#stepdad gojo

˚₊‧꒰ა ₍ᐢ. ̫.ᐢ₎ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ nsfw!

Stepdad Gojo x Stepdaughter reader (of age)

CW: Penetrative sex, mentions of anal sex. Do NOT read if you are not comfortable with this!

The final weeks of summer seemed to melt away faster than a popsicle on a Tokyo sidewalk, each day slipping through Satoru’s fingers like a slippery curse. He sat in the quiet living room of the Setagaya house, sipping his black coffee, bitter, just how he liked it, with eight sugar cubes that never quite dissolved, a metaphor for something he didn’t bother to examine. Dressed in his sleek black jujutsu uniform, the high collar a stark contrast to his relaxed posture. But his attention was entirely captured by you.

You were a whirlwind of excitement, buzzing around the house for days, your chatter a constant soundtrack about university registration, course catalogs, and the impending start of the quarter. This morning, you’d been up with the sun, a bundle of nervous energy glued to your laptop, and the triumphant, gleeful squeal you let out when you secured the classes you wanted was a sound purer than any he’d ever pulled from a cursed spirit. You’d bounced into the living room wearing your Miffy pajamas, a silly, joyful bunny, and his heart had clenched with a bittersweet ache. Summer, your summer together, was ending.

And he’d missed the beach.

The thought struck him hard. He’d been meaning to take you, but with teaching, missions, and your mother’s elaborate social calendar, it was nearly impossible. Now, with your university schedule looming, a schedule already being filled with shopping trips for frilly camisoles, lace-trimmed dresses, and an array of hair clips you’d modeled for him with the cutest smile, he knew time was a luxury he was about to lose. 

That’s how, on a Tuesday when the mall was inexplicably packed with a humming crowd, he found himself being led by the hand through the gleaming corridors. His left hand, large and warm, enveloped your smaller one completely, while his right carried a growing collection of shopping bags. You babbled endlessly about finding "the absolute cutest bathing suit," and Satoru just nodded, his mind a roaring static of a single, overwhelming thought: He was going to see his baby girl in a pretty little bathing suit.

Your mother, of course, was absent, off in Ginza with her friends, her closet already overflowing with bikinis she’d declared more than sufficient. A quick, entirely non-weird peek into your own closet had confirmed his suspicion: you had nothing. So, on his one free day, he became your sole shopping companion.

Not that he minded.

He was pulled from his thoughts by a determined tug on his hand, you dragging him into a boutique that was an explosion of everything you. It was a sanctuary of pink, lace, frills, and sparkles, a temple built in honor of adorable, feminine youth. It didn’t take you long to find what you were looking for. You held up two options with the serious consideration of an artist: one a two-piece in baby pink, dotted with tiny flowers and finished with a delicate lace edge; the other a sky blue set embroidered with whimsical blueberries, the bottom featuring a sweet, flirty little skirt.

You chattered on about the designs, a happy, nervous energy radiating from you as he guided you toward the dressing rooms. His own heart beat a little faster, his senses hyper-aware. He scanned the bustling store, his gaze sharp behind the blindfold, ensuring no one paid them undue attention as you called him "Daddy" and pulled him through the curtained entrance. To the world, he was just an indulgent stepfather… but deep down, he knew better than that.

Inside the cramped, softly lit space, he crossed his arms and leaned against the thick velvet curtain near the opening, his broad shoulders like a wall. He turned his head away, the perfect picture of paternal discretion. But the blindfold was his greatest ally, his cerulean eyes missing nothing. He watched so very carefully as you shimmied out of your white frilly mini dress.

He drank in the sight of your undressed form like a man dying of thirst. The pert, perfect swell of your cute breasts, tipped with nipples that were screaming to be toyed with. The soft, gentle curve of your tummy. The sweet, slightly fuzzy mound at the junction of your thighs, so innocent and tempting. The delicate architecture of your collarbones and hips, all softened by the silk of your pretty skin. A low throb of desire, hot and insistent, pulsed through him, and he shifted his stance slightly, feeling the fabric of his dress pants grow uncomfortably tight. He loved how utterly unaware you were, how you pouted in concentration as you stepped into the tiny pink bottoms, your trust in him absolute and heartbreakingly pure.

Once you were dressed, you turned, all jumpy excitement. "Daddy, look!"

He grinned, the expression feeling strained on his face as he fought to keep his composure. "C'mere, babygirl. Let me see." His voice was a low rumble; you, of course, followed. His big hands settled on your delicate shoulders, gently spinning you to admire every angle. Your backside was a perfect, adorable handful. The cold air of the store had your nipples pebbled taut against the flimsy floral fabric. He ran his tongue over a sharp canine, a predator marveling at his exquisite luck, having a sweet little girl like you as his.

His hand slid down, running over your soft tummy in what he hoped passed for a fatherly gesture. You squirmed and giggled, the sound like bells, as he let his fingers dance across your skin in a playful tickle, just to hear your breathy, cute squeaks.

You insisted on trying the blueberry set, and who was he to deny his bunny anything? He "looked away" again, a smirk playing on his lips. This was a new kind of fun. He should indulge your shopping whims more often.

The second suit was his undoing. The blue made your skin glow. The little skirt sat demurely above your adorable thighs, making you look like a living doll. His living doll. You moved closer, lost in your happy explanation. "See, Daddy? The straps are lace, but they're not scratchy at all!" You were so close he could smell the strawberry gloss on your lips.

He nodded, his voice a little thick. "Let me feel the fabric, baby. Make sure it's soft enough for your sensitive skin." His calloused fingers brushed over the top, then trailed down, "checking" the material of the bottoms. He let his thumb deliberately, oh-so-casually, graze the softness of your mound, right below where your little clit lay hidden. You blushed a deep, beautiful rose and giggled, a shiver running through you. Oh, his sweet, responsive angel.

His hands found your waist, then your hips, his touch possessive. "I adore this one the most," he murmured, his voice dropping to an intimate whisper that filled the small space. "Daddy's gonna get this for his good girl." His fingers toyed with the edge of the skirt, teasing, dipping beneath it to skim the elastic of the panties. You buried your burning face in his chest, your small hands fisting the material of his black jacket, a tiny, overwhelmed sound escaping you.

Satoru couldn't hold back anymore. He’d tried. Hardly.

In one smooth motion, he turned you to face the full-length mirror, your back pressed against his front. His hands began to explore, to tease. One cupped your breast, his thumb circling the nipple through the fabric until it was a hard little peak. The other slid down, past the skirt, his fingers finding the damp heat already gathering at your core. He leaned down, nuzzling into your neck, his lips finding the sensitive skin there as he palmed your stomach, marveling at the sheer size difference between you, his massive frame enveloping your tiny, perfect one.

He murmured a stream of filthy, worshipful praise into your skin. "So perfect for me... My beautiful baby... Daddy's sweet little bunny..." You tried to hide your face, turning away with the most adorable, overwhelmed pout. He gently grabbed your cheeks with one hand, smushing them together just to see you look like a flustered chipmunk, and chuckled before capturing your glossy, strawberry-sweet lips in a searing kiss. He ground his hips against you, the hard ridge of his cock pressing insistently against your lower back through his pants. You whimpered into his mouth, your cute little bum instinctively pushing back against him in a clumsy motion.

It wasn't long before he had you in a gentle but unbreakable headlock with his muscular left arm, your back arched against him. His right hand was busy between your legs, circling your swollen little clit before guiding himself out of his boxers. His long, thick, pink cock slid into your velvet heat with a single, smooth thrust that stole the breath from both of you. He was so deep, so impossibly large inside you, he could see the faint outline of himself distending your lower belly with each slow, deliberate rock of his hips.

The sweet, muffled sounds you made, little gasps and mewls as he whispered for you to be a "good, quiet girl for Daddy", were nearly enough to unravel him completely. He maintained a shred of restraint, grunting praises in your ear, reveling in the way your tight, wet walls fluttered and clenched around him, in your babbled protests that it was "too big, too much, Daddy," even as your arousal soaked him, dripping down his length.

The store's sounds were a blessing, a hum of voices and soft music that swallowed your noises up. He held your pretty face in the crook of his arm, forcing you to watch in the mirror as he took you. Your cheeks were flushed, your doe eyes glazed and hazy, lip gloss and a little drool shining on your chin. You looked beautifully, utterly fucked-out, your near-naked body a harsh contrast to his fully dressed, big form. Only his cock was free, a secret violation in the bright, public space.

He rocked into you, building a rhythm made to tease, speeding up when you were close, only to slow to a maddening grind, drawing out your pleasure until you were a teary, whining mess. His exploring fingers dipped into your mouth, and you suckled on them obediently, a good girl even in your state, before those same wet fingers traveled down to circle your adorable, obviously untouched back entrance, winking at him so cutely with every thrust.

You froze, whining and shaking your head, a fresh wave of tears welling in your big doe eyes. "No, Daddy! Not there..." The fear in your voice was genuine, a virgin territory that scared his little bunny.

He shushed you gently, kissing your temple. "Shh, it's okay, baby. Daddy's just touching. Getting you used to it." He filed the reaction away. He’d have to train you there, too. The thought was exciting, like teaching a precious bunny a new, silly trick.

His left arm tightened its hold as he finally gave in to his own building peak, pistoning into you a little faster, a little harder. He was too far gone, lost in the feel of you, when he felt your inner muscles clamp down around him in a sudden, violent ripple, your body seizing as you whined into his sleeve. He followed you over the edge with a deep groan, spilling deep inside you, his release painting your velvety walls, all his.

He froze for a split second, the reality of his recklessness dousing him like cold water. He came inside you. A silent curse echoed in his mind. It wasn't the end of the world, but it was careless. A problem he would fix.

So very tenderly, he cleaned you with a handful of tissues while keeping your tired form upright, his touch reverent. His thick, white semen leaked out of your little pink hole so lewdly, he felt himself twitch yet again. He dressed you carefully in your white mini dress, kissing your worn-out, hazy face. "You were so good for me, babygirl. So perfect," he whispered, his voice rough with spent emotion.

He picked up the blueberry bathing suit, the reason for this entire trip, and led you out of the dressing room. You clung to his arm with both hands, your cheek smushed against his bicep, walking with a slight, tell-tale wobble. No one noticed in the busy store. He joked easily to the cashier that you were just sleepy from a long day of shopping, his famous grin perfectly in place. She smiled back, completely unaware that the innocent girl before her had her stepfather's milky load soaking through her cotton panties, her exhaustion born from his inhuman stamina.

As he walked you out of the store, your small hand now trustingly in his, your cheek still resting on his bicep from the wear, his cerulean eyes, hidden behind the blindfold, scanned the mall corridor. They landed on the bright sign of a pharmacy down the way. Plan B first. A necessary errand.

Then, tomorrow, the beach. And, of course, the beginning of a very important new lesson. He couldn't wait.

End.

"can't even be a proper slut. must I do everything for you?" as he's wrenching your legs open and grinding your clothes pussy down on his tent... mocking you for how wet and useless you are.

˚₊‧꒰ა ₍ᐢ. ̫.ᐢ₎ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ nsfw!

Stepdad Gojo x Stepdaughter reader (of age)

CW: Somnophilia. Do NOT read if you are not comfortable with this!

The Tokyo night pressed thick and heavy against the windows of the house, the silence broken only by the distant hum of the city and the weary sigh that escaped Satoru as he finally closed the front door behind him. 3:33 AM. The digital clock’s glow in the entryway felt accusatory. His shoulders, usually held with the effortless arrogance of the strongest, sagged under an invisible weight. The blindfold, a familiar shield against the world's overwhelming stimuli, felt like lead tonight, the black cotton brushing his thick white lashes annoyingly. He pushed it up onto his forehead with a swift tug, letting the cool air hit his tired eyes, cerulean usually sparkling with mischief, now dull. Missions piled up when Kyoto sorcerers were preoccupied, leaving Tokyo’s curses solely to him. Everyone thinks it’s easy, he mused bitterly, toeing off his dress shoes. But even Infinity can’t stop the wear.

The house was deep in sleep. His wife’s, your mother's, distant, rhythmic breathing drifted from their room, a sound that usually brought indifference, but tonight, it felt like another layer of isolation. He hadn’t seen her, hadn’t seen you, since the rushed chaos of breakfast, when you were making your oatmeal with her and Satoru was scarfing a kikufuku down, saying rushed byes. The disconnect ate him. He shrugged off his jacket, the scent of expensive cologne, detergent, and his unique musk, cedarwood, and sweat mixed with the sharp tang of spent cursed energy and pure fatigue, clinging to the black fitted tee underneath. A shower was a desperate need, a must.

He moved silently up the stairs, each step an effort, the wood groaning softly. Then he saw it: the sliver of warm, honeyed light spilling from your bedroom door, casting a long, faint shadow down the darkened hallway. Ajar. Unusual. You always kept it firmly shut, a sanctuary sealed tight. Curiosity, sharp and immediate, cut through his exhaustion. He paused, then nudged the door open wider, slipping inside like a shadow.

The air shifted. Gone was the sterile quiet of the hallway, replaced by the uniquely you scent: vanilla, roses, clean cotton, and something so sweet and innocent, like sun-warmed skin. The soft glow from your Miffy nightlight painted the room in gentle, warm hues, illuminating the scene before him. You were curled on your side, a picture of peaceful slumber amidst a sea of plushies. His little bunny. Your soft hair fanned wildly across the pillow, free of clips. Your rosebud lips were slightly parted, breathing soft, even sighs. The delicate curve of your cheek pressed into the pillow, long lashes casting feathery shadows. An automatic smile, tender and utterly genuine, softened his weary features. The way you slept, curled tight, seeking comfort, reminded him vaguely of himself. A strange, sweet thing across no bloodline.

He closed the door softly behind him, the latch clicking faintly. The need to be closer, to bridge the gap the long day had created, was overwhelming. He crossed the room, his socked feet sinking soundlessly into the plush pile of your Hello Kitty rug, a contrast to the cool hardwood below it. He crouched beside your bed, the position bringing him eye-level with your sleeping face. His large, calloused hand, still bearing the faint, cool energy of excorcising curses, rose almost by itself. He brushed the backs of his knuckles against your cheek, marveling at the impossible softness. Your response was immediate, instinctive: a soft sigh escaped your lips as you nuzzled faintly into his touch, seeking its warmth. His tired eyes narrowed, flooding with a warmth words couldn't describe. Oh, baby girl, the thought whispered through him, you like me this much? Or is it just warmth you want? Either way, the trust implicit in that sleepy nuzzle cracked his heart open.

Gently, he eased your baby-pink duvet down, revealing your pajamas, something predictably adorable, soft pink flannel dotted with tiny sleeping bunnies, Miffy, of course. The sight sparked his familiar urge to tease, but not now. He rested his other hand on your pillow, near your temple, his thumb just brushing the silken strands of hair. Watching you sleep was like meditation. Here, in this room smelling of innocence, surrounded by plush guardians, you were untouched by the ugliness he’d faced daily, no curses, no politics, no jujutsu burdens. Just his bunny, peaceful and perfect. Moonlight illuminated your lashes, the delicate bridge of your nose, the plush curve of your lips. His thumb, rough from years of combat, traced the bow of your upper lip with nothing but affection. You looked like a porcelain doll brought to life, skin so delicate, features impossibly fine. His living doll.

His hand drifted, a slow exploration. Down the column of your little neck, feeling the flutter of your pulse beneath his fingertips, just like a bunny’s, he thought. Over your delicate collarbones, so defined against the softness. He lingered there, tracing the bones with a reverence that bordered on obsession. He loved feeling how fragile you were beneath his hands, like a precious, breakable thing, a little animal, his to shelter, his to protect. His palm slid lower, over the thin cotton of your pajama top, feeling the sleepy warmth radiating from your skin below. Appreciation, for Satoru, was a physical language. He craved touch, connection.

His hand settled on the little swell of your tummy, feeling the soft give beneath the fabric, the rhythmic rise and fall of your breath. The simplicity of it, the vulnerability, was intoxicating. Is this still appreciation? The question flickered, dangerous and dark. It didn’t deter him; it was gasoline on an ember. His hand slipped higher, gently cupping the pert curve of your breast beneath the pajamas. Not to grope, but to feel, the delicate cage of ribs beneath, the warmth, the undeniable femininity. You shifted in your sleep, a soft murmur escaping your lips as you rolled onto your back. The movement offered him easier access, a silent invitation his weary mind accepted. A faint grin touched his lips. Just a little more.

His hand moved with gentle slowness, sliding beneath the hem of your pajama top, seeking bare skin. The feel of your sweet breast filling his palm, the pebbled peak of your nipple hardening against his calloused skin, sent a jolt of pure heat straight to his groin. You squirmed faintly, a sleepy protest like a bunny twitching its nose. He watched, in awe, as arousal tightened low in his belly, his cock swelling painfully against the confines of his dress pants. The sweet innocence of the room curdled for a heartbeat. His thumb circled your nipple, applying a teasing pressure. Your breath hitched, a soft whimper escaping your parted lips. Your eyelids fluttered, clouded with sleep and confusion.

"Daddy...?" Your voice was thick, a drowsy murmur.

But Satoru, being Satoru, knew how to weave a spell. "Shhh, baby girl," his voice was a low, soothing rumble, a familiar sound in your sleepy haze. "Just Daddy. Go back to sleep." His free hand stroked your hair, his touch gentle, reassuring. You knew this touch. You remembered the comfort it brought when cramps had twisted your belly, how his experienced fingers had soothed the ache with a different kind of heat, leaving you boneless and sighing. Sleep pulled you back under, lulled just by his presence. You relaxed, your body softening, yielding. Perfect.

His hand grew bolder, exploring the soft weight, relishing every tiny gasp, every unconscious arch into his touch. He was rock hard now, straining against his zipper, but the urgency was ignored for now. He deserved this reward. He needed it. Gently, mindful not to startle you fully awake, he eased onto the bed beside you. The mattress dipped under his weight. He settled himself between your sweetly parted legs, a position that felt so very right, and much more inevitable. He pushed the Miffy duvet aside, letting the cooler air kiss your flushed skin. Your pajama top was next. With unhurried movements, he undid the small white buttons, exposing your chest to the dim light and his hungry gaze. You stirred again, a soft moan catching in your throat, awareness flickering like a candle in wind. You felt his hands, knew what was happening, but the thick blanket of sleep and the trust in him kept you stuck in that hazy twilight. In and out. He didn't mind the confusion; it was part of the sweetness, part of the feeling. His little bunny, caught between dreams and Daddy's desire. Yours too, but you were far too shy to openly admit that.

His hands spanned your tiny waist, feeling the delicate bones beneath soft skin. He pulled you closer, your head lolling gently on the pillow, your plushies watching with vacant button eyes. Useless guardians. He was your guardian now. Your only one. You liked this, didn't you? You’d sigh, you’d arch, you’d never cried stop. He’d never hurt you. Never.

He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of your pajama bottoms, sliding them down your hips and legs in one smooth motion. The sight stole his breath. Lacy, thin cotton panties, pale pink, barely there, clinging to the sweet curve of your mound. Perfect. He eased them off completely. Now, bathed in the soft glow, you were exposed. His calloused fingers, infinitely gentle yet trembling with suppressed need, parted your folds for the first time. (Last time, frantic with your period tummy cramps, he’d only touched you over the fabric). You tensed, a small sound of surprise escaping you, but relaxed almost instantly when his lips found yours in a soft, chaste kiss. Then your cheeks. Your forehead. The tip of your nose. "Shh, my sweet girl," he murmured against your skin, the endearment velvety. "Daddy's here."

He looked down, and a low groan vibrated in his chest. So pretty. So plush. Dew-kissed sweet folds like the heart of a rose, glistening with your own innocent arousal. He loved how responsive you were, even asleep. His index finger, slick with your wetness, gently probed your tight, untouched entrance. A small gasp, a tiny gush of warm release greeted him. His cock throbbed in response. Then, his thumb found the swollen, sensitive pearl hidden within your soft folds and began slow, deliberate circles.

That woke you. Properly. Your eyes flew open, wide and doe-like, filled with sleep and startled pleasure. "D-Daddy...?" you whimpered, your body arching slightly off the bed, not in protest, but in reaction to the intense sensation blooming low in your belly.

"Just relax, baby," he soothed, his voice thick, his thumb never ceasing its torturously sweet motion. "Doesn't that feel nice? Daddy's making you feel good." His other hand stroked your trembling thigh. It was scary, this new intensity, but not entirely unknown. He knew you touched yourself; he’d heard your stifled moans through the wall, knew the flush that crept up your neck when he’d teased you about it. You were a grown-up, a woman in body, his baby girl in his heart. His finger, slick and insistent, pressed slowly into your tight heat. He needed to prepare you. Needed to be inside. He kissed you again, swallowing your whimpers, tasting the sweetness of your mouth, the faint strawberry balm. You kissed him back, clumsy and sleepy, trusting.

One finger became two, stretching you with careful precision. You were so tight, so impossibly snug. He worked slowly, watching your face, listening to your breathy little cries. Three fingers were a challenge. You whimpered, a sharp sound of discomfort as he eased the third digit just past your resisting entrance. "Shh, shh, sweetheart," he murmured, kissing away the tear that escaped your eye. "Too much? Daddy won't hurt you." He withdrew slightly, focusing instead on the bundle of nerves with his thumb while his fingers gently stretched and scissored inside you. Kisses rained on your neck, your collarbones, your breasts as he took a pert nipple into his mouth, sucking gently. The dual assault made you clench around his fingers, a small cry muffled against his shoulder. He felt you tighten, then flutter, then release with a soft sob, your inner walls pulsing around his fingers as your first climax washed over you. His cock was an iron bar against his zipper, leaking pre-cum that soaked through his boxer briefs.

He cursed under his breath, fumbling with his belt and zipper with uncharacteristic clumsiness, the condom almost forgotten in his desperate haste. You lay trembling, eyes wide, lips parted, the aftermath of pleasure mixed with dawning worry at the size you knew was coming. He’d seen that look before, under his desk weeks ago, when you’d surprised him, your pink lips closing shyly around his tip before he’d pulled you away a little, scolding you half-heartedly for "watching bad things." He found the condom tucked behind a picture of him and his wife in his wallet, a bitter irony he ignored, and rolled it on swiftly. The sight of his cock, fully erect, flushed deep red at the tip, curved upwards ever so slightly, thick and heavy in his hand, made your breath catch. He saw the fear flicker in your eyes.

"It's okay, baby," he breathed, shifting you gently, slipping your soft, big teddy bear beneath your hips to angle you just right. "Daddy's got you. Just relax for me." He positioned himself at your entrance, the swollen head pressing against your slick, stretched heat. He braced his hands on either side of your head, leaning down to capture your lips as he began to push. Slowly. So slowly. Your whine was high against his mouth. He kissed you deeper, pouring care into the contact, his eyes then locked on yours, watching the tears well. "Relax, sweet bunny," he murmured against your lips. "It'll feel better soon. Just let Daddy in." He felt the tightness, the velvety walls clinging, resisting, then yielding so agonizingly slow. "Big stretch… There we go," his voice tenser, rumbling with desire, his lips brushing yours before a gentle kiss. The sensation was blinding, but he had to talk you through it. White-hot pleasure threatened to shatter his control instantly. He gritted his teeth a little, fighting it, sinking deeper until he was fully sheathed, your heat enveloping him completely. He paused, trembling, buried to the hilt. So tight. So perfect. Mine.

He looked down to where your bodies joined, seeing the stretch, the slight bulge low in your abdomen where he filled you. He wiped your tears away with his thumb. "Good girl. Such a good girl for Daddy." He began to move. Not thrusts, but the gentlest of rocks, barely going back before sinking back in, a slow, deep glide to soothe rather than overwhelm. You clung to him, your arms wrapping around his neck, burying your face against his shoulder. He could feel your shyness, hear your adorable sounds. He rested his forehead against yours, watching every flicker of sensation cross your face, the pinch of discomfort, the dawning flicker of something else, the trust. You truly were his gentle little bunny.

His hands roamed your body as he moved, not wanting to leave anything untouched. They spanned your tiny waist, fitting perfectly. They cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples. The sensation made you clench around him unexpectedly, a tight grip that ripped a guttural groan from his throat. "Fuck, baby girl..." That clench, your soft cry, was the trigger. Your second climax washed over you, squeezing him rhythmically, milking his cock. It was too much. With a few firm, deep thrusts, chasing his own release into the heart of your convulsing insides, he came hard, a low growl muffled against your neck as he emptied himself into the condom. He held himself deep, pulsing within you as your own tremors calmed down, your body going limp beneath him, sweet little whimpers escaping your kiss-bruised lips, all puffy and his.

He stayed buried inside you, catching his breath, gently stroking your cheek as you came down. Your high-pitched whimpers were too loud in the silent house. What if your mother heard? Instinctively, he slipped two fingers into your mouth. You suckled them automatically, quieting, your eyes drifting closed again, as if they were a pacifier. The trust in the act, the sheer vulnerability, was devastatingly cute.

Finally, so gently, he pulled out, hearing your little whimper as you were now empty. The condom was full, heavy. He disposed of it silently, then fetched a warm, damp cloth from your bathroom. His grin was teasing as he saw the little Hello Kitty pattern on it. He cleaned you tenderly, wiping away the evidence of everything. You watched him shyly, your eyes heavy-lidded. "Tummy hurts, Daddy," you murmured, a small, vulnerable complaint, totally valid though.

"Of course it does, baby," he murmured back, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "It feels funny at first. You'll be okay. I’m right here, aren't I?" He stripped off his clothes, the tee and pants smelling of sex, sweat, and exhaustion, and slid into the bed beside you. You immediately curled into him, your small, warm body molding against his side, your head finding its home on his bicep, one hand resting on his chest. He wrapped an arm around you, holding you close. The sensations replayed vividly behind his closed eyes: the tightness, the soft bulge under his palm when he’d pushed deep, the way your walls had fluttered and gripped him. How he’d wanted to taste you, to worship you with his mouth, but knew tonight was about stretching, about claiming. That could come later. He sighed, hating the sticky feel of dried sweat and the thought of a shower later and not now, but basking in the profound warmth, the lingering of your insides around him, the weight of you against his side. You sighed in your sleep, nuzzling closer. His baby girl. His sweet, sleepy, not-so-innocent-anymore baby bunny. And he’d deal with the consequences, the shower, the world, tomorrow. For now, this was everything.

End.

˚₊‧꒰ა ₍ᐢ. ̫.ᐢ₎ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ nsfw!

Stepdad Gojo x Stepdaughter reader (of age)

CW: Oral sex. Do NOT read if you are not comfortable with this!

The calm Sunday dawn bled through the wispy, expensive curtains your mother had chosen years ago, painting stripes of pale gold across the big master bedroom. Satoru, blessedly mission-free and without teaching duties, lay like a lazy panther amidst the messy, fluffy white duvet. His grey sweats rode low on his hips, revealing the thick white trail of hair leading down from his navel, a stark contrast against the soft tan of his sculpted abdomen. Shirtless, his big frame seemed to dominate the king-sized bed, one arm flung above his head, the other resting on his tummy. Even in sleep, he gave off such immense energy.

Downstairs, you padded around the too-quiet kitchen, all sleepy disarray in your baby pink nightgown. The thin straps perpetually slipped down your pretty shoulders, the soft cotton rumpled from deep sleep. Your hair was a wild halo around your cute face. A frustrated pout settled on your rosebud lips as you looked around the bare fridge and pantry. Nothing. Sundays were your day to make Satoru breakfast, a little ritual you cherished. But your mother, predictably, had vanished for groceries without a word (likely avoiding Satoru’s infamous, single-minded assault on the sweets aisle). You settled for a banana, nibbling it while brewing a cup of calming chamomile tea. It was gone too quickly, leaving only a faint sweetness on your tongue. Knowing Satoru’s preference, black coffee with a frankly alarming eight sugar cubes, you prepared his cup with meticulous care, balancing the absurdly sweet concoction alongside another banana. He’ll tease me, you thought, a small smile playing on your lips as you climbed the stairs.

Pushing the bedroom door open, your cheerful "Morning, Daddy!" died in your throat. He was still deeply asleep, sprawled all wide, the rhythmic sound of his faint snores filling the quiet room. You couldn't help the tiny giggle that escaped; he sounded like a big old bear hibernating. Carefully, you placed the banana and the steaming mug on his nightstand, the scent of strong, sweet coffee momentarily cutting through the room’s cedarwood and rose incense. For a moment, you just watched him: the super long white lashes fanned against his cheeks, the strong line of his jaw softened in slumber, the way his broad chest rose and fell with each deep breath. He looked younger, peaceful, yet undeniably massive.

Gently, you crawled onto the vast bed, slipping under the duvet beside him. You snuggled close, molding your smaller frame against the furnace heat of his side, resting your head near his shoulder. "Daddy," you whispered, poking his white-stubbled cheek lightly. "Wake up." Nothing. Another poke, a little firmer. Just a deeper, rumbling breath. You traced the sharp angle of his jaw with a fingertip, then the strong column of his throat, feeling the subtle bump of his Adam's apple. "Big sleepy bear," you murmured right by his ear, a mischievous glint in your pretty eyes. Still, he slumbered on, undisturbed.

Seizing the opportunity, you shifted. Carefully, you swung a leg over his hips, settling yourself astride his bare stomach, your hands braced lightly on the solid planes of his chest. The worn cotton of your nightgown rode up your thighs. You looked down at his sleeping face, a wave of affection mixed with slight guilt ran over you. He worked so hard, slept so little... maybe pestering him was mean. The morning sun streamed in, warm and soft, gilding the dark wood furniture and making the dust motes dance. It calmed everything, this quiet sanctuary smelling of him, sleep, and faint incense.

Leaning down, you began peppering his face with soft, sticky kisses, strawberry lip balm smudging on his forehead, his eyelids, the bridge of his straight nose, his faintly chapped lips. Your little hands roamed: from the rough texture of his morning stubble on his cheeks, down the corded strength of his neck, tracing the prominent collarbones, then going back up to rest on his lips. He stirred then, a low grumble in his chest. His eyes didn't open, but his lips parted slightly, and he caught the pad of your exploring finger between his teeth, giving it a soft, warning nip. A little, not now, little bug.

You giggled, squirming instinctively on his stomach, the friction truly unintentional. That slight movement, however, was enough. You felt it immediately beneath you, the sudden, undeniable hardening pressing against the thin barrier of his sweats and your nightgown, right behind where you sat. Your breath hitched.

Satoru’s cerulean eyes finally blinked open, sleep-clouded but instantly sharpening as they focused on you above him. There was no anger, only a slow, lazy appreciation that warmed you from the inside out. He took in your sleep-tousled hair, your wide, slightly startled eyes, the way the sheer pink cotton of your nightgown clung to your pretty breasts, the perked nipples visible against the fabric, the tiny, soft curve of your tummy. The open bedroom door behind you should've bothered him, an annoying reminder of risk, but it didn't. Your mother could be back any minute. He craved you, wanted to bury himself in you properly, not rush; you deserved more than a frantic, half-assed encounter ruined by fear. But seeing you tracing the lines of his chest, lips pursed in adorable concentration, then leaning down to rest your ear against his chest, listening to the strong, steady beat of his heart… resistance crumbled.

His large hands settled on your waist, warm and possessive. With a subtle shift of his hips, he pressed the firm ridge of his erection more insistently against your core through the layers of fabric. A hot flush swept up your neck and face. "Morning, bunny," he rumbled, his voice thick with sleep and something darker. A lazy smirk touched his lips as he deliberately bounced you lightly on his lap, the motion jostling you against his hardness. "Horsey ride?" he teased, his thumbs brushing the sensitive skin just below your fragile ribs.

The silly term, spoken in that deep, gravelly morning voice, sent a spark straight through you. You gasped, a shy giggle escaping, and he felt it, the sudden, involuntary clench of your empty core, a pulse of heat against him. His hands slid higher, cupping your pert breasts through the thin cotton. No bra, as always. He palmed them gently, feeling the softness, his thumbs brushing over the hardened peaks. He watched your face, eyes wide and cheeks blazing, lips parted on shallow breaths you tried to stifle. Your little hands fluttered, then settled over his, not pushing away, just resting there as he continued the gentle, rhythmic bounce, his eyes narrowed as he watched your body respond. Maybe he was a horsey.

The feel of your softness in his hands, your shy, overwhelmed expression, the damp heat he knew was gathering between your legs, ignited a strong, primal urge. Before rational thought could intervene, his hands tightened on your waist. In one smooth, strong motion, he lifted and shifted you up, maneuvering your body until your knees were bracketing his head, your core hovering directly above his face. Your startled squeak was muffled by your hand as you instinctively tried to scramble away, confusion and sudden vulnerability washing over you.

"Shh, babygirl," Satoru murmured, his voice a velvet command against the inside of your thigh. "Just let Daddy take care of you." He didn't hesitate. With practiced ease, his fingers hooked into the lace trim of your baby blue panties, pulling the damp cotton aside to expose your glistening, pretty folds. The sight, dewy, swollen, utterly inviting, drew a low groan from him. No safety shorts... such a naughty, tempting little bunny.

"Daddy, no!" you whimpered, your hands tangling in his sleep-mussed white hair, trying to tug him back. "It's... it's dirty down there! Not with your mouth!" Your protests were breathless, tinged with genuine embarrassment.

"Nothing about my baby is dirty," he countered firmly with a small grin, his breath hot against your most intimate skin. "Trust me. Gonna make you feel so good." He held your hips firmly, fingers digging slightly into the soft flesh of your waist, anchoring you. You kept up a breathless litany of "Daddy, please, it's bad, it's wrong," even as your body betrayed you, rocking against the firm pressure of his mouth when he finally pressed a hot, open kiss to your core.

Then he latched onto your swollen clit, sucking firmly.

Your back arched, a sharp cry tearing from your throat. Any coherent protest dissolved into whimpering gasps. He feasted, licking broad, flat strokes, then swirling his tongue with pinpoint precision, then going shallowly into your entrance, tasting your unique, musky sweetness. It was the best breakfast, intoxicating, addictive. His hands held you firmly in place as you squirmed, overwhelmed by the intensity. He felt the tremors building in your thighs, heard your breathy babbling shift from protests to broken pleas. "Daddy... feels... weird... too much... gonna... something's..." you choked out, fingers tightening in his hair, not pulling away now, but holding on.

"Let go, baby," he growled against your flesh, his voice vibrating through you. "Come for me. Right on Daddy's tongue. Be a good girl and come." The combination of his commanding words, the relentless skill of his tongue ruined your resistance. With a sharp cry, your body locked, then convulsed. Pleasure, hot and shocking, ripped through you. You felt a gush of warm fluid, soaking his chin, followed by the rhythmic pulsing of your release. "That's it, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction, gentling his ministrations to soft, lapping kisses against your oversensitive flesh as the tremors subsided. He carefully guided your trembling body down, shifting you onto your back beside him, peppering soothing kisses on your inner thighs and mound until your frantic breathing began to slow. Your eyes were glazed, hazy pools of life, meeting his with a mixture of lingering shock and dazed wonder.

"I... I'm sorry, Daddy," you mumbled, cheeks burning hard. "I... I think I peed..."

Satoru paused, then grinned, teasingly of course. He leaned down, brushing a stray hair from your damp forehead. "No, bunny. That wasn't pee. That was you feeling really good for Daddy." His gaze flickered to the forgotten banana and the now-cold, overly sweet coffee on the nightstand. He huffed a soft laugh. Your sweet attempt at breakfast. But he’d tasted something infinitely sweeter. You were honey and summer fruit, sweet and pure.

As you mumbled further, embarrassed apologies, he silenced you in the most effective way he knew. He captured your lips in a deep, possessive kiss, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, tasting your release mingled with your strawberry balm. You kissed back clumsily, eagerly, those "big girl kisses" he’d tried to teach you still endearingly awkward. He held you close, your shaky legs tangling with his, the fluffy duvet a warm cocoon around your bodies.

Then, sharp and jarring in the peaceful aftermath, a car door slammed outside.

Reality crashed back in. Satoru’s head snapped towards the sound, his body tensing. He listened intently. No footsteps on the stairs yet. Not inside. But close. His eyes darted to his phone, lighting up silently with another missed call from your mother. Shit. The urgency of the outside world pressed in, cracking the fragile bubble.

He looked back at you, snuggled against him, your eyes still soft with spent pleasure. The feeling holding you here, in this bed he shared with his wife, wasn't just love. It felt purer, fiercer, more elemental. But also undeniably fraught. A low throb of need pulsed insistently in his still-hard cock, trapped against the fabric of his sweats, pressed against your hip. The risk sang in his veins. He could take you now, quickly, claim you fully before she walked in… But you deserved time, not rushed anything. It was wrong, it was so very-

Without a word, your tiny hand slid down his stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of his sweats. You gently pushed him onto his back, a silent invitation. A slow, lazy grin spread across Satoru’s face as you shifted down between his legs, your movements shy but determined. He loved this sweet initiative.

Your face flamed anew as you tugged his sweats down just enough to free his cock, thick, flushed, and already glistening heavily with precum at the tip. The sheer size of him, compared to your small hands and face, was always a breathtaking contrast. You giggled softly at the low, guttural groan that escaped him when you leaned in and gave the weeping head a tentative kitten lick, the taste salty and musky. The sight of you, so innocent yet so willing, teasing his straining length, was almost too much.

"Brat," he breathed, a warning laced with thick desire. He reached down, giving the soft curve of your cheek a light, admonishing tap. You responded by taking just the swollen head into your warm mouth, suckling gently, your tongue swirling. The sensation was electric. Then you sat flat on your knees, taking him in both hands. They could barely wrap around his girth. You began to stroke him, leaning down more to occasionally press sticky, strawberry-scented kisses along his shaft and the sensitive head. Satoru’s hand settled in your hair, not forcing, just holding, fingers tangling gently. He gave a soft tug when your teasing became too much, a wordless reminder of who was in charge. The pleasure built rapidly, coiling tight in his gut.

Before he could even process the need for control, instinct took over. In a fluid movement, he pulled you up by your arms. In a heartbeat, he had you pinned beneath him on the bed, your wrists captured easily in one large hand above your head. His other hand shoved the damp lace of your panties aside once more, exposing your still-quivering core. But he didn't push inside. Instead, he positioned himself so the broad, slick head of his cock rubbed firmly against your oversensitive clit, already swollen and puffy from your earlier climax.

"Easy, baby," he soothed, his voice rough as he watched your face twist in a mixture of pleasure and near-pain from the intense stimulation. He kept up the relentless, slick friction, his gaze locked on yours. "Just feel it. Let Daddy make you feel good again." His words, low and commanding, combined with the exquisite torture, pushed you rapidly towards another peak. You writhed, overwhelmed, mewling sounds escaping your throat.

He felt his own release come, unstoppable. With a harsh groan, he pulled back just as the first thick pulse erupted, painting hot stripes of milky white across your lower belly, just above where your nightgown was rucked up. His cock throbbed, slapping gently against your swollen clit with the last few spurts, prolonging the aftershocks for you as he rode out his climax. He collapsed slightly, bracing himself on his forearms, and crashed his lips down onto yours in a deep, claiming kiss, his tongue fucking your sweet mouth.

He was still catching his breath, idly cleaning your stomach with the edge of the duvet, when the distinct sound of the front door opening and closing echoed up the stairs. Keys jingled. Your mother was finally coming in.

The stolen paradise was over. Satoru met your wide, slightly panicked eyes. He pressed a final, quick kiss to your lips. "Shower. Now. I'll handle this," he murmured, his voice already shifting back to its usual, easy cadence, though his eyes held a lingering heat just for you. He rolled off you, adjusting his sweats with a grimace at the slight sticky mess inside them. As you scrambled off the bed, legs still unsteady like a fawn's, clutching your nightgown, he watched you dart towards your room, like a spooked bunny. The feeling wasn't just love, he reaffirmed silently as he grinned. It was something deeper, more consuming, purer in its intensity, yet stuck in thorns. Making love to you here, in this bed... the dissonance was jarring. Maybe next time, he’d stick to sneaking into your pink, plushie-filled sanctuary. Yeah. That felt far safer, and somehow, more right.

End.

Stepdad Gojo x Stepdaughter reader (of age)

The Tokyo summer clung to the city like a sticky curse, its heat shimmering off asphalt in visible waves, thick and suffocating. Satoru leaned against the balcony railing of his home, the constant, cool hum of his Infinity a silent, invisible mantle shielding him from the worst of it. Even the breeze here tasted stale, laced with exhaust and the metallic tang of overworked air conditioners. He watched you as he always did, carefully, his sweet baby girl, sprawled like a sun-drunk nymph on the backyard lawn, utterly defenseless against the oppressive heat you’d been whining about for weeks, and so much more.

Your peach-colored cotton dress, light and lacy, clung faintly to your pretty thighs where the dewy grass had dampened it. He could already hear your mother’s inevitable screeching about grass stains later. ‘Ruining everything you touch,’ she’d hiss, a projection born of her own insecurities. Her affection was bipolar, he’d come to realize as time passed, dazzling one moment, distant and critical the next. He’d married her for the fleeting illusion: laughter like Kyoto wind chimes in spring, the curve of her neck beneath cherry blossoms. An infatuation that had crumbled faster than a curse under his gaze. Now, her absence in Okinawa felt like a relief the stifling air couldn’t provide.

You kicked your legs in the air behind you, bare feet waving slightly as the fine sprinkler spray misted the air, catching in your hair like scattered diamonds. The Miffy clips holding back your hair were askew, one dangling precariously near your temple, and Satoru’s fingers twitched with the urge to fix it. His little bunny. A "grown-up" and still clutching childhood trinkets, still blushing when he called you "baby girl" in that teasing lilt. Well, you’re still a kid to him. He’d found your old Hello Kitty Tamagotchi last week, hidden in a drawer beside little silk bras he definitely shouldn’t have noticed, details that lingered, adding to the complexity of your presence in his life.

"Y’know, if you keep squirming like that, you’ll dig a hole all the way to China," he called out, sliding the door open. The wall of heat rushed at him, momentarily harsh before Infinity seamlessly adjusted. You turned your head, those wide, doe-like eyes finding his, cheeks flushed the same delicate rose as your glossed lips. He wondered idly if they’d taste like strawberries, like before. Dangerous thought. He crushed it instantly. And yet… it flickered back. Why must he even try?

"Daddy, stop," you whined, but the adorable scrunch of your bunny nose betrayed your suppressed laughter. You always played annoyed, yet scooted closer instinctively when he flopped down beside you on the grass, uncaring of his expensive black pants. His white shirt was deliberately unbuttoned to his sternum, sleeves shoved high to reveal the powerful, veiny forearms that crushed curses but now rested casually beside you, displaying sharp collarbones and the defined muscle beneath. You pretended not to stare very badly. He pretended not to notice, even worse.

Your book, Life for Sale by Yukio Mishima, his well-loved, dog-eared copy that was usually in the home office, lay abandoned near your elbow. He remembered your winter debates vividly: you, voice trembling with fragile hope, insisting the protagonist, Hanio, just wanted to be useful, carving the words from your own ribs; him countering with sharp cynicism that made you pout for hours. Now, he plucked a blade of grass and tickled your delicate ankle, the thin silver anklet he’d bought you jingling faintly as you pulled away with a huff. "Still rooting for the doomed protagonist, bunny?"

You kicked at him playfully, your heel glancing harmlessly off Infinity. "You wouldn’t get it. You’re too… old."

He grinned, bright and brash, white fangs flashing. "Ouch, kiddo, thirty-five is prime, thank you. Besides-" He yanked off his rectangular sunglasses, revealing eyes as impossibly blue as the summer sky above, glinting with mischief. "-who carried you piggyback through Shibuya Crossing last week? Who stayed up till 3 a.m. watching that fat cat thingy with you?"

"Totoro, Daddy, not fat cat! And only because you cried during the rain scene!" you retorted, your own grin wide.

"Allergies," he lied smoothly, the memory washing over him: your head tucked trustingly under his chin, your breath sweet with strawberries warm against his collarbone, the ridiculous struggle of your tiny Miffy blanket trying to cover his frame while you stubbornly insisted it would work. His stubborn baby. He cleared his throat, the scent of roses and lavender from your hair mingling with his own cedarwood warmth. "Speaking of whimsical adventures… How’s Nikko sound? Waterfalls, misty forests, temperatures that won’t melt your polka-dot underwear." He watched your face, the spark of anticipation he lived for.

You froze, pouting a little. "You peeked?!"

"They were in the dryer, bun-bun. Alongside your other… cutesy ones. But focus!" He outlined the plan: escaping Tokyo's concrete hell for the cool embrace of the mountain forests, just the two of them, leaving at dawn in the Bentley. He watched your pretty eyes widen, those life-filled irises he often compared to the intricate details in Kyoto's temples, filling with pure, radiant joy.

You launched yourself at him before he could finish, a tangle of flailing limbs and excited squeals. Infinity dropped instinctively, a reflex born of absolute trust, and the soft, warm weight of you against his chest punched the air from his lungs. Lavender shampoo. Vanilla-rose lotion. The faint, sweet strawberry of your lip balm. Dangerous, his mind hissed again, a persistent undercurrent. But his arms tightened around your delicate, feminine frame anyway, holding you close, breathing you in. His girl.

Packing was joyful chaos. You pirouetted around your bedroom sanctuary, a haven of pastels, Sanrio heaven, thrifted poetry collections, and plushies, holding up sundresses and shorts sets like a fashion connoisseur. "Too plain?" you huffed over a lace-trimmed ivory blouse, biting your lip.

Satoru, leaning against the doorframe surrounded by giant stuffed bunnies, bit back a hard truth, that you could wear a potato sack and still look like starlight crocheted into a human girl. "Needs more… bunnies," he deadpanned instead, tossing a plush rabbit at your head. You retaliated by sneakily stuffing his sleek black duffel with your Hello Kitty socks, their tiny size later prompting a confused wonder about your petite feet.

Your mother called as he loaded the Bentley's trunk, the sleek black convertible, of course, necessary for feeling the wind. "Don’t spoil her," her voice warned, tinny over the line, Okinawan waves crashing distantly behind her. Satoru stared at your cheerful Hello Kitty and Miffy suitcases, plastered with stickers from the Ghibli Museum trip he took you on instead of attending some society function of hers. "Wouldn’t dream of it," he lied smoothly, the irony thick.

That night, you sprawled across his lap in your pink flannel Hello Kitty pajamas dotted with cartoon cats, babbling about shrines and hiking trails. Your meticulously color-coded itinerary was spread out, but your thoughtful additions warmed him most: "Daddy’s snack breaks!!!" penciled in every two hours. You knew his ravenous appetite too well. His calloused thumb traced idle patterns on the soft skin of your ankle, toying with the tiny bells on your anklet. Their gentle jingle was a hymn of peace in the quiet room. When sleep finally claimed you, cheek smushed adorably against the swell of his bicep, he allowed himself a moment: fingertips brushing a stray strand from your temple so lightly you’d never stir. But you did, mumbling sweet nonsense through your rosebud lips. He dropped the softest of kisses there. Fatherly kisses. Obviously...

Dawn painted the sky in soft pastels as the Bentley’s engine purred to life. You were already slumped in the passenger seat, looking effortlessly lovely in a pretty denim skirt and a baby-blue camisole dotted with tiny berries and trimmed with ivory lace, the delicate fabric showing the collarbones he loved to trace. One earbud was in, the other dangling. Satoru had his mix playing, alternative and indie rock that reminded him of his younger days, days he often thought back to more when he was around you. He noticed you’d taken one earbud out, subtly tuning into his music. A small, shared connection. Cute.

He glanced over. Morning sunlight gilded the baby hairs at your temples, catching the reddish tint on your parted, glossy lips. Something deep within his chest cracked open, a feeling both tender and terrifyingly intense, vast as the sky you two were heading towards.

Just a trip, he told himself firmly, merging the car onto the highway, leaving the sticky city behind.

The open highway stretched before you two, a ribbon of asphalt unwinding beneath the Bentley’s purr. The initial burst of your excitement eventually succumbed to the rhythmic hum and the warm morning sun filtering through the windshield. The drive was long, the three hours lulling you into a drowsy rhythm of mini-naps interspersed with bursts of chatter. But before Satoru was gifted the reprieve of your sleep, he faced the delightful ordeal of a "bored bunny," as he fondly thought. Now, Satoru often dealt with energetic kids, sorcerer trainees were rarely calm, so your fidgeting was no real issue, a familiar background noise to the drive. Until you got a little more… physical than just your usual silly jokes and observations.

Satoru had one large hand resting confidently on the smooth leather of the steering wheel, the other draped loosely over the gear shift. Seizing the proximity, your tiny, cold fingers, tipped with glittering pink polish that caught the climbing sun, began tracing the prominent, ropy veins snaking across the back of his big hand. The contrast was stark: his slightly tanned, powerful skin beneath your delicate, cool touch. He grinned, basking in your silly likings, your endearing quirks. "Tickles, baby girl?" he rumbled, his thumb twitching slightly under your exploration.

Then came the watch. Drawn to the gleam of the expensive platinum timepiece encircling his wrist, how the dial was similar to the blue of his sky-like eyes, you leaned further over the console, your soft shoulder brushing his arm. Your fingers toyed with the cool metal links, the intricate face, forcing him to shift his grip on the wheel slightly for better stability. You were mesmerized by its shine, its undeniable luxury. "Like a little magpie, aren't you?" Satoru teased, his cerulean eyes flicking from the road to your focused expression. "Or maybe a tiny pirate, drawn to the shiniest treasure?" Your cheeks instantly flushed that adorable rose-pink, and you didn't deny it, a small, secretive smile playing on your strawberry-glossed lips as you continued your tactile investigation.

After a while of cruising, your fixation shifted to his thin, rectangular, blue-tinted sunglasses perched on his sharp nose. You sat back finally, seemingly satisfied, and now Satoru felt your second nap was truly overdue. The tiny yawns you tried to stifle, the mumbled, nonsensical blabber escaping your plush lips as your eyelids drooped, the way you nestled deeper into the plush seat, all signs pointed to sleepy bunny. Just as he skipped a track, seeking something mellower, your little foot, clad in its lacy white sock, was suddenly deposited into his lap.

Satoru glanced at you, one white eyebrow arching. Mild annoyance warred with overwhelming amusement at your sheer, unrepentant audacity. So unruly, truly his little bunny. You settled back comfortably, both feet now nestled in the warm hollow of his lap, your sneakers kicked off below. The delicate ivory lace of your socks was a stark, almost comical contrast against the fine black wool of his dress pants. With a sigh that was more fond than exasperated, Satoru shifted his right hand from the gear shift to your feet. His thumb idly rubbed the arch of one foot through the thin sock. A tiny, breathy giggle escaped you. Ah. His eyes, hidden behind the blue lenses, sparkled with mischief. That giggle was an invitation. He dug his fingers in, tickling the sensitive sole with playful precision.

"Daddy!" you squealed, trying to pull your feet back, thrashing weakly. "Stop! No fair!" You countered by thumping your heels lightly against his thighs, a futile protest that only fueled his desire to tease. Your laughter, bright and unrestrained, filled the car, a sweeter sound than any music. The impromptu tickle war lasted until the Bentley’s fuel gauge dipped too close to empty, snapping Satoru back to practicality. "Alright, menace, ceasefire," he chuckled, easing off. "Gas station pit stop. One hour left." He pulled into the next busy service area.

You practically flew out of the car, declaring a dire need for candy as your sneakers laces flopped around. Satoru handed you a generous wad of cash, then tied your laces as you counted each yen. "Get me something good too, bun-bun. No boring stuff." Ten minutes later, you emerged triumphant from the 7/11, clutching two bulging plastic bags full of colourful packages. Back on the road, Satoru munched thoughtfully on a soft, sweet mochi while you nibbled meticulously on Swedish Fish. True to prediction, you succumbed to sleep for the remainder of the ride, your head lolling gently against the headrest. Satoru sighed in quiet relief, not because the silence was golden, but because the warm, wriggling weight of your little feet in his lap, combined with the tickling struggle, had caused a very noticeable, very natural reaction south of his belt. Stimulation, duh, he thought wryly, shifting slightly. To bring things down, he forcibly conjured images of grading tedious mission reports and arguing with Higher-ups. Lifesavers, indeed.

Arriving in Nikko felt like entering another world. The air was instantly cooler, crisper, scented with pine and earth. You practically flew out of the car again, eyes wide with wonder… and then wider still when Satoru pulled up not to some simple lodge, but a luxurious, traditional ryokan-style hot spring hotel sat amidst towering cedars, its wooden outside exuding serene elegance. "Daddy!" you breathed, awestruck.

A minor hiccup occurred at check-in; his reserved room wasn't quite ready. With a charming smile and a subtle flex of his status, Satoru was smoothly "upgraded" to a better suite. You didn't need to know it was exactly the lavish room he’d originally booked. The suite was breathtaking: two huge, inviting beds layered with plush comforters, panoramic shoji screens opening onto a private balcony overlooking a mist-shrouded valley, and best of all, a secluded, steaming hinoki-wood hot spring bath right on your own deck. You looked ready to explode with pure joy.

The day unfolded like a dream. You explored ancient, moss-covered shrines tucked deep within scary forests, stood in awe before loud waterfalls that painted the air with rainbows, and crossed sacred bridges arched over crystal-clear rivers. Your Hello Kitty digital camera clicked constantly, capturing the beauty. Unbeknownst to you, Satoru captured his own moments, candid shots of you: your wide-eyed wonder at a towering cedar, your pink tongue peeking out in concentration as you framed a shot, your radiant smile bathed in dappled forest light. His bunny, immersed in beauty.

Returning to the hotel as dusk painted the sky in pretty hues, you both showered quickly, shedding the day's dust. Then came the main event: the private onsen. The hot, mineral-rich water was heavenly, melting away any lingering fatigue. True to form, you didn't allow a single minute of zen calm. You splashed playfully, tried to sink his expensive sunglasses (he caught them with Infinity just in time), and recounted the day's adventures with breathless enthusiasm. Satoru didn't mind. He loved it, loved your boundless energy, the way you kept him engaged, your unusual blend of brattiness, sweetness, and that underlying shyness that surfaced when you caught him watching you too intently. An odd, utterly captivating little thing.

Dinner was really luxurious, and delivered right to your room, delicate seasonal dishes artfully arranged. Wrapped in the hotel's plush cotton robes, you settled on the floor cushions before the huge TV, which was inexplicably showing a prestigious golf tournament. Satoru had you dying of giggles, providing silly commentary on the players' swings and choices. "Look at that grip, bunny! Kinda like he's got a stick up his ass... Weak knees, grandpa!" You imitated his exaggerated critiques, swinging an imaginary club with such seriousness he nearly choked on his green tea. Watching you, tears of laughter in your pretty eyes, he wondered, not for the first time, if you were his stepdaughter, or his biological child who looked nothing like him. 

The moment was pierced by the unwelcome chime of his phone. Your mother. Satoru’s easy smile faded as he answered, steeling himself. Her voice, sharp and full with complaints about Okinawa's humidity or her mother's nagging, filled the serene space. You overheard, your own smile vanishing, replaced by a familiar pout of disappointment. Without a word, you slipped out onto the cool balcony, seeking escape. Satoru cut the call short with practiced politeness, which was once genuine ("Yeah, hon. Of course. Enjoy the beach. I love you too.") and followed you out. He found you shivering slightly in the night air, staring at the star-dusted valley. Wordlessly, he draped an arm around your shoulders and gently steered you back inside. "C'mon, bunny. Midnight. Big day tomorrow. Time for Miffy PJs and bed."

You started to fuss, a little whine about not wanting to move your clothes off the other bed. Satoru saw right through it. "Uh-huh. Clothes are the problem," he deadpanned, already pulling your soft Miffy pajamas from your suitcase. "Get changed. You're bunking with me tonight." The fussing subsided into a relieved, if sleepy, compliance.

Once changed, you curled up beside him on the large bed, immediately latching onto his arm like he might vanish, your cheek pressed against his bicep. He, in turn, leaned into you, the warmth of your smaller body a comforting feeling. The day's adventures quickly pulled you under, your breathing deepening into the soft rhythm of sleep. Satoru followed soon after, lulled by your presence.

The calm shattered hours later. Satoru awoke with a sharp gasp, drenched in cold sweat, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The nightmare, the usual nightmare, had sunk its claws deep tonight. Not just the phantom sensation of cold steel slicing through his neck, but the brutal memory of the blade plunging into his young legs, the shock, the helpless rage at sixteen facing that Fushiguro bastards' amoral brutality. Usually, he shook it off, a grim aftertaste. Tonight, it felt visceral, leaving him panting, disoriented, staring blindly into the dark, luxurious room.

He felt the shift beside him before he saw your wide eyes glinting in the sliver of moonlight. "Daddy?" Your voice was thick with sleep but instantly alert with concern. "You okay?" Shame flooded him. Shit. Waking you up at 3 AM because of his own demons. "Yeah, bunny," he rasped, trying to steady his breathing. "Just a bad dream. Go back to sleep." But you didn't. Instead, you pushed yourself up and wrapped your arms around him in a tight, warm hug, your face buried against his chest. Just like he did for you when you were scared or sad. His heart clenched, a painful, melting warmth spreading through him. He gave in, sinking back onto the bed, pulling you close instead of escaping to the cool balcony. You mumbled soothing nonsense against his skin, something about "thinking nice thoughts" and "bunnies beating up bad dreams." He almost laughed, a choked sound. Was he the baby now?

But as he started to relax, the familiar urge took over. He tilted his head down, pressing soft, paternal kisses to your temple, your cheek, the crown of your head. A little way of saying thank you for the comfort. Reassurance. Affection. Safe. Then, almost without conscious thought, his lips found yours. It wasn't the first time he'd brushed a chaste kiss against those plush rosebud lips, a quick peck goodnight, a comforting gesture, maybe educational like that one time... But this… this was different. The sleepy, yielding softness of your mouth under his, the faint taste of strawberries and apricots lingering from the sweet fruits you’d devoured like a greedy squirrel during dinner… it ignited something fierce. A tiny whimper vibrated against his lips, and it was like gasoline on a flame. His tongue, so very greedy, swept past your lips, deepening the kiss into something hungry, possessive.

What could he possibly excuse this as? The frantic question screamed in his mind. Nothing. There was no excuse. This wasn't paternal. This was desire, raw and undeniable. You were shy, hesitant at first, but then you responded, melting into him. Your little hands fisted in the soft cotton of his shirt, your toes curling, bunching the fluffy duvet beneath you. Satoru felt the familiar, insistent tightening in his groin again, a relentless pulse. Almost desperately, he slid the hand not cradling the nape of your neck down, pressing the heel of his palm hard against the straining fabric of his sweats, trying to ease the ache, to maintain some semblance of control.

It was only when you pulled away slightly, gasping for breath, that reality crashed back. Your cheeks were flushed crimson, your doe eyes wide and glazed, like a startled fawn caught in headlights after raiding a liquor cabinet. Your rosebud lips were swollen, glistening, a deeper red from the intensity of his kiss. The sight was devastatingly beautiful and utterly damning. He hauled you back against him, burying his face in your lavender-scented hair, his voice rough. "Sleep, baby girl. Sleep is best now."

You were beyond agreement, murmuring a drowsy, incoherent "Uh-huh...daddy..." before your body went limp against his, sleep reclaiming you instantly, as if the kiss was habit. Satoru held you, your Miffy pajamas askew from the embrace, the neckline gaping slightly to reveal the soft, tempting swell of your pert chest. So sweet, so trusting. God, I want to die, he thought, the guilt a crushing weight mixed with the lingering heat of desire. He closed his impossibly blue eyes, the image of your kiss-swollen lips seared onto his eyelids. He wondered, with a terrifying clarity, if he was more in love with you, asleep in his arms smelling of lavender and innocence, or the woman whose finger bore the fat diamond rock he’d placed there.

He already knew the answer. It slammed into him with the force of Hollow Purple.

Holy hell.

That was something to think about. A curse he couldn't exorcise, a reality he couldn't use Infinity to shield himself from. The mountain air outside felt suddenly frigid, even as he held your warm, sleeping form.

End.

Warnings: Stepdad Gojo x Stepdaughter reader (of age)

Satoru didn’t know he’d be married, let alone settled down, or, scratch that, have a girlfriend. Life for him was simple: work, work, work some more, then finally sleep for three hours and do it again until he had the rare Sunday off. He loved teaching; his students, Megumi, Yuji, and Nobara, were his kids, he was practically their dad, though he’d never admit it aloud. Their chaotic energy mirrored his own, a confetti bomb of mischief and grit he’d grown fond of. But having said all that… he hasn’t a clue on how he ended up here: sat in a cozy, sunlit, dark wood home in Setagaya at 7 p.m., a time where he’d usually be balls-deep in exorcising curses or doing paperwork, not breathing in the comforting aroma of veggie gyoza and lemongrass-infused rice noodles wafting from the kitchen. The warmth of the room seeped into his bones, softer than any mission’s aftermath, and the faint hum of a jazz playlist playing Colette by Piero Piccioni wrapped around him like a hug.  

How? He takes a look to his right and sees a beautiful woman, all elegance and poise, her laughter like slightly weathered wind chimes as she adjusts the pearl clip in her chestnut hair. Just the way he likes them, confident, sharp, hot. Like… milf hot, cougar hot, not that he’d ever say it to her face (again). He looks ahead and sees you, a wisp of a girl, all tiny limbs and soft edges, nibbling shyly at your dinner. You look just like her, same cute nose, same cupid’s bow lips, but where your mother radiates bold magnetism, you’re… sparkling. Like a firefly in a glass jar, glowing even when you think no one’s watching.  

Ah, this was his life, of course. He should know who’s who! 

The girl being you, just a little thing, well, to him you’re little, being a mere child (19 years old), and he being all old and stuff (33 years old, yet he feels so much more). He’s seen a lot: he’s seen Sukuna carve him up like a holiday roast (survived, so, lol, Sukuna sucked majorrr balls), he’s seen curses gnarlier than a week-old sushi platter, and especially teenagers with more angst than a Shakespearean tragedy. So why does this little thing make him feel so… paternal? It was like the flicker he’d felt when he first met Megumi, a scrawny kid with a death glare and a family name heavier than a curse, but even then, he’d seen the little sea urchin as a little brother, not a son. Time had nudged that dynamic into something fatherly, sure, but Megumi was still his brat.  

All Satoru knew was- oh, he zoned out. The beautiful woman beside him, your mother, nudged his ribs with her elbow, her burgundy almond-shaped nails glinting under the pendant light, the rock of a diamond sat on her ring finger, glimmered too. “Earth to Satoru,” she teased, her voice syrup-smooth. “You’ve been staring at your gyoza like it’s a cursed object. Everything alright?”  

Satoru grinned, that trademark lopsided smirk that made your mother roll her eyes even as her red lips twitched upward. “Just wondering how I ended up here,” he said, gesturing grandly at the spread of home-cooked dishes. His voice softened, almost shy. “Feels like I stole someone else’s winning ticket.”  

You, ever the quiet observer, peeked up at him through your lashes, cheeks stuffed with gyoza like a chipmunk hoarding treasure (your greed sickens even you, lol). Your doe eyes, so pretty, wide and guileless, framed by those unfairly long, thick lashes, locked onto his, and he swore he felt Infinity stutter. Dare he say… dumb? Not dumb, no. Just… silly. Clumsy? Absolutely. The way you tripped over air, spilled chamomile tea on your textbooks, and somehow turned even misplacing your overly charm-filled keys into a five-minute comedy routine, it was nice. Refreshing, even. A life spent in the shadows of jujutsu and clan politics made him crave your kind of softness. Your innocence.

A flashback flickered before he could attempt to stop: the three of you in Shibuya, your mother tugging him toward a boutique while begging for a Chanel bag that matched her favorite red lipstick, the same shade he’d caught you swiping across your lips one evening, pouting at your reflection like it’d betrayed you. “Too grown-up,” you’d mumbled, wiping it off with a tissue until your rosebud lips were raw and puffy. Satoru had tossed a tube of gloss you left in his hoodie pocket (yes, you wore his clothes, yes, they were so comfy) your way the next day, all casual nonchalance. “Dark shades wash you out,” he’d lied (you looked ethereal, but his heart couldn’t handle the sight). “Stick to this. Matches your… uh… vibe.” You nodded, always so dumbly-no, cutely. Right.

Off topic again, pay attention, Satoru! Back in the memory, he’d been holding your mother’s hand, his other tucked in his pocket, but his azure eyes never strayed far from you, a few steps behind, wobbling in baby pink ballet flats as if they were stilts. You’d looked like a fawn navigating ice, all wobbly knees and nervous giggles. He knew the issue, the freshly rained cement with the shitty grip of the flats called for a disaster, and hell, you were the queen of disaster. He wasn’t a total dick, so he’d snagged your hand too, ignoring your squeak of surprise. And then, his chest did this thing. A squeeze, a flutter, a warmth that had nothing to do with his cursed energy. He’d glanced down, taking in your lacy dress fluttering in the breeze, your hair catching sunlight like spun honey, and your fingers, so small, tucked trustingly against his big, warm palm. Infinity was off, but he hadn’t even noticed until you’d squeezed back.  

The memory dissolved as you swallowed your gyoza, cheeks still dusted pink, and pointed at his buzzing phone. “Satoru,” you mumbled, voice feather-light, “your phone’s ringing.”  

He waved it off, not missing the way your nose scrunched at his casual dismissal. “Nah, it’s just Yuji asking how to defrost a microwave meal. Priorities, kiddo!” (not true, that boy was a chef, rivaling the best in his opinion). He winked, and your resulting giggle, a tiny, hiccuping sound, nearly made him drop his chopsticks. God, you were cute. Cuter than the cartoon pajamas you wore: Hello Kitty one night, Miffy the next, as if you’d raided a kindergarten’s lost-and-found. He’d bought you a Rilakkuma bathing suit last month, just to see you swim in it. (You’d hugged it to your chest, eyes shining, and he’d had to flee to the roof to recompose himself, and don't get him started on you trying it on for him.)  

The conversation drifted to your academics, top of your class, because, of course, you were, and your mother’s question about finals had Satoru puffing up like a cocky peacock. “She’s a genius!” he declared, reaching over to ruffle your hair. You ducked, but not fast enough, and he relished the way your pout rivaled Megumi’s. “Bet she’s got the whole psych department wrapped around her little finger. Right, kiddo?”  

You mumbled something about “research papers” and “case studies,” but Satoru was too busy plotting his next surprise, maybe those strawberry mochi you loved from Family Mart, or that kitten plushie from the crane game you’d eyed last week in Akihabara. The first time he’d brought you treats, you’d teared up, clutching the pastel packaging like it was a lifeline. Your mother had explained later in bed that night, her voice hushed over midnight tea, that your father had been a ghost long before Satoru arrived, and how he should be careful about you, not overwhelming you with something as new as a “daddy” so soon. After your mom was asleep, he’d crept into your room, perching at the foot of your bed like an overgrown guardian spirit. You’d been curled around a chubby Totoro plushie, breaths even, moonlight painting you in silver. He’d sat there for an hour, wondering how the universe had handed him this, domesticity, family, without him even noticing.  

Ah, spaced out again. Your mother slid the strawberry cake he’d bought onto the table, its sweetness mixing with the scent of your lavender body wash, a scent that clung to the couch cushions, his shirts that fit you like baggy dresses, everything. You lit up, clapping softly, and Satoru’s chest tightened as you scooped a bite. You ate like a storybook creature: nibbling at the frosting, eyes fluttering closed in bliss ever so slightly, a tiny smear of pink on your chin. He itched to wipe it away, but your mother beat him to it, tutting fondly. 

He’d do it next time, for sure.

“Satoru,” your mother sighed, though her smile betrayed her, “stop staring. You’ll make her even more shy.”  

“What? I’m appreciating the view!” he protested, leaning back with a grin. But his gaze lingered on the delicate lace of your nightgown, the way the sweetheart neckline fell just enough to highlight collarbones he’d once compared to “angel wings” (a comment that’d made you flee the living room, scarlet-faced). Appreciation, of course. The kind a father would have. Totally.  

As you launched into a story about your study group, hands animated as you sighed about people half-assing even a voluntary thing, Satoru let himself sink into the moment, the clink of porcelain plates, your mother’s melodic laughter, the way your socks had tiny bows perched near your baby pink painted toenails, a little visible under the sheer cotton fabric. He didn’t understand this luck, this grace, but he’d fight heaven and hell to keep it. 

He deserves this, all of it.

He deserves you.

Satoru wasn’t expecting the night to go the way it did. But before he could untangle the messy knot of feelings clawing at his chest, he took in the present: the quiet hum of the night, the faint glow of your strawberry-shaped nightlight casting blushing shadows across the room. He was lying in your bed, no, not next to his wife, but curled awkwardly under your baby-pink duvet, its frilly edges tickling his chin. He turned his head slightly, stealing a glance at you, cheeks still rosy from earlier, now warm with sleep, your nose adorably scrunched, and your hair a wild halo against the pillow. A strand clung to your parted lips, and he reached over instinctively to tuck it behind your ear, fingers brushing the delicate shell. Your lacy pajama collar had twisted sideways, revealing your pretty skin, so soft-looking. He adjusted it gently, careful not to wake you, then sighed up at the ceiling.  

Hating how the night went.  

Rewind to a few hours earlier: Satoru had returned home at 8 p.m., expecting the usual symphony of your mother’s jazz records and your muffled giggles as you scribbled notes for some impossible-sounding lecture. Instead, he’d been met with silence, then the crack of your mother’s voice, sharp as shattered glass, and your choked sobs. His blood had gone cold.  

He’d found you in the hallway, your Miffy tote still dangling from your shoulder, your daisy-patterned dress wrinkled from the day. You looked smaller somehow, like a doll dropped mid-play, your face slick with tears that caught the lamplight like diamond dust. Your mother stood rigid, arms crossed, her fury a storm contained.  

“What happened?” Satoru had asked, tone casual, though his fingers twitched at his sides. He wanted to bundle you into his arms, tuck your head under his chin, and vanish into the night.  

Your mother gestured to your neck, her voice clipped. “She came home late. Smelled like cologne, cheap, at that.”  

Satoru’s gaze flicked to the marks, faint, pinkish imprints scattered like careless constellations across your skin. His Six Eyes cataloged every detail: the uneven pressure (clumsy), the placement (too high, too obvious), the way your fingers trembled as you tried to hide them. He crouched a little to your level, his voice dropping to a rumble. “Who’d you let paw at you, kiddo?”  

You’d hiccuped, doe eyes swimming, and his chest ached. “I-I didn’t let him-!”  

“Enough,” your mother snapped, storming off. “You’re old enough to know better.” The bedroom door slamming left you to flinch like a spooked bunny, and fall to your knees, obviously overwhelmed from everything, leaving him to feel all kinds of things… Some he would rather not acknowledge.

Satoru knew hypocrisy when he smelled it, hell, at your age, he’d been sneaking into hostess bars just to swipe champagne flutes, but the thought of you, his sweet, clueless bunny, tangled up with some greasy college kid who didn’t know how to treat a girl, how to pleasure one… Infinity flickered at his fingertips.  

He’d scooped you up, ignoring your squeak, and carried you to your room. “We’ll talk,” he’d said, depositing you on the bed. You’d curled into a ball, your sobs muffled by Totoro’s plush belly.  

The ice-cold shower that followed was less about cooling off and more about freezing the image out of his head, your bitten lips, the way your dress had ridden up when you’d crumpled to the floor, showing your pretty thighs… No. Not his business. Except it was, because you were his.  

When he returned, you were in your pajamas, pale pink, lace-trimmed, the collar crooked, and staring at your lap like it held the secrets of the universe. He sat beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight.  

“Listen,” he began, voice softer than he intended. “It’s normal to… experiment. But you gotta be smart. Boys that age? They’re idiots. All hands, no heart.”  

In reality, he wanted to say much more. He wanted to say how you should find someone like him, someone who’d cherish you the way he did (though he doubted anyone else could), to be rational and not impulsive, and to just-no. Scrap everything. He wanted you to be with him, always his.

You’d sniffled, still avoiding his glued gaze. “You don’t understand.”  

“Oh, I understand.” He’d forced a laugh. “I was that idiot.”  

Your phone buzzed then, lighting up with a name he didn’t recognize. You reached for it, but Satoru snatched it first, his gut churning at the god awful texts. Disgusting. The kid’s vocabulary seemed limited to late-night nude demands (though you never sent, that's his baby) and more for “proof” you’d “missed him.”  

“This is the genius you’re starting fights over?” Satoru hissed, waving the phone, your charms jingling like high-pitched death bells. “He’s not worth the lint in your Miffy bag!”  

You’d argued, cheeks flushing, babbling nonsense about him being “sweet,” and something in him snapped. Before he knew it, you were over his lap, your tiny tummy rested against his thighs, his big hand coming down in a swift, measured spank. Not too hard, never hard, but enough to make you yelp and leave a little sting. “You’re better than this!” he’d growled, each word punctuated by a tap that left your pajama-clad bottom tingling. “You’re my good girl! Act like it!”  

By the tenth, you’d melted into hiccuping apologies, whispering “Sorry, Daddy” into his shirt as he cradled you. His anger dissolved, replaced by a guilt so thick he could taste it. He wished he had a beautiful platter of kikufuku infront of him, it’d drown the shitty feeling. 

Now, lying beside you, he traced the curve of your spine through the thin fabric, marveling at how fragile you felt, like blown glass. You stirred, nuzzling into his chest with a sleepy murmur, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead, lingering in the scent of your strawberry shampoo.  

“Love you, my girl,” he whispered, knowing you couldn’t hear. “Daddy’s got you.”  

Tomorrow, he’d buy those cherries you loved, the fat, dark, glossy ones you’d suck on until they gleamed like jewels. He’d let you drag him to that absurd cat café downtown, even though the siamese there hated him (so what if he teased them, they should be able to handle it, they’re cats!). And if that sleazeball ever texted again? Well. Satoru knew a few curses that’d make him regret breathing the same air as his angel.  

For now, he let your steady breaths lull him, your warmth seeping into bones he hadn’t realized were so cold.  

As soon as the weather turned warm, the beach called to Satoru, but not as loudly as it did to you. You were a mess of a girl in the heat, complaining about the slightest rise in temperature, flopping around the house like a disgruntled kitten, and blowing up over trivial things like ice cubes melting too fast. What triggered the final straw was a calm Sunday evening. The windows were cracked open, letting in a breeze that carried the scent of blooming hydrangeas and distant barbecue. Satoru was sprawled on the couch, deep into Haruki Murakami’s Dance Dance Dance, a rare moment of peace after ducking out of a mission early. Your mother was out with friends, leaving the two of you alone, a fact that had you perched by the living room window, dressed in a baby-blue cami and cotton shorts so short they might as well be napkins, panting like you’d run a marathon.

“It’s boiling,” you whined, fanning yourself with a math textbook. “I’m melting, Satoru!”

He peered over his book, smirking at the way your hair stuck to your slightly damp neck. “Kiddo, it’s 75 degrees. You’d explode in July.”

You shot him a glare that could’ve curdled milk, cheeks puffing like an offended chipmunk. Satoru laughed, loud and unrepentant, before relenting. He shut the windows, cranked the AC to arctic levels, and flopped back down just as Clint Eastwood’s drawl filled the room. You hovered nearby, eyes darting between the TV and him, then the TV and him, until-

“Ugh,” you groaned, collapsing onto the couch like a deflated balloon. “I’m bored.”

“Read a book,” he suggested, knowing full well you’d rather eat chalk.

You responded by becoming a human worm, wriggling across the cushions with dramatic sighs until Satoru caved. “Fine, fine,” he grumbled, snatching your hand. “But if you complain about the heat again, I’m leaving you in a snowbank.”

The walk to the park was a parade of your hyperactivity, skipping, humming, pausing to gawk at every butterfly like it was an alien. Satoru trailed behind, hands in his pockets, secretly cataloging the way your sundress fluttered (you changed, taking every opportunity to dress up), the way your sandals slapped the pavement in a rhythm only you understood. Life was absurd: one hour, he’s exorcising curses in a moldy warehouse; the next, he’s listening to you rant about how snow should be a year-round accessory.

At the park, you dragged him to a patch of sunlit grass, spreading his jacket like a picnic blanket. “For your old knees,” you declared, plopping down.

He joined you, stretching his legs as you babbled about your latest psych lecture. A fat cottontail hopped nearby, and you squealed, clutching his arm like it was a lifeline. “Look! It’s so fluffy-!”

Satoru didn’t see the bunny. He saw you, the way golden hour gilded your skin, the way your eyes sparkled brighter than the pond beside you. His phone buzzed, breaking the spell: your mother was staying out late. Drinks with the girls, her text read. Don’t wait up!

Dinner was all sugar. You tied on a bunny-print apron, he donned Shoko’s gag gift, a “Kiss the Cook” apron, and together you weaponized flour and syrup into a tower of pancakes that’d give a dentist nightmares. You were a disaster, blueberry compote smeared on your cheek, batter on your apron, but Satoru couldn’t stop grinning.

“You’re like a rabid bunny,” he said, flicking powdered sugar at your nose.

“You’re the one who added chocolate chips to the third batch!”

Post-feast, you curled up on the couch, a shared Hello Kitty blanket tented over your laps as some forgettable comedy played. Your tiny knee brushed his, and Satoru froze, hyperaware of the way your giggles vibrated through the cushions.

Then- the question.

“Satoru…” You fiddled with the blanket’s fringe, suddenly shy. “Is kissing really all… icky? Like, with too much spit?”

He nearly choked on his hot chocolate. “Uh. Depends?”

“My first kiss was gross,” you mumbled, nose scrunching. “But the show said it’s s’posed to be nice. Is that… true?”

Satoru’s brain short-circuited. Fatherly. This is fatherly. “It can be. If it’s… gentle. Like this.”

Before he could stop himself, he’d cupped your face, rough thumbs brushing the apples of your soft, warm cheeks. You leaned in, eyes wide and trusting, plush lips parted just so-

The first kiss was a featherlight press, strawberry gloss, and mint toothpaste. Innocent. Brief.

But then you whimpered, little fingers fisting his shirt, and Satoru’s resolve crumbled. The second kiss was deeper, sweeter, his big hand sliding to the nape of your neck as you melted against him. He told himself it was a lesson, a way to erase the memory of that sleazebag’s sloppy mouth. But the way you sighed his name-

“Daddy-”

-nearly undid him.

He pulled back, heart hammering, and found you flushed, lips glistening, doe eyes dazed. “See?” he rasped, voice uneven. “No ick.”

You nodded, forehead resting against his collarbone. “...Can we… practice more?”

Satoru swallowed a groan. Hell was a corporate office with fluorescent lighting, and he was already drafting his resignation letter.

Instead, he tucked your head under his chin, fingers carding through your hair. “Later, kiddo,” he lied. “Daddy’s feeling tired.”

You fell asleep like that, curled into his side, tummy full of pancakes and hot chocolate, while Satoru stared at the ceiling and wondered when exactly he’d signed up for this particular brand of torture.

But he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t heavenly, feeling his lips on yours. It was angelic, a little angel’s kiss all for him.

End.

˚₊‧꒰ა ₍ᐢ. ̫.ᐢ₎ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ nsfw!

Stepdad Gojo x Stepdaughter reader (of age)

Satoru realized something was wrong when your usual dinner-time chaos never came. No clattering of chopsticks, no giggly debates about whether Digimon was better than Pokémon, not even the soft tap-tap of your socked feet padding to the kitchen for thirds. Your mother, lost in her reality show and third glass of cabernet, shrugged it off, “She’s studying, Satoru, relax.” But he couldn’t. Not when your absence felt like a missing tooth, nagging and hollow.

He waited until midnight, until the house was full of snores and distant traffic, before slipping upstairs. Your door creaked open to reveal you hunched on the floor, back against the bed, clutching the Hello Kitty Build-A-Bear he’d won for you at that awful carnival last summer. Your cheeks were salt-stained, eyes puffy, and Satoru’s chest tightened, hard.

“Hey, kiddo,” he murmured, crouching beside you. His thumb brushed a tear trailing down your jaw. 

“What’s got my angel all stormy?”

You hiccuped, burying your face in the plush. “M’ hurting.”

Your periods were usually tame, a day of yummy ice cream (preferably vanilla bean and strawberry) and naps, but tonight, cramps had turned your stomach into a battlefield. You described the ache like a curse gnawing at your bones, and Satoru’s Six Eyes saw every tremor, every hitched breath. He scooped you up, cradling you against his chest, and settled onto your cutesy bed. You were drowning in his old Jujutsu High shirt, the hem brushing your thighs, and Hello Kitty shorts hardly peeking beneath. His shirt. His girl.

He fetched painkillers and a glass of water, but you whined, curling into a ball. “Daddy, it’s not working.”

The word unraveled him.

“Shh, I’ve got you,” he whispered, lying beside you. His bicep became your pillow, his hand a warm weight on your stomach, rubbing slow circles slowly yet gently. Your skin was feverish under the cotton, and he hummed, a tuneless, rumbling sound that had you nuzzling closer.

“There’s my good girl,” he murmured, lips grazing your temple.

But then your heartbeat fluttered, a hummingbird against his ribs, and his Six Eyes betrayed him. Your heartbeat was always fast, so… It wasn’t him, right? It was. His palm had drifted higher, thumb grazing the swell of your pert breast. You didn’t pull away. Instead, you arched faintly, a tiny sound catching in your throat.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

But your eyelashes fluttered, gaze hazy as you whispered, “Kiss me, Daddy?”

Kiss? Kisses were normal, they were okay. Satoru gave you sweet kisses all the time, on the lips, on your cheeks, your forehead, and your hands. Kisses were more than fine. 

Yet, he hesitated, but your plea was a siren song, and he was the dumb pirate who knew far better, but still caved. His lips met yours, soft, tentative, a chaste press that dissolved into something warmer when you whimpered so sweetly into his mouth, practically begging for more. Your small fingers tangled in his white locks, tugging him closer, and he groaned, the sound swallowed by your mouth.

He glanced at your closed bedroom door, knowing a staircase down your mother was fast asleep, drunk off little sips. Satoru fell back into the present when you mewled gently, kissing him so clumsily, yet so earnestly. It was far too cute for his heart.

Sweetness turned into sticky syrup.

His hand slid to your neck, thumb tracing your pulse as his kisses trailed your jaw, your collarbone. Your skin was so warm, so soft. His hand spanned your entire neck with ease, making him twitch a little below. You squirmed, gasping, when his heavy palm cupped your breast, your perky nipple pebbling under the soft fabric.

“‘Toru-”

“Shh, bun,” he breathed, nipping your earlobe. “Daddy’s taking care of you.”

His knee nudged between your thighs, and you ground against him instinctively, a desperate little rhythm that had him biting back a curse. You were a sight for sore eyes, all pretty and needy, and all for him. Satoru felt so lucky, it was almost too good to be true. His thumb hooked into the waistband of your shorts, sliding beneath to trace the lace-edged cotton beneath.

“So pretty,” he cooed, feeling you shiver. “All for me, huh?”

You nodded, doe eyes blown wide, as his fingers found your puffy little clit through the fabric, despite your pad being in the way. The pressure was enough to make you beg for more. He pressed, slow and firm, and your back arched off the bed, a broken cry spilling free.

“That’s it, baby,” he urged, watching your face, the scrunched nose, the bitten lip, the tears clinging to your lashes like dew. “Come for me.”

All it took was his thumb pressing down more, still rubbing tight circles around your padded clit, his azure eyes locked to yours, and his other hand toying gently with your cute nipples. 

You came with a quiet sob, clutching his shirt as he worked you through it, murmuring praises into your hair. When you finally slumped, boneless and breathless, he tucked the Miffy plush back into your arms and pulled the baby pink comforter over you both.

“Get some sleep,” he whispered, ignoring the ache in his own body. His cock was begging to be free from the confines of his sweats, but he woudnt dare to put himself as a priority with you… You always come first.

You nuzzled his chest, already half-asleep from the overwhelming pleasure. “Love you, Daddy…”

He pressed a kiss to your crown, guilt and devotion warring in his throat.

Being a good daddy wasn’t always black and white.

But as moonlight pooled over your tangled limbs, he vowed to paint your world in softer shades, even if it meant getting a little sticky.

“Love you more, baby.”

Staying up late wasn’t fun for Satoru. He could’ve pawned the grading off on Ijichi, the man would’ve stammered through a dozen apologies while clutching the papers to his chest like a shield, but tonight, he felt… forgiving. Or maybe just really masochistic. His home office glowed under twin amber lamps, their light pooling over spreadsheets and doodled lesson plans. He’d ditched his blindfold, the stark angles of his face softened by shadow, hair still damp from the shower and tousled into a mess that made him look younger, almost boyish. His pajama pants hung low on his hips, his shirt abandoned hours ago (an old habit he’d tried, and failed to break after your mom scolded him for “corrupting the household ambiance”, whatever that meant). The scent of his cedarwood body wash lingered, mingling with the peppermint tea gone cold at his elbow (he liked coffee more, so it wasn’t a bother).

He heard you before he saw you, or rather, he sensed you before all that, sock-clad feet pattering down the hall, the creak of the wooden stairs as you tiptoed closer. The door cracked open, and there you were: a sleep-messy vision in that baby blue lacy nightgown, its thin straps slipping off your sharp shoulders, the hem brushing your pretty thighs like a whispered secret. You hovered in the doorway, all wide eyes and rosy, bitten lips, and Satoru sighed, waving you in with a grin that hid the way his pulse kicked up.

“Daddy,” you whined, flopping into the armchair across from him, legs swinging like a pendulum. 

“Can’t sleep.”

“Uh huh.” He didn’t look up from his papers, but his Six Eyes tracked your every fidget, the way you plucked a cursed dagger from his desk drawer, twirling it like a baton, or hummed off-key Lana Del Rey lyrics until the room felt syrupy with your soft voice.

By 1:30 a.m., you’d migrated under his desk, a warm, light weight against his leg, your cheek pillowed on his knee. “So bored,” you mumbled, nuzzling into his pajamas, arms looping around his calf.

“You’re always bored,” he chuckled, but his big hand found your head anyway, fingers carding through your hair, right on your crown. You melted into the touch, pressing kittenish kisses to his kneecap, and oh, this was dangerous.

But you were always playing dangerous, so what’s new?

His crotch area tented, betraying him, but you were too busy cooing into his skin to notice, or so he thought. Until your little fingers crept higher, brushing the aching length of him, and Satoru froze.

“Kiddo.” He hooked a finger under your chin, tilting your face up. Your eyes were all innocence, lips glistening from nervous nibbling, but the pink blooming across your cheeks told another story.

When’d his innocent angel turn so naughty?

“What’re you doing?”

You blinked, doe-eyed. “Wanna make Daddy feel good…”

He should’ve stopped you. Should’ve carried you back to bed, scolded you for whatever late-night tutorials had put this idea in your head. But the way you looked at him, like he hung the moon and stars, like pleasing him was your only purpose, undid every thread of self-control he never really had anyway.

“Gently,” he warned, guiding your tiny hand, and your gasp as you touched him nearly unraveled him then and there.

You marveled at him, all giggles and whispered “S’ big…” as if he were a carnival prize you’d won. He was a sight to see though, long yet nicely girthy cock, curved upright ever so slightly, pale base with a pink tip, he looked irresistible. When your plush lips wrapped around his pink, swollen tip, hot and tentative, he bit back a groan, his knuckles whitening on the desk. You were awful at this, all teeth and clumsy enthusiasm, but the sight of you, earnest and eager, burned itself into his brain.

You suckled on him like he was one of those cherry lollipops you loved so much, small suckling noises assaulting the quiet room.

What exactly did he expect anyway? Of course you were ass at this, you weren’t some seasoned porn star, and oh god, that made everything so, so much better.

“Sweet girl,” he rasped, thumb swiping a tear from your cheek (when had you started crying?). He didn’t let you take more, noticing you could hardly breathe, even when barely taking any length in. You genuinely looked like a greedy chipmunk trying to eat too many berries. Cute. He didn’t let his hands fist in your hair like they ached to, wanting to fuck into your warm mouth like it was all his. It is. When he spilled into your mouth, though, it was with a choked curse, your name a prayer on his lips.

It didn’t take long at all, you had him feeling like a hormonal teenager. Pathetic, really.

You swallowed, beaming up at him like you’d solved a tricky math equation, and Satoru’s heart cracked clean open.

What the fuck did he just do? And…

Who the hell taught you to swallow? He was expecting a scrunched-up face, saying how nasty he tasted, not a swallow followed by the cutest smile. Satoru swore to wipe your history clean, give you a few spanks at that. But for now…

“C’mere,” he murmured, bundling you into his lap, picking you up with ease from your underarms, your little back to his chest. You fit perfectly, as always, your scent, strawberries, and sleep, drowning out the guilt clawing up his throat, a feeling he's grown to slowly accept around you. He pressed a kiss to your temple, your hair tickling his nose. “You’re being far too naughty, bunny.”

You giggled shyly, nuzzling into his neck, leaving him feeling way too much.

By the time he carried you to bed, dawn tinted the sky peach-gold. Your mom stirred as he slipped beside her in bed, her hand trailing down his stomach, her nails skimming his abs. “Long night?” she mumbled.

It was a pleasing routine to have sex before he slept, but tonight, Satoru just… couldn’t. 

“Just stress,” he lied, catching her wrist. “Go back to sleep.”

As her breaths evened out, Satoru stared at the ceiling, your sleepy “Love you, Daddy…” echoing in his skull. He’d buy you those heart-shaped sunglasses you’d eyed last week at that cute boutique. Take you for yummy taiyaki stuffed with thick custard. And maybe, ask where you’d learned to pout like that.

He already knew where, though.

End.