Chapter Text
You’ve always wondered what Daddy keeps hidden in his basement safe. It’s an expensive one, you’re sure of it- you’ve spent enough time bent over in front of it to memorize every seam and crevice of the damned thing. The sleek black of the metal is offset by dozens of cute stickers just like everything else in the house- something you’ve heard Satoru’s gruff, scary friends laughing about behind closed doors.
He doesn’t let them see much of you but they still like to tease him, tell him he’s gone soft since your mother left. They ask vulgar questions sometimes and on the surface he doesn’t seem to mind, just brushes the indiscretion off with a good natured laugh- but you hear the twitch of irritation hiding behind it. This is something Daddy’s men are too stupid to pick up on, his temper, but he refuses to rule with fear like he says other people in his position do.
It’s a strange thing to worry about, but the way your daddy tells it the hospitality business is terribly cut throat. Turns out a lot of murders take place in motels, and it’s his job as the owner of the most economically friendly chain of hotels in the country to clean these messes up.
He’s good at what he does but he’s gone often, business trips seem to take up most of his time lately and you savor any attention you get from him, especially this sort of attention.
This afternoon he’s called you down to his basement office under the pretense of a lunch break chat just to spread you out on his shag carpet with your ass in the air, to fold you up right in front of his desk and the stupid, distracting safe that’s started to itch at the back of your mind.
You figure he’s probably got files of evidence locked away inside of it, or one of the guns you see him toting around sometimes when he gets that strange, pinched look on his face. It could be something nicer, though, a few of the tapes the two of you have made together or the jewelry your mother left behind… there's just no way to be sure without checking and Satoru would never give you the key.
His tongue glides over your shoulders and you snap back to attention, tender bruises forming in the wake of his teeth. He pushes his way inside of you with a little pop of resistance and a moan rips its way out of your chest.
He’s rougher than usual today, one big hand wrapped delicately around the base of your throat. His fingers are already coated in your drool, your mouth hung open in bliss and you swear you can feel his cock in your lungs.
He’s so skilled that you never feel like you can keep up with him, his body is chiseled and experienced and you feel so small and soft beneath him that it's hard to breathe, hard to push anything past your lips but hushed mewls of “please” and “daddy” that never quite lead to a coherent thought.
Gojo always gets a kick out of that, your desperate little pleas for something you can’t even find it in yourself to describe, and he gets an even bigger kick out of torturing you for it.
“What do ya want, baby? Huh? Tell me what you need.”
He knows it’s mean but he can tell you’re somewhere else and he wants to keep you here with him, keep you to himself. He frowns at your silence and his grip on your throat tightens.
“Hm? You seem distracted today… Are you thinking of someone else?”
This catches your attention and you shake your head frantically, tufts of carpet blooming between your fingertips from the force of your grip.
“One of those punks you go to school with? Eh?”
“N-no, Daddy- only you-”
“Only me, huh?” He laughs and leans down to cage you in under his shoulders.
A cascade of snowy white fills your vision and he flashes you a dazzling, upside down smile. His gaze is familiar, sweet even- but you can feel the way he examines every hitch of your breath and flutter of your lashes.
He knows you like the back of his hand, attentive even in the hazy pursuit of his own pleasure and you know it’s wrong but this might just be the side of him you love the most- wrapped up in the embrace of his undivided attention.
It doesn’t happen often and you cherish moments like this, smiling when he leans down to press his lips to yours. He releases his grip on your throat and you splutter into his mouth, fighting for your breath but he just kisses your nose and drags his teeth down the side of your face, nips your jaw and your earlobe, laughing when it makes you yelp.
“Pretty little thing...”
And then his ringtone blasts out into the atmosphere and the entire moment burns to ash in seconds.
“Ah, shit. Hang on.”
To your displeasure he reaches for the phone perched on the edge of the sofa behind him and answers it with a gruff “What?” He doesn’t even make an effort to stop slamming his hips into yours, just bites his lip and does his best to keep any stray groans from floating into the receiver so you let out a whine of protest, kicking your feet against the floor until he grips your ankles in his palms.
“You hush.” He whispers, nudging deeper inside of you as a sort of bribe. It works, and you’re quiet again in seconds.
“And you guys can’t- heh- can’t take care of that yourselves? I don’t know what I’m paying you for… three of them? For real?”
You can’t help but giggle a little at the thought of the face he’s probably making right now- pretty pink lips tugged into that sardonic pout he always seems to sport when things don’t go his way.
Naoya is loud enough on the other end that you can tell it’s his voice but it’s only a second before it’s overtaken by the sound of Satoru’s body meeting yours. You whimper into your hands and each of his thrusts increases in ferocity until you can barely make out what either of them are saying, all you can tell is that Daddy is angry.
He punishes you for whatever bad news he’s been delivered, props his phone up on his shoulder and digs his fingers into the fat of your hip hard, using your sore little body to soothe himself.
It almost works too well, he’s easily distractible and you’re just about the most captivating thing he can imagine, infinitely more interesting than whatever bullshit his dumbass subordinate is spouting-
“A fucking week?” Gojo freezes, and the words startle you almost as much as the abrupt change in pace. He blows a few strands of peroxide white hair out of his face and slumps a little in frustration.
“God, Zenin… sometimes I just wanna shove your head into a toilet and flush.” He tugs you back toward him by your wrists and you know he’s rolling his eyes at the absolutely catastrophic fit you’re both forced to listen to through the receiver.
He mutes the call for a second to drag his tongue along the length of your neck, grinning when you shiver. “See why I shipped him all the way out to the coast?”
He nips your ear when you giggle at him and gives you a playful little smack on the ass for good measure and it’s then that Naoya finally puts an end to his tirade. Gojo huffs, unmuting himself to try to finish up the conversation as quickly as he can with a dejected sigh.
“I’ll come fix it. Stop freaking out.”
Naoya rambles for a few more seconds before Daddy cuts him off with a whine.
“Whatever- I don’t care what you do but I swear to god if you manage to fuck up again before I get there I’m gonna lock you in the janitor’s closet wearing nothing but your tighty whities.”
He snickers and pulls the phone away from his ear, shooting off a quick- “Fine! See you tomorrow” and ending the call before he’s subjected to another round of screaming.
“You’re leaving again?” Satoru tosses the phone behind him without so much as a glance, tracing his fingers down the length of your spine and kissing the back of your neck.
“Gotta, baby.”
“But you just got home monday!”
“Duty calls.”
“Duty has been calling a lot lately, daddy.”
“Oh don’t you daddy me. D’ya like your big fancy bed? All your pretty clothes? Huh?”
He plants a hand on the back of your head and shoves you down into the bright orange rug lighting up the floor beneath you. The fibers of the carpet tickle and you think you’d sneeze if your brain wasn’t so overwhelmed with the feeling of Satoru’s big, thick cock stretching you out so nicely.
“Yeah…”
“Yeah. You like when I bring presents home anyways, don’t you?”
Maybe you used to enjoy it when work first started getting busy, but now you want nothing more than his presence in your daily life. You miss him- no amount of giant stuffed animals or boxes of fancy regional candy can ease the reality of the situation.
He’s never around when you need him.
“I don’t w-want another box of candy, daddy. I want you.”
He grunts and flips you over onto your back, and you’re sure he does it so you can read the sincerity in his eyes.
“You have me, princess. All of me.” He nudges his nose against yours, wrapping his hands around your thighs for some leverage.
“Such a greedy baby, hm? This isn’t enough for you?” He grips your face in his hands, turns your head from side to side and the way the end of his tongue pokes out of the corner of his lips makes you feel woozy.
“Y’need more? I’ll- fuck- I’ll give you more, pretty baby. You’ll be sick of me by the time I have to go-”
“Can’t I come with you this time?” He shakes his head at you, thumbing over your bottom lip.
“Not even if you pout. It’s too dangerous for you-” and then his phone buzzes again and the peppy funk song he’s chosen as his ringtone sounds like a funeral dirge when he rises up from his spot on top of you, pacing around the room in nothing but his robe until he finds the device.
He shoots you an apologetic look when he sees you there on the shag rug with a pathetic, dejected look on your face. It almost makes him want to throw his phone out the window but then it rings again and he sees it’s Nanami this time and there’s nothing he can do but answer.
“Fuck.” He breathes, running his hand through his hair.
“It’s an emergency, baby. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”
That’s what he always says.
“Yo. You guys know I have a life, don’t you?”
You’d say something if you thought it would get you anywhere with him but he’s already halfway through the door before you get a chance to stop him. He doesn’t even give you the courtesy of turning around to see the way you’ve crumpled into the floor.
It’s hard not to cry, not to run to his bedroom and grind your nose against the locked door while you beg for his attention but you bite back the urge- throwing a few of the bright, decorative pillows that adorn his sofa across the room with a thud that barely satisfies the ache inside of you.
You want to break things, want to take a bat to the cases of arcade games and collectibles he keeps down here but you don’t- you just sit quietly and smolder. You know his fury over something like that would eat yours whole.
You try to scream but nothing comes out, nothing but a few salty tears that burn on their way down your cheeks and you pray for a moment for the floor to open up and swallow you whole. Maybe he’d care if you went missing- maybe it’d be your name on his lips right now instead of Nanami’s.
You know what an emergency means, it means locked doors and tense phone calls and another week without your Daddy to tuck you in at night. It's unfair.
You don’t deserve it, and you know exactly who can make it all better for you- a risk worth taking. You need to be held. You need to be told you’re good, need to be taken care of and doted on and you need it so bad you think you’ll die without it.
It won’t be hard to sneak out when Satoru is so busy and he won’t question you when you lie and tell him you’re going out with your friends- at least, you hope he won’t.
It’s not like it matters in the long run anyways though, because once your mind is set there's never any changing it. So you wipe your face and rise on shaky legs to find your cell phone, typing the only number you’ve ever known by heart into the keypad with shaky fingers and pressing the glowing green call button smiling at you from the bottom of your screen.
“Yuuta? Y-yeah it’s me. Can you come pick me up?”
⋆˚꩜｡
He shouldn’t be here.
It’s a stupid fucking mistake to make, and the half wasted six pack of pabst resting on the gravel beside your mary janes only adds insult to injury. His stepfather isn’t someone he wants to piss off (especially not like this) but he can’t help himself. When it comes down to it he’d rather wash up in a ditch somewhere than ever deny his little sister in her hour of need.
One sniffle and a weak murmur of his name in your dulcet tone was all it took to send him flying to you- three hours in one direction on a Tuesday night just to sit together in some parking lot with busted overhead lighting drinking shitty beer and it’s all because he can never find it in himself to tell you no.
Not when you upend his entire week with one phone call, not when you sit a little too close, not even when you beg and plead and “please, Yuu?” your way into his lap.
He knows your self satisfied smirk means he’s been played but he can’t even bring himself to care about that, charmed by your cute little hands digging into his shirt and the feeling of your ass pressed up against-
“I miss you.”
The melancholy of your voice wrenches him back to reality and he pulls his head out from the crook of your neck to gaze into your eyes, bumping your noses together when he notices tears welling.
“I miss you too, bunny. Always do.”
There’s gaps in his words, the real meaning of them buried deep under the roar of goth rock spilling from the cracked passenger door of the Benz that Gojo bought him as a high school graduation gift.
He holds himself back from asking how things are at home because the necklace of hickeys you wear like a Tiffany tells him all he needs to know. A sad, serene sort of silence blankets you both and he has to take a moment to get past the cloying ache in his gut over your appearance, finally spoiled rotten just like you deserve- dressed in designer clothing and dripping with pearls.
Yuuta still remembers the days of thrift store jeans and fast food bags littering his old, shitty little two door- pillows stuffed under carseats and the nights you slept curled up together in the backseat shivering from cold. On a good day he’d pay for some soggy motel room, grin real wide when you tell him how much he pampers you even when the words felt like a knife to the chest. His memories of high school are all cast in a sickly fluorescent glow, but he doesn’t like to dwell too much on the hurt or the isolation. When he looks back he just thinks about how pretty you always looked wrapped up in one of his t-shirts, squealing over microwave popcorn and the prospect of a bath.
Now he’s certain you get one every night, one with rose scented bubbles and expensive strawberry soap and this thought above all keeps him from running his mouth about your Daddy.
You hear him tutt when he notices the ruffles of your socks dragging through the gravel, thumbing over the fresh scuff marks littering your delicate patent leather shoes.
“Daddy’s gonna be mad…” You whine, and Yuuta sighs at the thought. He opens his mouth to say something, a joke, maybe- but the words die when you flip over to wrap your arms around his neck.
“Forget about him for a second, okay bunny?”
You nod and lean forward a little, squishing your breasts firmly against his chest- stealing his breath away like it wasn’t yours to begin with.
“Tell me about school?”
Your lipgloss catches the moonlight and he runs his tongue over his teeth, flicking his eyes back up to your own to stop himself from leaning forward like an idiot- no, like a total fucking pervert.
He swallows and falls back instead, supporting his weight with the palms of his hands. You take the opportunity to scoot forward an inch and he squeaks when he feels the warm, gentle throb behind your panties all tucked up soft and sweet against his zipper.
“Yuu…” He flattens a hand against your back and your lips meet his left earring. He’s glad you won’t be able to see the way his eyelashes flutter over the feeling through the dark, embarrassment creeping up his neck and settling over the tips of his ears.
“D’ya talk to any pretty girls?”
He splutters, almost falling completely flat against the grit beneath your bodies.
“No way.” He laughs through a tight chest, “Nobody’s interested in me, baby.”
You both know it isn’t true- the cellphone buried somewhere in his leather seats is rotting with the names of a million missed opportunities, flashes of white teeth and pink dresses, first dates and one night stands that never bloomed into anything worthwhile.
He knows you well enough to sense that your question is a trap, that a single name alone would probably bring you to tears… so he lies.
He sees the way your face falls, your palms nestled now in your lap, your thumbs spinning over one another as you wind your discomfort through your head. He’s sure you know it isn’t true but he doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to do. He can’t wait forever and it’s unfair the way your little hands tug at his heartstrings when they shake like that.
You’ve never taken well to the idea of sharing him with anyone, a sweet childhood obsession curdling into something unruly come adulthood, hovering under the surface of every interaction the two of you share together until you can barely stand the thought of him so much as looking at anyone else. It's childish and sickly and something you clutch close to your chest, rolling it over as a sort of self mutilation only when things get miserable, because when things get miserable you know he’ll come running and prove all of your doubts wrong.
He’s a wonderful brother, kind and strong and always there for you when you need him so you really don’t have the right to ache like you do, but it’s an inevitability. A wispy little sob escapes your cherry stained lips before you can choke it back and Yuuta’s face falls into the same look he used to give you when you got a bad grade or a tummy ache.
It feels like admitting defeat to let him see you cry over him, over other girls- feels like flaying yourself open and laying your desires right out on the surface for him to touch, your worries and fears pulsing and throbbing like a struck nerve.
He’s careful with his next move, always so gentle with you- cradling you in his arms, soothing you with little earnest coos of your name and hushing your cries. Your mascara drenches the shoulder of his white t-shirt and he knows he won’t wash it out for weeks.
“It’s all gonna be okay, baby.”
“S’not.”
“No?”
He cups your face in his hands and thumbs over your lashes. The gesture tickles and to his delight you scrunch your nose through your tears, pout and all. It shouldn’t fill his stomach with butterflies to see you in pain but a part of him feels vindicated, your tears a balm over the wounds of rejection that you’ve inflicted on him over and over and over again ever since Gojo waltzed into the picture.
He knows what it feels like to cry over someone, knows it means you really care and that maybe, just maybe…
You watch his eyes flit to your lips, an easygoing smile framing his pretty face. It burns you up that he isn’t more affected but the sensation of your acrylics digging into his collarbones only seems to soothe him.
You lean in closer, searching his eyes. His breath smells like barley and something sweet, slightly fetid but still intoxicating enough to pull you forward like an unseen force.
Your noses meet and he gasps, quiet and unbelieving as you ghost your lips over his, just ever so slightly. You yank back to apologize and you can feel his heart thrumming beneath your fingers, the pulse syncopated against the frantic tempo of the song before he crashes into you, his big hand splayed out across the back of your head.
Electric guitar underscores your first kiss with your older brother, his tongue tracing loving little patterns over the ridges of your mouth, your teeth and your gums- sucking your bottom lip until you squeak and jump in his grip.
When he pulls away from you there's a strand of cobweb trailing between, catching the moonlight almost as beautifully as the lovesick shade of your eyes and he’s laughing.
None of the shame you feel bubbling in your gut seems to be reaching him and instead pure joy crinkles the corners of his eyes.
You’re addictive, sweet like candy and he can’t help pulling you in for another sticky, sweltering kiss, and then another, and another and another until he’s scooping you up and settling down in the front seat of his Mercedes.
The pad of his foot scrapes against the pavement, his leg dangling from the driver’s side door to accommodate your spot in his lap. It’s cramped but that’s exactly how you want it, impossibly needy and drowning in the desire to be as close as possible to him, to feel every inch of his skin against your own.
It doesn’t take long for the heat of his mouth to melt the pit of embarrassment and shame swelling in your stomach, his ooze of affection dripping down your throat and taming the roar of anxiety building within you. His mouth is silken, his touch divine and you think you’d let him lead you straight to hell now that you’ve felt his body working beneath yours.
His hands find your stomach and his fingertips blaze trails of fiery lust behind them, the flames licking up your sides and leaving scorch marks in their wake. He’s firmer than you expected, gripping you like he’s afraid you’ll float away somehow, like you’ll confirm this is all just another vision in the parade of dreams he’s had of you throughout the years.
Instead you pull him closer, fix your little palms over his broad chest and hook your pointer fingers over the seam of his cotton t-shirt. He moans and your eyes roll into the back of your head and before you can stop yourself you’re grinding against his thigh. He swallows the little apologies flying out of your mouth with a greedy, all consuming hunger, wrapping his hands around your waist to help you along.
He can’t even pull away for long enough to tell you everything is okay like he knows you need to hear and he can only hope you’re able to read his intentions. It takes every bit of restraint he’s capable of producing to keep himself from flipping you over in the seat and fucking you until you’re limp and speechless and he’s doing his best to be soft with you, to hold back years of pent up adoration.
“Don’t stop.” He manages, finally, his voice strangled and his lips swollen and you obey him without a question, all thoughts of Daddy and his expectations lost completely to the slow bleed of pleasure building inside.
Yuuta reaches down to throw the seat as far back as it’ll go, bundling you up against his chest just like he used to back when it was only the two of you except now there’s something new behind it, something sinful.
Sinful like your cunt soaking his jeans, so wet and turned on from your brother’s hands all over you that you’re sitting in a little puddle. The drool trailing its way down your delicate little chin just makes things worse, and the kiss bitten glow of your face is enough to make him believe in heaven, at least for a second.
He pants into your mouth, at a loss for what to do next. His hands shake when he slides your tights down your legs, cupping a hand over your pussy and grinning when it makes you gasp.
“Do you know how perfect you are?”
It takes you a second to realize he expects an answer and you struggle for a moment with how you should respond. Daddy likes to run his mouth without ever expecting you to form a response, likes to work you up with his words and his tongue but Yuuta lets you drive yourself crazy.
“I- I…”
You weigh your options and he grips your face between his pointer and thumb, staring you down for an answer.
It takes you a second to work up the nerve, but the way he looks down at you has you frantically chanting the words he wants to hear with a pitiful strain that gushes desperation. You need him so bad you think you might just fucking die if he doesn’t get his hands on you, grinding into his palm so one of his big, big fingers spreads you apart, the tip of it prodding against your clit.
You moan when he pinches the nerve through the fabric of your panties- a faraway thought wondering just where exactly he learned to do something like that- but the thought gets blotted out as quick as it comes.
Yuuta is a tease, and you pant and whimper and whine until he laughs at you, his tone adoring and precious.
“Tell me where.” He whispers against your lips, tickling you with shivers that shoot down your spine, “You’re a big girl, I know you can say it.”
Condescension drips from his every word but it stokes a fire in your belly, white hot desire pulling a growl from the base of your throat. You can barely manage to spit it out through your shame but your desire to please him wins out.
“Please t-touch me.”
“Where?”
“Please.”
“Oh…” He coos, his eyebrows pulled together like he just can’t stand how cute you are, how sweet and perfect and lovely and all for him to touch as he pleases.
He sinks the fingers of his free hand into your breast, his tongue peeking out from the corner of his lips, focused and practiced. The flesh ripples a little from the force of his grip and you think he must know almost as much as Daddy does about sex from the way he touches you. The idea of how he could’ve obtained this forbidden knowledge eats at you from the inside, makes you wanna be perfect for him- precious and lovely and unforgettable. It makes you jealous.
“I asked you to tell me where, baby. Can you at least try for me?”
Big brother’s voice snaps you back to reality and you whimper, shoulders slumping under the weight of his demand. It’s embarrassing, mutilating and debilitating to think of it, to say it out loud is to make it real and he’s begging you to be the one to take the shot.
“Want you to touch me here.”
You yank your panties to the side and pry his fingers from your tit, guiding them down to your thighs, further and further until finally-
“Fuck.”
He can’t help himself, vulgarity seems to be the theme of the evening and the feeling of your slick, perfect little cunt weeping just for him is enough to make him forget his morals, his standards when it comes to the words he’s willing to use in front of you.
It’s hard to have any kind of self respect when you’re knuckle deep in your little sister’s pussy, and the thought makes him throb in his pants.
You’re so needy and sensitive already, exactly how he’d imagined you’d be, pillow soft thighs shivering and clamping down on his hand even before he curls his fingers inside of you. He only has to work them a few times to steal an orgasm, one that comes with furrowed brows and curled toes. He thinks you look almost pained in the afterglow.
You still let him flip you over though, let him kneel down in the gravel and throw your legs over his shoulders and bury his face in your pussy. Even in the dark it feels dangerous, like someone could drive by and see and the thought that Daddy keeps a tracker installed on your phone hits you harder than your orgasm does a millisecond later.
“Yu-Yuuta, I-”
“I’m yours.” He whispers, ignoring the way you squeeze your eyes shut tight, hiding from him like you would an imaginary monster lurking beneath your bed.
Your thoughts are full of nothing but blue eyes and snowy white and he can read it plain as day when he glances at your face, choosing instead to fully dedicate himself to your pleasure, to ripping so many orgasms out of you that you that you won’t be able to think of anything but this moment.
He’s focused, slides his tongue along your folds and circles it around your swollen, tender clit until you twist the strands of his hair around dainty fingers and tug. He flips effortlessly between sweet, tender laps at your slick and harsh sucks and your mind finally clouds over when he shoves two fingers inside of you.
You can’t do anything but grind your cunt against your big brother's face- trying desperately not to cry too loud, not to draw attention to the sick little display the two of you are putting on right here on the side of the road.
Yuuta slips two of his fingers into your mouth as a silent order to suck. His bicep slaps against your thigh from the force of his thrusts and you know he’s trying to quiet your cries down without startling you. His palm cups your jaw, his pinky and thumb squeezing down into the fat of your cheeks and you wind your tongue over the rings shoved into your mouth like you’re supposed to, a metallic tinged bliss washing over your senses.
You think you like being good for him like this, obedient like you would be for Daddy and you bask in his attention. You can feel his smile between your legs, the little twitch of joy that accompanies each swipe of his tongue over your pussy.
“Perfect girl.” He whispers, grinding his nose against your clit and chuckling at the yelp it earns him, “Made for me, weren’t you?”
You nod despite the sinking feeling his words create- alarm bells ringing in the back of your mind even through the hazy buzz of alcohol and orgasms.
It’s funny how similar he is to his stepfather, really. Gojo always says the same thing about you. Made for him. You know that you should stop, that you shouldn’t have even started in the first place, that it’s your fault- but you don’t say a word. There’s some twisted part of you that relishes in the guilt, in the misbehavior and the rebellion.
This’ll show Daddy to ignore you.
You let Yuuta make you cum on his tongue three more times before you can’t take it anymore, exhausted and boneless. He gets back in the car when it’s done, sits you in his lap and lets you grind against him all lazy and cute, dragging his thumb through the spit sliding down your face.
“Yuuta… can I touch you?”
He nuzzles your cheek, pulls you in close to his chest and sighs.
“You sure?”
“Please.”
He chuckles, ruffles your hair and lifts you into the passenger seat. He’d never let you kneel on the ground like he had just a few moments before.
“Alright, bunny. You don’t have to beg, sweet girl.”
He pulls your hair back from your forehead for you with a gentle hand, his thumb brushing over your temple as you unzip his jeans, gasping when you finally get him out of his pants.
“You’re so big...”
“You’re silly.”
He’s selling himself short. It really is big and you’re barely able to stuff the head of it all the way into your mouth. He hisses when he feels himself brushing against your soft palate and you moan around him like the little vixen you are and he doesn’t think he’s felt anything sweeter than this in his entire life. Your mouth is tiny compared to his size, your cheeks full and your eyes watering and just the first few inches seem to choke you a little.
“Such a good girl, aren’t you? Feel even better than I imagined you would.”
You glow at his praise, gaining the confidence to slide your tongue up and down the veins and ridges of his cock.
He’s got both hands in your hair now, barely holding back the urge to thrust his way into your throat, to fill you completely and fuck your mouth like its his.
He practices his restraint though, focuses on the glow of your skin in the moonlight and the adoring little sheen in your eyes when they peer up at him from beneath fluttering lashes.
Your drool soaks the center console and Yuuta’s whimpers and groans drown out the music on the radio. You’re given up on keeping your eyes open but he can’t get himself to look away. You’re perfect, truly.
“I love you.”
He whispers the words before he can stop himself, the familiar sound made new and breathtaking now that he’s had a taste of you. It sends you over the edge, tears twinkling in the light like little crystals as they cascade through the air and plop against his light wash denim.
You pull away from him to rest your head on his thigh, hiding your sniffles in the fabric of his jeans. He pets your head with a hesitancy that shows you he knows exactly what’s going on inside of your heart.
“Hey, hey pretty girl. What’s wrong? What can I do for you...?”
You hiccup a few little sobs when he pulls away from you, pleasure melting so easily into fear without the backdrop of his sighs and moans to sweeten the moment.
“I think… this was a mistake, Yuuta, I…” A sob finishes the sentence for you and he crumbles a little. A part of him knows you’re right, knows the two of you have crossed into treacherous, uncharted territory but he’d never admit it so willingly.
“I love you, bunny. That could never be a mistake.”
“Daddy’s gonna hate me-”
“Daddy.” He looks completely taken aback, hurt, even. He can handle hesitancy, trepidation and fear but the thought of you loving another man after he’s had you himself goes down like a razorblade.
“You’re worried about Gojo right now?”
He leans in close, runs his thumbs over your cheeks and rests his forehead against yours.
“Forget about him, baby. Let me take care of you-”
“Daddy takes care of me.”
“Gojo takes advantage of you.”
“Stop.”
He pauses for a moment, deliberating. It aches to watch you scramble for the attention of a man he knows could never hold you like he does, a man who provides and protects but never nurtures, never tends to your gentle, precious need for affection.
“He doesn’t love you like I do. He can’t- he’s too preoccupied. When's the last time he really paid attention to you?”
You gawk at him and he swallows, his eyes blown wide.
“He loves me.” It’s a whisper.
“So why are you here?”
He tries to soften his voice but he still hears you suck in a breath, ragged and pained and he has to stop himself from reaching for you even through his anger.
“Thought so. You need me, bunny. You always have.”
You turn to face him, tears following the same tracks through your makeup that you’d created earlier with his mouth against yours but this time your eyes reflect nothing but vitriol back at him.
“You want- you want me to be stuck in the backseat with you forever. You fucking h-hate that I’ve moved on- that, that I’m happy. I think it burns you up that I can do things without you, I mean you think I’m fucking- fucking incapable, or something! Satoru… he doesn’t think of me like that. He loves me, Yuuta and-”
“He doesn’t love you. He covets you. I don’t think he knows what the word love even means- he’s supposed to protect you and- and look what he does!”
He gestures to your neck and you clap your hands around it, self conscious and shielding yourself from his view.
“Look what you’re d-doing!” Your voice cracks and he groans, all the exhaustion of his drive and his concerns and the sting of your rejection crashing down on him all at once until he can barely make out the shape of his own words through the throb between his ears.
“He’s just… he’s not who he says he is, okay?”
“You’re so full of shit.”
His jaw drops, shocked at how clearly your voice rings out around the words but you’re almost blind in your rage. Despite yourself, his suggestion strikes a nerve in you and suddenly all you can think about is that fucking safe and the horrible things Satoru could be keeping inside.
“You don’t- you don’t know anything about him. You barely even know me anymore. You spend all of your time hours away shoving your dick in anything that brea-”
He clamps a hand over your mouth, his face serious and frightening as a glare overtakes his usually kind eyes.
“Do you think I wanted to leave you?”
He’s angry, angrier than you’ve ever seen him and it washes over you like a wave of terror.
“You think it was my choice? You seriously think it's a coincidence I got rejected from every school in a two hundred mile radius?” He laughs at you, real condescending and mean and the look he’s wearing doesn’t suit his usually gentle demeanor, doesn’t suit him.
He releases his grip on you though, folds his arms over the steering wheel and plops his face down on top of it, defeated.
“You know how powerful Gojo is. I don’t think you’re this stupid.”
“You’re lying.”
“I had a perfect GPA. Use your head.”
“No…”
He huffs, unable to believe this is how your first time together has ended up. He’s accepted that he’s not your first choice anymore but it’s horrible to have the reality thrown in his face.
“You’ve always been a sweet girl but you have never been stupid.”
“Don’t fucking call me that!”
He grimaces.
“It was always me and you, baby. I needed you.”
“You left me here.”
“I didn’t have a fucking choice!”
“You left me here alone, Yuuta! A-alone with him and-”
“And look what that got you. Everything you ever wanted just as soon as I was out of the picture.”
“Yuuta-”
“You don’t know him like I do, okay? You don’t have a clue what he’s capable of, you don’t even know what I’m capable of!”
You’re hyperventilating now, panic clawing at your throat and your chest and he doesn’t know what to do other than shove the car into drive and speed off down the road, to take you back where you belong.
“Buckle up.”
“What are you doing?”
“Taking you home.”
He can’t.
“Yuuta- please stop, we can work it out just don’t- I can’t- I can’t see him yet- m’not ready yet so please-”
“You need to buckle up, princess.”
“I won’t.”
“You need to go home where you can take a shower and calm down.”
“Yuuta, please-!”
“Stop!”
He’s never raised his voice at you like this and it shuts you up in an instant, nothing but the whir of his heater and the urgent screech of his wheels speeding down the road to drown out the voices of panic singing in your head.
The click of your seatbelt sounds like defeat.
The drive is short, much too short and you watch the familiar sprawl of shabby little houses pass by through the window with terror burning in your throat.
You don’t unbuckle when he pulls up to Gojo’s, don’t even open your mouth to breathe, hoping maybe if you stay just still enough you’ll sink into the leather seats and never have to face anyone ever again.
Yuuta doesn’t let you get away from him, though, reaching in and freeing you himself. You dig your little fingers into the seats, gripping the cushion underneath yourself like a vice but it still doesn’t take him long to yank you out of your last ditch effort at an escape. He’s always been so broad, and in his arms you feel the open night air flowing around you like you’re flying.
You feel like a cornered prey animal on her way to slaughter and his sweet, silly little nickname for you runs through your head with a horrifying new ring to it. Bunny- a helpless little thing, hopeless and lost without him, and he’s gonna lead you straight to the big bad wolf to be devoured because he’s too chickenshit to do it himself.
His biceps crush you tight, your arms tucked to your sides in an effort to stop you from doing anything reckless like you always do, ignoring the way you kick your legs and writhe in his grip. Bone deep panic blooms in your chest and you know you have to get yourself at least a bit more presentable before you have to face Satoru at three in the morning with tears mottling your face and dirt caked to your shoes.
You can’t scream for fear of alerting Daddy or the neighbors and Yuuta is getting so close to the front door that you know you won’t be able to get out of this without a fight. You look up at him, his nostrils flared in frustration and his brow knit together and there’s only one thing you can think to do.
His flesh tastes like salt and honey, surrendering easily to your teeth as you sink them into his neck. A gush of thick, suffocating blood oozes into your mouth before you get a chance to spit it out, the tendons and muscles you’ve punctured contract and pulse and you know you’ve hurt him when his hands fly to the wound- giving you the chance you need to wrench yourself free from his clutches.
You cascade toward the pavement in a brief, distended moment, a bird dropped too soon from her nest- and then you see black, nothing but Yuuta’s deep, familiar voice to keep you from floating off into space.
“Fuck!”
It’s easy to tell that something is wrong the second you hit the ground, and the sickening crack that rings out into the air like an alarm bell only adds insult to injury. A dreadful numb shoots through your entire arm, all the way up to your shoulder and it takes everything in you not to faint from shock, gagging on blood and bile and trying your best to stay conscious.
Suddenly all you want in the world is to see Gojo, to sit in the living room while he hums some old rock song and does his best to make dinner for the two of you- grilled cheeses and ramen always taste better when they’ve been prepared by him. You want to be engulfed in Daddy’s enormous king sized bed, want him to hold you tight and never let go and now you don’t care who wakes up, who hears, what they’ll think of you. You just need him to come rescue you like he always does.
So you scream, the scream of a child who’s just fallen too hard at the playground, one of unabashed agony and despair. It cracks something inside of Yuuta open- regret like molten rock searing its way through him and hardening at his feet. He can’t move, can’t think, can't fucking breathe and now everything is too big and too small all at once.
He knows he’s being useless standing still like this, making things worse like he always does but something in his brain won’t let him fully process what’s going on- the pain you must be in as you wail and collapse in on yourself on the ground beneath him.
He watches the lights come on in the house and knows you’re both completely fucked, the remnants of alcohol and the fresh throb of adrenaline still coursing through your bodies makes it hard to think of an escape route- two bloody, wounded deer caught in the headlights of their father’s wrath.
Your brother scoops you up again, apologizing over and over and over as he drags your bodies up to the manicured front porch of your home, blood oozing down his shoulder and soaking the sleeve of his shirt, the pristine white paint of the front door slapped with a crimson handprint as he sets you down in front of it.
You slide to the concrete below you only for the door to open a second later, a frantic and horrified Satoru standing in the shadow of the wood.
“What the fuck happened?!”
His eyebrows are raised, hands flying to your weak and fragile body before he even has a second to grasp the situation. He drags his palm over the trickle of blood oozing from your mouth and Yuuta can practically hear his heartbeat from where he stands across the yard.
“S-s-she-”
“Spit it out!”
“She fell- I- I didn’t mean to Gojo, I swear-”
He turns to you when he doesn’t receive an answer, too worried to entertain anything as trivial as blame at a time like this. He can plainly tell your arm is broken, the limb bent at a disturbing angle that makes his stomach drop. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, hell, it’s nothing he hasn’t inflicted on someone but it’s different when it’s his baby, his sweet little girl sitting in front of him wailing in agony.
He keeps calm for you despite the way his heart beats in his throat, taking a deep breath and wiping the tears from under your eyes as gently as he can manage through the tremor in his hands.
“Hey, lovebug. We’re gonna head to the hospital. I need you to keep your eyes open for me, can you do that?”
You nod and he smiles at you, patting your head.
“That’s my good girl. I’m gonna run inside for two seconds and grab my keys, okay?”
“O-okay…”
“Okay. You’re okay, princess. Deep breaths for me... there you go.”
He snaps at Yuuta and points to you, warning him to keep his eye on you or else. Yuuta mutters a few apologies that you ignore and then Gojo is back in a flash, dangling his keys in one hand and your favorite throw blanket in the other.
He wraps the quilt over your shoulders gently, careful not to hurt you as he lifts you up into his arms. He holds you like the most delicate thing in the entire world, taking your face in his hands and forcing your eyes to meet his. The blue pulls you in like the tide, familiar and calming in the way only home can be, and you feel yourself tearing up again as the adrenaline starts to wear off with the comfort of his touch.
And then he tosses you the last question in the world you want to answer right now.
“Do you want Yuuta to come?”
You hesitate briefly before you shake your head no, your throat closing up with panic at the idea of sitting between the two of them in the emergency room. All you want is your Daddy.
“You want him to go away?”
“Please.”
“What are you still doing out here, kid?” He turns to your brother, his sunglasses falling down the bridge of his nose to frame the scrutinizing stare he flashes Yuuta’s way. He carries you to his Firebird and places you into the front seat with a kiss on the forehead, closing the door behind him as softly as he can manage to avoid scaring you.
He taps the glass of the window and smiles at you, holding up one finger to let you know he’ll be right behind you. His face falls when he straightens up to glare at his stepson.
Yuuta starts his trek up to the house but Gojo’s anger gets the better of him and he stops him again. “Do I wanna know why you’re home?”
Yuuta shakes his head and Gojo glares at him.
“Do I wanna know why you’re drunk?”
Of course he’d be able to tell. Yuuta gives another head shake and Gojo slams his fist down on the metal shell of the car, laughing at the way it makes Yuuta jolt. He points an accusatory finger, his face pinched into a sneer, “You better still be here when I get back, or I’ll pull your fucking tuition.”
Yuuta nods his understanding, persevering through the pain in his neck and the irritation flaring in his chest.
“I’ll be here.” He chokes, and Satoru smiles at him, a genuine one that chills Yuuta to his core.
“You better.”
With that his father climbs behind the wheel and peels off down the road until you’re nothing but a dot in your brother’s peripheral, like you were never here in the first place.
⋆˚꩜｡
Gojo holds you in his lap throughout the entire hour and a half long wait at the ER, ignoring stares in his direction over the spectacle his poor little daughter has become. He’s used to this kind of thing- peroxide white hair and 3am sunglasses aren’t exactly the standard uniform in your community (or anyone’s) but Daddy doesn’t worries about decorum at the best of times and this is one of the worst you’ve had in a while.
To cope with his concern he makes himself as busy as he can from his seat-hassles nurses on your behalf, feeds you the candy he’s had stuffed into his jacket pocket for god knows how long and whispers made up stories about the people waiting in the bleak, sterile white room with you the two of you just loud enough that they can probably hear it.
Never once throughout all of this does he mention Yuuta, though.
You’re grateful for it, that strange sense of intuition he’s always sort of seemed to possess, an almost supernatural predilection for understanding other people’s bullshit. He always says it comes from his line of work, that a good nose is helpful in business and that’s why you’ll never really pull one over on him.
The thought makes you feel uneasy about sneaking out earlier and you suffocate a little under the sheer weight of the guilt tugging at you. You find it hard to hold back a few sniffles here and there and you can only hope that Gojo assumes they’re due to your pain. You’re sure he notices every single shift in your tone and the worried expression you read through the gleam of his black frames makes you feel flighty.
After what feels like an eternity of awkward stares and the impatient tap of your stepfather’s shoe against linoleum you’re finally called back to an examination room. Gojo cracks a few jokes as the doctor sits you under the X-ray machine, teasing you over how clumsy and silly you are, like this injury was par for the course, commonplace and normal when you know it was anything but.
He squeezes you when the doctor delivers your diagnosis and his suspicions are confirmed- a broken arm, one clean split a few inches down from your pinky. He says it’ll take six to eight weeks to heal, and you’ll need help around the house each day.
Daddy frowns at that, real deep and worrisome and you remember he leaves tomorrow, a week-long business trip to one of his hotels on the beach. You think it’s over something like quarterly reports or foreign investments… you never pay much attention to his business calls but you know he won’t be able to get out of it easily.
You clear your throat and he peers down at you from beneath the frame of the sunglasses perched precariously on the end of his pretty, pointed nose.
You can see the gears turning in his head as the doctor drones on about care and precaution and the downright ordeal that showering is about to become for you and suddenly all you can think of is your brother, probably holed up in the bedroom he’d only spent a few short months in before he moved away.
You wince and Gojo runs a big, soft palm over your back, nods for you while the doctor finishes up her speech and shakes the woman’s hand with you in his arms. He carries you back out to the car himself and braves an entire loop of your favorite spotify playlist on the drive home. He sneaks looks at you in the passenger seat the entire time, tangles his fingers with yours when he notices your brows starting to crease.
When he gets you home he sits you down on a kitchen chair and pops a couple of anti inflammatories and an extra strength tylenol onto your tongue while you swing your legs back and forth. He tips a glass of water to your lips with an expectant hum, patting your head once you open your mouth for him to prove that you did, indeed, swallow them.
It’s bath time next and he draws the water with lots of bubbles, filling the heart shaped tub with rose petals, extra special just to help you calm down. It helps, but nothing works better than his broad, muscled body nestled protectively behind yours in the little bathtub he custom ordered special for your room from the same catalog his hotels use.
He’s too big for the basin but that’s never stopped him before, even when his entire torso pokes out from above the rim. You can’t help but think he must be freezing like this, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s uncharacteristically quiet while you bathe, delicately soaps you up with a warm washcloth and wrings it out again to soothe the suds off of your shoulders and back, careful to avoid your plaster wrapped arm. He cups your breasts a little longer than necessary but he’s so gentle when he touches you that you’d never complain- basking in the pleasure of being doted on, of winning your daddy’s full attention for the night (though the cost had been great.)
Satoru takes all the time in the world to dry you off himself- even makes sure to use the fluffiest, warmest towel in the whole place. He wraps you up in it and sets you down on the counter while he gets himself ready for bed and you’re too tired to feel shy about the sight of him on display for you like this, unabashedly staring at him with wide eyes as he dries his body.
“Heh. Like what you see?”
He flexes his biceps for you, posing like a bodybuilder and chuckling when you hide your face in the fuzz of your towel.
He coaxes you out from behind it with a hand on the back of your head, pinching your cheeks for a second when he gets you to peek at him before he leads you to the bedroom to get dressed.
He drapes you in one of his soft cotton t-shirts and sits you on the edge of your bed, slipping a pair of fluffy white socks over your feet to keep them warm on his cold hardwood floors like he isn’t going to carry you to the living room himself.
Daddy pecks your forehead when he sets you atop the throne of blankets and stuffed animals that seem to have taken up permanent residence on his expensive midcentury couches. Usually he’d hassle you over it but he bites his tongue and throws your favorite cartoon on the flat screen instead, settling for punting a few of the rogue plushies across the room while you adjust yourself to get comfortable.
You reach out for him once he’s got everything set up to your liking, smiling when he obliges you with a kiss before climbing in next to you and wrapping you up in his arms.
He holds your little pink cast to his chest, presses kisses to your knuckles and does his best to hold back the flood of emotions threatening to crash at the sight of you like this, miserable and exhausted with red rimmed, sleepy eyes. You still shake a little in his grip, even after he’s done everything he can think of to make you feel better.
It makes him feel helpless- out of his element and overwhelmed with the thought that he has to leave you here like this without him for an entire fucking week.
“My poor baby.”
He frowns at you and you buckle, another round of sobs threatening to force their way between your lips.
“M’okay, Daddy.”
He can barely stand seeing you like this but the smile on his face would read to anyone else as easygoing, content. You know him better, though, and without a shield to cover them his eyes give away a lot.
He’s worried.
Gojo scrambles for anything he can do to help you smile at least, even if it's only for a second- gives you his commentary on the logistics of the anime he put on for you, prods you with questions about your friends in school and the pockets of drama you get yourself into sometimes. He learns a lot about your professors, the ones you like and the ones you can’t stand, learns that Wednesdays are your favorite day of the week because you always get coffee at the student center with your best friend. He feels closer to you once you’re done and his chest pinches when you settle down, yawning too much to manage another word.
“It’s okay, babydoll. Go to sleep.”
He flits his thumbs over your eyelids, grimacing when you flinch at his touch. It’s easy to tell that you’re trying to obey him but you just can’t seem to get relaxed enough to succeed, tight laced discomfort winding around each of your movements.
You turn to him and nuzzle your nose against his, hoping he’ll understand your silent plea.
“Want me to make it stop hurting?”
You nod at him and he lifts your chin, kissing you so gently and for so long your pained whimpers turn into soft little sighs of pleasure. You melt into him without a second thought, the warm bloom of belonging spreading across your nerves, winding you down.
Daddy always tastes like wrigley’s doublemint chewing gum, bright and strong and so all-encompassing it swirls through your sinuses as his tongue slides against your own. His breath washes away all traces of the saccharine, salty burn of your brother’s spit and your desperate tears, cleansing and purifying.
Before too long you feel tingles erupting in your cheekbones and the tops of your shoulders, whimpers morphing into full on desperate moans.
Daddy soothes you, tells you you’re so pretty and so sweet and so soft for him as he cages you in against the sofa, draping your legs over his torso and lifting the faded T-shirt he’d just helped you into up and over your head- never once thinking of your brother sleeping in a room one door away from your naked body.
You think of him though. You can’t help it and you’re unsure if it’s the pain meds or the exhaustion but you swear you can feel him moving, can hear him breathing through the drywall. You wonder if he can hear it too, if he cares. A sadistic part of you hopes he’s pinched against his door right now with a hand down his pants, aching over the thought of another man’s hands on your body.
Gojo sucks on your nipple until you come back to him, until it’s swollen, takes his time making you feel good. He’s more gentle than you’ve felt him in a long, long time and it makes your heart swell, vindicates you. His mouth moves to your shoulders and you cry out over the feeling, a satisfied smirk spreading across his face. You dig your nails into his bicep and he moans, pulling you into a sticky, gooey kiss.
You pull away to cup his face in your hands, resting your forehead against his and mouthing a pathetic little “Please, daddy?” that always gets you what you want in record time.
The words are routine and comfortable, safe. You know he’ll give in, that he spoils you- maybe even spoils you a little too much because you let him touch you like you’re still his perfect little girl, like some fragile angel crash landing on his couch for the evening. Like he loves you, really loves you, no matter what Yuuta says or how fucked up the whole thing is. Like he can’t help it.
He listens when you buck your hips and whine- knows you want nothing more than for him to slip the waistband of his plaid pajama pants to the side and split you apart ever so sweetly with his cock. He laces his fingers with those wrapped up in white gauze when you hiss at the stretch, nuzzling into his neck and mewling his title over and over and over, like you’re trying to convince yourself he’s really still yours, like you’re trying to convince Yuuta of it, somehow.
He rolls his hips up from above you, nudging himself inside of you as deep as he can manage with a deep groan, filling your stomach with precious little butterflies. He tucks your legs against his abdomen, muscle rippling underneath your feet as he folds you in half with a grin.
“Spoiled little girl, getting exactly what you want after you were so naughty.”
He knows the words will torture you, just a little, and he doesn’t miss the way you scrunch your eyes closed. He knows you’ve been drinking tonight, knows your brother’s probably busy kicking back the rest of whatever you have gotten into together to wipe the last of the evidence. Brats.
The thought makes him wanna bother you, makes him thrust his hips just so, just enough to make your eyes roll into the back of your head but not quite enough to send you over the edge, not yet.
“Who makes you feel good, princess?”
You don’t hesitate for a second.
“Daddy...”
He grins, sweet and sardonic, amused over just how much he can work you up with a few lines from some corny porno. You’re precious and pathetic in equal measure and it shows when he thumbs over your clit, your whimpers growing to a fever pitch that he silences by squishing your cheeks together, cooing at the little pout it forms on your face.
“You’re adorable. You know that?”
You nod at him, too woozy with pleasure to deny his sweet words and too burnt out to deal with the punishment for denying his affections.
“Love how small you look underneath me.” He nips your ear, his teeth scraping over the flesh, “Feel like m’gonna split you in half, babydoll.”
You nod your head at his words, little pleased hums ringing out into the room to match the rhythmic tapping of skin against skin, pleasure swelling into a crescendo that curls your toes and sends Gojo tumbling down on top of you, panting and overwhelmed and humping against you so desperately you see stars.
“M’gonna cum.” He grunts, biting down on the flesh of your shoulder hard enough to leave behind a dark, gorgeous bruise in the morning, another for your collection. “Gonna cum in your perfect little baby cunt, princess.”
“Daddy-” You breathe, embarrassed over the lascivious words he groans in your ear but he feels the way they make you clench around him, the tipping point he needs to fill you up with warmth, his cock throbbing desperately inside of you while you pant and shiver in his grip.
He doesn’t say anything for a while once it’s done, just hunches over you with his elbows caging either side of your head against your pillow.
“You’re mine.” He whispers, finally, but this time the words don’t send alarm bells ringing in your head. Not immediately, at least.
“My perfect baby girl.”
You’re anything but, and the comedown of the high he’s given you hits hard. A wave of exhaustion washes over you and he can see it plain as day in your face, in the way your lashes slant over your eyes and he can’t help but coo at you.
“Time for bed, kiddo.”
You’re asleep by the time he nestles you in under his comforter with a warm chuckle, sliding in behind you and pulling you to his chest with his chin hooked over your head.
“I gotcha.” He whispers, “I won’t let anything else hurt you, not ever again.”
He doesn’t allow himself to sleep once throughout the whole night- just watches you breathe slowly as the stars slowly fade into a cotton candy sky outside of his bedroom window.
⋆˚꩜｡
The sound of a car honking yanks you out of your sleep with a jolt.
Immediately your fingertips search for a familiar touch, grasping for the solid, comforting warmth of your stepfather in the bed beside you but the sheets are cold. Your face feels puffy, your eyes are swollen and sore and suddenly everything comes back to you.
Right.
Shocking pink pokes out at you from underneath the crisp white comforter and you take a long look at your new accessory, the plaster almost pristine save for a few wonky doodles of cats and bunnies and hearts that you’re sure Gojo added to it while you were sleeping and it almost makes you a little sad.
He’s always been like this, considerate and almost saccharine in the privacy of your embrace, behind closed doors. You adore him for it, this private man that’s allowed you to melt through the cracks of his defenses and take root in his life. You feel like your guilt over betraying him might devour you whole as you rest against the pillows but then he’s honking again and you tumble out of bed to greet him before he’s gone.
Soft little footfalls lead you toward the front door, white socks on hardwood. The house already looks daunting without him here to fill the space with his boisterous personality and his broad shoulders and you feel tears bubbling up already at the thought of a whole week without him. Even after all this time, you’ve never really gotten used to being without him.
You can’t help but freeze for a second when you reach the living room, your eyes going wide with fear at the realization of a possibility you hadn’t even considered. Yuuta is still here, and you realize too late that in about five minutes you’ll be alone with him again. He’s resting on the very same couch that Gojo fucked you on just last night, his back turned to you and a throw pillow smushed over his face and you thank your stars that he at least has the sense to pretend he’s asleep as you go by.
You keep your head down until your hand rests on the cool metal of the doorknob, and the photo hanging in the entryway of your strange little family mocks you as you slip through the door.
The sun is bright and it takes you a few seconds for your eyes to adjust to the view in front of you and you blink against the light. Through the glare you can see Gojo draped over the frame of his Firebird with a duffel bag around his shoulder and a suitcase stuffed into the back seat.
“Hiya baby!”
He scrunches his nose at you and opens his arms wide and you run to him without a second thought, landing right in the one place in the world you really belong.
“I thought you had to leave early, Daddy.”
The smell of his cologne lulls you into a dazed, affectionate state and you grind your cheek against his chest.
“I did.” He sighs, tilting your chin up toward him for a soft, indulgent little kiss. “Thought I’d try to let you sleep in though, you had a rough night.”
“It’s okay-”
“It’s not. I hate that I have to leave you here like this but-”
“Duty calls.” You supply, and the pout on your face tells him everything he needs to know.
He frowns at you with a war behind his eyes and you think for a second that maybe you’ll be able to get him to stay, but then he’s pulling his shades up and leaning back on the hood of his car and you know you’ve lost him again.
“I know you’re upset... but you’ll be just fine, won’t ya angelface? You’re tough.”
“Yes sir.”
“Attagirl.” He pauses, running his fingers through his hair and checking the time on his phone as he goes on. “And I can trust you two to get along for the week, can’t I?”
“What?”
Your voice catches in your throat, fizzling away into nothing but a squeak as you grasp for the words you're looking for.
“Whaddya mean what? You think I’m gonna leave you here alone after that little performance last night?” He laughs. “Fat chance. I can’t trust you to take care of yourself like this. You’re lucky that you’re only stuck with your brother- I was gonna leave you with Nanami but he’s just as busy with this -”
“Yuuta is staying?”
“Didn’t you hear me?”
He pulls back from you with a frown, one that twitches ever so slightly with a malicious sort of knowing that has you wringing your hands together. “Y-yes Daddy. I just know he has school this week…”
“He can take the week off.” Gojo crouches in front of you, taking your hands in his and running his thumb over your cast, “Nothing’s more important than his little sister, mm?”
You don’t have any other option but to smile and nod. “You’re right.”
“I know I am, Princess. And don’t worry, I told him earlier. I actually caught him trying to sneak out this morning before we woke up- you probably saw him pouting about it.” He takes his glasses off and lowers his gaze, “There isn’t anything else you wanna tell me about last night, is there?”
He knows.
You’re certain of it now, maybe he got it out of Yuuta while you slept in his bed or one of the neighbors saw something but he knows and you’re in for it when he gets back home from handling whatever business is urgent enough to take precedence over you… so you lie. Desperately.
“No, Daddy. Nothing happened, we just-”
And then he laughs at you, raises a dismissive hand and waves it in the air like you’re ridiculous for actually bothering to tell him. He must’ve expected you to put up more of a fight.
“Actually? I don’t wanna know. Kids will be kids. Just… remember the rules while I’m gone, okay? It’s one thing to sneak out when Daddy can come rescue you but it’s a whole other thing to act like a reckless teenager while he’s gone.” He pinches your cheeks between his fingers and even in the middle of his lecture you realize you’re gonna miss him more than anything in the world.
“Yuuta’s been looking scrawny since he stopped coming back for the holidays, so don’t go picking any bar fights this week.”
“Daddy!” He always has a way of breaking the tension and he stretches back out to his full height, towering over you with his hands on his hips and a pout on his lips.
“Be a good girl for me, Princess. And remember to keep your phone where you can reach it the whole time I’m gone.”
“Yes sir-”
“That means you actually have to remember to charge it. I won’t be here to plug it in for you when-”
“Daddy.”
He freezes in place, crumpling into a fond smile when your little hand finds its place on his chest and you realize he’s been performing for you all along. He really must be worried about this week.
“I’ll be extra careful for you. I promise.”
“And you’ll eat your vegetables? And remember to sit under the umbrella if you’re outside for too long-”
“Daddy, when have you ever cared about vegetables?”
He laughs at that, a bawdy, full chested guffaw that causes a prideful warmth to bloom in your cheeks. It feels good to make him laugh, to win the approval of the funniest guy in any room.
“I’m gonna miss ya, kiddo.”
This makes you cry and he coos at you, cups your face in his hands and smooches you all over, wrapping you up in his arms when he’s done and spinning you around a few times in the driveway.
He has to pull away from you much too soon, waving his cell phone with the time on it right where you can see it so you know this isn’t about you, that if he had the time he’d spend all day out here with you in his arms but he’s caught between two worlds. You’ve always known that in his line of business, work has to come first.
Once he’s safely tucked into the driver’s seat of his pride and joy he rolls the window down for one final goodbye kiss- pointing an accusatory finger in your direction when you pull away with a smile.
“You better be in one piece when I get home, Princess.”
You laugh. “I’ll do my best.”