Satoru's bunny ૮ ྀིᴗ͈ . ᴗ͈ ྀིა nsfw!
Owner Satoru x Bunnygirl reader
CW: No verbal consent, corruption kink, and bunny-to-human form transformation. Do NOT read if you are not comfortable with this!
The thick summer heat clung to Satoru like a wet rag as he finally escaped the stuffy air of the higher-ups' meeting room. Even here, hidden deep in the mountains surrounding Jujutsu High, the ancient, sprawling trees offered little respite. Sunlight, pretty and golden, stabbed the canopy, turning the shaded pathways into humid ovens. He groaned, rolling his broad shoulders as he stalked down the familiar wooden corridor towards his office, already peeling off his dark jacket. The high collar was just downright senseless to wear in such weather. The usual breezy cotton fabric felt like a furnace against his fitted black tee, which itself clung damply to the defined planes of his chest and back, neatly tucked into his equally dark dress pants. Useless, beautiful trees, he grumbled internally, all this beauty just to let the sun toast me alive. His black Italian leather shoes tapped a weary rhythm on the polished, old wood floor.
Mid-stride, jacket half-off and draped over one big arm, he froze. A tiny anomaly disrupted the sun-drenched dust motes dancing near his office door. There, on the warm, honey-colored wood, sat a perfect, very small ball of fluff. Two velvety ears, alert and trembling slightly, framed a tiny pink nose twitching with cautious curiosity. A puff of a cotton-white tail rested behind a compact body covered in soft, pale fur. A baby bunny. You. His exhaustion momentarily forgotten, a familiar, effortless smirk tugged at his lips. "Well, hello there, little trespasser," he murmured, his voice a low rumble.
He crouched down, his towering frame still imposing even folded low. His shadow fell over you, and your wide, scared eyes fixed on him, ears snapping fully upright, not in aggression, but pure, trembling vigilance. Don’t try anything, big man, your posture screamed silently, poised for flight, not fight. Satoru chuckled softly. Digging into his left pocket (candy side, right was phone, back-right was wallet), his calloused fingers found the crinkly remnants of a strawberry candy wrapper, the sweet tang still ghosting his tongue, and a single, unwrapped caramel. Slowly, he extended his large, warm palm towards you, the candy a tiny amber jewel in its center. "Peace offering?" he coaxed. Your response was sudden, a blur of white fur vanishing down the corridor faster than he could blink. He blinked, then shrugged, popping the caramel into his own mouth with a grin. "Rude," he declared to the empty hallway, already thinking of some ridiculous joke about bunnies having no taste for the finer things in life.
Yet, like clockwork, painted in the afternoon gold, you were there again the next day. And the next. Satoru would return, shedding his jacket to reveal the slightly sweat-damp tee beneath, his steps halting at the now-familiar sight of you, a tiny sentinel illuminated by the sliced sunlight. He’d offer his usual commentary, "You like rejecting me, huh, snowball?" or "Admiring the architecture? It’s pretty, I know." before crouching low. He’d stopped with the candy after the third futile attempt. Today, his large hand emerged holding a small cluster of dried cranberries, plucked right from Megumi’s trail mix stash ("I bought it, it’s practically mine anyway," he’d reasoned while picking out the M&M's for an after-breakfast snack). "Alright, Bun. Try these. Real gourmet stuff, trust."
He held his breath. You watched him, pink nose working overtime, those expressive ears flicking. Then, a hesitant hop. Another pause, sniffing the air, scanning for threats. Then, with lightning speed that belied your tiny form, you darted forward, snatched a cranberry from his calloused palm with surprising delicacy, and retreated a safe distance. The briefest contact, the soft brush of your warm fur against his skin, the tickle of tiny whiskers, sent an unexpected wave of pure, uncomplicated warmth through him. It was absurdly soft, this feeling blooming in his chest. He let out a breathy laugh, deliberately letting his butt thump onto the polished floorboards, stretching his long legs out. "Yay!" he declared, basking in the minor triumph. The strongest sorcerer, brought low (literally) by a handful of stolen cranberries and a bunny smaller than the size of his fist.
The days fell into a sweet routine. Patience, ridiculous amounts of one-sided chatter ("You'd look good in a tiny hat, Bun-Bun. Maybe a pink beret? Or a sparkly collar?"), and increasingly bunny-appropriate bribes, cranberries graduated to fresh greens, then proper pellets. You stayed longer, jumping closer, even hopping tentatively into his office doorway one humid afternoon. He, in turn, transformed a corner of his space. A small ceramic water bowl appeared, then a plush little bed tucked away from drafts, followed by a woven grass ball and a wooden chew toy (after you demonstrated a terrifying aptitude for shredding mission reports). He found himself looking forward to that moment of turning the corner, the sun showing off your small form, the quiet intimacy as you nibbled while he grumbled about grading Yuji's half-assed homework.
The turning point came brutally. Returning late one evening, Satoru spotted a flash of russet fur near the large circular window behind his desk in his office. A fox, slinking away, its jaws clamped firmly around the limp body of a tiny brown rabbit. His faint smirk vanished. The image wouldn't leave him. Leaving you out there, vulnerable, trusting... impossible. He knew nature ran its course, animals lived and died like humans, but… He just couldn't let you be so open to it, the danger. When you appeared the next afternoon, your usual spot bathed in warm light, his approach was different. No jokes, just slow, deliberate movements, his voice a low, soothing murmur. "Alright, little one. Be a good girl now..." He scooped you up, his large hands impossibly gentle under your fluffy belly, forming a cradle of warmth and safety. You froze, wide eyes locked on his face, little heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his palm. But you didn't struggle. You just... stayed. Looking up at him with those wide eyes, nose twitching rapidly as his deep voice washed over you, incomprehensible but strangely calming. He felt the fragile warmth of your tiny body, the absolute trust in your stillness. "Yeah," he murmured, a fierce protectiveness settling deep within him. "No more scary foxes."
His sleek, modern apartment became your sanctuary. Research was done (extensively). The finest timothy hay, organic greens, a spacious enclosure with plush bedding, a litter box that looked suspiciously high-end, bunny paradise manifested. He quickly learned your breed: Netherland Dwarf. Definitely not wild. Definitely dumped. The thought made his usual smirk falter, replaced by a frown of pure disgust. What kinda dick dumps a cute little bunny just like that? It didn't matter, you were his now, he thought. You adapted with surprising speed, exploring with curious hops, developing a taste for sliced apples and a distinct brattiness, turning your nose up at certain veggies one day, devouring them the next, and displaying a terrifyingly efficient talent for annihilating phone chargers ("Bad Bun! That was my Digimon one…"). Bunny-proofing became an ongoing project.
But the true revelation, the moment that truly rewired his reality, came after a nightmarish string of back-to-back missions. He stumbled into his dimly lit apartment well past midnight, brain fried, muscles screaming. Even reversed cursed technique couldn't erase the exhaustion. He'd managed to refill your hay rack and water before collapsing onto his bed after a (very much needed) scalding shower; his place smelled of his cedarwood wash and sleepiness. The city lights glittered far below his floor-to-ceiling windows, a distant hum. He sank into the cool cotton sheets, eyes already heavy. A familiar weight settled onto his abdomen. Little feet, impossibly soft, kneaded gently at the firm muscles just above the waistband of his sweats, right where the stark white trail of hair led downwards. Ah, Bun... he thought hazily, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. You often sought his warmth. He drifted off, lulled by the tiny, comforting presence curled now on his chest.
The rude awakening came at 6 AM sharp. Not to soft fur or an alarm, but to the distinct, unsettling pressure of limbs on his chest. His eyes snapped open before his conscious mind fully registered. Gone was the ball of white fluff. Instead, nestled atop him, cheek pillowed on his pectoral, was a girl. Small, delicate, utterly nude save for the unmistakable pair of fluffy white bunny ears resting atop a mess of hair, and a tiny puff of a cotton tail resting against the curve of her… well, her decidedly not childlike backside. Satoru Gojo, the man who always had a quip, the strongest sorcerer alive, was rendered utterly speechless. His brain froze. He didn't move, staring at the ceiling, the only sound his own heartbeat thudding in his ears.
Carefully, he shifted, sliding an arm beneath the sleeping form to gently lift her head. The face that turned towards him in drowsy confusion stole his breath anew. Rosebud lips, slightly parted. A little sweet nose with those pretty big doe-like eyes. Soft skin flushed with sleep. Delicate features that held an ethereal sweetness, framed by those absurdly soft-looking ears. Definitely not a child, the subtle curves of her fragile body, the elegant line of her collarbone, the shape hinted at beneath the sheet... late teens, maybe early twenties? Relief mixed with utter bewilderment. His bunny. His baby bunny was a... a bunny-eared girl who looked like she'd stepped out of some surreal, adorable dream. He felt a hysterical laugh bubble up and ruthlessly suppressed it. Shirtless. Sweats. Gorgeous, bare bunny-girl in my bed. Yeah, this looks... completely normal.
He moved with uncharacteristic gentleness, wrapping the soft blanket securely around you before easing you onto the mattress beside him. You purred sleepily, nuzzling into the fabric. He sat up, raking a hand through his white hair, staring. The shock began to recede, replaced by dawning, incredulous recognition. That nonchalant, faintly pouty expression as you blinked away the sleepiness? Pure Bun. The way your nose gave a tiny, reflexive twitch when he leaned closer? Exactly like when you were sniffing his offerings. When you awoke, he offered a slice of banana from the kitchen. You took it, nibbling with intense focus, your expression one of serious concentration, the same way you’d devoured treats in your furrier form. When he muttered, "Okay, this is... new. Very new. Also, kinda cool?" your ears flicked, and your little tail gave a distinct, irritable wiggle against the blanket. Yep. Definitely her.
He paced the length of his large bedroom, the morning rays shining in softly, phone pressed to his ear, explaining the impossible to an increasingly confused Yaga ("No, Principal, I haven't lost my mind! Well, maybe a little! Bunny ears! Real ones!"). You watched him, head tilted, utterly unfazed, occasionally grooming the back of your tiny hand with quick, kitten-like licks, then your fuzzy ears. Yaga confirmed the obvious: bunny girls weren't a Jujutsu thing. His Six Eyes hadn't sensed a thing because there was nothing cursed about you. Just... pure, inexplicable magic. Or biology. Or utter insanity.
Satoru ended the call, still very lost. He flopped back onto the bed beside you, running a hand down his face. Before he could process further, you shifted. Tiny hands, so delicate and warm, pressed against his chest. Then, with a quiet trust that mirrored your bunny-self, you crawled into his lap, curling up just as you always did. Your weight was negligible, feather-light and sweet. You nuzzled against the column of his throat, leaving tiny, damp licks on his skin, the same grooming gesture from countless mornings. A choked sound, half-laugh, half-sigh, escaped him. His hand moved, large and warm, smoothing over your wild hair, then gently stroking down the velvety softness of one upright ear. You made a soft, contented noise, nuzzling deeper, your big, guileless eyes gazing up at him with absolute trust. Exactly like his Bun.
A slow grin spread across Satoru's face. Okay. Okay, so his adorable, bratty, phone-charger-murdering pet bunny was now an equally adorable, bratty, bunny-eared girl curled trustingly bare in his lap. Weird? Absolutely. Problematic? Potentially. Kind of amazing? Hell yeah. He gave your ear another gentle stroke, feeling the soft fur under his fingertips. "Alright, my little Bun-Bun-Girl," he murmured, the nickname settling naturally. "Reality's taken a weird turn. But first..." His stomach chose that moment to rumble comically loud. He nodded decisively, looking down at your curious gaze. "Breakfast, like now. Wonder if you'll still like blueberries..."
The undeniable truth was this: you were a problem. A tiny, fluffy-eared, annoyingly adorable problem. Satoru, very foolishly, hoped that your transition from bunny to bunny-girl might have sanded down some of your more… spirited edges. It didn’t.
Your first bath set it in stone. Satoru, thinking he was being clever and efficient, had drawn a warm, sudsy bubble bath. You’d seemed so amazed by the bubbles, patting at it with your tiny hands until he gently guided you in, cerulean eyes averted for the most part. For a blissful moment, you sat still, wide eyes watching the iridescent bubbles cling to your bare skin. Then, with a sudden, mischievous flicker in your gaze, you slapped both palms down on the water’s surface, sending a tidal wave of warm, soapy water directly into Satoru’s face and all over his clothes. He sputtered, blinking through lavender-scented suds to see you watching him, your nose twitching in what he could only interpret as smug satisfaction.
Mealtimes were a negotiation. Hay was now utterly beneath you, nothing but the past. You’d turn your nose up at it with a dismissive sniff, your fluffy tail giving a bratty little flick. You developed a discerning palate for only the finest fruits and vegetables, pushing less desirable items off your plate with far too much attitude in Satoru’s opinion. And the toothpaste! He’d offered you his own fancy mint paste, only for you to screw your face up in utter disgust, spitting it into the sink with a dramatic shudder. It was only after a desperate trip to the store that he discovered your preference: bubblegum-flavored kids' toothpaste, which you devoured with the same single-minded intensity you once reserved for cranberries, often trying to eat it straight from the tube (he moved it to the top shelf later that day).
And his closet… his poor, poor closet. He’d return from a long day at school or a grueling mission to find you had somehow wreaked havoc. His sweaters, his shirts, even his pants were dragged out and woven into a messy nest in the center of the bedroom. You’d be curled in the middle of it, buried in a cashmere sweater that swallowed you whole, only your face and perked ears visible. His initial scolding, “Bun-Bun, we don’t destroy Papa’s expensive things!”, would die in his throat the moment you looked up at him. Those big, beautiful doe eyes would well with a sheen of faux tears, your rosebud lips pushing out into the most perfect, heart-wrenching pout, your ears drooping pathetically. He’d cave instantly, any semblance of discipline evaporating as he’d scoop you up from under your arms, a wave of cuteness aggression making him want to squeeze you tight. “You’re lucky you’re so damn cute, brat,” he’d groan, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of his own laundry detergent on your skin, and his body wash.
He was endlessly fascinated by you. He could lose minutes just watching you groom your own fuzzy ears with meticulous, kitten-like licks, your brow furrowed in concentration. He’d interrupt, pinching your cheek, and you’d huff, swatting at his massive hand with your pathetic little strength, which only made him smirk wider. He loved watching you eat, seeing the way your ears gave the tiniest, faintest twitch with each chew of a banana slice, your eyes either locked on your food with serious intent or glancing up at him, wide and questioning, a smear of fruit on your lip. That look, the innocent, food-stained curiosity, did things to him, sending a rush of heat straight south. He’d have to shift his position, mentally swearing he wasn’t a pervert, just a man appreciating a very unique… pet-human thing.
You lived in his clothes. He hadn’t the faintest idea what to buy for you, and honestly, you looked better in his attire anyway. The hems of his sweaters pooled around your knees, the collars slipped off one delicate shoulder, and your little cotton tail always poked out, making a tiny tent above your bum, an irresistible target. He’d give it a gentle tug, and you’d startle, letting out an indignant little squeak before stomping off. Your “angry” walk was a sight to behold, a clumsy, thumping gait you clearly believed was intimidating, but to him, it was the most adorable thing he’d ever witnessed. He’d coo after you, grinning like a fool.
Walking was a trial. Your new center of gravity was a mystery to you, your legs often seeming to have a mind of their own. He compared it to watching a newborn fawn, all wobbling knees and sudden collapses. You’d trip over nothing, landing hard on the dark hardwood floors, and at first, you’d just sit there, stunned, one fluffy ear up as the other stayed low and twitched curiously. But after the third or fourth fall in a row, the frustration would mount. A pout would form, your bottom lip would tremble, and big, fat tears would well in those pretty eyes before spilling over. It shattered his heart every time.
He took it upon himself to teach you, patient in a way he never was with anyone else (besides his students). He’d hold your hands, walking backwards as you took shaky steps forward. When your knees, red and bruised like crushed cherries from repeated impacts, finally gave out, he’d gather you into his lap. You’d bury your face in his neck, your ears drooping against your head in pure exhaustion. He’d rock you gently, murmuring soft praises you couldn’t understand. “You’re doing so well, my brave girl. So good for me.” His large hand would rub soothing circles on your delicate back, and slowly, your sad little whimpers would subside, replaced by the soft, grooming licks you’d give his neck, your ears gradually perking back up at his affectionate touch.
You discovered television, and it was love at first sight. Your favorites were the simple, colorful cartoons, Hello Kitty’s bright adventures, and Miffy the bunny’s quiet stories. You’d sit criss-cross applesauce on the living room rug, swallowed by one of his biggest, softest hoodies, your feet lost in a pair of his old fuzzy socks. Your ears would be perked high, tracking the on-screen movement, and your little tail would twitch under the fabric. You’d nibble on your plush lower lip, engrossed, often biting down too hard. He’d find little beads of blood on your lip and frown, trying to find alternatives.
Fruits worked, but they vanished too quickly. Teething toys were an insult; you’d throw them across the room with a force that surprised him. The solution presented itself one late night. He was exhausted, slumped on the couch after a mission, and he simply picked you up and deposited you in his lap, needing to feel your warm weight. He idly stroked your ears, then caressed your cheek with the back of his knuckles. You, half-asleep, grabbed his index finger with both your tiny hands and, with a soft sigh, brought it to your mouth. You began to nibble gently, then suckle, your little tongue soothing over the rough skin of his fingertip. It was the most bizarre and heart-stoppingly intimate thing he’d ever experienced. You fell asleep like that, content, using his finger as your personal pacifier. The warm, wet softness of your mouth, the gentle pressure of your bite, the trust in the act… it branded itself on his soul, and on other parts of him.
Your dependence on him grew. His long absences distressed you a lot. He’d return home, key turning in the lock, and find you sitting right by the door, waiting. Your ears would be twitching with anxious energy, your little tail quivering. The moment he stepped inside, you’d scramble up, arms wrapping around his waist, face pressing into his chest. You’d look up at him, batting those long lashes, your entire being radiating a hopeful, desperate joy that made his chest ache with guilt and a strange, possessive pride. It also, infuriatingly, made his pants feel tight. His self-control was strong…-ish.
At night, you’d curl into his side, and he’d hold you close, your head tucked under his chin. In the fuzzy space between wakefulness and sleep, you were at your most pliant. He’d murmur stories about his day, the annoying higher-ups, the idiot curses he’d exorcised, or simply watch you. Your eyes would get heavy-lidded, making soft, sweet noises as you drifted off, your ears finally going limp. In this state, he felt no guilt letting his hands explore your body. His palms would roam the delicate dip of your waist, the smooth plane of your back, the slender column of your neck, the gentle swell of your cute bum, and the pert mounds of your chest. You never minded, nuzzling closer, utterly unaware that such touch was anything but normal. He learned you hated your tail being touched when you were alert, but when you were like this, a gentle tug would make you squirm perfectly against him, a faint whine in your throat. You’d push at his chest weakly even as you pressed closer, a contradiction he adored. Your nose would scrunch up adorably, then relax when he stopped.
But the true descent into his own personal hell began in his home office. He was buried in mission reports, caffeine and sugar buzzing in his veins, frustration mounting. You padded in, sleepy and soft in one of his sweaters. You didn’t even try to climb into his lap; you just sat flat on your knees beside his chair, looking up at him with those eyes, your ears flopping slightly, your tail a restless puff under the fabric. It was a silent, needy plea. He broke instantly.
“Alright, c’mere baby,” he sighed, his voice gruff with tiredness. He lifted you and set you in his lap, pushing his hips up to adjust his position and get comfortable.
And then you made a sound. A tiny, breathy little noise of pleasure.
Satoru froze, his pen halting mid-word. He looked down at you. Your face was flushed a pretty rose pink, your eyes wide and deeply confused, but your body was subtly arching into his. He realized the movement had pressed the firm ridge of his growing erection right against your core. A wave of shame was immediately drowned out by a hotter wave of pure, unadulterated desire.
He felt awful. You looked so bewildered, a pout of frustration forming on your lips as you instinctively, clumsily tried to recreate the feeling, giving a tentative little bounce on his lap. A broken groan escaped him. You were chasing a sensation you didn’t understand, and the innocent need in it was the most arousing thing he’d ever witnessed.
He should stop. He knew he should stop. But his hands, seemingly of their own volition, moved from your hips to slide under the massive sweater you wore. His calloused palms found the warm, smooth skin of your tummy, and you shivered. He cupped one of your perky breasts, his thumb brushing over the tightening peak. Your face scrunched up beautifully, a confused whine escaping your lips as you squirmed, your own tiny hands coming up to paw uselessly at the sensation blooming in your chest.
“Does that feel good, bunny?” he murmured, his voice a dark, husky thing he barely recognized. He ground up into you again, and you gasped, your eyes locking on his, dazed and pleading. “You’re so small. So perfect. It would be so easy to just…” He let the sentence hang, leaning down to capture your lips in a kiss. You just smooshed your lips against his, blinking dumbly, not comprehending. He kissed down your neck, nuzzling the sensitive spot where your pulse fluttered, before moving lower. He tugged the sweater up, baring your chest to the dim office light, and took a peaked nipple into his mouth after appreciating the pretty view.
You cried out then, a proper little squeak, your hands flying to his fluffy white hair, tugging weakly, caught between pushing him away and pulling him closer. He paid attention to each breast, nibbling and sucking gently, worshipping, drunk on your adorable, confused reactions. He gripped your tiny waist, helping you make a rhythm, bouncing you firmer on his aching cock. Your ears were fully perked, twitching with every sensation, your tail a frantic little puff against his thigh. The sight of your chest, so soft and perfect, bouncing with each movement, undid him completely. He felt the damp spot of pre-cum spread on his pants.
He wanted to tear his clothes off, to show you what real pleasure felt like, to bury himself inside your tiny, innocent, warm body. But he held onto the last shred of his restraint, knowing he was already rushing this, already corrupting something pristine.
It didn’t take long. He felt it when you came, your entire body tensed, a high, keening whimper caught in your throat, and your core clenched around nothing, a wild, rhythmic pulse he could feel even through the layers of fabric. You went completely limp against him, boneless and breathing heavily. That was his undoing. With a deep groan, he held your pliant body firmly against his and ground up into you, once, twice, his own release crashing over him, hot and intense, staining his pants as your limp form jumped with each thrust like a ragdoll.
The thought that flashed through his mind was deranged: You really are just a doll for me to use, aren’t you? My pretty little bunny.
As he came down, his breathing ragged, guilt tried to surface. But then your warm little tongue emerged, giving a few sleepy licks to his neck. The gesture was so purely you, so innocent and affectionate, that it smothered the guilt instantly. Paperwork be damned. He’d make Ijichi do it all.
He held you close, murmuring soft praises into your hair, his big hands petting your ears, feeling the frantic rabbit-quick beat of your heart against his own. You were already drifting off, seeking comfort, and found his hand, bringing his finger to your mouth to suckle gently in your sleep.
Satoru leaned back in his chair, shutting his tired, cerulean eyes. This was… complicated. Wrong, probably. But you were his. You liked it. You trusted him. And corrupting something so innocent was, he realized, the most enticing thing he’d ever experienced.
I've been insanely busy with uni starting soon, apologies for the long breaks between uploads! I really enjoyed writing this; expect more from Satoru and his bunny bun :) I've also been writing something a little different from what I've been uploading lately, and I think I'll post that soon. Thanks for reading, as always!
