to, whomever it may concern

He’ll soften his gaze, speak with words coated in a thick layer of honey, flash that million dollar smile of his— every demand that came from him sounded so sweet, it was sickening. 

He let out a pleased hum. “I knew you would.” 

“It’s just– I don’t,” you cut yourself off with a nervous laugh, the sense of warmth you originally felt quickly morphed into embarrassment, “I don’t have anything else to wear.” 

“No?” 

For a split second, his voice drops. Even if it’s just for a moment, it doesn't fail to leave you a bit unsettled given his history of losing his mind whenever things didn’t go his way. 

“N-no, Sir,” you shrink in your seat, “I’ll have to wait until my next payday to go shopping.”

“I see.” His lips curl back into a smile after realizing he’s going to scare you off, as that wasn’t his intention here. He looks at the door real quick, then back at you. “How about this, then— you remember that department store I had you pick up a suit from once, Damian’s?”

Your eyes widen once you realize where he’s going with this. “Oh! I don’t think that’s n—”

He plants his elbows on top of the desk, leaning forward and cutting you off with the simple, yet powerful act of clearing his throat. 

“Why don’t you give them a visit this weekend, yeah?” He pauses for a moment, as if he were daring you to interrupt him again. You don’t. He laughs. “Yeah— why don’t you give them a visit. I’ll reach out before the day ends so they know to expect you. Better yet, I’ll tell them exactly what I’m looking for and have them pull whatever pieces fit the idea I have in mind, that way you won’t have to think too much into it.” 

“But Mr. Gojo, I can’t afford that,” your voice nearly breaks telling him that. 

Satoru doesn’t even know why you bothered telling him— he already knows. If you haven’t already forgotten, he’s the one that pays you. How hard is it to get you to stop dressing like a fucking nun? He’s had it with the god damn turtlenecks.

He lets out a sigh, fighting to keep his cool demeanor despite his dwindling patience. “Which is why I’m sending you to Damian’s, they have my card ready to go on file.” 

The wheels in your head continue to turn, wondering why he’d even offer you this much. Wondering if this is even appropriate. It’s been over three months since you started working for him and not once have you heard of an allowance meant for office attire. Now he’s sending you to some high-end department store to pick out new clothes, on his dime, since your clothes don’t ‘fit your stature’. Whatever the hell that means.

“I don’t think I can accept this…” you look down at your feet and murmur, and Satoru nearly rolls his eyes. 

You can and you will. 

Satoru watches you freeze and realizes he just said that outloud, making him let out a laugh in an attempt to make himself sound less crazy. 

“Ahem— sorry, what I meant was…” he stalls, leg lightly bouncing as he thinks of what to say, then decides to make this a company thing, rather than a him thing, “if the company’s requiring it, then the company should pay for it, right?”

His words disarm you enough to nod. “...Right.” 

“Perfect,” he chirps out. “That’ll be your assignment for the weekend then.” He leans back in his seat, looking quite pleased with himself. Looking at the clock, he notices it’s a quarter to five, and takes the opportunity to kick you out of his office before the air between you grows awkward again. “Well, now that it’s settled, why don’t you wrap up for the day?” 

You glance at the clock. “Uhhh… yeah, sure! Was there anything else you needed before I clock out?” 

There was a lot that Satoru needed, like for you to stop sounding so eager when asking if he needed anything else from you. You have no idea how painfully hard that makes him. 

“No, thanks,” he responds in a strained tone. “Enjoy your weekend.”

“Thanks! You as well, Mr. Gojo.”

You give him one last smile as you rise from your seat and begin to walk back to your desk that’s just outside his office. It’s not until your hands on the doorknob, ready to turn it, when he stops you one last time. 

You brace yourself the moment you meet an unfamiliar pair of eyes, just glimmering with amusement. Satoru then proceeds to throw you off in a way that almost feels ceremonious with how he never quite gave you the chance to get back up. 

“I know it’s just a little favor, but you know how people can be sometimes. So for both of our sakes, let’s just keep this between us to avoid any confusion, yeah? It can be our little secret.”

Something in that low, velvety voice of his told you it was just the beginning of many secrets you’d be sharing, but it still managed to lure you in.

And so, you said yes— marking the very beginning of something that was just as confusing as it was thrilling. 

. . . . . . 

Being a man of his stature, Satoru has to really watch himself in public— watch what he says, who he says it to, what he does, and where he does it. Which is why he frequents places the public didn’t have knowledge of, let alone have access too. Places that allowed him to let loose. 

Though, in your honest opinion, just because someone can let loose, doesn’t mean they should. Especially someone like Satoru, who does a shit ton of coke and treats it like a fucking free for all. 

His idea of a good time is often a violent one. You wish you were kidding, there’s nothing that gets him going more than being in the middle of an all out brawl— just grinning from ear to ear while drinks and punches get thrown in every which direction as music continues to blast in the background. 

The first to call you is his driver Ijichi, who’s aware that your job consists of tasks that went way beyond the professional scope.

The next is the county jail, because you are Satoru’s emergency contact. 

An hour later, you’re patching your boss up in the middle of his penthouse at 3:00 A.M, when you should be asleep like most people are on this side of the world. 

“Sorry you got ripped out of your sleep for this,” he boyishly mutters as you dab the corner of his mouth with antiseptic. Lucky for him, the cut’s small, and should be gone by Monday morning. It’s his knuckles that are all scraped up. But then again, he doesn’t interact with many people at the office to begin with, and the ones that do get paid enough not to ask. 

“Are you actually sorry, or are you just saying that?” you murmur back. 

“Let’s just say I’m grateful that it's you that’s cleaning me up right now.”

“As opposed to who?”

“I dunno,” he chuckles, looking at you through heavy lidded eyes that you refuse to meet. “Don’t even wanna think about anybody else’s fingers on me.”

“How sweet,” you boredly say, dabbing a bit of ointment on the small cut. “Maybe you can extend that kindness to everyone else for the rest of this weekend? So I don’t have to, you know— pick you up from jail… again.”

“What if I only like being sweet to you?” he murmurs.

He doesn’t make you feel special anymore. 

For how close of a proximity you have to the man’s personal life, you already are special, and it’s something he constantly reminds you of, even during times it’s not necessary. In the midst of all the confusion it leaves you with, you’re reminded of a line that’s been completely blurred, and you’re not quite sure who’s at fault here. 

Satoru may be pervasive by nature, but you’re still here. Somehow there’s still a part of you that wants to please him despite all your irritation. 

“Well then everyone’s out of luck and I’m out of sleep.” You sigh as you close the first-aid kit.

He watches as you get up from the couch to put it back in the cabinet, eyes tracing over your body throughout the entirety of it. You may not be in the tight skirts and high heels he has you in during the day, but he found himself enjoying off-duty sweats and slippers just as much. Shamelessly, he doesn’t take his eyes off you when you start walking back towards him, but you’re used to it at this point. 

“Y’know you can spend the night here if you’re so tired, right?” he teasingly asks, but you know there’s a part of him that’s more than serious about it. 

“No thank you.” You throw your purse over your shoulder, typing away at your phone as you try to book an uber. “I’m sure your silk sheets are great, but they’re no match for mine.”

To no one's surprise, you got out of his penthouse fast. You’ve gotten pretty good at dodging him in situations that could easily end with you on your back, splayed out right underneath him. 

Believe it or not, he actually respects that— the self control and all. Especially with the way you’ve almost given in to him a couple times. It didn’t need to be said for him to know. He’s seen the needy, defeated look in your eyes during the times he’s gotten too close. It’s a look that screams ‘get away from me before I do something stupid, please’. A sweet girl you are, really. 

But what would happen if he kept going and finally closed that distance?

Sometimes, he thinks he’d be nice to you. Be all soft, put you on his lap, whisper sweet things in your ear while his hand slowly slid down your stomach. You’d begin to hold your breath the moment he went past your waist and it’d finally catch once his fingers found themselves in between your thighs, slipping right in between your folds. 

He’d kiss on your neck, pull moans from you as he drew little circles over your clit, making your legs tremble once he finally slipped inside and started curling in. 

Then there’s times he thinks he’d be rough with you. Make you start crying from how fast and hard he made you cum from just his fingers alone. Bend you over the nearest surface and tease you with the thick head of his cock, rubbing it over your slick folds until you beg him to put it in. 

He’d pull your hair back, make you look him in the eyes while he fucked you senseless, pump you full of so much cum that it’d continued to leak out of your poor pussy the very next day. 

Bonus points if you two had to work together that day. 

But for now, a man could only dream, or rather imagine, as he starts to fist his cock to the thought of you for who knows how many times now.

. . . . . .

There’s something mildly embarrassing about going to Damian’s with Satoru after being sent here all those months back to pick out new work clothes. Only because he specifically told the stylist to only pull items that were tight fitting and showed a decent amount of cleavage. 

You’re sure if that asshole hadn't done that, you would’ve walked into the department store without a second thought. As if it couldn't have gotten any worse, that same stylist is here, and she’s looking at you with the same amount of concern you’d give to someone who’s being put through the ringer from extreme work conditions. 

You technically are, given all the extra shit he has you do, like picking him up from jail at 2:00 A.M. You’re not exactly planning on leaving anytime soon, though. Don’t ask why. You’re not so sure of it yourself, either. 

Satoru was here to try on a few different suits that just came in. And you’re here because unless you’re working on anything that’s considered incredibly important, you go wherever he goes. 

Just as he was able to go off to the fitting room, the poor stylist asked a question she really shouldn’t have asked. She had good intentions when asking if you wanted to see some of the new pieces they had for Spring, and then Satoru made some comment about grabbing whatever you wanted and putting it on his card. 

And then this poor girl looks at him with all the confidence in the world and asks, “If you’d like, I can pull a few different pieces from the racks like last time— tight fitting, low cuts, and neutrals, right?” 

You didn’t have much of a reaction upon hearing that, it was already clear he had requested those things the last time you came here. 

Satoru, however, just stood there and stared at this girl as if she had just ruined his fucking life. 

It is not often he's left so appalled that it’s rendered him speechless, but there he was just staring at her with nothing but anger and betrayal in his eyes. She looked like she wanted to cry, and rightfully so. You were honestly scared for her. 

“I think that’d be great,” you cut in, trying to break the tension, only to feel Satoru’s nasty glare get directed towards you instead once he realized you were trying to save her. “We’re here for less than an hour, though, so maybe just pull some skirts since the weather's starting to warm up.” 

“Y-yeah! Of course.” 

You watched as she quickly scurried away, then turned to find your boss just now deciding to follow the tailor, still looking absolutely fucking pissed that she just outed him like that. 

Maybe you should tell her to hide once she comes back with those skirts. 

. . .

Satoru might not be one to talk right now given how his goal a few months back was to get you to start dressing just a tad bit sluttier while still looking appropriate enough for work, but he didn’t give a shit. That woman had no tact whatsoever.

Who says something like that? You’re clearly his fucking assistant, there was no need to out his preferences like that.

It fucked up his entire mood for the hour… not that it stopped him from going ahead and having all the suits he tried on sent to his house. But just as he was getting ready to let it go, he saw something else that managed to make him do a double take. 

It’s exactly what you think it is. Which is why he’s walking straight towards you and whoever the hell you’re talking to. 

You didn’t know Rei existed up until two minutes ago, and tried to do him the favor of wrapping up the small conversation he tried sparking up with you once you caught a glimpse of a certain someone walking your way. 

It didn’t work and now Satoru’s standing in front of you two, making you brace yourself for whatever sequence of words is going to come out of his mouth since he’s already in a shitty mood from the stylist snitching on him for being a pervert.

“You can leave now. Bye,” he simply says to the man, nodding towards the exit. 

There’s a moment of silence. His reaction wasn’t as bad as you thought it would be, but it still adds weight to the air around you. Rei was understandably left scrambling, not that Satoru noticed, he was too busy looking at you like he was tired of you disappointing him. 

And your eyes widened, as if you were asking him, what the fuck did I do?

“Excuse me?” Rei finally managed to ask. 

The displeased look on Satoru’s face stays as he briefly turns his attention to Rei. “You’re excused. Goodbye,” he says, casually dismissing him again.

“I’m sorry,” the man laughs from pure disbelief, “are you her boyfriend or something? Because you could’ve just said—” 

“I’m not,” Satoru cuts him off with a tone that’s still surprisingly calm. 

He wouldn’t say he’s calm— disassociated is more like it. All the words Rei throws at him just swarm around his head like a bunch of little gnats, and he steadily loses his patience since he’s already told the guy to fucking leave. Eventually, he closes his eyes and lets out a long, deep sigh. 

“You know what?” Satoru suddenly cuts him off and proceeds to make him an offer— one that makes your jaw drop. “If you want her number so fuckin’ bad, then fine. You can fight me for it.”

“Satoru?!” you immediately scold the man. 

“What the hell is your problem, man?!” Rei says at the same time as you. 

“Oh, wow.” Satoru looks at you, then points a finger at Rei. “He doesn’t even want to fight for you.” 

At that point, the man storms off, muttering some stuff under his breath about people and wondering what the fuck was wrong with them, leaving you to deal with whatever sudden mood swing your boss was having today. 

It didn’t just start within the last hour. This has been going on all day and started when he almost snapped at one of the interns for running into him this morning when turning a corner too fast. You don’t have much patience for him, though.

“Ijichi’s already waiting outside for us,” you casually inform him and turn your heel, taking a step forward to walk away.

“That’s it?” The lack of acknowledgment makes Satoru snap. “That’s all you have to say?” 

You stop and turn again, taking a good look at Satoru as you try to come up with more to say, which is hard given how you just watched him agree to let someone have your number if they fought him. 

Yet all that comes to mind are the lines that you’ve blurred with the man.

“Do you want me to walk on eggshells around you, too, just like everybody else has today?”

“...No.” It’s not much of an answer with the way he mumbled it, but at least you were able to reroute the guy. 

You softly sigh. “Alright, then… let’s go.” 

. . . . . 

The air’s been stale between you since that day. 

You have no idea what’s gotten into him, neither do you want to ask. And it’s not that you don’t care— of course you do. It should've already been made clear by now that you care about Satoru more than you should.

At first, you wonder if it’s some sort of rough patch. Then you realize that isn't normal in professional relationships, leaving you with more questions than answers because nothing about your relationship is professional. 

You run around all over the place for him, picking up his suits and sometimes even him at 3:00 A.M when he’s too drunk or high to drive home. As if that didn’t cross the line enough, he treats you like his friend. A really jealous friend, at that. He’ll do things like cockblock you if a man tries to talk to you when he’s around, sometimes even threatening to fight them. 

It’s been three weeks of silence. 

He didn’t even bother saying goodbye to you when you clocked out for the weekend yesterday. It wouldn’t have been a bad thing at all with your last boss, but something about getting just a simple hum from Satoru left you feeling stupid. 

So what did change with him? It might be better if he listed all the things that didn’t. 

He still jacked off with you in mind— that probably won’t ever change, at least not for a while. He still keeps an eye on you. 

It sounds bad, but it’s really not. 

He just has surveillance over your apartment building, not your actual apartment. He also has the security team keep an eye out whenever you walk to and from your car, before and after work. Just basic safety stuff. He might have a tracker on your car, but never looks at it. 

Unless he’s drunk, but that doesn’t count in his head.

So then what changed? 

Probably the new sense of shame that only seems to unveil itself when you’re around. He’d rather you not have a front row seat when it comes to all of his less… desirable qualities anymore. He is far from perfect— very fucking far from it. 

Was it too late for that? 

Probably. 

It still made him feel just a little bit better about himself, even though he’s been rotting away on the inside from keeping his distance.

. . . . . . 

Staying late at the office is a rare but unavoidable occurrence. 

It happens. Some work gets prioritized over others, leaving small tasks to multiply and pile up. Today is one of those days Satoru is forced to push a main project aside and tackle all the little ones. 

He considered taking on all of it by himself, but was reminded why he avoided the work in the first place just an hour into his day. It was all so boring and tedious. It would’ve driven him up the wall had he not handed off a portion of it to you. 

But even then, there were a couple moments he spent wallowing in self-pity, looking out the window with thoughts of throwing himself off the top floor of the high rise. He fucking hates this and hates how he has no one but himself to blame for all the procrastination he’s done. 

The office feels like a different world once everyone’s gone. It may feel comfortable for your boss since he has his own office, but your desk right outside of it gives you a front row seat to a corporate wasteland. Muffled chatter gets replaced with the sounds of the fluorescent lights buzzing above you. Air vents thrumming as they recirculate the cold, stale air. 

The clock says 8:48 p.m once you finally finish your last task of the day. As happy as you are to finally leave this place, you grow nervous at the thought of entering your boss’s office to let him know you’re finished and heading home. Whatever camaraderie you had with him is non-existent at this point. Everything with him just feels awkward now and you’d be lying to yourself if you said you haven’t already started looking for new positions. 

You lightly knock on the door leading to his office and don’t enter until you hear a tired hum on the other side of it. 

Aside from the lamps next to his desk and next to the sofa you see when you first walk in, every other light is off, allowing the moonlight to peek through the dim space. It’s actually quite peaceful with his view of the city’s lit up skyline. 

Satoru's eyes must hurt. He has his reading glasses on, framing the tired lines and dark circles under them. 

“I’m all done for the day,” you say, carrying a stack of papers as you walk up to him and setting them down on the oak wood desk he’s half leaning on. 

He doesn’t look at you. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs, sounding just as drained as he looks. 

You stand there, waiting for him to say anything else before coming to the conclusion that maybe it was time to move on to a new company, because you are too far gone. 

Stupid.

The long day you two have had wasn’t a reason to think he’d give you more than he has lately, let alone something to get your hopes up over.

Just standing in front of him makes you feel pathetic— you shouldn’t feel like that.

You open your mouth to say goodbye for the night, since he won’t, but instead say something entirely different that leaves even you shocked. 

“I’m putting in my two weeks.” 

You haven’t even sent out any applications.

Satoru’s eyes darted up at you while staying in place. “What?” 

Despite not having the right, he did not fucking like that. The cold tone of his voice made you want to cower down and take your words back, but there was no turning back. 

You push through the nerves as you repeat yourself in a professional manner. “After some consideration, I’ve decided I want to take my career in a different direction and that would require me to step down from my position.” 

The overly corporate tone does nothing but put a glare on Satoru’s face, one that deepens as you continue to spew, what he considers, a bunch of bullshit from your mouth.

“I’d like to thank you for the opportunities the company has given me, of course. I’d be more than happy to train my replacement.”

“You’re not training anybody,” he scoffs, standing from his seat as he starts to go through literally every stage of grief. “What the fuck? No? No. You’re not fucking leaving— absolutely not. Fuck that.”

Your eyes widen in disbelief over how entitled he is. He’s been treating you like a second class citizen for weeks and now he’s not letting you leave? “That’s not your choice to make.”

“I don’t care,” he says delusionally. “You’re not fucking leaving.” 

“Yes I am.” You raise your tone. “You can’t just fucking keep me here—“

“Where are you going then, huh? Since you seem to have found a place so much better,” his immaturity inevitably shines through as he cuts you off.

“That’s none of your business!” 

“It’s not, but you owe me that much,” he begins to argue. 

Your face twists in disgust. “I don’t owe you anything. I— how can someone be this selfish?! You’ve been giving me the cold-shoulder for weeks—“

He cuts you off again. “So that’s what this is about?!”

For someone that’s been ignoring you for weeks, he’s very expressive, especially when he argues. His pupils will be blown out, he’ll look at you in disgust, talk with his hands, pace around the room, then get in your face. This time is no different. 

“You’re leaving ‘cause I won’t give you attention? I thought you didn’t fucking want that!” He throws his arms out, voice resounding through the room. 

You pause, mouthing a ‘what?’ to yourself in complete disbelief. Leaving someone angry and confused is one impressive skill— Satoru has clearly mastered it. 

“When have I ever said that?!”

“It was written all over your face!” He shouts back, almost as if it was something that hurt him. “I figured you were getting tired of me so I backed off!” 

“Seriously? That’s your definition of backing off?” You have to stop yourself from laughing at how ridiculous it sounds. “Backing off is stopping the 1:00 am calls on the weekend— not completely disregarding me.”

“I went back to being your boss—“

“Yeah, a really shitty one.”

“I was always a shitty one.” He barks out a laugh. “The only reason why you’re mad now is because you’re not getting anything out of it anymore.”

Satoru doesn’t mean that. 

Not that you’d know. 

He tends to reject anything that brings him even just the slightest bit of discomfort, all while hating rejection himself. Watching you try to quit has made it one hell of a combo for him.

If he was just someone you simply had to tolerate, then whatever you gained from it was not worth your time. But he spoke with enough conviction to render whatever response you had useless.

“How the hell do you expect me to stay after saying that?” you genuinely ask. “I’m tired of not being treated like real person and now you’re being a fucking asshole.”

“Fuck. I’m sorry. I—“

“No. Save it,” you say in defeat as you start to walk away.

“Where are you going?” he asks, still having the audacity to sound irritated.

“Leaving— have fun finding a new replacement. I’m not staying for another two weeks.” 

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Well if you’re not coming back would you at least finally admit you felt something between us?” 

You stop and let out a sigh. “What are you talking about?” 

“You know what I’m talking about,” he says, taking a couple steps towards you. 

“No, there wasn’t.” 

“Alright,” he huffs out a laugh. “I get that you’re mad at me and everything, but there’s no point lying about now.” 

“I’m not lying about anything.” 

“I don’t believe you,” he blandly says. “You wouldn’t have stayed as long as you did if there was never anything there. Be honest with yourself for once.” 

Just as you’re about to deny it for the third time, you hesitate. “Just forget it already.”

The sight of you walking away for the second time feels entirely different from the first time for Satoru. No more confusion or panic, all that’s left is certainty. Perhaps a little amusement, as well. “No. I don’t think I will, actually.”

It happens fast. 

You hardly process being spun back around, then you’re stunned again by a pair of lips crashing into yours. It’s messy from the start and he’s breathlessly apologizing against you with each rough kiss. 

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t mean that. Please. 

And you forgive him, because there’s really no point in lying anymore. Not when you’re kissing him back. Desperately, at that— filled with just as much need. His hands start to roam, clothes start to scatter, leaving a trail that leads in the direction he took you in. 

He always thought he’d put you on the desk. 

The couch shifts erratically, moans pour into the room with each thrust. Satoru’s pressing down on your back and deepening the arch he put you in, bottoming out over and over again.

“Good job, baby,” he drones, mesmerized at the sight of you helplessly stretched around his thick cock, covering it in a thick coat of your slick. 

It took some working up to. The moment he sat you down on the couch, he buried his head in between your thighs and tongued your clit— dragging it over that sensitive little bundle of nerves until you couldn’t see straight. Then it was his fingers. Working not one, but two of his long digits into your cunt, curling them into a little spot that had you gushing all over him. 

Now he’s fucking that same little spot to no mercy, making your toes curl as the thick head of his cock catches it. “Oh my g-god— Satoru– fuuck!”

“Mmm I know,” he grabs your hair and pulls you back up against his chest, not letting up as he gets right in your ear. “Say my name again.”

His balls slap against your clit with each thrust, leaving you a gasping mess. “S-Satoru.”

“Again.”

“Satoru!” you cry out. 

“Sounds so fuckin’ pretty coming from you,” he hums, licking a stripe up your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. “You like getting ruined on the couch like this?”

Shamelessly, you nod. “Mhm.”

“Yeah? You’ve thought about this before, haven’t you?” 

“I have,” you admit. “A lot.”

“So honest tonight,” he grins, “so have I— thought about kissing you, fucking you, putting a baby in you.” A hand snakes down your belly until his fingers reach your clit, drawing little circles. “You really wouldn’t be able to get away from me then, huh?” 

“That’s fucking insane,” your attempt to complain dies out into another pathetic moan. 

“I fucking know,” he laughs, pulling your hair back even more so you can look him right in the eye while he fucks himself even deeper into you. “I think you might like that though since you’re squeezing around me like crazy.” 

And you have no idea how to respond to that, you’re so fucking close. It’s taking everything in you to hold yourself together while he just tears you apart with each snap of his hips, rubbing fast circles over your clit.

“How bad do you wanna cum again?”

It’s been three times already, each time harder than the last. Your own body betrays yourself when you answer his question. “So bad.”

He hums sympathetically, though the look in his eyes seems to be the complete opposite of that. He keeps the same dizzying pace, pushing you further and further to edge until you’re finally gushing around him, again. He watches as tears of pure pleasure start rolling down your cheeks, trembling and letting out choked moans as he continues fucking you into overstimulation. 

“I know, baby, I know,” he coos, letting go of your hair and wrapping his arms around your waist, keeping your back flush against his chest while he starts chasing against his own release. “M’so fuckin’ close. You’re gonna take it all, right?” 

“Yeah,” you weakly nod, nails digging into his forearms, steadying yourself as best as you can. 

“Shit— good girl,” he exhales, snapping his hips against your ass even harder, thrusts growing sloppier. “Here we go.”

The groans that spill out of Satoru are just downright sinful. There’s nothing but desperation in his tone as he holds on tight and starts pumping you full of his cum, shuddering as you milk his cock for all that he has. 

You’re spent by the time you come back to your senses, with his arms being the only thing keeping you up. And yet, as you lay limp in his hold, he says something that, at the time, sounded like a threat with how entranced he seemed.

“Don’t think I’m done with you yet, princess.” 

—

It’d been months since the night he finally broke his silence with you. 

No, you don’t work for him anymore. You quickly found a new job just three weeks later. One with better pay and normal hours. Easier, too.

Looking back, he truly was a shitty boss. A conniving one that always took up your time. You guess you just never saw it because a part of you always liked it— better yet, liked him. 

Good thing he’s a better boyfriend than he is a boss. 

You were reluctant to start a relationship with him at first, the thought of him taking up even more space into your life lingering in the back of your mind and threatening whatever little peace you had left. But surprisingly, he went from being a conspiring little bastard to…

“I just have one request tonight.” 

You’re in the middle of doing your makeup when his sudden presence pulls your attention away from it. You look at a slightly reluctant Satoru through the vanity mirror, raising a brow and waiting to hear what exactly that request is for tonight. 

“Can you wear something that shows your tits more?” Immediately you scoff, and he’s quick to defend himself. “What?! It’s our anniversary!”

You’ve been with him for an entire year now, and he just seems to grow more and more pathetic as the time passes. He’s in nothing but boxers, begging you to show off some cleavage, for fucks sake.

“You see my tits every night,” you scold him. 

“And I want to see them some more tonight, too.”

You scoff. “Sato—“

“Please,” he cuts you off with a beg. There’s a bit of a stare off shortly after, with him looking at you like some lost puppy and you inevitably give in, like you always do. He’s hard to say no to when he gets like this.

“Fine.” 

He smiles and walks up to you, leaning down to give you a quick kiss, careful not to mess with your lip liner. “Love you.”

“I love you, too,” you softly say, before barely scolding him again. “Now go put your suit on, you’re the one that said the driver was gonna be here soon.” 

“Yeah, whatever— he can wait,” he waves a hand, lazily walking up to the sea of suits he has in your shared closet. 

“Hey, Satoru?” 

“Hm?”

“If we’re even one minute late, I’m putting on a fucking turtleneck.” 

“…Fine.”

Gojo has been chasing you like a lost puppy —much to your pleasure— ever since that day in the classroom. He yearns for you in ways he didn’t think were possible. He wasn’t entirely sure if you liked him or if you were just toying with him. But he could be your toy if you wanted him to. He could be anything you wanted. He was your good boy after all. 

A —not so surprisingly— needy one too. 

You had created a monster, a desperate, horny monster. He was impatient for you. All the time. He’d be vibrating on the spot, waiting for a moment alone with you. And you took advantage of it. 

Because watching him get so needy and whiny was something you thrived off. 

“‘Toru, I already told you, you can’t come.” 

You were in your dorm, Gojo on your bed, whining for you to stay. It was the girls' night out, and he wasn’t invited. 

“Please! I’ll be good, you won’t even notice I’m there.” He pleaded, looking up at you as you changed in the shortest skirt he’d ever seen. 

You smiled at him, zipping up the skirt. “You and I both know that’s not true, ‘Toru.” 

He whined again, God, what have you done? “Please… you’re gonna be gone for so long!” 

You rolled your eyes at his words, shaking your head as you walked to your closet to get your heels out. “I’ll come back soon enough.”

He huffed out a breath, crossing his arms like a petulant child. 

“You can watch a movie while you wait.” You suggested, slipping in your heels. “Or play on my computer, I have Resident Evil.” 

He perked up slightly at your words, still pouting but looking less annoyed. “…Which one?”

“Uh… the fourth one?” 

“…Fine. But come back quickly.” 

You chuckled at his words, taking your purse before walking up to him. His eyes traveled down your figure, taking in the way you looked, fuck, he needed you like air. 

You leaned down, placing a kiss on his forehead. “Bye, ‘toru. Behave.” 

Gojo closed his eyes at the kiss, smiling just slightly before opening them and looking up at you through his glasses. “I’ll behave.” 

He did not behave. 

Thirty minutes passed, and he tried to distract himself. He played Pokémon on his phone for about five minutes before giving up. He tried to play Resident Evil since you had suggested it, but he just couldn’t stop thinking about you.

He didn’t care about the game; he didn’t care about anything; he just wanted you. 

So as he lay on your bed, his mind began to drift, drift to your body, how you looked tonight on that skirt; how the fabric clung to your skin. He knew how your pretty face looked even prettier with your makeup done, and he knew how much time you spent on it. 

And his hips began to buck, hard cock rutting against the bedding. He whined, a soft, almost embarrassed sound. 

“F-fuck…” He shouldn’t be doing this, not on your bed and without your permission. But he couldn’t stop, not like he wanted to anyway. 

His face was on your pillows, hot breath fogging up his glasses as he moaned into the fabric. His hips rolled against the soft covers of your bed, creating just the tiniest bit of friction. But it wasn’t enough for him. He needed to feel more, more of you. 

He glanced around your room, his gaze landed on the pile of dirty laundry by the corner, your dirty laundry. With shaky legs, he stood up from your bed, walking towards the pile and rummaging through it. 

He found what he was looking for, a flimsy —almost nothing— pair of underwear. He sighed, bringing the lacy panties up to his nose. Shamelessly taking a long whiff of them, fuck. It smelled like you. 

He whined, eyes closed as he imagined it was your pussy on his face instead of the piece of fabric he was holding. His hand fell to his front, palming himself through his sweatpants. 

God, he needed you. 

With shaky legs, he walked back to your bed, lying down as his hips moved with desperation against the covers. He wanted more; he wanted you.

“P-please…” He whined out, rutting his hips like a desperate dog. His entire body was scalding hot, soft cries were leaving his pouty lips as he dry humped your bed. “I need you, please-“ His name would leave his lips like a prayer, like if he repeated it enough, you’d magically appear in front of him. 

“F-fuck… please, please.” 

The hand holding your panties slipped down while his other hand pulled his sweats and boxers down hastily, dragging the lacy material over his hard cock. He moaned out. “Ohhh…” He was close.

He could feel it, ragged hips thrusting into the fabric, imagining it was your pussy. He couldn’t stop thinking about you. How would you react if you’d seen him like this? The degradation… God, he longed for it.

“Fuck, fuck, ‘m cumming…” He cried out, soft, wanton moans leaving his glossy lips. “‘m cumming!” His back arched as he came, ropes of hot, thick cum staining your underwear.

He lay there for a moment, no remorse whatsoever, as he slowly sat up, glancing at his softening cock and your soiled panties wrapped around it. “Fuck.” He whispered.

He ended up falling asleep like that, pants below his knees, and your panties still in his hands. 

You came back around 1 am, tipsy and tired from dancing with your girl friends. What you did not expect was to find him like that. But then again, what could you expect from Satoru right now? 

You scoffed at the sight, settling your purse down and throwing your heels on the floor as you walked up to him. You glanced down at his body. He was curled up on your bed, half-naked and holding your underwear like it was his.

Sitting down next to him, you leaned in closer, and he got startled, eyes opening as he sat up, glasses askew on his panicked face. “Hi, ‘toru.” You said with a smile, though he knew it wasn’t a genuine one. “Had fun?” 

“U-uhm- it’s not, I didn’t-” He stammered, face beet red as he looked at you, trying to cover up what he had done.

“You didn’t what? Use my panties to get off? ‘Cause I think you did, ‘toru.” Your tone was mean, and he could feel himself get hard. “I- I missed you.” Was all he could mutter below your stern gaze. 

You rolled your eyes, glancing down at your lacy panties covered in his cum. “Put them on.” 

His eyes widened, hands flying up to adjust his glasses. “W-what?” 

“Put them on, ‘toru.” You repeated. “Put my panties on.” 

He hesitated for a minute, but under your gaze, he had to do it. With slow yet deliberate movements, he slipped your panties on. The tip of his now hard cock was creeping from the top hem, where a tiny bow settled on the lace. 

You hummed at the sight, leaning back slightly. “You’re hard.” 

He glanced down, face still deeply flushed at what was happening. “Sorry, are you getting shy?” You mumbled, giving him a fake pout. “Were you shy when you used them to get off?” 

God, you were so fucking mean. He could feel his cock throb. 

“N-no…” He mumbled, trying not to buck his hips up. God, he was so hard. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” His name rolled out of his mouth like a plea. “Forgive me, please…” 

You hummed at his words before standing up. “I’ll forgive you.” He perked up at your words. “If you let me edge you.” He deflated. “What? You thought you weren’t gonna get punished?” 

He watched you walk to your closet, taking out a box before coming back. He glanced curiously but didn’t say anything as you opened it. Inside, there were a bunch of toys, sex toys, ones that you’ve already used on him, and some that you haven’t.

“W-what are you using on me?” He asked nervously; he never knew with you.

You gave him a grin. Oh, it was definitely bad. From the box you pulled out a… sound. 

His eyes widened, of course he knew what it was. “N-no, no, no, no-“ 

“You came in my favorite panties.” 

His mouth closed at that; any other complaint was getting shut down. “S-still… It’s dangerous, isn’t it?” 

“Not if you do it right.” You replied, rummaging for a bottle of lube. “Come on, I’ll go slow. And, you need a punishment, ‘toru. I told you to behave.”

He whined a bit at that. 

“Did you behave?”

To your question, he shook his head slowly, a deep pout on his face. “No…”

“Right.” You replied, pushing him onto your bed so he was lying on his back. “Just, tell me if it hurts too much, I’ll go slower.”

“C-can you, y’know, sanitize it first? A-and wash your hands?” 

You rolled your eyes at him but nodded, getting up from your bed and walking to your bathroom. To comply with his request, you washed your hands thoroughly and sanitized the sound before heading back. 

“Done.”

He nodded at your words, visibly nervous as he sat up on his elbows. “Relax.” You said, sitting down beside him again. “I’ll go slow.” 

“O-okay, just- just lubricate it really well so it doesn’t t-tear, please. The urethral opening isn’t-“ 

“I know, ‘toru. I’ll be careful.” You cut him off, opening the bottle of lube and coating the sound thoroughly, also squirting some lube on his twitchy cock. Your panties are still on him, but lowered just enough. 

You brought the sound to his opening, slowly inserting it. “O-ow…” He whined at the feeling; it didn’t hurt too much, it was just unusual for him. He could feel tears gathering in his eyes from the sensibility. You paid careful attention to his reaction before continuing.

He groaned, head lolling back as the sound pushed in deeper. “Nghnnn… f-feels so weird.” He cried out. 

Your eyes settled on his face, tears streaming down his cheeks as his bottom lip trembled. Fuck, he looked absolutely divine like this. You could feel your pussy practically gushing at the sight, who knew you’d like to see him cry? 

“Does it hurt?” You asked in a whisper, completely entranced by him. 

He shook his head slowly, eyes scrunching as the sound stilled inside him. “N-no, it just feels- fuck, strange.” 

You nodded at his words, wrapping a hand around his shaft and stroking up and down slowly, almost torturing. He moaned, a wanton, almost cry leaving his lips. 

“The safe word is Pokémon, by the way.” You teased with a faint smirk. He nodded, thighs shaking as he bucked his hips against his will. “F-fuckk…” 

The room was filled with his cries and the squelching sound of your hand on his cock. He felt like dying in the best way possible; it was nothing like he had ever experienced before and that was scary. 

Your name left his mouth in a soft whimper, eyes opening as he looked at you through his glasses. “I wanna cum, please, wanna cum.” He begged quietly. “Please.” 

You hummed at his words, tightening your grip and earning a particularly loud moan from him. “Please…”

“Satoru, this is a punishment, remember?” Your voice was like the devil’s.

“I know, I know, but- fuck, please… please, I won’t do it again, I won’t- I’ll buy you a new pair, yeah? I’ll buy you ten pairs, just please…” He rambled on and on, and you couldn’t help but smile.

Fuck, that sadistic smile of yours.

“Please!” 

You shushed him gently, not stopping the soft strokes on his cock, you could feel it throbbing. “You can cum. But the sound stays in.” 

More tears left his eyes at your words, he could cum though…

“F-fuck, okay, okay, just please.” He nodded quickly, hips bucking to match the pace of your hand. 

He was close, so close he could feel it, but it was so strange. He cried out your name again. “Kiss me, please, please kiss me.”

And who were you to say no? 

Leaning down, you kissed his glossy lips, earning a soft moan from him as he shivered. His hand finds your face, touching you gently. He pulled back with a loud moan, almost a scream, as he came harshly. “O-ohhhh, fuck! fuck!” 

The sound was stimulating all the nerve endings inside him and it was like anything he’d ever experienced. “Shit…” It felt eternal. 

You watched in awe as he writhed and cried beneath you, thighs clenching to relieve yourself for a moment. 

 He felt warm all over, like a pressure point inside him had popped. 

With exhaustion, he fell back on your bed, soft cries still leaving his lips.

“Good boy, ‘toru.”

At your praise, he practically beamed, even though he was wrecked, he gave you a soft smile. Because at the end, all he wanted was to be your good boy.

Your hand grasped the tip of the sound before carefully pulling it up, slowly taking the sound out of his cock. He hissed from the overstimulation.

And you watched his cum ooze out, it was a lot, thick cum just pooling on his stomach.

You cleaned him up before lying down next to him, both quiet for a moment before he spoke.

“I liked it.” Was all he said, and you smiled. 

“Satoru, you kinky fuck.” 

Notes: I don't know what came to me, but wow. Anyways, I really hope y'all liked it. I may write more parts perchance. Love you all mls.

sukuna: you're quiet. what are you doing tonight?

you: most people start with a greeting and small talk, ryomen.

sukuna: i like getting to the point but i'll humor you.

sukuna: hello, sweetheart. how are you?

you: hey. i'm pretty good and you?

sukuna: good too. back to my first question.

you: rude. going out with my friends to some new club.

sukuna: what are you wearing?

you: it's impolite to ask a lady what she's wearing, ryomen.

sukuna: you're right. i won't ask. tell me what you're wearing.

and that had sparked a brilliant idea in your head to send him a totally innocent picture of you in your dress before you left your apartment.

there is a delay that you count with the beats of your heart until your phone buzzes with his response.

sukuna: you're going out in that? careful, some guys might try to grab your ass.

eyes widening, you feel the heat creep up your neck. you know exactly what he’s doing—marking his territory from miles away.

you: why would they do that? lol

sukuna: because they're idiots. stick close to your friends, yeah?

you: okay. any drink suggestions?

across the city, sukuna leans his head back against the locker, his phone heavy in his hand. he stares at the photo you sent—the curve of your bare spine, the way the fabric clings to your hips. his jaw tightens. he can practically feel the texture of your skin under his calloused palms. he’s already straining against his shorts, the visual of you walking into a dark club with all that skin exposed making his blood simmer.

the picture gave sukuna a thrill. he'd been waiting for you to make the first move for a while now. to him, woman are like cats. no one in their right mind goes up to a cat, be it a stray or homed, and reaches out to touch it. it will attack you, look at you crazy or run away. the feline will let you know when you can touch it very much like a lady. so he's bidding his time with the patience of a saint for when you do, when you come out of your shell and show him what you want.

sukuna: i'm usually a whiskey on the rocks kind of guy, two fingers. you seem like you enjoy fruity cocktails though.

you: i do but i'm willing to try new things.

sukuna: think you can handle two fingers?

your heart skips a beat. you know it’s a double entendre, and the mental image of his large, tattooed hands—the ones that grip a rugby ball with such care—doing anything else to you makes your breath hitch. you’re rubbing your thighs together now, the friction the only thing grounding you.

stealing a glance at the driver through the rear view mirror, you feel silly about your shame. it's not like your screen is cast on the dashboard for the middle-aged man to see. he's focused on the road.

you: of whiskey, right?

sukuna: what do you think i mean?

you: well, we're talking about whiskey so i'm going with that.

sukuna: obviously.

you: you give drink recommendations to everyone like this?

sukuna: not in this manner.

you: in what manner?

sukuna: stop texting and being asocial. go have fun with your friends, silly girl.

the dismissal feels like a physical shove, making you huff in frustration. but then, your phone vibrates—a heavy, deliberate pulse.

it’s a photo.

harsh gym lighting. sukuna is shirtless, his jersey gripped between his teeth, pulling the fabric up to reveal a sunkissed torso that looks carved from granite. his tattoos snake around his obliques and dip dangerously low into the waistband of his shorts. crimson eyes pin you in place as he stares into the camera.

greedily, you zoom in until the ink blurs into pixels, your pulse drumming in your ears as you stare at the sheen of sweat on his skin. a dusty pink, neatly trimmed happy trail disappears into his shorts like an ‘x’ marking the spot of a pirate's treasure.

sukuna: it'd be unfair to not return the favor.

you: you’re a horrible man.

sukuna: you want to kiss this horrible man.

you: bite him actually. hard enough to draw blood btw.

sukuna’s eyes darken as he reads that. he imagines your teeth against the ink on his shoulder, the sharp sting of it and it makes the burgeoning bulge in his shorts pulse. a string of dirty messages aren't enough to get him worked up but he'd been wanting to palm himself for twenty minutes, trace the tip of his half-mast erection while he imagines dragging his fingers down the dip in your naked back and feeling you shudder.

sukuna: hmm, i bet you're a biter.

you: i bet you'd like that.

sukuna: this isn't about me.

you: oh yeah? i bet a hundred bucks that you're hard right now.

he doesn't try to deny it. he hits the banking app, the notification popping up on your screen instantly.

sukuna: [attachment: a notification of a $100 transfer]

you gasp, the sheer audacity of it making your stomach flip.

he’s winning. he knows he’s winning.

you: enough. i'm gonna get horny.

sukuna: my bad. i was gonna send you a voice note of me doing inappropriate things while staring at that picture of you but i don’t want to bother you. stay safe. bye.

you drop the phone into your clutch like it’s made of live wire. your mind is a mess of static and cotton and the driver has to call out to you a few times before you embarrassingly realise you've arrived at your destination.

as you step out of the cab and into the thumping bass of the club, you’re a ghost even as you beam at your friends and hug them. you stand at the bar, ordering his whiskey, but all you can hear is the voice note he didn't send—the imagined sound of his gravelly voice breaking as he took himself to the edge while looking at your body.

you’re wet, you’re haunted, and the worst part is knowing that tomorrow, he’ll see you during your planned hangout and just nod casually, like he didn't just ruin your entire night from a locker room across the city.

the club is a blur of strobe lights and muffled bass, but you move through it like a woman possessed.

every time the silk of your dress brushes your thighs, you think of his "two fingers" comment. every time you catch your reflection in a mirrored pillar, you see the version of yourself he’s currently imagining—a mess of smudged eyeliner and tangled hair fanned over his pillow.

by the time you stumble back into your apartment at 3:00 am, the whiskey buzz has settled into a warm, defiant glow in your chest. you’re tired of him winning. you’re tired of his nonchalant "stay safe. bye" while you’re left reeling.

you kick off your heels and head straight for the back of your closet. there it is. his red rugby jersey, heavy and smelling faintly of his detergent and that distinct, woody scent that clings to his skin.

in the bathroom, the lighting is soft, blurring the edges of the room. your hair has mostly escaped the claw clip, hanging in messy, dark waves over your shoulders. your dark eyeliner is slightly smudged, giving you a sleepy, wrecked look of a woman who's been thoroughly ravished.

you pull the jersey over your head. it swallows you, the hem reaching mid-thigh, the thick sleeves hanging past your elbows. just the thought of him wearing this has a delightful shiver crawling down your spine.

standing before the mirror, you hike up the left side of the heavy fabric, bunching it in your fist until the curve of your hip is exposed. you’re wearing lacy panties—the ones with the delicate silk bow right in the middle—that contrast sharply against the plush, doughy curve of your thighs.

your heart hammers against your ribs as you slide your free hand beneath the hem of the jersey, hiking it up on one side. your manicured fingers find the weight of your bare breast, cupping the plump swell of it, pushing the curve upward so it teases the edge of the lens.

you look flushed, your lips parted, your eyes heavy with the lingering effects of the liquor and the sheer audacity of what you’re doing. the phone hides your face.

click.

you don't look at it twice. if you do, you’ll lose your nerve. you open the chat—making sure it's his so you don't have an embarrassing mishap—attach the photo, and type a simple caption.

you: i found this in my closet. it’s a lot more comfortable than the dress.

you: goodnight, ryomen. sleep well.

across the city, in the silence of his dark apartment, sukuna's phone lights up the room. he’s finally managed to cool his blood with a cold shower, coral hair damp, lying shirtless on top of his sheets, staring at the ceiling.

he reaches for the device, expecting a "home safe" text.

the red of his jersey catches his eye first. then he sees your hand—your delicate, soft hand—all cozy in his clothes even as you taunt him with everything he can’t touch. he sees the plushness of your torso, the bow on your panties, the way the fat of your tit spills into your palm and his hot all over again.

sukuna knows that his big hand would easily engulf your breast. his fingers twitch at the thought of squeezing it.

his breath hitches, a low, visceral grunt rumbles in his throat as his groin tingles.

the "typing..." bubbles appear on your end almost instantly, but you don't stay to watch. you toss the phone onto your nightstand and crawl into bed, a smug, satisfied smile on your lips.

you: 1 sukuna: 0

actually—

sukuna: cute.

sukuna: bet what's underneath is even cuter.

no, he's not talking about your underwear.

sukuna: you should let me give her a goodnight kiss some time.

anddddd, you're screaming into your fucking pillow.