Satoru's doe ૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა nsfw!
Gojo and his sweet little doe girl, you!
The 7:02 AM train was a sad muted gray slop show, charcoal suits, the matte plastic of phone cases, the worn silver of handrails, until a ripple of sharp, collective inhales tore through the carriage like a seam ripping open. Satoru Gojo, still tasting the stale cling of sleep and the bitter ghost of the black coffee he’d abandoned on his home office desk, parted the crowd with the careless ease of a man who existed on a different plane of physics. It wasn’t just his height, though the sheer verticality of him turned salarymen into shuffling obstacles; it was the blindfold. The black cotton, wrapped snug and absolute over the bridge of his nose, left nothing but the suggestion of cerulean infinity beneath, and that absence of gaze made people move. They didn’t know what he was looking at, so they assumed everything. His black high-neck zip-up, fitted-straight dress pants, and the air of deliberate, untouchable mystery did the rest.
He expected a fight, maybe. A cursed spirit slithering between commuters, some low-grade nuisance making a granny’s cane tremble. He did not expect a gasp so genuine, so pitch-perfect in its shock, that it bypassed his jaded filter entirely. He tilted his head, a predator catching a scent, and then he saw.
You.
Well, he didn't know it was you.
Not what. A who. A sika deer, impossibly small, the color of amber honey and cream, crumpled on the grimy train floor. One delicate leg was bent at an angle that made something twist, hot and tight, behind his ribs. Your liquid eyes wide, uncomprehending, searching the forest of human legs for an exit that didn’t exist. Your tiny tail flickered, a silent distress signal. You were a little heartbreak made of flesh and fur, bleeding, surrounded by people holding up phones. Recording. Tch.
A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, a slow, feline curl that didn’t match the sudden, vicious protectiveness clamping around his spine. A pretty woolly hare, lost in the ice-cold Himalayas, and him a snow leopard with a taste for the soft and trembling. But this was Tokyo, not Nepal, and you- you were something far more interesting than a hare.
Satoru crouched, the motion fluid, easy. The murmur of the crowd swelled, a soundtrack of misplaced concern and digital rubbernecking. He ignored them. He ignored everything but the faint, pitiful bleat you let out when his shadow fell over you. The sound was so quiet, so heartbreakingly gentle, it went straight through his chest like a warm needle.
“Hey there, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice pitched low, a private frequency just for you. He extended his hand, palm up, long fingers relaxed. Calloused from years of wielding limitless power, yet achingly warm. “This is no place for a little thing like you.”
You looked at his hand, then up at him, ears swiveling, that soft honey fur quivering, and you bleated again. A question. A plea. He wasn't sure.
Ah. Something inside Satoru Gojo, something he’d thought calcified by years of monotony and the outward godhood-facade, cracked clean in two. He unzipped his jacket with a single, sharp tug, the sound slicing through the hushed carriage. The black fitted tee beneath clung to the lean, carved muscle of his arms, veins tracing paths down his forearms like rivers on a map. Somewhere, a schoolgirl’s phone shifted focus from the hurt baby deer to the heroic, absurdly beautiful man. He’d be trending within the hour.
“Shh, I’ve got you.” Scooping you up was terrifyingly easy. You weighed nothing, a collection of delicate bones and soft, terrified warmth. He folded his jacket around you, a black cocoon that smelled of expensive fabric softener, cedarwood, and the faint, lingering sweetness of yesterday’s mochi. You trembled against his chest, your little heart a frantic drumbeat against his sternum, and Satoru stood, cradling you as if you were glass. “That’s it, such a good little girl.”
The infirmary at Jujutsu High smelled of antiseptic, menthol cigarettes, and Shoko Ieiri’s particular brand of exhausted amusement. She took a long, unimpressed drag from her Mevius, the tip glowing orange as Satoru recounted his morning with theatrical flair, one hand resting possessively on your tiny, bandaged back. You were still in doe form, your broken leg wrapped in neat white gauze, still bundled in his jacket, ears twitching every time his voice hit a certain pitch.
“...and then, bam, I swoop in, the epitome of grace and compassion, and save this precious little soul from a fate worse than death, public transit.” He gestured broadly. “You’re welcome, Japan.”
Shoko exhaled a stream of smoke, not even bothering to look up from her phone. “Trending: ‘Blindfolded Prince Charming Rescues Injured Deer on Shibuya Line.’ You’re good for eye candy, Gojo. That’s about it.” She tapped the screen. “Oh, look. Someone already made a fan edit to a sad piano cover of ‘Every Heart’, real classy.”
Satoru gasped, a hand flying to his chest, all wounded dignity. “Shoko! Your lack of faith stings. I’m nurturing a delicate life here!” He waved a hand in front of his face as smoke drifted near you, coughing dramatically. “And you’re poisoning us with your lung-blackening death sticks. Have you no heart? Look at her. She’s an innocent.”
Shoko gave him a flat look. Then glanced at the tiny deer nestled in his jacket, big eyes blinking slowly, trustingly up at the idiot stroking its back. She stubbed out her cigarette. “Just don’t kill it. I’m leaving.” And she did, the click of her heels a final, damning verdict.
Alone, Satoru leaned in close, his blindfolded face inches from your muzzle. The honey-colored fur was now free of crimson, soft as silk under his fingertips. The little tail under his jacket kept flickering, a metronome of nerves. A sika doe. A lost little princess from Nara, maybe. An orphan. A runaway. Or, a very, very effective distraction from the mountain of grading waiting on his desk. He’d dismissed his students for the day on a mission of “extremely serious, super dire, and very important” nature. Only Yuji had believed him, poor earnest tiger cub, seeing him off with tear-glistening eyes and a heartfelt “Good luck, Gojo-sensei!” Bless that boy’s idiot heart.
Satoru’s hand enveloped the entirety of your tiny back, and he felt the fragile bird-bone structure beneath the fur. “What am I gonna do with you, little doe?” he whispered, and the words felt heavier than they should.
You simply rested your cheek on his forearm, a soft grunt escaping you, your eyes sliding shut. Sleepy. Trusting. His.
Restraint, never his strong suit, evaporated. He scooped you up, cradled you against his chest, and sprawled back on the examination table with a far too long sigh. “Fine. A rest day. Even the strongest need their beauty sleep.” He closed his eyes behind the blindfold, the smug warmth of being a beloved hero already fading, replaced by something far more potent: the simple, terrifying pleasure of holding you.
By nightfall, the hero act had backfired spectacularly. He couldn’t leave you. The infirmary was too cold, too impersonal, and the thought of you waking up alone, scared, in a sterile metal cage, made him want to level a city block. So he bundled you up, still in his jacket, still a tiny doe, and made Ijichi drive him home, the beleaguered assistant’s stammered questions (“Gojo-san, is that a-? How-? Why-?”) smothered by Satoru’s cheerful, nonsensical chatter about deer nutrition and the architectural integrity of his balcony.
His condo described in four words would be, minimalist luxury final boss: white Italian leather, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the neon pulse of Tokyo, air conditioning set to a perfectly chilled hum. He laid you on the pristine couch, a patch of warm gold against all that sterile white, and rummaged through his kitchen for something a deer might eat. He emerged with an eclectic armful: a bag of rocket lettuce, a single Fuji apple, and an unopened box of gourmet senbei.
He cracked the balcony door, the high glass barrier more than sufficient to keep a tiny deer from a tragic, fourteen-story plunge. The city air rushed in, thick with the scent of rain and distant yakitori. “Make yourself at home, little one. I’ll just... figure this out.”
What came next was not- oh, who was he kidding?
He felt it before he saw it, a shift in the air, a ripple in the energy signature he’d sensed since the train. Six Eyes, perpetually scanning, had catalogued you as off from the moment he’d touched you. Not malevolent, not cursed, just... different. Like tasting a Fuji apple all your life and then biting into a Cosmic Crisp. The Fuji hits the spot, sweet, reliable. But the Cosmic Crisp? That’s a revelation you can’t untaste. An irreplicable sweetness. Better than some flavors of kikufuku. But not better than the zunda cream from that old lady’s shop in Sendai... Shit. This was dangerous territory.
He turned back from the balcony, hands still full of lettuce and senbei, and dropped everything.
The doe was gone. In her place, curled on his white leather sofa, swamped in his black jacket, was a girl.
No. Not just a girl. A something-else. A deer-human hybrid, her body human but for the soft, honey-colored ears swiveling atop her head, the tiny matching tail flicking nervously against the leather. Her hair, a wild, wavy tumble like an angel, spread across the cushion. Her skin so soft looking, impossibly smooth, lit by the warm glow of his designer lamps. A natural flush painted her cheekbones. And her eyes, oh, her eyes, vast life-like pools of beauty, framed by lashes that swept like feathers, blinked open and fixed on him with the same placid, otherworldly calm he’d seen on the train.
She was tiny. Waifish. Built of fragility, of carved hollows and sloping shoulders. The jacket had slipped, and before his brain could catch up, his hands were moving, rushing to cover her, to preserve some shred of decency. But the image was already seared onto the back of his eyelids: a neck so graceful, leading to a waist so perfect his hands could encircle it with room to spare. A pert chest, gentle curves, a bottom that was... criminally soft. He adjusted the jacket around her with deliberate, careful movements, a crooked, self-deprecating smile carving itself onto his face. He was a professional. The strongest. And he was absolutely, utterly doomed.
He pulled off his blindfold, letting it fall to the floor. He needed to see this. Cerulean infinity met unwordly calm, and the impact was a physical thing, a low hum in his blood. He raked a hand through his unruly white hair, and all his formidable brain could produce was a tender, wrecked, baby.
You tilted your head. A puzzled kitten. A confused doe. Then, slowly, you raised a tiny, cold hand and rested it flat on his chest, right over his heart. You didn’t speak; instead, a soft, questioning bleat escaped your bitten lips, the sound so pure and trusting it made him want to raze the world and build you a garden in the ashes.
Satoru Gojo, the Honored One, cooed. He actually cooed, the sound ripped from him by a cuteness aggression so violent his hands shook as he raised one to pet your head. Your ears twitched under his palm, the fur impossibly soft, and you leaned into the touch with a sigh. “You’re not real,” he breathed, stroking your hair. “You’re a fever dream. A little blessing I definitely don’t deserve.”
You blinked up at him, dumb and pretty and so heartbreakingly docile, and then you did the unthinkable. Or rather, the exactly-what-you’d-done-as-a-deer thing. You leaned forward, your rosebud lips parting, and pressed a tiny, warm lick to his Adam’s apple. A soft, grooming gesture, an offering of trust. The contact was electric, a hot shock that shot straight down his spine and settled low, insistent, in his briefs. He inhaled sharply, the sound a hiss through his teeth. That sweet, perverse, paternal-deeper-feeling twisted inside him like a golden serpent, beautiful and damning.
He laughed, a breathless, incredulous sound. “Oh, sweetheart. You’re going to be the death of me.” His hand, still cradling the back of your head, slid down to cup your jaw, thumb tracing the apple of your cheek. “And I’m going to thank you for every second of it.”
Satoru wondered idly why he’d bothered taking the early train this morning. Then he looked at you, your ears flickering, your tail twitching, your eyes holding nothing but him, and decided he didn’t need an answer. He was, without hyperbole, the luckiest man alive. And he had no intention of letting you go.
The morning after… that, Satoru Gojo woke to the scent of vanilla and roses and the impossible warmth of a tiny, soft body curled into the hollow of his chest. You were still a girl, still swamped in his jacket, your honeyed ears twitching against his collarbone with every breath. The city beyond his floor-to-ceiling windows was a watercolor wash of pale gold and steel blue, and for a long, selfish moment, he didn't move. He just lay there, one large hand spanning the entire curve of your back, feeling the delicate ridge of your spine, the flutter of your heartbeat, the way your tail, still tucked awkwardly into the makeshift swaddle of his jacket, gave a sleepy little flick against his hip.
I can't keep you here alone.
The thought arrived with the pragmatic cruelty of a morning alarm. He had a job. A stupid, demanding, paperwork-riddled job that involved wrangling teenagers and occasionally saving the world. He liked it, but also hated it at times. He couldn't just... not show up. Yaga would send a search party. Shoko would make that face. And if he left you here, alone, in his pristine glass tower, you'd either starve, hurt yourself, or be scared. Alone. Waiting.
No. Unacceptable.
He considered his options with the lazy, self-amused logic of a man who treated life like a particularly entertaining strategy game. Option one: Ijichi. The thought arrived with a dumb, smug smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Doe-sitting. Ha. He was a genius. A comedic mastermind. He pictured poor, nervous Kiyotaka, briefcase in hand, being handed a tiny deer-girl with instructions to "keep her happy, don't let her lick anything important, and for the love of god, don't stare." But then, unbidden, an image bloomed behind his eyes: Ijichi's scandalized face, your sweet little tongue reaching up to groom the assistant's chin, that trusting, affectionate gesture you'd offered him, Satoru, being given to someone else.
His smile vanished. A hot, territorial spike of something ugly twisted in his gut. Nope. No. Absolutely not. He'd slap the man into next week, and Ijichi didn't deserve that. He was a good, terribly pathetic guy. A shit option.
Nanami? The man would take one look at you, sigh with the weight of a thousand existential crises, and lecture him for three hours about responsibility, boundaries, and the legal definition of kidnapping. Pass. Shoko? She'd probably teach you to smoke and use his credit card for online shopping. Yaga? The principal would have a conniption, and then there'd be forms. So many forms.
No, the only real option, the only bearable one, was taking you with him. To Jujutsu High. Where he could keep you close. Where you'd be safe. Where no one else would touch you.
Oh bathtime. He'd run to the fancy organic market three blocks away at an ungodly hour, returning with a bottle of vanilla-rose bubble bath that cost more than a nice dinner, a detangling brush made of sandalwood, and a set of impossibly soft towels he'd tested against his own cheek with the critical eye of a man who knew luxury. Now you sat in his deep porcelain tub, a doll drowning in a cloud of fragrant bubbles, your hair slicked back and a bit darker with water, your absurdly thick lashes clumped together into wet stars. The morning light streamed through the frosted window, drenching the white marble bathroom in a cool, celestial glow, and you blinked up at him with those terrifyingly beautiful eyes, placid, trusting, utterly unaware of how devastating you were.
Satoru knelt beside the tub, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, a damp cloth in his hand. He'd been... attempting to be clinical. A caretaker. A gentleman. But the bubbles kept slipping, revealing a sliver of shoulder, the hollow of a collarbone, and his resolve was a fraying rope. You were so impossibly small, your body a study in willowy fragility, the kind of soft, untouched skin. Pert little chest, nipples like a rose that matched the flush on your cheeks from the warm water. His baby, a little fawn who'd clearly never been cared for the way she deserved.
He cupped water in his palm and let it cascade over your head, and you made a tiny, contented sound, not quite a bleat, more a hum, and leaned into his touch. He washed your hair with his own obscenely expensive shampoo, working the lather gently, massaging your scalp with the pads of his fingers until your eyes fluttered shut and your head lolled back, completely boneless. Trusting.
A doe. A gift. Mine.
He shook himself. "Alright, sweetheart, time to rinse. Close your eyes tight for me, okay?" He used the softest voice he possessed, a tone he didn't even use with his students that often. You obeyed, scrunching your face adorably, and he rinsed the suds with careful, cupped hands, protecting your twitching ears from the water. When he was done, you blinked up at him, water droplets clinging to your lashes like tiny crystals, and reached a wet, pruny hand up to pat his cheek with clumsy affection. Imitating the way he always patted your head.
His heart cracked. Just a little. "Yeah," he breathed, catching your tiny hand and pressing a kiss to your knuckles before he could stop himself. "You're too much, you know that?"
Drying you was an exercise in torment. He wrapped you in one of the obscenely fluffy towels, the fabric swallowing you whole, and set about patting you dry with the focused intensity he usually reserved for exorcising special grades. He averted his eyes. He tried. He really, really tried. But then the towel slipped, and there was the curve of your hip, the soft swell of your bottom, the downy fuzz trailing from your navel to the pretty pink place below, and he felt his briefs become a torture device. He gritted his teeth, adjusted himself with a subtlety born of desperation, and focused very hard on the ceiling. Breathe. You're the strongest. This is nothing. You've faced so much. You can handle a pretty doe without losing your mind.
He failed. But he managed to get you dressed.
The outfit was a comfy crime. His navy blue cashmere sweater, the one he'd bought in Milan and treasured for its perfect drape, now hung off your frame like a tent, the sleeves rolled up six times and still swallowing your hands. Beneath it, a pair of his soft cotton briefs, shrunken in the dryer months ago, he'd never been so grateful for a laundry mishap, still fit far too loose. He'd rolled the waistband over and over until they sat on your hips like oversized shorts, the fabric bunching adorably around your thighs. The tail, thankfully, tucked neatly beneath the waistband with only a faint, nervous twitch betraying its presence. The ears, though... the ears stayed. He'd considered a hat, a hood, something, but this was Tokyo. Cosplayers roamed Harajuku in full demon regalia. Ears were practically normal.
He sat you on the edge of his rumpled bed, the same bed you'd tangled yourselves in just hours ago, your tiny body curled against him like a missing puzzle piece, and knelt before you with the sandalwood brush. He worked the hair oil through your damp locks with meticulous care, the same oil he used to tame his own unruly white hair, and watched your tousled mess transform into a cascade of softness. You sat perfectly still on your knees, center of his messy duvet, looking up at him with those bottomless eyes, drowning in his sweater, your tiny feet swaddled in a pair of his warm dress socks fresh from the dryer.
You butted your little head against his hand, a gentle, insistent nudge, and he snapped out of his reverie, fingers moving to flop your faintly damp ears, stroking the velvet fur until your eyes went half-lidded with pleasure. "Impatient little thing," he murmured, voice thick with something he refused to name. "I'm going as fast as I can."
Breakfast was a battlefield.
He'd inhaled his own egg toast in record time while you were distracted by his phone, which he'd surrendered as a tactical sacrifice. You'd poked at the screen with one tiny finger, mesmerized by the glowing colors, while he shoveled food into his mouth and downed his scalding black coffee. But when he turned to you, apple slices arranged on a small plate, you clamped your mouth shut and turned your head away with a stubbornness that was frankly, infuriatingly, adorable.
"No? Come on, sweetheart. Just a little bite. It's Fuji. The good kind. Organic. Please?" He held the slice to your lips. You pressed them tighter. He tried the airplane technique. You stared at him like he'd grown a second head. He tried singing. You bleated, a tiny, defiant sound, and stomped your socked foot against the kitchen tile.
Oh my god, I'm being bullied by a deer.
He remembered the toothbrush incident. This morning, in the bath, when he'd needed to clean your teeth, a strange, intimate task he'd never imagined performing for another living soul, you'd refused to open your mouth. So he'd pinched your little nose, gently, until you'd had to breathe through your mouth, and then he'd slipped the brush in with a triumphant "Gotcha!" You'd glared at him with betrayed, pretty, watery eyes, but you'd let him finish.
He tried the same trick now. He reached for your nose, fingers gentle, and you bolted. A blur of tiny in blue cashmere, you dove off the kitchen stool and scurried across his pristine floors, vaulting onto the sofa, burrowing under the white duvet he'd left draped there. A small, defiant bleat echoed from the mountain of fabric.
Satoru stood there, apple slice in hand, and took a very long breath. He glanced at the clock. He was going to owe Yaga another explanation. Another explanation. The man already thought he was a flake. Now he'd think he was a flake with a secret lovechild. Or a pet. Or both.
He sighed, a dramatic, full-body exhale that would've won him an award in a soap opera. "Fine," he announced to the duvet lump. "Fine. You win this round, little doe. But we're stopping for snacks on the way. Real snacks. Not whatever you think a 'snack' is."
The lump wiggled. A tiny, satisfied bleat answered him.
He was so doomed.
The train ride was fine. You clung to him like a limpet, your tiny hands fisted in the fabric of his jacket, your nose pressed into his chest. Every curious glance from a fellow passenger made you burrow deeper, your ears, those impossible, delicate ears, flattening against your head. He felt your trembling, the fine vibration of anxiety humming through your tiny frame, and he wrapped his arms around you more securely, tucking you against his chest. The shoes were a problem. Shoko's old flats, the ones she'd hurled at his head at their graduation ceremony because he'd spent four years teasing her about her "kids' sized feet," had been unearthed from the depths of his closet. They fit you perfectly. You hated them. Every few steps, you'd stop and shake one foot like an offended cat, glaring up at him with accusatory eyes.
"I know, I know. They're a fashion crime. I'll buy you better ones. Whatever you want. Just... walk. Please." He was negotiating with a deer-girl on a public platform. His life had become a fever dream.
You grumbled, a tiny, guttural sound, but you walked, one hand clutching his, the other still fisted in his jacket. You were a sight, the two of you: a towering, snow-haired man with a blindfold and an energy of untouchable arrogance, and a tiny, doe-eared girl drowning in luxury cashmere and tame yet wild hair, nuzzling into him like he was the only safe harbor in a storm. People stared. People whispered. You felt the looks. He could sense it, the way your shoulders hunched, the way your ears drooped. His mind churned with a strange, protective fury. You were so sensitive. So perfect. He wanted to scoop you up, teleport straight home, and spend the rest of his life wrapped around you in his duvet. But duty called. Annoyingly.
He didn't teleport from the station. The pressure of his technique on an untrained, fragile body like yours would be too much, he'd learned that this morning when he'd considered it and immediately discarded the idea. You'd be out cold. Maybe worse. So he guided you through the winding paths of Jujutsu High the old-fashioned way, dodging students and staff with a combination of sharp turns and strategic looming. By the time they reached his office, you were flagging, your steps sluggish, and he simply scooped you into his arms and carried you the last fifty meters. You curled into him instantly, nose finding his neck again, a tiny sigh escaping you.
Inside, he locked the door. He never locked the door. It was a statement, a boundary, and he didn't care who noticed. He laid you on the worn leather couch, a relic from some previous era that he'd refused to replace because it was the perfect napping surface, and immediately began a frantic sweep of the room.
"Okay. Sharp objects. Cursed objects. Anything you could eat that isn't food. Anything that could fall on you. Anything that could..." He was muttering, pulling grimoires off low shelves, shoving a cursed tanto into a drawer, and lifting a potted plant to a high cabinet. He'd forgotten to doe-proof the office. He was an idiot. The world's strongest idiot.
You watched him from the couch, head tilted, ears swiveling with each of his movements. When he finally paused, slightly breathless, he knelt before you with his offerings: his iPad, locked into a kids' mode he'd hastily configured; a stack of blank paper and his best pens; and a collection of Digimon figurines from his desk. MetalGarurumon, WarGreymon, and Agumon. The last one he pressed into your tiny hands with a solemnity usually reserved for sacred relics.
"This is Agumon. He's very important. Protect him."
You looked at the plush, bright orange, with big plastic eyes and a little toothy grin, and then up at him. A tiny bleat. A question.
"Yes, really. He's yours now. Just... stay put, okay? I have to go teach. I'll be back. I promise." He stood, and you immediately scrambled off the couch, grabbing his sleeve, looking up at him with those wide, betrayed eyes. His heart lurched. "No, sweetheart. You can't come. It's just for a little while. I'll be right back. You have Agumon. And the Pink Panther, look-" He tapped the iPad, and the familiar jazzy strains of Henry Mancini filled the room. "You'll be safe. I'll lock the door. No one will bother you."
You held his gaze for a long, searching moment. Then, with a tiny grunt that sounded suspiciously like a concession, you plopped into his desk chair. The chair was just a normal desk chair. But you were so small, so impossibly tiny, that you were swallowed by it, your socked feet dangling inches from the floor. You swiveled, once, experimentally, then again with more enthusiasm, a tiny ghost of a smile playing at your rosebud lips.
Satoru left with a heavy heart. He actually felt the weight of it, a physical ache behind his sternum, and he hated it. He was Satoru Gojo. He didn't do heavy hearts. He did light teasing, cool stuff real casual, and occasional emotional constipation. This was... inconvenient.
Teaching was something. He was present, physically, his body going through the motions with the muscle memory of years, but his mind was in his office, wrapped around a tiny doe-girl in a cashmere sweater.
Megumi, ever observant, narrowed his eyes from his desk. "Gojo-sensei. What are those marks on your neck?"
Satoru's hand flew to his throat before he could stop it. The licking. The grooming. He'd completely forgotten. His blindfold hid the brief flicker of panic in his eyes, and he recovered with a theatrical gasp. "Marks? Megumi! Are you checking me out? I'm flattered, really, but you're a bit young for me."
Megumi's expression curdled. "Forget I asked."
Nobara, perched on the windowsill, was less easily deterred. "No, no, he's right. I saw them too. They look like hickeys." Her grin turned feral. "Do you have a secret girlfriend, Gojo-sensei? Is that why you're late all the time now? Who is she? Is she pretty? Is she rich? Is she real old?"
"Maa, Nobara, you wound me. I am the picture of professionalism. These are... training injuries. Very intense training. With a very powerful... curse." He winked, even though they couldn't see it. "You wouldn't understand."
Nobara threw a pencil at his head. He caught it without looking.
Yuji, bless his earnest, beautiful soul, was the only one not interrogating him about his love life. Instead, the pink-haired boy leaned forward with genuine concern shining in his eyes. "Gojo-sensei! How did that mission go yesterday? The super dire, extremely serious one? You said it was really important, right? Is everything okay?"
Satoru paused. He looked at Yuji, who had believed him completely, who had wished him luck with tears in his eyes, and he felt a brief, startling pang of guilt. Just a flicker. "All taken care of, Yuji. Thanks to your good luck wishes. You saved the day, really."
Yuji's face lit up like the sun. "Really?! I'm so glad!"
I'm going to hell, Satoru thought cheerfully. Straight down.
He taught the rest of the class with the focus of a boisterous, white-haired monk, dodging questions and deflecting curiosity until the final bell. The moment his students were dismissed, he was out the door, long legs eating up the corridor at a pace that was almost undignified. He'd left you for hours. Hours. What if you'd ripped up his mission reports? What if you'd knocked over the shelf of cursed objects and released something dreadful? What if you'd hurt yourself, cut yourself on something sharp he'd missed, and were lying there, bleeding, scared, alone-
He wrenched open the wooden door.
The office was... peaceful. Warm lamplight glowed softly against the dark wood. The Pink Panther, the 1969 animated version, played on the iPad with its jaunty, syncopated score. His papers were untouched, though several of the blank sheets were now covered in abstract crayon scribbles, adorable, nonsensical swirls and loops. And you... you were curled in his desk chair, the giant Agumon plush clutched to your chest, your cheek smushed against the leather armrest. You were so small, the chair looked enormous around you, a throne for a tiny, sleeping princess. Your ears twitched gently with each breath. Your tail, still tucked away, gave a sleepy flicker against the chair back.
He didn't realize he'd been holding his breath until it left him in a rush. Quietly, he crossed the room, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over the back of the couch. Then, with the gentleness of a man handling a rare artifact, he lifted you from the chair, Agumon and all, and settled into it himself, arranging you in his lap. You stirred, a tiny, questioning bleat, but he shushed you, one large hand rubbing slow circles on your back.
"I'm here. I'm back. Go back to sleep, sweetheart."
You nuzzled into his chest, one hand fisting loosely in his shirt, and went still. He pulled the stack of mission reports toward him with his free hand, grabbed a pen, and got to work.
Evening crept in, the light through the windows shifting from gold to indigo. By seven, he'd coaxed you to eat some fruit, apple slices, this time, and a few segments of mikan, by the simple expedient of eating one himself and making exaggerated sounds of enjoyment until you'd peered at him with curious, hungry eyes. You nibbled daintily, perched on his knee, while he scribbled notes on a report about a special grade in Hokkaido. The curse had taken him seconds to exorcise. The paperwork was two hours deep and counting. Justice didn't exist.
Around nine, the zoomies hit.
He didn't know deer got zoomies. He knew dogs did. Cats, occasionally. But a doe-girl hybrid? Apparently, yes. One moment you were drowsy and content, gnawing sleepily on his bicep through his shirt (he wasn't complaining; he would never complain), and the next you were a blur of honey hair and boundless energy.
You jumped off his lap and began running laps around his office, your tiny socked feet skidding on the hardwood. You vaulted onto his prized Barcelona chair, a design masterpiece worth more than some people's yearly salary, and bounced, testing the springs with delighted little grunts. He opened his mouth to scold you, but then you launched yourself from the chair to the coffee table, executed a kind of deer parkour that defied physics, and landed on the couch with a triumphant bleat.
"Hey-! No, that's-" You looked at him, ears drooping, eyes going wide and pleading, a perfect pout forming on your lips. The scolding died in his throat. "Fine. Just... don't break anything. And don't hurt yourself."
You took this as full permission and resumed your chaotic gymnastics, using his discarded jacket as a parachute as you leaped from the couch to the floor. He tried to focus on the report. He tried so hard. His brain was mush, a slurry of bureaucratic nonsense and the distracting sight of his cashmere sweater flapping around your tiny form, the flash of his shrunken briefs as you jumped, the sound of your happy little bleats. The blindfold was off, discarded on the desk. His pale, blue-ink-stained fingers strained around the pen as he finished a line about structural damage to a luxurious onsen.
As if sensing his stress, and you probably could, given how attuned you were to him, you abruptly ceased your parkour and bounded over to him. You climbed into his lap with the practiced ease of a creature who'd claimed this spot as her own, wrapped your arms around his neck, and nuzzled your cold little nose into the warm, cedarwood-scented hollow of his throat. He exhaled, a long, shaky breath, and rubbed his tired eyes with one hand while the other came up to cradle your back.
"You're too good to me," he murmured into your hair. "Too sweet. What did I do to deserve you?"
He should've known better than to jinx it.
Slowly, lazily, and with an innocence that was somehow devastating, you began to slide down his lap. He watched, bemused, as you ended up on the dark, worn hardwood under his desk, your tiny body settling right between his widely spread knees. You rested your cheek on his thigh, eyes fluttering shut, and hugged his leg with a contented sigh. He laughed, shaking his head, and forced himself to look back at the report.
"Okay. That's fine. You can stay there. Just... be good."
You were not good.
A few minutes later, your tiny hands began to wander. At first, it was innocent exploration, fingers tracing the seam of his dress pants, messing with the pocket that held his phone. He let you, ignoring the heat building in his lap, focusing very hard on the words swimming before his eyes. But then your hand closed around something that was definitely not his phone.
The shock was electric, a jolt so stark and sudden that his entire body seized. A groan tore from his throat before he could stop it, his head falling back, his free hand slapping down on the desk to steady himself. You'd grabbed him. Your tiny, surprisingly firm little hand had innocently wrapped around something thick and fleshy, covered in veins and straining against the confines of his briefs. He'd been half-hard all day, a constant, aching background noise, but now he was raging, his cock a rigid line begging for release, and your curious fingers were exploring it through the fabric of his pants with the same gentle curiosity you'd shown the Agumon plush.
"H-hey," he managed, the word a strangled half-laugh, half-groan. "Sweetheart, that's- that's not a toy. That's-" He looked down. You looked up, your perfect eyes wide, confused, utterly guileless. A tiny bleat escaped your lips. Your cheeks were flushed from the heat between his legs, the small space you fit so perfectly into, and you were nuzzling his knee as if you weren't actively fondling the strongest sorcerer's will to live.
He scolded you, but his voice was pure honeyed indulgence, no heat behind it. "No, baby, that's... you shouldn't... ah..." He gave up. He just... gave up. His large hand came down to rest on your head, fingers threading through your locks, petting you while you played with him like he was just another plushie. You squeezed. You poked at the white, thick happy trail peeking above his waistband. You traced the outline of his length with one tiny finger, a gesture of pure, innocent exploration, and he bit his lip so hard he tasted copper.
He didn't unzip his pants. He didn't guide your hand. He didn't do anything except sit there, trembling, taking whatever you decided to give him, while some distant, rational part of his brain screamed at him. This was a punishment and a gift, he realized dimly. A punishment for coveting something so pure, and a gift because it was you, it was your touch, your attention, your unknowing claim on every part of him.
Then, as quickly as it began, you got bored. You climbed back into his lap, Agumon rescued from the floor, and snuggled against his chest with a yawn, your little fingers leaving a trail of fire across his abdomen. You were asleep in minutes.
Satoru Gojo, the strongest sorcerer alive, sat in his office at nine-thirty at night, a fully asleep doe-girl in his lap, nursing a hard-on that could cut diamond, and contemplated the life choices that had led him here. He wanted to set you aside, walk to the bathroom, and jerk himself raw until the ache finally, mercifully, subsided. But he didn't. He deserved this, he thought. He deserved every agonizing second of wanting you and not taking, of protecting you and coveting you, of being your caretaker and your... whatever this was.
He looked down at your sleeping face, the plush of your cheek against his chest, the flutter of your lashes, the delicate twitch of your ears. You were so sweet. So trusting. His pretty little doe, all his. He'd stolen you, he realized with a pang of something complicated. From wherever you came from, from whatever life you'd had before a train and a broken leg and a man with a blindfold and so much power. He'd wrapped you in luxury, bathed you in vanilla and roses, but he'd also taken something. Your freedom? Your past? He didn't know. He only knew he couldn't give you back.
He cradled you like a baby, rocking gently, murmuring into your hair as the night deepened outside his window. "My sweet girl. My pretty little doe. I'll be good. I'll be on my best behavior." He meant it. He would try, at least. He'd suppress every boner, swallow every urge, be the protector you needed, not the predator he sometimes felt like. It was a win-win, really. He got to keep you safe, keep you close, drown in your sweetness, and all it cost him was a little self-control.
"Suppressing a boner or two," he whispered to your sleeping form, a crooked, self-deprecating smile curving his lips. "No biggie. Right, sweetheart?"’
You snuffled in your sleep, burrowing closer, and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head, right between your twitching ears. Outside, Tokyo glittered like a circuit board, indifferent and beautiful. Inside, Satoru Gojo held his whole world in his arms and tried very, very hard to be a good man.
Key word: tried.
He did. Genuinely, earnestly, with the dogged persistence of a man who had never in his life denied himself anything and was now attempting to raw-dog reality without the cushion of instant gratification. It was, Satoru reflected, like trying to go a full day without something cloyingly sweet on his tongue, a fresh mochi, a chilled can of caramel latte, the sugary rush that kept his overclocked brain humming along at the frequency of godhood. He needed stimulation. He needed indulgence. And you, with your honey-sweet skin and your trusting doe eyes and your maddening habit of pressing your tiny body against any available part of him, were the sweetest thing he'd ever tasted. Metaphorically. Mostly.
Three weeks. That's how long he held the line. Three weeks of sleeping beside you in his vast, rumpled bed, your cold little feet tucked between his calves for warmth. Three weeks of bath times that tested the structural integrity of his sanity, all vanilla-rose steam and wet lashes and your trusting, pliant body under his soap-slick palms. Three weeks of you clamping onto his lap, his arm, his back, his leg, once, memorably, he'd tried to walk to the kitchen and you'd simply wrapped yourself around his calf like a koala and let him drag you across the hardwood, giggling that airy, breathless giggle that made his chest ache. Three weeks, and he hadn't cracked.
He was almost proud. Almost.
The afternoon in question was ordinary, which is to say it was a quiet catastrophe waiting to happen. Satoru sat in his home office, the door cracked open so he could hear you, the late autumn light slanting through the windows and pooling honey-gold on his desk. Mission reports. Grading. Ijichi's meticulous paperwork that he was supposed to review as a formality, he despised formalities, but Yaga had that vein in his forehead that throbbed, and he was trying to be responsible now, wasn't he? Responsible sensei’s did their paperwork.
In the living room, you were playing.
Toys. Yes, he'd bought you toys. The realization that you needed something to occupy your clever little mind had come swiftly and at great personal expense. If you weren't actively engaged in something, a cartoon, a puzzle, a campaign of gentle destruction, you would simply attach yourself to his nearest limb and stay there, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his skin until he couldn't remember what sentences were. So he'd gone shopping.
The bunny plushies had come first, after he'd noticed you chasing the wild rabbits in the forest surrounding Jujutsu High. He'd taken you on walks, early mornings, when the campus was quiet, and you'd frozen at the sight of a cotton-tailed rabbit darting through the undergrowth, your ears snapping forward, your whole body quivering with some ancient, instinctual fascination. You hadn't chased, not that first time. But the next time, you'd bounded after it with a delighted bleat, flats slipping on the grass, and he'd had to scoop you up before you tumbled into a ravine. After that, bunnies. A half-dozen of them, in varying sizes and shades of cream and fawn, arranged around the living room like a fluffy council.
Then the flower figurines. He'd noticed you plucking wild blossoms on your walks, dandelions, clover, tiny purple things he couldn't name, and presenting them to him with that dumb, thoughtless look in your pretty eyes, your hand stretched up, up, up toward his towering height. The first time, you'd handed him a wilting dandelion, its stem crushed in your eager grip, and he'd felt something behind his ribs crack clean in two. He'd pressed it in a book. He would never, ever admit this. The faux flower kit he'd bought you came with dozens of velvety blossoms, peonies, hydrangeas, ranunculus, and little brown velcro wraps to make bouquets. You spent hours arranging them, your tiny tongue poking out in concentration, and every time you finished one, you'd toddle over to wherever he was and shove it in his face with a triumphant bleat.
This afternoon, he heard your socked feet padding across the hardwood and braced himself.
"Mm?" He didn't look up from the report, but he didn't need to. He could feel you, a warm presence at his side, your breath coming in little puffs of exertion. "Whatcha got there, sweetheart?"
You thrust the bouquet into his peripheral vision. He turned, and the world went soft-focus.
Baby blue hydrangeas and white peonies, clustered together in the brown velcro wrap. Your tiny hands held it up like an offering; your eyes, he really couldn't describe what they did to him, were bright with a wordless, earnest pride. His blindfold, which you'd tugged off his face an hour ago in a fit of boredom, was now looped around your own tiny neck, the black cotton resting against the carved hollow of your collarbones. You wore his sweater, the navy cashmere swallowing you whole. Your ears twitched. You bleated, soft and questioning.
Then you did it. You pointed at the bouquet, the blue hydrangeas, specifically, and then at his eyes. A tiny, deliberate gesture, your fingertip hovering an inch from his face.
These. Match. Yours.
Satoru Gojo, the Honored One, melted. He actually, physically, felt his structural integrity dissolve into a puddle of sugary, overwhelmed goo. The sound that escaped him was somewhere between a coo and a wheeze, high-pitched and utterly undignified. "Oh my god," he breathed, and then he was moving, scooping you up under your tiny arms, cashmere bunching in his grip, and pressing kisses to every inch of your face. Your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, the corner of your rosebud lips. "You perfect little thing, you absolute angel, you made this for me? You matched my eyes?"
You giggled, that airy, breathless sound, your cheeks flushing a pretty rose. Your hands came up, splayed flat against his face, pushing him away with gentle insistence. Deer didn't understand kisses, not really, it wasn't a gesture in your vocabulary, and you squirmed, bleating in protest, your ears flattening with amused exasperation.
He accommodated. He always did. He shifted his assault to your neck, nuzzling into the warm, soft hollow beneath your jaw, and then, and this was something he'd been dying over, absolutely perishing, every single time, he gave you tiny licks. The way you did to him. A grooming gesture, a sign of affection you understood. His tongue darted out, gentle and warm, tracing the shell of your ear, the sensitive spot behind it where the honey fur gave way to smooth skin.
You went limp. Instantly. A tiny, contented bleat escaped you, and you tilted your head, offering more of your neck, your hands falling away from his face to grip his shoulders. Then you returned the favor, your little tongue lapping at his jaw, his chin, the corner of his mouth, and he had to close his eyes and breathe through the heat that pooled low in his belly.
Three weeks. I'm doing so well. I'm a saint. A martyr. I deserve a medal.
He set you back on your feet before he did something unforgivable, and you immediately returned to your toys, apparently satisfied with the reaction to your creation. The bouquet, his bouquet, he placed carefully on his desk, next to the dandelion pressed in the book he'd never acknowledge.
The phone call came just as he was finishing the last of the grading.
He expected Yaga's gruff bark, or maybe Shoko's lazy drawl. He did not expect the clipped, professional tone of Kento Nanami, and he felt something shift, a subtle wrongness, as he answered. Nanami didn't call for social reasons. Nanami barely called for professional reasons unless absolutely necessary. The man preferred text, email, carrier pigeon, anything that minimized unnecessary human interaction.
"Gojo-san."
"Nanamin! To what do I owe the pleasure? Missing my sunny disposition? Need a pick-me-up?" He leaned back in his chair, spinning idly, his tone light and needling as ever. But his eyes, bare and cerulean, were already sharp.
"There's a mission." Nanami's voice was flat, but there was a tension beneath it. "Hokkaido. A special grade suspected near an onsen resort. I was assigned, but Yaga has reclassified it. Too risky for anyone below special grade. He's handing it to you."
Satoru wanted to smirk. He wanted to lean back, kick his feet up, and boast about being the best, the strongest, the only one they could call when things got dicey. The words were already forming on his tongue, preening and smug. But then the kicker landed, and his mouth snapped shut.
Sunday. It was a goddamn Sunday. Sunday meant no work, no missions, no interruptions. Sunday meant you, curled on the couch in a sunbeam, your ears twitching as Pink Panther played on the TV. Sunday meant a whole day of nothing but your warmth and your sweetness and the quiet, domestic rhythm they'd built. He didn't work Sundays. He'd simply... not. He'd pawn off whatever came up on some eager junior, some dork desperate to prove themselves. But this, a special grade, too risky for Nanami, this couldn't be pawned.
He was silent for a beat too long.
"Gojo?" Nanami's voice sharpened. "You're oddly quiet."
Satoru exhaled, deep and low, a sigh that came from somewhere raw and genuine. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing the white locks, and looked through the cracked door at you. You were on the living room floor, surrounded by your calico critter dollhouse, the deer family strewn near your knee. You'd dressed the daddy deer in a scrap of black fabric, a tiny, makeshift blindfold, and you were holding him up high, hands on your hips, attempting a pose that was unmistakably, devastatingly him. You were trying to do his smirk, your little lips curling, and the sight was so absurdly cute he wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.
"Nanami," he said, and his voice was stripped of its usual theatricality. "I need a favor. A big one."
There was a pause. "Explain."
"I have... a situation. Something I can't leave alone. I need you to watch her while I'm gone."
"Her?" The word was loaded with a hundred questions.
"I'll explain later. Maybe. Probably not. But I need you to do this.” The words tasted foreign on his tongue. "I never ask for favors, right? I'm cashing in all the goodwill I've never earned."
Another pause, longer this time. Then: "Fine. I'll be there in twenty minutes."
"Make it fifteen."
He hung up and walked into the living room, lowering himself to the floor beside you. You looked up, your expression open and curious, the daddy deer still clutched in your hand, its little blindfold slightly askew. He reached out and cupped your face, his palm huge against your cheek.
"I have to go to Hokkaido, sweetheart," he said quietly. "A mission. Just for a little while. I'll be back before sleepy time, okay?"
Your face crumpled. Instantly. The light in your eyes dimmed, your ears drooping, your lips forming a pout so deep and genuine it physically hurt him. You turned away, burying your face in the bunny plushie beside you, and a tiny, muffled bleat escaped the polyester fur.
"Oh, baby." He scooped you up, plushie and all, and held you against his chest, rocking slightly. "I know. I don't want to go either. But I have to. And Nanami, you met Nanami briefly, remember? Blond, serious, looks like he's always smelling something bad? He's going to stay with you. He's very responsible. Boring, but responsible."
You didn't respond, just burrowed deeper into his chest, your tiny hands fisting in his shirt.
The doorbell rang.
Nanami Kento arrived precisely on time, because of course he did. He loosened his blue shirt's buttons as he stepped inside, his grey dress pants held by a brown leather belt, his brown dress shoes tugged off and placed neatly by the front door. His gaze swept the condo, the toys scattered on the floor, the cartoon playing on the massive TV, the faint scent of vanilla and something sweet, and landed on you.
You were curled on the leather couch, hidden under the baby pink woven blanket Satoru had bought specifically because it matched the flush of your cheeks. Only your ears were visible, twitching nervously, and the occasional flicker of your tail beneath the blanket's edge. You peeked out, just once, and your gorgeous doe eyes met Nanami's sharp hazel ones. You ducked back immediately, a tiny, mortified bleat escaping the blanket cocoon.
Satoru, now wrapped in his black high-neck jacket, blindfold snug over his eyes, felt his heart crack. "She's very afraid of strangers," he said, his voice low and urgent, directing Nanami toward the kitchen with a jerk of his head. "Very shy. Extremely sensitive to everything, noise, sudden movements, stern voices. Don't raise your voice. Don't make sudden movements. Don't-" He paused, running a hand through his hair. "Just... be gentle. She likes fruit. Apples, mikan, corn. No bread, she just nibbles it. She has a bedtime- well, she's supposed to. She doesn't always. She likes Pink Panther and Hello Kitty and Miffy. The remote has a shortcut. If she gets scared, she likes to be held, but she might not let you hold her because you're new, so just... be patient. And don't touch her ears unless she butts her head against your hand. And if she licks you, it's not weird, it's a grooming thing, it means she likes you, but if she licks you too much, tell her to stop. Gently. She's-"
"Gojo." Nanami held up a hand, his expression unreadable. "I understand. I'll take care of her. Go."
Satoru hesitated. Actually, genuinely hesitated, Satoru Gojo, who had never second-guessed a decision in his life, stood in his own foyer and felt the weight of leaving you like a physical anchor. Then he crossed to the couch, crouched down, and pressed a kiss to the blanket where your head was hidden. "I'll be back before you know it, sweetheart. Be good for Nanami. Don't give him too hard a time."
A tiny, sad bleat answered him. He left, the door clicking shut behind him, and the sound echoed in the sudden, heavy silence.
Nanami didn't move for a long moment. Then, slowly, deliberately, he removed his shades and set them on the kitchen counter. He looked at the blanket cocoon on the couch, at the twitching ears barely visible above the pink fabric, and he did something he rarely did: he softened. Just fractionally. The tension in his shoulders eased a degree. His stern mouth relaxed.
He lowered himself to the floor, not on the couch, but on the dark hardwood in front of it, sitting cross-legged at your level. "Hello," he said, his voice quiet, the deep gravelly tone stripped of its usual edge. "My name is Kento Nanami. I'm a colleague of Satoru's. I'm going to stay with you until he returns. I won't hurt you. I won't touch you unless you want me to. I'm just going to sit here and read my book."
He pulled a worn paperback from his jacket pocket, some Danish classic he'd been working through for weeks, and opened it, his hazel eyes scanning the page. He didn't look at you. He just read, his presence a steady, quiet anchor in the sunlit living room. The TV murmured softly. The city hummed below. Minutes passed.
Slowly, hesitantly, oh so carefully, you sat up. The blanket fell away from your head, your ears springing free, and you watched him with wide, wary eyes. He pretended not to notice, but he catalogued you in his peripheral vision: the small frame, the sharp collarbones, the way you clutched the blanket around your shoulders like armor. You were drowning in Gojo's sweater. His dress socks bagged around your tiny ankles. And- Nanami's eye twitched- were those Gojo's briefs peeking out from beneath the sweater's hem, rolled up at the waistband to fit? He wanted to slap the man. But then he saw the way you kept snuggling the sweater's collar, pressing it to your nose, breathing in the scent to calm your racing heart, and he understood. You liked this. You wanted this. Gojo's scent, Gojo's clothes, Gojo's everything.
Your ears, which had been flattened with anxiety, slowly perked up as the silence stretched. You crept to the edge of the couch, peering at his book, and he tilted it slightly so you could see the pages, not that you could read them, but the gesture was instinctive.
"Would you like me to read aloud?" The question surprised even him. He didn't read aloud. He didn't do voices or performances. But the way you tilted your head, the way your eyes went all hazy and curious, made the offer feel natural. You balled yourself up at the end of the couch, your cheek resting on your bunny plushie, and watched him with those pretty, liquid eyes.
So he read. His voice was low and steady, a rumble that filled the quiet room, and you listened with an attention that was almost unnerving. Nanami had eyes that functioned perfectly well. A normal, healthy male anatomy. He was not immune to beauty, and you, you were beautiful. Quiet, docile, interested in his reading in a way that made something long-dormant stir in his chest. He couldn't believe Gojo, of all people, had been taking care of you. You were nothing like the brash idiot. You were... lovely.
When night fell, he rose and walked to the kitchen. Sourdough bread from a few days ago, Gojo had mentioned you nibbled it. He made himself a sandwich, his movements precise and economical, and pretended not to notice you sneaking behind him, peeking around the counter, ears swiveling with curiosity. The corner of his lip twitched. He suppressed it.
He cut fruit for you, apple slices, mikan segments, a small bowl of corn, and set it on the sleek glass dining table. You stared at it, then at him, then back at the table. Gojo let you eat on the couch, he realized. Another point against the man's haphazard caretaking. "You can sit here," he said, gesturing to the chair opposite him. "At the table. It's more proper."
You hesitated, then climbed onto the chair, your tiny feet dangling. You nibbled your fruit and listened as he spoke, about bread, of all things. Sourdough versus rye, the unique flavor profiles, why the sandwich he'd made worked with this particular loaf. It was mundane, factual, the kind of conversation he'd never had with anyone because no one had ever been interested. But your ears stayed perked, your head tilted, and he realized with a strange, warm feeling that you liked his voice. His deep, growly, grounded tone. So different from Gojo's playful lilt. You liked him.
He found himself wanting to keep you. Which was absurd. He barely knew you. But the feeling was there, insistent and quiet, as you helped him clean up, tiny hands reaching for plates you couldn't quite carry, and he had to look away to keep his composure.
The phone call from Gojo came shortly after. The mission would keep him in Hokkaido until morning. You deflated the moment you heard, curling back on the couch, your ears drooping, your tail still. All the progress Nanami had made evaporated in an instant. You were sad, sleepy, the sun long melted away, and you refused to go to bed despite the heaviness of your eyelids.
"He'll be back tomorrow," Nanami said, not unkindly. "You need to rest."
You shook your head, stubborn even in your exhaustion, and glued your eyes to the Hello Kitty episode playing on the TV. Nanami sighed internally. Gojo let you stay up, he realized. Of course he did. No structure, no routine, just chaos and indulgence and whatever kept you happy in the moment. Damn that white-haired idiot.
"Turn off the TV," Nanami said, and when you whined, he added: "Clean up your toys first. Then we can negotiate."
You didn't move. He waited, his posture relaxed against the couch, legs spread wide, hips pushed up, arms resting along the backrest, the picture of casual authority. His eyes, though, were steady on you, and beneath his usual sternness was something he didn't fully recognize.
"Alright," he said at last, a concession he would never have made for anyone else. "I'll read to you. One chapter. Then you sleep. Deal?"
You hopped up. Instantly. Your toys were cleaned with a speed that bordered on miraculous, and you were back at his side before he'd even found his page. You curled beside him, not on his lap, but close enough that your shoulder pressed against his bicep, and he began to read. His voice rumbled through the quiet condo, and within minutes, your head was drooping. He felt the soft weight of your cheek against his arm, the delicate flutter of your lashes, the way your body curled so impossibly small and warm against his side. He draped the pink blanket over you and continued reading, his voice dropping to a murmur, until your breathing evened out into the deep, slow rhythm of sleep.
He closed the book. His watch read 10:42 PM. Twelve minutes past his bedtime. He should be annoyed. He was annoyed, theoretically. But when you snuggled closer, a tiny, contented bleat escaping your sleeping lips, he eased his shoulder down, letting you nestle more comfortably against him. He closed his eyes.
He didn't mean to fall asleep. But the day had been long, and you were warm, and the quiet hum of the city was a lullaby.
Satoru Gojo stood over the couch at 5:47 AM, still rumpled from travel, his blindfold slightly askew, and felt something cold and possessive curl in his chest.
You were in Nanami's lap. Not beside him, in his lap, your tiny body curled against his chest, your cheek pressed to his shoulder, your ears twitching in your sleep. Nanami's arm was draped loosely around you, his head tilted back against the couch, his chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of deep sleep. The pink blanket covered you both. The morning light, pale and grey, filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows and painted the scene in soft, damning clarity.
Satoru's cerulean eyes, hidden behind the black cotton, were fixed on the blond with an intensity that could've cut glass. His jaw was tight. His hands, shoved in his pockets, were curled into fists.
Nanami woke. It was a gradual thing, the shift in his breathing, the slight tension returning to his shoulders, and then his hazel eyes opened and met Satoru's unreadable blindfold. He didn't startle. He didn't scramble. He simply looked down at you, still asleep, still curled trustingly against him, and then back up at the man who very clearly wanted to murder him.
"Nanami," Satoru said, and his voice was light. Too light. The kind of light that preceded natural disasters. "Good morning."
"Gojo." Nanami's voice was gravelly with sleep, but steady. "You're back early."
"Mission wrapped up faster than expected. I see you two got... comfortable."
There was a pause. Nanami didn't flinch. "She was scared. I read to her. She fell asleep."
"In your lap."
"She crawled there in her sleep. I didn't want to wake her."
Satoru smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of a man who had spent the past twelve hours thinking of nothing but you, your warmth, your scent, your tiny hands on his skin, and had come home to find someone else basking in what was his. "Thanks, Nanamin. Really. I owe you one. I'll take it from here."
He didn't wait for a response. He bent down and scooped you up, blanket and all, cradling you against his chest with an ease that was both tender and fiercely possessive. You stirred, a tiny, sleepy bleat escaping you, and blinked up at him with hazy, uncomprehending eyes.
"Shh, sweetheart. I'm home." He pressed a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering. "Go back to sleep."
Your eyes fluttered shut, your hand fisting loosely in his jacket, and you were out again. Satoru turned to Nanami, still holding you, still smiling that too-sharp smile. "I'll walk you out."
Nanami rose, retrieving his shades and slipping them on. At the door, he paused and looked back at you, tiny, swaddled, utterly trusting in Satoru's arms, and then at the man holding you. "She's a good girl," he said quietly. "She deserves to be taken care of properly. Not just indulged."
"I know." And for once, there was no joke, no deflection. Just a quiet, almost unsettling sincerity. "Believe me, Nanami. I know."
Nanami nodded. Then he looked at you one last time, and you blinked at him sleepily, your eyes barely open, and let out a tiny, soft bleat. A farewell. An acknowledgment. Nanami's expression shifted, something unreadable, something almost tender, and then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
Satoru stood in the silent foyer, you cradled in his arms, and felt the jealousy coiled in his gut slowly, slowly ease. You were home. You were safe. You were his. But he could still smell Nanami's earthy, faint cologne on the blanket, and something in him, something primal and ugly, demanded action.
He decided he needed a bath. And you, he decided, needed one too.
The logic was simple: kill two birds with one stone. Get clean. Relax his tight, travel-sore muscles. Wash away the lingering scent of another man from your skin. Deep down, beneath the pragmatic justification, he just wanted you against him. Naked and warm and close in the steam, your tiny body cradled against his, where you belonged.
The bathroom filled with the sound of running water and the delicate floral scent of your bubble bath. Satoru stripped efficiently, his clothes pooling on the marble floor, and then turned to you. You stood on the bathmat, still half-asleep, swaying slightly, your ears drooping with exhaustion. He undressed you gently, his sweater first, then the shrunken briefs, your soft skin goosebumping in the cool air. You didn't protest. You just watched him with those hazy, trusting eyes, and let him lift you into the tub.
The water was perfect. Hot, but not scalding, the bubbles clustering thick and fragrant around them. He settled in first, his back against the porcelain slope, and then pulled you against him, your back to his chest, your head resting in the hollow of his shoulder. The position was intimate, almost unbearably so, and he felt the tension in his muscles finally, mercifully, begin to dissolve.
"Missed you," he murmured against your damp hair, his voice low and rough. "Missed you so much, sweetheart. Hated every second of that stupid mission. Wanted to be here. With you. Holding you."
His big, soapy, calloused hands ran over your pretty shoulders, working the cedarwood-scented wash into your skin. He was methodical, gentle, tracing the delicate ridges of your collarbones, the angles of your shoulder blades, the knobs of your spine.
You, in turn, shifted. You turned around in his lap, kneeling between his spread legs, and reached for the soap. Your tiny hands, clumsy but earnest, began to wash him, his chest, his shoulders, his neck. Your ears were downturned, your eyes lowered. You felt it. His agitation. The jealousy still simmering beneath his gentle touch, a tension in his jaw he couldn't quite hide. You bleated softly, a questioning sound, and he realized he'd let something slip. A sharpness. An edge.
"Hey." He cupped your cheek, tilting your face up to meet his. His cerulean eyes, bare and unguarded, searched yours. "I'm not mad at you, baby. I'm sorry. I'm not mad at you. I just... I missed you. And I didn't like seeing you with someone else. That's all. It's my problem. Not yours."
You studied him for a long moment. Then, with the simple, wordless wisdom of a creature who understood affection in touches rather than words, you leaned forward and pressed a tiny lick to his wet neck. A peace offering. A reassurance.
His cock twitched. He'd been holding down his growing erection since the moment you'd slipped into the tub, a losing battle he'd fought with gritted teeth, but the combination of your naked body, the steam, the soap, and your sweet little tongue on his skin was too much. He was hard. Achingly, obviously, painfully hard, his length pressing against your thigh beneath the bubbles.
"S-sweetheart," he breathed, his voice catching. "Look at me."
You looked up, your angelic eyes wide and trusting, and he cupped your face in both hands. His thumbs traced your cheekbones. His gaze dropped to your lips, rosebud pink, slightly parted, still glistening from your grooming licks.
"Can you..." He swallowed. "Can you give me those licks here? On my lips?"
You tilted your head, processing. Then, with the careful precision you brought to everything you learned, you leaned in and licked his lips. A tiny, warm, tentative swipe of your tongue.
He was gone. Absolutely gone.
He pulled you closer, one hand sliding to the back of your head, and turned your innocent licks into proper kisses. Gentle at first, a press of lips, a soft guidance, and then deeper, his mouth moving against yours, teaching you a rhythm you took to with devastating quickness. Your little hands came up to grip his shoulders, and you made a sound, a tiny, breathless whimper, that went straight to his groin.
His hands wandered. He couldn't stop them. Didn't want to. He cupped your pert chest, the bubbles popping around you to reveal the dusky rose of your nipples pebbling under his touch. You gasped into his mouth, arching instinctively, and he groaned. "So pretty," he murmured against your lips. "So perfect. My pretty little doe."
His hands slid down, wrapping around your impossibly cinched waist, squeezing with a tenderness that bordered on reverence. Your hands rested on his strong forearms, watching him through hazy, gone eyes, the same look you got when he scratched behind your ears, but deeper, hungrier, a need you didn't understand but felt all the same.
He touched you. His fingers trailed through the fine, honey-soft hair above your little mound, and then lower, gently coaxing your folds apart. You were sticky. Wet. The kissing and the teasing and the warm water had made you this needy, and he felt a surge of pure, masculine pride so intense it made him dizzy. "Oh, baby," he breathed, his fingers finding your swollen bud and rubbing achingly sweet circles. "You're so ready for me. So wet. Is this all for me?"
You whined, squirming, your hips bucking instinctively against his hand. He held you steady with his free arm wrapped around your waist, his mouth trailing kisses along your jaw, your neck, your ears, until you were a trembling, dizzy mess. He wanted to pass out right there in the warm water. What a nice way to go.
Then your little hands found him.
They nudged against his length, upright, girthy, leaking pearly fluid into the sudsy water, and you wrapped your clumsy fingers around him with the same curious determination you'd shown the Agumon plush in his office. He hissed, his hips jerking involuntarily, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. "Yeah- yes, baby, just like- oh, fuck-"
You learned fast. You watched his face, catalogued his reactions, and adjusted your grip accordingly, running your tiny hands over his veiny length with a focus that was almost clinical if it weren't so goddamn erotic. He rewarded you by easing one thick finger inside your obscenely tight rose hole, and the sound you made- a high, breathy keen- nearly ended him.
"Shh, shh, I've got you. You're doing so well. Taking my finger so good. Can you take a second for me, sweetheart? Be good and take a second?"
You squirmed, your inner walls clenching around the intrusion, but he kissed you again, deep, slow, languid, and you melted. The second finger slipped in beside the first, and you went utterly limp, your pretty doe eyes hazy and unfocused, your mouth open and kissed raw, your hands floating in the bubbly water. He stretched you gently, patiently, his thumb still circling your clit in lazy, devastating patterns, and when he tried for a third, you whimpered, too much, too tight, your tiny body unable to accommodate his long, thick fingers.
He stopped immediately. He would never, ever hurt you. And the realization that followed, that his cock, even thicker than his fingers, would absolutely not fit inside you without causing real pain, was a cold splash of reality. He could wait. He would wait. He'd stretch you slowly, over weeks, over months, until you were ready. Until you could take him without a single flicker of discomfort.
But right now, he needed release. And so, he realized, did you.
He lifted you, his hands spanning your waist, and repositioned you so you were facing him on his lap, your cheek resting on his shoulder, your legs splayed on either side of his hips. Your tail brushed against his length, the velvet fur a maddening tease, and he bit back a groan. Then he pushed his hips up, grinding his leaking cock against your puffy, swollen rose spot, the friction slick and obscene and perfect.
"Come for me, baby," he breathed against your ear, his voice a wrecked, desperate rasp. "Let go. I've got you. I've always got you."
You shattered. Your tiny body arched, a keening bleat escaping your lips, your inner walls pulsing against nothing as the orgasm rolled through you. The sight, the sound, the feeling of your slick warmth grinding against his length, he followed a heartbeat later, his release spilling into the bathwater in thick, milky ropes, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, his whole body shuddering.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of ragged breathing and the gentle lap of bathwater. You were limp in his arms, your body giving small, involuntary aftershocks, your eyes closed, your lips parted. He held you, pressing soft kisses to your temple, your ear, the corner of your mouth.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, though he wasn't sure what he was apologizing for. For his jealousy. For his need. For the fact that his attempts at suppression had been so utterly, spectacularly fruitless. "I'm not sorry. I'm... I'm yours, sweetheart. All yours."
He washed you both eventually, his movements gentle and unhurried. He dried you with the obscenely soft towel, dressed you in a fresh sweater, another cashmere, this one dove grey, and tucked you into his bed, the sheets cool and clean. You were asleep before your head hit the pillow, your ears twitching gently with each breath.
Satoru lay beside you, propped on one elbow, and watched the morning sun creep higher through the window. His tip was still red and sensitive. Your little rose spot was still swollen and sticky. The bathwater needed changing. The world outside was waking up, bustling and indifferent.
He closed his eyes, a breathless smirk curving his lips. His heart, that stupid, traitorous organ, was so full it ached.
This was more than heaven, the thought lingered.
End.
Alive, yes. Writing block, more yes. I can't believe the amount of love I've received for my work, even as I'm insanely inactive. Thank you, genuinely. Feel free to drop ideas; I adore your guys' creativity :3
