawline. The happiness shrouds his weariness in a gossamer veil, taunting Gojo to peek behind the curtain. His heart pangs at the familiar, angular profile he once kissed incessantly between missions.
The new, chubbier face makes his pants tighten.
Gojo withdraws the new polaroids from his pocket with trembling hands. He recalls every detail of this photo perfectly. Geto Suguru, freshly eighteen and looking worse for wear judging by the jut of his collarbones slipping out from the collar of an oversized, black sweater. He’s carrying two pink, sugary crêpes in one hand that emphasise the dark circles under his eyes. Geto had been looking at the camera warily, and two small children were seen behind him, faces shielded by his free arm.
He looks exactly like he did when he left Gojo and yet, Gojo can barely recognise the man staring back at him. A boy, really, that had been forced to grow up far too young. It wasn’t until recently that Satoru fully began to understand the rationale behind his decisions. Putting his life on the line for the sake of two children didn’t register to Gojo, not when he’d done it before for him and it still wasn’t enough to stay.
A shuddery breath escapes him as he places the new picture next to it. On a surface level, it’s nearly identical to the previous photo. The café’s colour scheme has dulled over the years and the furniture frayed, but it’s definitely the same location. The subject of the photo is the same man, too, though an untrained eye might mistake him for someone less remarkable.
He scrambles to unbutton his pants. Gojo doesn’t need residuals to know that the man in the photograph is his, even if he is frankly unrecognisable. Suguru doesn’t look into the camera in this shot – had stopped doing so around two years into the investigation – instead smiling at someone out of frame. Gojo’s throat burns the longer he looks at it, knowing that Geto has a warm, fond smile that is not reserved for him. He hasn’t looked in Gojo’s direction in years, and he’s sure if he were to appear in front of him today, he’d be lucky to receive a scowl for his troubles.
Geto’s face has rounded out further than any of the other photographs, including the other semi-recent snaps they had collected. The fat covering his cheeks makes his eyes look smaller, like friendly little half-moons unable to mask his emotions, and his double chin blooms outwards before blending into his neck. Inky, black hair frames his chubby face in what Gojo assumes is a vaguely slimming illusion that would look so pretty scraped back behind his ears with a heavy hand.
“Suguru…” his voice trails away as his fingertip traces along the ample outline of Suguru’s body cloaked behind his intricate Buddhist robes.
Years ago, when Satoru had finally worked up the courage to look into Geto’s fabricated dogma, learning that his sacred garb was named a Gojo-kesa sent him into a frenzy. Then – and now – the hold he had on Geto never waned, and the evidence of his ownership reflected physically and spiritually. If only all of his physical changes were wrought by Gojo’s hand. He deserves to be the die in which Geto Suguru is cast. For his existence to influence something meaningful, something permanent.
Like in the previous picture, Suguru is holding two overstuffed crêpes, but a pink blob decorating his cheek insinuate that he didn’t just order two. Although they could be for his daughters, the mountain of evidence suggesting otherwise steals Satoru’s breath from him. He frees his cock from his pants before he starts making a mess of himself and lets it ooze onto the bed below him.
Geto’s robes are bigger than ever before, looking more like a tent on his widening frame than an apostate in a pious masquerade. At this point, his spiritual get-up may be the only thing that could fit a man of his size, an outfit worn out of necessity over calculated choice. Though designed to be formless, the outline of his heaving stomach is clear in the picture – back arched to bear the weight.
If only they had been able to collect video footage of his sighting, and he could witness the slow, ponderous gait he must have developed. Gojo wonders how often his strength has gone underestimated because of that waddle and landed a cocky sorcerer in a precarious situation.
He strangles his cock with white knuckles, squeezing his eyes closed until he can no longer bear not seeing Suguru. One picture of his ever-changing body isn’t enough, so he grabs one of his favourites from a few months prior.
In the image, Geto’s heavy, hanging belly pushes his black sweatpants to their limit. The drawstring had been removed to make more room for his excess, and the dark long-sleeved shirt he wore threatened to ride up over the roundest part of his gut.
One of his daughters – the blonde, preppy one – is nestled under his arm, stretching her own as far as they’d go around his middle and sinking into his abundance. Gojo imagines how much his own body would settle into Geto’s body. If he lay there long enough, would Suguru be able to engulf him completely? The thought of becoming one entity inside Geto’s blubbery embrace makes him twitch in his own vice grip.
Geto would want it too. Why else would he drape himself in Gojo’s namesake, and flaunt his erotic body around the streets of Tokyo, where Satoru could catch him at any moment? His ability to detect individual cursed energy signatures is unmatched, and he’s painfully aware of each time Geto is gorging himself in public, and a pretty good estimate of the ward he’s pigging out in.
He strokes his cock lazily, bringing himself to a rolling boil while his mind wanders. They’d touched each other, back then, behind watchful Yaga’s back. It was clumsy and quick, and Gojo hates himself for how much dissatisfaction the memories bring him when compared to the fantasies of this new, fatter Geto.
Smaller, younger Suguru had bounced on his cock in the school gym whenever Shoko got bored of their company, and reminiscing did nothing but bring his arousal to a gentle simmer. His lanky legs and bony ass were uncomfortable to press up against, nothing like the obscene padding covering every inch of his body. Suguru’s knuckles are dimpled now, for God’s sake. How would all of that weight feel, bearing down on Satoru’s scrawny hips? Would the pressure of it cause him to crumble? He’s the strongest, and he should be able to take on something as mundane as obesity.
His balls tighten.
Gojo aches to see how his double chin would bulge outwards like a beating heart while swallowing down his dick. It’s clear that he needs something substantial filling in his mouth, and it’s just as clear that Geto is rarely satisfied by the craving. It was a shock to see at first. Geto had lost a significant amount of weight after the incident with the star plasma vessel, and Gojo had counted each rib beneath him a week before he’d left him. What had changed? The cult? The useless fanatics that received the unearned privilege to watch Geto stuff himself on their dime, and potentially involve themselves further with his gain.
God, he hopes this isn’t the case. They aren’t deserving of Suguru’s undivided attention, and they certainly don’t deserve holding up a fork to Geto’s chubby face and feeding him expensive mouthfuls while he squirms and moans in delight. How unrecognisable from the boy living in his memories. The Geto he knew hated sweets and would pass off any offerings onto Gojo with little fanfare, choosing to eat plain, healthy meals whenever his stomach allowed him.
“Fuck,” he grunts, thrusting into his palm.
The thought of Geto’s mouth open, begging to be filled is overwhelming. Gojo’s hips snap forward, chasing his palm for something underwhelming and lonesome that bubbles just below the surface. It’s not long before the muscles in his thighs contract, rejecting the eventuality that he’ll cum into his own hand instead of somewhere warm and fecund.
He gnaws at his lower lip. He’s hyper aware of the fact that he’s not the only person in the building, and Megumi’s bitching is insufferable enough at the best of times. The older students wouldn’t say anything to his face, of course, but it’s easier in the long run to keep up the infallible guise that fits him like a glove.
It doesn’t stop his cock from dribbling like an altar candle, and it doesn’t stop him from stifling a prayer between his teeth, wringing himself of the saturation of need building in his core.
An overwhelming wave washes over Satoru and his body grows rigid to weather the storm. He twitches in his hand, and when his eyes open once more, he notices Geto’s new photo glazed with his spend. He dabs at it anxiously, fearful that he may have ruined it with his uncontrollable lust. Swears fall from his lips as he cleans Geto’s sticky face.
The photograph is more or less salvaged and Satoru leaves it on the side to dry, collecting the rest of his treasure back into the box. He’ll reseal it once he knows the latest addition won’t stick to the others. It won’t be too long until the urge overtakes him and pulls him back into the box, pouring over the finer details of Suguru’s growth again and again.
Satoru’s spent cock stirs, unsatisfied.
It’s not enough. Watching isn’t enough. It never has been, and Satoru is tired of being relegated to the sidelines, watching his former lover and best friend bloom while he withers in the shadow of an ever-growing monolith; standing for something he fears he’ll never understand.
A false idol to many, but something much more to Satoru. He’s unable to be Geto’s most loyal servant – doesn’t believe the dangerous doctrine he spouts – but God how he’d kill to bear witness to the soft centre beneath it all. His followers that believe in his Doomsday cult don’t know the boy who would lay underneath Satoru late at night and let him worship every inch of skin.
There’s so much more of him to lavish, and it breaks Satoru’s heart to know that nobody’s reverence can compare.
How cruel.
How fucking cruel.
The thought of Suguru waiting for him sits heavily in his chest. The neglect that he must feel. Satoru had not pursued him for so long that he has resorted to this, parading himself around, body and soul healthy and blossoming from the generosity of non-sorcerer suitors. Of course he takes their offerings with grace, Suguru has always been a polite, giving person. But he is strong and will not settle for anything but the strongest to placate him.
They were the strongest. Are the strongest, still.
Satoru has been so cruel, and he didn’t even know it.
His cursed energy hums in his fingertips, a sanguine rush through his bloodstream. He needs to go. He needs to find Suguru and relieve him of this torture Satoru has unknowingly put him through.
He knows exactly where to find him. Since their final altercation following the incident, Satoru has known Suguru’s precise location at all times. Suguru’s cursed energy signature is engraved into his mind, and it soothes him through tough times. Despite this, they’ve never met since, because Satoru showed restraint. He’s good, he’s always been so good allowing Geto to have the space he needs to explore this little rebellion of his and get it out of his system.
Not a day went by where Satoru didn’t consider dragging him back to him, but he didn’t. Suguru knows it too, which is why he has been gallivanting all over Tokyo, taunting him with his erotic figure. Like fruit ripening in the safe confines of a greenhouse, he too waits to be plucked and devoured.
In the blink of an eye, Gojo is everywhere and nowhere, disappearing from the worn wooden floor where he stood – a homing missile of tightly controlled power – and reappearing several kilometres into the city in a surge of stifling pressure.
Bright lights illuminate the gaudy temple, and Satoru is thankful for the blindfold he wears protecting him from overstimulation. Even so, he squints. Geto’s hideout is an auspicious affair, blending tradition with the tantalising prosperity of progress. A fine place for hiding in plain sight, for shadows grow unfettered under the limelight.
It hasn’t changed since he first found this place a few years ago, aside from some light weeding. Shrine maidens must tend to the grounds, likely young girls trading menial labour for the promise of a blessing from the famed Suguru Geto, who cures despair with the wave of a hand and a hefty downpayment.
A young woman, face rounded with the remnants of adolescence, gapes at him with owlish eyes. He doesn’t recognise her, certain that she’s not one of Suguru’s wards that he ought to be polite with. She bows deeply but doesn’t speak, eyes flitting down to her feet before she can accidentally make eye contact with him.
“My lord has been expecting you,” she says quietly, half-expecting her voice to be whisked away by a light breeze. “I will take you to him.”
Gojo doesn’t dignify the girl with a response and crosses the threshold in a few long strides. The barrier erected around the property does not resist his entry and judging by how the energy flickers within the compound, the sorcerers inside are aware. Dregs of arousal stew in his gut that he won’t dissipate on their own. They mess with his head, put stupid ideas into him like going to see his genocidal ex-boyfriend that abandoned him years ago. The same lover who apparently has been awaiting this very moment.
With an extraordinary show of strength, the girl uses her whole body to crack open the temple door. It howls in protest and behind its gaping maw he can see the well-maintained interior gleaming. Waxed wood panelling painted a deep crimson line the entryway. It appears glossy, like warm blood spilled over a fresh canvas.
The maiden doesn’t enter the temple without permission and instead fixes her gaze on Gojo’s chest – as high as it will go. He passes through the ornate door, and it slams shut behind him. There’s another barrier protecting the compound, more oppressive than the last. It leaves a strange taste in his mouth that reminds him of ozone.
No one greets him at the genkan, and it doesn’t surprise him. Gojo doesn’t need a guide to take him, the gentle tug of cursed energy is enough to lead him to his prize. He kicks off his shoes haphazardly and pads down the hallway on sock-clad feet. The corridors twist and writhe around the estate, reminiscent of that curse Gojo destroyed back in high school. He wonders if Geto would chastise him all the same for blowing this one up. It would almost be worth it.
A few worshippers loitering in the courtyard turn and gawk at him, but he pays them no mind. They scurry away when he comes close, fearful of the eerie aura emitting from it that they are unable to place. It’s surprising that Geto would let non-sorcerers into his place of worship knowing his doctrine, but perhaps the stench of fear seeping through their bodies in flickers of cursed energy alleviates some of that murderous gnawing inside.
Gojo wouldn’t mind letting a couple of them bleed for the crime of being in close proximity to Geto.
Something tugs at Gojo’s gut – be it red string or umbilical cord – and he knows who is behind the door at the end of the hall. He hesitates for a moment in unfamiliar self-consciousness, worried if this may have all been a big mistake that will blow up in his face sooner or later. His balled fist hangs a hair’s width from the wooden frame, unable to make contact.
“Are you just going to stand there?”
A muffled purr sounds from inside the room, punctuated by a gentle clink of metal hitting glass. Gojo feels like a young boy again, caught by his crush for sneaking too many glances in the middle of class, cheeks rosy and ears scarlet.
Before he can get it together, the door opens with an almighty creak. Thin, skeletal fingers wrap around it, revealing a curse that resembles a shadowy wraith from a B-rated horror film. The curse does not acknowledge him, or is too afraid to, and scuttles back to his master’s side. It disappears back into Geto’s inventory, safe within its mother’s embrace.
“Still a spoiled young master, it seems.”
“You’re one to talk,” Gojo remarks dumbly, nearly tripping over his words. “You have more servants than the emperor here.”
Geto sits on a plush couch, perched on an array of expensive looking cushions and taking up about three quarters of the loveseat. In front of him is an extravagant dessert, piled high with whipped cream and strawberries, slowly dripping onto the coffee table beneath it. He plays with the fluffy peaks with the back of his spoon, scooping up a small mountain of cream and letting it drop back into the glass.
A camera is supposed to add ten pounds, but Geto looks bigger than the photos suggested. Satoru’s mouth runs dry, and his loins burn. Geto raises the spoon to his plush lips and takes a bite of his strawberry parfait, his cheeks rounding out like a little chipmunk.
“Why are you here, Satoru?”
The floodgates open and an ocean of excuses flood through Gojo’s brain. He misses him, he loves him, he never stopped thinking about him for a second. He covets him, he hates him, he spent the last hour masturbating over pictures of him slowly getting fatter throughout years of carefully watching from afar.
“Uhh…”
“Honestly,” Geto drawls around the spoon in his mouth. “You took longer than I thought you would. I’ve been waiting years for you to turn up at my door like a sad, lost puppy who’s lost his master.”
Gojo’s whine is distinctively puppy-like.
He beckons Satoru over with a wave of his dimpled hand, gesturing for him to come and sit down. Gojo’s feet follow the order without intention, and he stumbles over them towards his ex in a few strides. A giddiness bubbles in his chest at the thought of sitting beside him on that cramped seat. With enough luck, Suguru’s ample thigh or hip might spill over onto his lap, pinning him to the couch and stopping him from leaving for good.
Before he reaches him, Geto gestures for him to stop and points at the floor.
“Kneel.”
How dare he treat Gojo like another one of his non-sorcerer minions? He frowns, but a warmness spreads across his groin, and he falls to his knees without protest. Geto makes a pleased noise and returns to his treat.
Geto’s tongue traces along the length of his hand ensuring that he doesn’t lose a drop of melted ice cream, dipping into the crease that circles his chubby wrist like a bangle he can’t remove. Every cell in Gojo’s body is set ablaze and he bites down on his own tongue to stop himself from begging to lick Suguru too.
“Is everything alright, Satoru?”
No.
“Peachy,” he forces out between gritted teeth. “Just peachy.”
“Then why are you here now? Something must have happened for you to have given in after all this time. Did the higher ups finally put their foot down against their golden boy, or are you coming around to my point of view?”
A twinge of something melancholy bleeds into Geto’s airy demeanour at the end of his sentence and he shoves another mouthful of cream into himself before he reveals too much.
Gojo shakes his head but doesn’t make eye contact; his gaze is centred on Geto’s heavy breast, prominent beneath several layers of fabric. He can tell the size and shape of his chest with every breath, eager to be freed from their confines. The robes are generous, but it can’t be comfortable to be wrapped up all day. A body like his deserves to be free, to be admired.
“C’mon, Satoru. You always had so much to say, and now you turn up unannounced at my doorstep wordless and forlorn. The least you can do is tell me what I owe the pleasure of your presence in my humble home.”
“Sorry to interrupt your important business,” Gojo mumbles, the intended bite of his words hollow.
“What, this?” Geto punctuates his question with a bite of strawberry, lips pinkening from the juices. “This is nothing, really, I can just have another later.”
“Another?”
Geto’s eyes glitter with mirth, teeth white and sharp against his red lips. He looks at Satoru like he’s prey caught in a trap. From this angle, Satoru can see just how much of Suguru’s delicate features are engulfed by his puffy cheeks and chins. None of it detracts from Geto’s signature elegance but enhances his beauty tenfold. The peculiarity of his new allure is disarming.
“Yes, another. No one is going to tell me no, now, are they? This must be such a shock to you Satoru, desserts were always your favourite, not mine.”
“The dessert isn’t the most shocking part, no.”
Geto arches a thin brow. “Oh?”
He’s being goaded. Geto clearly wants Gojo to say what he’s thinking out loud, to admit that he’d gotten devastatingly fat in their time apart, to speak the quiet part into existence and just acknowledge what’s between them. Suguru always told him not to make comments about others’ appearances – it can be hurtful to people, Satoru – and suggested that if something cannot be changed it shouldn’t be pointed out. Does he want Gojo to go back on that advice, to prove that he hasn’t changed? Would he be disappointed in a Gojo Satoru that is as unmoving as a cliff face when he has blossomed into the most beautiful, full bloom?
Make a decision.
“Yeah, it’s not. You’ve gotten so big, Suguru, that I can hardly recognise you.”
“Liar.”
Gojo leans forward. “Still in denial?”
Suguru picks up the sundae glass and drinks the rest of the melted ice cream like it’s water instead of a tonne of sugar. The motion caused by his chin lurching forward, closer to tripling rather than doubling, is entrancing to watch. He has no idea how many calories run down his gullet, but it’s bound to be hundreds, nestling in with whatever else he’s gorged on earlier in the day.
He said that he wanted another. A sycophant had better bring it soon.
Geto leans back in his chair and places a hand on the roundest part of his belly to soothe the cold stretch filling him up inside. “I’m very aware of how I look, Satoru. As are you. You’re pretending that this is unexpected as if you haven’t been watching every step of the way. You may think that you’re hidden in the shadows, but I know you.”
“And what is it you know about me?”
“You’re hard.”
In truth, his erection hasn’t flagged since his miserable orgasm earlier in the evening. It likely won’t, not without his ardent needs being fulfilled once and for all. Edging himself for all this time was always going to end up like this, craving lost touches and newfound flesh.
He won’t deny it, and he doesn’t, presenting Geto with pregnant silence, bursting from the seams of its chasm.
“A sixteen-year-old Gojo Satoru had more self-control than this, so tell me this: why do you lose your restraint now? You hardly had any then, but you were capable of public decency. You probably scared that poor girl out front. An understandable fear too, you could put an eye out with that thing, Satoru.”
“You’re choosing to look, Suguru.”
The purr ripped from Gojo’s throat is familiar, and memories of every time he used that teasing tone on Geto floods dopamine through his veins. Underneath the humiliation inflicted on him, he feels an unexplainable giddiness in his chest. He chooses not to adjust his pants, knowing that his situation is not unappreciated at the very least.
Suguru continues to soothe his overfull belly with a wry smile. “I’m sentimental.”
Something snaps. Gojo pushes the table separating them with ease, ignoring the sound of glass shattering as it hits either the floor or the wall. He crawls closer to Geto – not wanting to disobey his order – until he could rest his chin upon a padded knee. He waits for permission; for consent or he’d settle for an insult to soothe his ache.
A caesura. A hitched breath, more gasp than sigh. Geto cards a hand in Gojo’s soft hair and traces his fingertips along the length of his shaggy locks. He dips beneath the blindfold and pulls it away to reveal those eerily blue eyes studying him. His pale lashes are as long as he can remember, the lower eyelashes brush against paler cheeks. Beauty is wasted on someone like Gojo, clashing too much with his undesirable personality and causing trouble to orbit him. Combined with his infamous strength, it’s no wonder his ego is immense.
“As pretty as I remember,” Geto murmurs, taking his sharp chin between his fingers and tugging it around to get a better look.
Gojo’s cheeks pinken. “So I’ve been told,” he huffs.
He allows Suguru to check him out and preens at the praise. Does Geto charm his followers like this? By showering them in honey-soaked words to convince them that they’re precious? He takes them into his hands and manipulates them like a curse he’s moulding into a bite-size morsel, stripping them of everything but their servitude.
“That mouth of yours could use some work,” Geto pushes his face away with the back of his hand. “I could think of a few ways to fix that attitude.”
“Please.”
Gojo groans and lets his head fall forward, leaving open mouthed kisses on Geto’s clothed thigh. As teens, he’d always loved when Geto took control like this, knowing how to push Gojo to his limits until the buzzing in his head grew quiet and filled his mind with nothing but him.
He hears Geto whisper something like troublesome brat under his breath before yanking his hair back. It smarts, and his eyes begin to sting. The wetness doesn’t spill from his lash line, but his cock is another story. His underwear feels uncomfortably wet, miserably sticking to his length and choking it.
“You claim that you can’t recognise me, Satoru, yet you’re still so eager to please me.”
Knowing Geto is right, Satoru dips between his open legs to mouth at Geto’s cock but is instead met with something big and soft. Geto’s heavy belly heaves above him, covering more and more of Gojo’s face with every strained breath. He moans – half suffocating from the weight pushing against him and nestles closer until his entire face is engulfed.
Geto allows Satoru to lavish the underside of his belly with kisses and nibbles for a moment; seemingly aware that something intrinsic is being soothed with each bite. He shushes him like a mother would a suckling child when he grows too loud, whimpering into Geto’s quivering flesh.
“Don’t blow your load before you can undress me,” he chides with a soft laugh. “You don’t want to miss the best part.”
Gojo jerks back, eyes glazed over and staring at Geto. It’s like he hadn’t even considered that to have been an option. Hastily, he paws at Geto’s robes like they’d personally offended him by existing.
“Off, off, off!” Gojo demands.
Suguru removes his hands from where they’re kneading his abundant hips and unravels the robe, letting it slip gracefully from his arms onto the couch.
Satoru’s mouth runs dry. Geto’s breasts are heavier than he could have possibly imagined, falling victim to gravity with large nipples pointing towards the floor. Each of them are bigger than both of his hands, and if he’d cradled one in his palms it would overflow, too vast for him to monopolise. His heart pangs at the sight of flesh puckered into a large X shape, healed but a grave reminder of Suguru’s near-death experience with the sorcerer killer. Satoru still blames himself, and trepidation builds in his gut as he cannot help but find the sight of dark, mottled flesh contrasting against his healthy, doughy breasts. It juxtaposes his newfound pampered persona. Only Gojo knew how he'd been, back when they were protecting Riko.
Hopefully it wasn’t a story Suguru was eager to share with others. Those memories were for the two of them alone.
His massive, pale belly covers his entire lap, hiding the waistband of his dark, loose pants from view. It’s complete with a squashed belly button, surrounded by a spiral of white and pink stretchmarks decorating it. It would take hours for Satoru to run his tongue across every mark, cataloguing the saga of growth he was unable to witness firsthand.
“You’re beautiful.”
“More beautiful than before?”
“That’s not fair,” Gojo croaks out, choking on years of bottled-up affection. “There’s not a version of you that could be anything less than perfect.”
Suguru chuckles and his body bounces along with it. “I don’t think anyone from your world would consider me to be perfect.”
Gojo hates it when he says that. His world. Jujutsu society has granted him no favours and threaten to clip his wings if he dared show discontent. They had taken Geto from him, and his biggest regret is not chasing after him. It’s a horrible thought, but aside from the kids, Gojo feels nothing for those he chooses to protect. He’d burn the world down if Suguru felt a chill.
“When have I ever sought their approval, Suguru? You told me once that it’s the duty of the strongest to protect the weak. It’s your opinion I cherish, not those old bastards determined to outlive the young.”
A thoughtful look washes over Suguru’s face, and suddenly he’s reminded of the scared young man whose trauma he hadn’t recognised until it was too late. Only now, it’s cushioned by the experience only age can provide hardening his eyes and padding filling out those previously gaunt features.
“Well, right now you have me. Tonight, at least.”
He leans back into his seat, belly oozing further into his lap like proofing dough. It’s an invitation Gojo accepts without question. He takes the overhanging belly into his hands and attempts to lift it out of the way. Even with his strength, it’s heavier than he thought. The flab fights his ministrations, intent on encroaching on whatever space can help it expand. Amusement sparkles in Geto’s eyes. He’s fully aware of the struggle that comes from trying to get close enough for an intimate touch; the effort that comes with getting him off has left him high and dry many times in recent memory.
What many consider a hassle Satoru sees as another challenge to overcome, and he gets to work.
The pants come down with a lot of teamwork. Geto lifts his ass off the couch long enough to pull them down his thighs and plops back onto the couch when his legs begin to shake from the exertion of holding his weight for too long. Gojo’s groan is muffled by the couch’s own, and he begins salivating when the fabric catches on the cute rolls on the inside of Suguru’s soft thighs.
They’re hairless – just how Satoru likes them. No matter how much he’s let himself go, changing his body until he’s near unrecognisable, he continues to groom himself the same way as he used to. Back at the school, he’d let Satoru run a razor across his exfoliated skin. Gojo would call it pampering, but he knew Geto did it for him.
And still does.
Once he’s peeled away one layer, Gojo scrambles to remove his underwear, knowing there’s a chance that he’s smooth there too. They’re too tight, clinging to Suguru like a second skin. He should have sized-up a few dozen pounds ago, but it’s likely that it’s difficult to find something his size. Soon enough, he’ll have to go without.
Deep, red indents blossom from where his underwear choked him and Gojo thumbs at them, eliciting a hiss from Geto. It’s a shame he can’t extend his reversed curse technique onto other people. Seeing Suguru in pain causes him to hurt too.
Soft, downy hair dusts the cushion of fat encasing Suguru’s cock like a halo. He just can’t stop surprising Satoru at every turn.
“I can’t reach,” Suguru explains, as if it’s not making Satoru so horny he’s verging on going blind. “Would you prefer that I found someone to help me?”
“I’ll kill anyone who gets close.”
There’s enough of Suguru’s dick exposed for Satoru to wrap his lips around. His nose is pressed into the pocket of fat on his pelvis, and he breathes deeply, filling his lungs with Suguru’s natural scent. It hasn’t changed. He pushes away the thoughts of some non-sorcerer (male, to make the scenario realistic) tending to Geto’s intimate area so he can focus on the slightly tangy taste filling his mouth.
Geto coos at him in encouragement and pushes Satoru’s bangs back. It must be muscle memory, because there’s no way he can see Gojo’s head bobbing up and down over the wide expanse of his belly obscuring him from view. He’ll miss being able to watch Suguru’s face contort with pleasure from the flick of his tongue, but it is the price he’s willing to pay to worship the full-figured beauty that’s one hip thrust away from suffocating him.
Stuttering breaths push the underside of Geto’s belly further into Gojo’s face, in turn forcing him to take more of his cock into his throat. His lover has always been well-endowed, and the fat pad he’s grown manages to humble him just enough to stop Satoru from gagging.
Suguru’s hips gyrate in time with Satoru’s head, but it’s a pitiful display providing little relief and causing his corpulent body to surge like waves crashing against the cliffside. Gojo ruts against his zipper, leaking sticky precum into his pants alongside the already cooling mess he’d made.
Although Satoru can’t see it, Suguru throws his head back and bites his lower lip. The vibrations from his throat feel too good, lightning strikes of ecstasy travelling from shaft to fat pad. His grip on Gojo’s hair tightens and he uses the leverage to force him further onto his cock before pulling him back long enough to inhale. Oxygen crackles in Satoru’s brain after being denied too long, his pleasure thickening into treacle that floods his veins.
“You’re so good, Satoru. Only the strongest can handle me, no one else can suck cock as well as you.”
Satoru takes as much of him as he possibly can into his mouth without help. Geto takes it as permission to fuck his throat with earnest using gentle thrusts that grow more and more impatient. Honey-sweet nothings fall from his lips, promising Gojo that he’s just as good as he used to be all those years ago, that no one can hold a candle to him. Satoru’s oxygen-deprived brain runs too slowly to pick up on the hint that Suguru is comparing him against others he let defile him.
“I wish I could see you,” Suguru moans. “You look so pretty when you’re wrecked.”
Satoru’s face is wet from tears and other stickiness, and it smears onto Geto’s large stomach. He can’t bring himself to feel any shame. His long lashes tickle the sensitive underbelly and before Suguru can open his mouth long enough to gasp, he comes down Gojo’s throat.
He doesn’t get the chance to savour it, so he keeps Suguru’s softening cock in his mouth to memorise the taste of his spend. With kitten licks, he teases whatever leftover cum he can from Suguru’s slit.
“That’s enough,” he hisses from overstimulation. He pries Gojo away from his throbbing cock with a soft pop. “Greedy.”
“Mm, can’t help myself around you.”
Gojo’s voice is gravelly but light, his throat thoroughly ruined. He doesn’t think to heal the bruising with his technique and wears it as a trophy. He’s still painfully hard, cock still making good on that promise to not flag until he’s coaxed over the edge by his lover and turning more impatient. A bead of sweat rolls down the back of his neck and he swallows thickly thinking of a way to broach the subject without pressuring Geto – or more worryingly – getting rejected.
“I guess we have that in common. Being greedy, that is. Don’t think I’m done with you yet, Satoru. It’s been such a long time, and you haven’t gotten what you came for.”
If only Geto knew how much he thought about this moment and knew that being close to him was more than he could have asked for. His scent, his size, his cursed energy are comforts he’s not ready to let go of again. If there was a way to climb inside him, he would do it in a heartbeat, becoming a vengeful cursed spirit tied to this plane by a decade of regrets. Only then could he rest within Geto’s technique, cradled within a womb of his own power and coveted for the strength he can provide.
“Are you listening, Satoru?”
“Huh?”
Suguru smiles fondly and cups his chin, bringing Satoru’s face close enough to finally kiss. Satoru leans into it and eagerly presses his tongue up to the seam of his lips to part them with a squeak. Suguru’s plush lips don’t part easily, and he relishes in the chastity of their embrace, even if Satoru still tasted faintly of his cum.
“I’d let you fuck me if I weren’t so exhausted.”
Satoru’s ears perk up. He was used to bottoming for Suguru, preening at the force he’d use to pin him to the bed, pounding deeply inside while keeping one hand on his cock like a vice and the other wrapped around his neck. Suguru would fuck him hard at any given time and he’d feel it for days after.
“Don’t pout,” Geto chides. “You shouldn’t be so good with your mouth and maybe I’d have the energy.”
Satoru’s heart beats in his chest, hummingbird quick. “What about the other parfait?”
“What about it?”
“A bit of sugar would give you the energy. Not that you’d need much to just lie there and take it.”
Geto’s brow twitches. “A tempting offer, but you still don’t know your place.”
Satoru kisses him again hard with the promise of a good time. He tilts his head back to invite Suguru deeper into his mouth, who reciprocates in turn, messily kissing until their teeth nearly clash together. Satoru hasn’t fucked anyone since Suguru – not anyone that mattered anyway – and he knows his body like his own, where to touch and where to feel. Although, learning how his dramatic curves would unfurl under his ministrations will bring them both to greater heights.
“C’mon Suguru, let’s fill you up from both ends.”
Suguru’s breath hitches, and he waves a hand lazily. Gojo feels a crackle of cursed energy in the air but ignores it to put his hands back on Geto’s body where they belong. His heavy belly is warm to the touch, unperturbed by his nakedness, but his nipples have grown hard like tiny pinpricks against his stretched-out areolas.
He quickly misses having Suguru in his mouth, so he takes a nipple between his teeth. Satoru suckles on his chest as if expecting to be fed from it. Suguru squirms but doesn’t shoo him away.
“You never stop being so greedy, Satoru.”
Satoru moans against the velvety nub filling his mouth and feels that same ripple of cursed energy enter the room again. He lets the nipple fall from his reddened lips with a pop.
“Did you really just use one of your curses to bring dessert from the kitchen?”
Suguru takes the parfait offered from a ghostly hand and wills the spirit back into the rift of his inventory. “They’re mine to do my bidding, no matter the order.”
It shouldn’t be hot, but Satoru’s toes curl at the nonchalance. Suguru using his cursed technique to facilitate his greed, and allowing his curses to see him fully naked, glutted and sated is too much for him to think about without strangling his cock to stop himself from coming.
“Well? Does the offer still stand?”
“Undress yourself,” Suguru says around a juicy strawberry. “And make it quick. You’ve never been one for a show, and I don’t care to watch you try.”
His words betray him. Suguru watches Satoru unbutton his jacket hungrily, eyes darting from exposed collarbones to the dark patch on his pants that fall to the floor with a wet slap. The cold air is biting on Satoru’s cock once it springs forward out of his underwear. He stands there awkwardly while shucking off his shirt, too aware of the eyes analysing his naked body.
“Come here.”
Satoru obeys and attempts to straddle Suguru’s lap. His long legs can only manage to reach over one of his massive thighs and he perches himself on the precipice of his knee, dick poking into the mountain of fat taking up the rest of his lap. Suguru holds the glass in one hand, and steadies Satoru with the other hand wrapped around his slim waist.
“You look good here, like you belong.”
“You’re beautiful,” Satoru says (and thinks) for the nth time. “You’ve never looked as beautiful as in this moment.”
A smile stretches across Suguru’s face, and it rounds out his features like a sweet cherub in a church hall. He presses the cold glass into Satoru’s hand and tips his head back. Wordlessly, Satoru scoops up a heaping spoonful of the messy pink dessert and pushes it between Suguru’s waiting lips. Thick, white cream smears over his plush lips and he dips down to kiss them, feeling his jaw flex. Even while kissing, he won’t give up his desire to eat.
“Can I prep you?” Satoru begs.
Suguru shakes his head. “No need, I did it earlier.”
Satoru’s eyebrow twitches and his heart soars. He was right all along. He knew that Suguru had been waiting all this time for him, had eaten himself more beautiful than ever before. He’d lounge, hot and heavy, every night while he waited for Satoru to finally take him. The elation fills his mind like a drug. It’s enough to make his dick burn.
He places the glass on the far end of the table and in one swift movement, bends Suguru over it. Suguru’s knees clumsily hit the floor and his body ripples violently from the sudden movement, lasting several seconds before settling into a gentle sway. His belly presses into the table and spreads out, determined to encroach on as much space as possible in every position. It’s like his body is melting in time with the ice cream, unable to cope with how quickly the room is beginning to heat up.
“You still act like you’re mine,” Satoru coos. “Stretching out your pussy and sitting pretty, waiting for your prince to rescue you.”
Suguru attempts to hiss out a retort, but Satoru pushes his face against the cool glass before giving one simple instruction.
“Eat.”
A soft sigh escapes him, but when he reaches for the spoon, Satoru gently slaps his hand away. If Satoru had spent his time sniffing out Geto’s position like a truffle pig, it was his turn to act like one. A firm hand pushes him down until his nose presses against cold cream. He can’t see over Suguru’s wide back and long, inky hair, so he’ll have to trust that he can follow orders instead of simply giving them.
“You think you’re ready to take me?”
“Yeah,” Satoru can hardly hear him. “I’m ready.”
Poor Suguru still underestimates how big he is, too enraptured by his own alluring size. Satoru runs a hand down the pronounced curve of his back and pays special attention to the small divots sprinkled along the expansive of his ass like stars. Geto Suguru has fucking cellulite and he’s going to feel all of it against his hips. His intrusive thoughts get the better of him, and he slaps a doughy cheek.
Suguru whines in surprise and wiggles his behind. It’s mesmerising how much it sways. Back then he’d had a bubble butt that Gojo had loved to worship, but it’s ridiculous just how much his pudge trembles under Satoru’s touch.
That same hand follows the curvature of Suguru’s ass down the crease and dips inside to find him wet and scorching. It’s a wonder he’d managed to prepare himself so meticulously considering that it’s grown difficult for him to touch his own cock, but Satoru doesn’t dwell on it too much, instead circling the glistening rim with two fingers. They slip inside of him with ease with a filthy, wet sound that turns the tips of Suguru’s ears pink.
“Suguru,” Satoru groans. “You got yourself ready perfectly for me.”
He fucks his two fingers in and out of his hole and tries to spread Geto’s cheeks out further to admire the pretty hole he adores, only to be met with resistance from the voluptuous cheeks.
“Hurry up—!”
Satoru adds another finger alongside the others and stretches them apart, luxuriating in the tight, wet heat struggling to accommodate him.
“Now, now. I’ve waited long enough to have you back in my arms, I think I’ll take my time with you before you have the chance to run away from me again. Scratch that, I don’t think running is a part of your repertoire lately.”
He grinds the palm of his hand against his ass, ripping a string of moans that suspiciously sound like curses from Suguru’s sugar-coated lips. The honeyed warbles are occasionally cut off with gasps and swallows, still stuffing his face while getting finger fucked.
“You make the most erotic sounds, Suguru. You didn’t even like sweets, back when you would pass everything off to me with a disgusted look on your face. To think you’ve been hiding such a lewd side of yourself from me. I ought to punish you for this, but I know you can’t help yourself.”
Another hand softly caresses the soft bulge of fat coating Suguru’s hips while his fingers curl inside of him, causing goosebumps to chase Satoru’s more gentle hand. Suguru tries to move but finds himself unable to adjust himself from both his own weight and the pressure of Gojo’s body looming over him. There’s so much to say, the need to dispute the humiliating words dripping from Satoru’s mouth and deny, deny, deny. But he’d made his bed, pushed Satoru to this point and gotten what he’d wanted.
He miserably swallows a melted, sweet mouthful and focuses on keeping his trembling legs from buckling.
“Look at you,” Satoru croons. “It’s not that hard to follow orders with a little incentive, now, is it? If all it took was a few sweet treats, you could have gotten as fat as you’d like at my own estate without causing all of this trouble.”
Satoru watches his own hand get swallowed up by Suguru’s greedy hole and greedier fat ass, knowing that he could never get bored of this. If not for the incessant throbbing of his own cock, he could do this forever. It’ a retirement he’s willing to fight the higher-ups for.
With a sigh, he withdraws his fingers with a wet pop and tries to pull Suguru’s ass closer to him. Though he knows Geto is strong, there’s no way he’s able to hold his weight up on his own. The expanse of his wide, heavy belly squashed against the table allows him to stay somewhat ass-up long enough for Gojo’s fingers to spread him wide enough to line up his dripping cock to his hole.
“Your little cult is going to know exactly who you belong to.”
Suguru shudders and squeezes his eyes closed, knowing just how big Satoru’s cock feels inside of him. It’s been too long since he last had to adjust.
Satoru swallows a deep groan in his throat when his head is enveloped in hot, unyielding heat. His cock bullies its way inside Suguru petulantly, like it’s frustrated that he isn’t moulded to its shape as he was back in high school. Suguru’s eyes fly open, and he lets out a yelp. Just the tip has stretched him this far. Playing with himself earlier wasn’t enough and the pain mixed with pleasure reminds him of the fact.
He clings to the edge of the table with his chubby hands. Satoru continues to slowly feed Suguru his cock, barely granting him any reprieve between each inch until his slim hips press up against his ass, cushioned between two thick pillows.
“I’ve missed this so much, Suguru. You’re so tight, I knew you wouldn’t be whoring yourself out to those pathetic excuses of sorcerers you keep around. Not that any of them would be able to satisfy you, not without me.”
Satoru thrusts deeply into him and snakes his arms around Suguru’s lower belly. His fingers don’t reach far enough around him to meet in the middle, so he grips a soft handful of flesh in each.
“Is that why you got like this? No one could satisfy your cravings like me, so you had to find another vice? My poor Suguru, fattened up by his own lack of foresight. When I look at you like this, like some plump siren locked away, it almost makes going through hell worth it. Fucking you this way feels like the first time, your body feels so different but reacts the exact same way.”
The tips of Suguru’s ears pinken and he keeps his head low to hide his expression from him, knowing that his flush will spur him on.
But Satoru knew anyway. And loved it. He pulls out far enough that only his thick cockhead remains and slams back into him, pushing Suguru further into the table. He scoots forward a few inches, the friction rubbing against his heavy breasts and expansive middle. Suguru’s tits surge forward and knock the glass – now mostly empty – onto the floor. It shatters, but neither care.
“God, you’re too tight. Going without fucking me has made you a born-again virgin. I’ll take care of you baby. Your first when you were skinny, and your first now.”
Satoru laughed to himself and punctuated his point with a few stuttering thrusts. He reaches under Suguru with one hand, the other valiantly holding up his sagging belly to get closer. Two fingers dip beneath the pocket of fat surrounding his cock, prying it open like a pussy. It’s difficult from this angle, and his long fingers can just about graze the oversensitive, dripping head.
Suguru mewls. “Satoru, wait—!”
His large body jiggles violently in time with each of Satoru’s fucks, and he loses his grip on Suguru, and his chub falls from his hand, flopping back against his crotch. Suguru cries again and grinds against his own generous form, finding limitless pleasure from his own flesh. His padded middle stimulates his cock like a toy, and Satoru realises what’s going on, driving into Suguru more harshly than before.
“No wonder you’re so tight, Suguru. You haven’t needed to fuck anyone to get off, have you? You’ve grown a perfectly good pussy of your own. I’m so glad, not just any man would be willing to dig so deeply to find your cock, but it’s okay, I like your pussy.”
Satoru massages small circles into Suguru’s fat pad like he’s playing with a clit. It’s reminiscent of the times he’d play with Suguru’s cock over his gym clothes, slowly building up arousal over layers of fabric until he could cum untouched, only this time, the only barrier is Suguru himself.
“What a pretty pussy. It’s only right since you love playing mommy so much.”
Suguru grows rigid under Satoru’s touch.
“They’re lovely girls, I’m sure,” Satoru continues, flippantly. “And they certainly needed a mother, I guess. It shows on you, love. You look so…matronly. It’s a shame you never thought to give them a father, too.”
“I am their father.”
Satoru drapes his body over Suguru’s and snakes his arms around his chest. He begins to fondle his tits while shallowly bucking up into Suguru, hitting the tender spot inside him with expert precision. The bite in Suguru’s voice falters and he cries out, tears building along his lash line.
“With tits like this? All those waitresses at the trendy little café’s your girls take you to mistake you for a mom that’s let herself go. It’s okay, Suguru. I’m not like the other worthless guys; I can handle fat pussy.”
Suguru tries to hold in his moans, to not give Satoru any satisfaction for the vitriol he’s spilling and will continue to spill inside of him. His hole flutters with anger and pleasure combined as if unfurling from waves of ecstasy dousing him and he milks the heat from Satoru deeply nestled inside. He can gauge Satoru’s own excitement from how his cock twitches against his walls like the fluttering wings of a butterfly. He’s stretched so fully; he can nearly memorise the ridges of the veins decorating Satoru’s cock from the feeling alone.
He tries to warn him, but only pathetic gasps fall from his lips. He tries to breathe deeply, but he’s suffocated by his ample breasts pushing against his neck.
“What’s wrong, Suguru? Going to cum?”
Although he’s doing his best to keep his mocking tone, Satoru’s breathing heavily between every word. After being edged all day by Suguru’s indecent body, he can’t hold on much longer. Every cell in his body has been denied his touch, his scent and his body for so long that they all scream in unison to come so deeply that Suguru will never truly be rid of Satoru, no matter how far he goes this time.
Suguru makes a pitiable affirmative sound in his throat. His body ripples like an earthquake, the epicentre of his orgasm causing shocks to spread across his entire body. Even his double chin trembles from the force. Satoru fucks him through it, eliciting several aftershocks to wash over him like tidal waves until his crying grows louder. His body jerks forward and grows limp under Gojo, his hips twitching weakly as Satoru chases his own well-earned orgasm.
Satoru doesn’t bother attempting to pull out and with one last thrust, spilling inside him, filling him up thoroughly until he felt a wetness at the base of his groin. He smiles knowing his cum is leaking before he’s pulled out. As greedy as Suguru had become, there’s still too much of Satoru that he can handle, and he’ll never get bored. Where his cock is concerned, he’ll never have to ask for more from anyone else again. No one else can keep up with his growing appetites, and Suguru should be grateful that he’s so understanding.
He pulls out and enjoys watching the mess drip out of his hole like an overstuffed donut oozing with cream. Gently, he lowers Suguru onto the table, and without Satoru to hold him up, the furniture groans ominously under his weight.
Suguru’s mind is swirling, and he can’t catch his breath. He’s empty and stuffed full, hatred in his head and love in his heart. This wasn’t how he expected this evening to go but was desperate to ensure it doesn’t end. He tries to lift himself up, but his legs are too unsteady to gain purchase.
With a crackle of cursed energy and a vague scent of ozone, he suddenly finds himself laying on his bed, chunky legs spread far apart so Satoru can clean him out with a towel from the adjoining bathroom. How did he know which room was his? The compound encompasses dozens of rooms organised in a labyrinthine maze for a reason.
“I missed you so much,” Satoru croaks. “Tell me you won’t leave again. Or at least tell me where you’re going. I’ll find you regardless, but the heads up would be nice.”
Suguru stares blankly at his toothy smile. His bright blue eyes are too icy to match the boyishness of his face and the bashfulness he mimics. He really thought Satoru would have been easier to manipulate, too overcome with the ghosts of his adolescence and unable to part from.
He thinks of his family. His sweet, precious girls.
“I missed you too.”