otsukare!
pairing: satoru gojo x idol!f!reader
tags: noncon, drugging, kidnapping, yandere, praise, overstim, multiple orgasms, dry humping, creampie, selfship coded aspects (reader's idol color is pink, satoru's called 'toru)
wc: 4.6k
summary: On the night of your graduation, your biggest fan is determined to extend your career just for a moment longer.
a/n: hi. i am alive and writing somehow lmao. idk if anyone cares about continuity in this series but this satoru’s not connected to any of the previous works. i like to think this is a version of him that never ends up confronting you in the dressing room (in all six eyes on me), which means he’s fallen to some desperate measures. anyways. seriously read the tags before proceeding. dividers by @/cafekitsune
ao3 link here
Nothing lasts forever. This, you know.
Still, that doesn’t make it any less bittersweet.
It’s an excellent turnout for your graduation concert. For one, it sold out. The sea of penlights glowing the dark and dim venue with pink is a sight to behold. It’s enough to bring you to tears during your last song, voice trembling as you tried to push the lyrics you’ve sung so easily before.
There’s no time to waste, you only have a brief moment to pull yourself together as the performance ends. Your time on the stage might be over, but there’s still a long line of fans forming to say their final goodbyes.
It all goes by faster than you’d like it to. Flipping through the pages of memories, each fan holds a place in your heart, no matter how small. Even if remembering all the names can be a herculean task at times, you remember the stories. A college student who told you about how your music has helped him through exam season. An older woman who makes the trek from Fukuoka once a season to watch you perform; she’s mentioned that you remind her of her younger self, full of light and wonder. The salaryman who comes to the show with a briefcase in one hand and penlight in another; you thought of him as cold and intimidating until he asked for a cheki with the enthusiasm of a child in a candy shop.
There’s plenty of tears shed through the fleeting moments. Even still, your heart swells with gratitude.
The night is coming to an end, and so is this chapter of your life. Though it’s had its ups and downs, you’re ultimately satisfied with what you were able to achieve. There’s not much keeping you tied down to the life of an entertainer.
If there was one thing you had to choose to take with you post-graduation, it would have to be–
“Toru!” You’re almost tempted to bring him in for a hug, just to stop yourself short. He’s been one of your most passionate supporters, and he’s stuck out for you to the end. Through the nearly empty venues, the disastrous singles, and the occasional controversy, his voice and presence has become comforting throughout the years, one you seek out at every performance.
It’s an awkward line to tread. One one hand, you’re an idol and he’s just a fan. On the other, you’ve spent so many hours together, spread across the length of your career in little moments like this.
“Aw, it’s your graduation and I can’t even get a hug?” he whines with a pout before pretending to bend over in pain while grabbing his chest. “You wound me.”
“Sorry ‘Toru, you know how it is.”
“Fine, fine,” he replies, nonchalantly swatting his hand like he’s swiping away your answer, “but can I give you a graduation present?”
“Aw, what is it?” You can’t stop your eyes from wandering, his hand clearly hidden behind his back.
“Drumroll please,” he requests, and you give it to him, rapidly slapping your thighs to represent one.
“Ta-da!” Satoru brandishes a garish gift bag decorated with an intricate array of ruffles and bows, clearly inspired from one of your first costumes. The display is enough to make your cheeks swell with heat and your heart skip a beat. It’s always been hard to stay professional with him. Still, you try.
“Aw, you shouldn’t have,” you say, tone high and sweet. Carefully, you take the bag from his hands, fingers slipping between the layers of tissue paper to see if you can make out the present, though there’s far too much fluff to make anything of it.
“Anything for my oshi,” Satoru says, beaming with a smile that exudes pride. “You can open it now if you want. I have the time and the tickets.”
“Don’t you always,” you reply with a sigh. You almost feel bad taking out the tissue paper, especially with how neat it is. But you do anyway, anticipation slowly building up with each piece you take out. You’re surrounded in a pile of pinks and reds once you finally get to the bottom, a lone stamen surrounded by rose petals. A small red box lays in the nest of confetti, neatly wrapped with a bow.
With the box in hand, you give him another curious glance, and he urges you to open it up with a nod. So you pull on the bow, gently lifting the lid to reveal an arrangement of chocolates.
“I know you usually don’t take food as gifts, but I made them myself,” he explains with a bright grin. He gets a little closer to whisper the next part, his hand next to his lips, “And I got the okay from mane-san.”
Just to confirm, you look over at your manager, who gives you a thumbs up. Even still, you’re a bit hesitant, staring down at the petite balls of chocolate. They’re cute and decorated with various toppings–heart sprinkles, edible pink glitter, gold drizzled on top. Tempting, to say the least.
Satoru must sense your uncertainty as he attempts to convince you further, “If it makes you feel better, I’ll eat one with you!”
In his defense, the crowd is nearly gone–just a few stragglers here and there. They’re even starting to put away the celebratory standing sprays. Even if anyone were to see this, it’s your last day on the job, and you don’t have any plans on returning.
So you take your pick of chocolate, one with a little heart sprinkle on top.
“Let me feed you,” Satoru attempts to take the candy from your fingers, only for you to pull your hand back on instinct.
“Hm?” You give him a rehearsed look, one of feigned innocence.
“C’mon, it’s your graduation. Just this once,” he pleads, eyes sparkling with determination.
You give one more glance at your manager, who gives you a nonchalant nod and an ok with his fingers.
You figure you’ll give him this, just this once.
“I guess,” you relent, and Satoru is over the moon.
“To your graduation!”
“Thanks for always supporting me, ’Toru.”
You let him feed you, his fingers barely grazing against your lips as you take the candy into your mouth. As soon as you bite down to break down the shell, a creamy rich filling dances on your tongue–vanilla, you think. You try to savor the taste, though the more you chew, the more you’d rather get it over with. It’s not bad per se, but it’s more bitter than you were expecting.
“Is it good?” he asks with his mouth still slightly full.
“It’s great!” you exclaim, covering your mouth with your hand, just in case the chocolate has made its mark anywhere. You’ve spent a lot of time with Satoru, but you think you’d still be embarrassed if you were caught with a brown streak on your teeth.
“I’m really glad you like it,” he hums with a hint of glee, a soft blush rising to his cheeks.
“I’d like anything you get for me, ‘Toru,” you reply, attempting to recede into yourself like a turtle into its shell, just a little. Something about the moment makes you feel shy, even though you’ve spent so many meet and greet portions with him before. Maybe because it’s the first time he’s fed you. Maybe because it’s the last time you’ll see him.
“I’m glad you think so,” he says gently, his eyes crinkling as he smiles. You’re sure he’s grateful, but there’s something else behind his voice you don’t recognize. Something you can’t quite decipher. Maybe it’s sadness; it’s not like you’ve heard it on him before.
“Well, what kinda special pose do you have for me today?” you ask, attempting to move the topic forward and cheer him up.
“Actually, I brought this,” he confesses, scrambling around in his pockets until he reveals a long satin red ribbon.
You raise an eyebrow. “What’s this for?”
“It’s a promise,” he says, wrapping the ribbon around his pinky and finishing it with a bow, “that we’ll find each other in the next life.”
“A bit dramatic, don’t you think?”
“I don’t think so,” he sighs affectionately, “and I think the word you’re looking for is romantic.” Satoru extends his hand out towards yours, his fingertips a mere inch away from yours. “May I?”
Satoru wasn't always this suave. It still catches you off guard sometimes, especially considering his first meeting with you, where he was stumbling over his words, closed his eyes during the photo and asked for a retake, and dropped the polaroid. He’s come a long way, you think.
You know he’s a handsome man, you have eyes. But you’ve never really considered him in this light, never allowed yourself to. There’s always something else you have to prioritize: the next single, your fans’ feelings, whatever project your manager dumps onto your lap. Being selfish is a privilege you seldom indulge in, but it’s one you finally have the chance to entertain.
“You may.”
Gently, his fingers caress yours, draping the ribbon over your pinky before gingerly tying a knot around it. It’s not what you’re used to. It’s unlike all the nervous handshakes, or rehearsed fanservice poses you’ve done before.
You think it’s one of the most intimate touches you’ve ever felt.
It makes your cheeks run hot, like the silver spun threads of your professionalism are held over an open flame; they’ll melt and fray if you’re not careful. This wouldn’t be a problem on a normal day, but when he looks at you with reverence, as if you’ve built the world with your own hands, you feel like the roles are reversing.
It’s not fair how his eyes sparkle–crystalline and reflective like the sea at night, a body of water you’re all too tempted to drown in.
“I was thinking of something like this,” he explains, his pinky crossing over yours. The contact is electrifying for you both; you can see it in the way he perks up when your finger brushes against yours, feel it in the way your breath hitches for a brief moment. “Is this okay?”
You give him an uncharacteristically shy nod, barely making the motion for him to make out.
Satoru’s on fire now, practically leading the meet and greet and signaling to the cameraperson to take the picture already.
He steadies himself once the cameraman starts counting down, while you start panicking about being presentable. Your eyes meet his and stay there for what feels like too long. It’s just for the photo, you tell yourself, but it’s hard to deny that it feels like more than that.
It’s the lack of distance. The familiarity and yet the lack thereof. The temptation of closing the distance, a hands length away.
It’s becoming harder and harder to keep your composure. The longer you stare into his eyes, the more you feel your heart sink at the realization that it’s almost over – this is it.
You’re not crying, but your vision starts to blur. A woozy feeling stirs in your head, and you’re not sure if it’s the exhaustion catching up to your body. Maybe it’s the swell of emotions raising a storm.
“Sorry ‘Toru, I’ll be right back.”
“Huh? Are you okay?”
“Y-Yeah, just need to get some water.”
As you make your way over to the green room, everything gets fuzzy, your head a swirling wreck. You do your best to keep you balance, holding onto the walls to guide you but it doesn't do much to help when everything goes to black.
–
The room is spinning.
Or it feels like it is.
Or maybe it’s your head.
You can barely bring your head to stand on its own weight as it simply drops to the side with each attempt.
It’s definitely your head.
You’re still in your graduation costume. Tulle and organza scratches against your thighs, grazes it much more incessantly than you’re used to. Polyester fabric sticks to your clammy skin. It’s suffocating. Nothing would feel better than ripping it off but your arms are too weak to do much of anything.
It’s not just that. Every part of your body feels heavy, like dead weight. As if it should’ve broken the bed you’re laying on—which you’re now noticing—isn’t your own.
The blinds are down. Even though you can’t make out much through the darkness, you can tell that whoever lives here is obsessed with you. There isn’t so much as a speck of blank space on the wall, plastered with posters of you. Shelves upon shelves filled with memorabilia–can badges, acrylic stands, and various polaroids. If only your eyes would work properly, you’d be able to make out the second person in the pictures.
The door opens with a creak.
Panic strikes you like a bullet, sharp and sudden. Even though every neuron in your body is screaming at you to run, you can barely keep your head up, much less move a single limb.
“Looks like little miss sleepyhead’s awake!” A hand pets your head, carelessly making a mess out of your hair.
You attempt to fight gravity and put your head properly on your shoulders, squinting through your blurry vision to put a face to the voice, a name to a face.
As he finally comes into focus, it hits you–you recognize him. This realization doesn’t do anything to soothe the fear bubbling in your stomach.
“‘Toru?”
You don’t remember how you got here. The last thing you remember is the graduation concert, saying your last goodbyes to your fans, to Satoru, and sharing a chocolate–
Oh.
That’s where your memories end. The more you try to thread events together, the more your head starts to throb.
“W-Where am I? What happened?”
Satoru doesn’t answer immediately, opting to offer you a glass of water first. You don’t even hesitate to take it, downing the glass to soothe your parched throat and hoping it’ll help the dull throbbing in your head. The moment the glass is empty, the realization hits you that you probably shouldn’t be so trusting of what he offers you.
“We’re celebrating your graduation,” he sits down on the bed, the weight of his body sinking into the mattress.
“We already did that, didn’t we?” you ask carefully. You’re sure that was real. The sea of penlights, the tears during your final performance, the bitter taste of chocolate coating your tongue.
“Then you can think of this as a surprise afterparty,” he replies casually.
The situation is too much for you to handle or process. With every passing moment, it’s starting to kick in just a hint more that this is real.
“‘Toru, I’m not a big fan of surprises,” you whisper softly, cautiously gauging his reaction.
He pouts at that. “I thought you said you’d like anything I got you?”
His response catches you off guard. It’s annoying having your own words being used against you. “Not like this,” you mumble, deliberating what to say next.
“Then I’ll just have to make it up to you,” he coos, body shifting closer to yours on the bed.
He’s close, too close. Much closer than he would be at a concert or during a meet and greet. The warmth of his breath grazes against your neck as your own quickens in a panic.
You attempt to lean away from him, but your body’s still too dull to be in your control. “‘T-Toru, what are you doing?”
“Something I’ve been wanting to do all this time,” he whispers before his lips crash onto yours.
You think he’s telling the truth when he kisses you, somehow rehearsed yet soft and filled with longing. Every attempt to fight back is only met with another kiss, his broad hand gripping your chin and pulling you in further as if he wants to swallow you whole.
“Toru, wait,” you’re barely able to make out between kisses.
“I’m tired of waiting,” he gasps, breathless when you pull away from him. “I’ve waited so long and I finally have you here. I won’t let you go.”
He goes right back where he left off, soft lips nibbling at yours with a hunger that’s too much for you to handle. It doesn’t help that he places his legs on either side of your body, clothed bulge pressed against your pulsing heat. His hips languidly roll into yours, pressing into the fluff of your skirt. It isn’t long until he tires of that, lifting up the layers to push into your cunt.
The sensation makes you jolt. His eyes light up, star bright.
“Did that feel good?” he asks breathlessly before pushing harder into you. “Do you like that?”
All you can let out is a high pitched whine, squeezing your eyes shut as he mimics fucking you. With each stroke, a wet patch forms and grows on your panties. Whether it’s from him or yourself, you can’t ascertain. You’re not sure you want to.
Satoru builds up to a faster pace, his breathing labored as he practically tries to bury himself into you. Everything about it feels hot and sticky, his lithe thighs pressing against yours, the sweat building up between your bodies, but especially the mix of slick and precum on your underwear. It doesn’t help that his arms close in on you as he finds his rhythm.
You don’t want to give in, but your body’s already winding itself up to cum. Each breath gives way a little more, a pathetic huff of a moan escaping you with every pass of his cock against your clit.
Satoru isn’t any better. You’re not sure if it helps that his moans muffle yours. Every lewd sound he lets out rings heavy in your ears. Oddly enough, it’s an earworm of its own. Despite everything, you recognize the reverence tangled in his voice as he chants your name, begging you to cum. The encouragement makes your cheeks and ears hot with embarrassment, yet it makes that coil in your core closer to snapping.
“‘Toru, please, I’m-” you plead, though you’re not sure what for. At first you thought you’d beg him to stop, but the more your breaths quicken, your temperature rises, you find yourself at the precipice of pleasure, all too willing to throw caution to the wind.
“Fuck-“ he barely chokes out, and it dawns on you that you’ve never heard him curse, not that you would ever dream of it happening like this. The way he spits it out makes your skin run hot. It adds to the heat in your core, you're so close with each drag of his cock against your clit.
"Toru, wait," you cry out.
Satoru cums with a high pitched whine and a hot sticky mess seeping through his pants onto your underwear. You didn't expect it to happen so soon, and from the expression on his face, he wasn't expecting it either.
"S-Shit," he barely gasps out, looking at the slick mess pooling between your bodies. As soon as he comes down from his high, regret fills his face, almost panicked. Over what? You're not sure.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to," he apologizes and somehow, you feel the urge to comfort him. It's a bad habit you can't help but fall into. It's all you really know, turning on that persona everyone knows and loves. He's no exception. He might even be the rule.
"T-Toru, I'm fine, it's okay I swear-"
"No it isn't," he interrupts, his hands gripping your thighs, iron clad. His strength is terrifying, practically bolting your legs to the bed, giving you no chance to escape. His lips graze the wet fabric he's sullied moments before. "How can I be your number one fan if I can't even do this?"
He doesn't give you the answer to ponder his rhetorical question before diving into your clothed cunt, lapping and licking up the mess he's made.
"You're the only one for me, you know?" he pauses to look up at you, sapphire eyes sparkling with adoration. "And I want to be the only one for you."
It's too much, all at once. The electrifying way he rolls his tongue over your clit, his hot breath grazing against your skin, the sweat gathering on your thighs under his grasp. You want to run, buck your hips and push him off, but he won't let you. Just pulls you in closer on his tongue—hotter, wetter, wilder.
He builds you back up again, at a frenzying pace. A rollercoaster approaching its peak far too quickly for its rider's comfort; heart threatening to beat out of your chest, holding your breath waiting for that inevitable drop.
His hand traces into your thighs, pulling your underwear to the sigh. The sensation catches you off guard, a squeal slipping past your lips.
"Keep making those cute noises for me, okay?"
You want to shake your head and bite your tongue, but your body burns under his touch, a trail of flames following his fingers as they massage your lower lips. It barely takes any pressure for his finger to push into your cunt, push another choked sound out from your throat.
You can practically feel his lips curving into a smile as he eats you out, his fingers press against you probingly, looking for the answer of what spot will make you keen into him. It doesn't take him long to find it and swiftly use it against you.
It's as if you have your body back, at the cost of being under his whim. With each pass of his fingers in your cunt, you feel it much more intensely than you want to. As if electricity runs through the pads of his fingers, playfully shocks your nerves with each push. Before you know it he has you on that precipice again, all ready to come apart just for him.
"Stop, Toru, I'm scared," you beg in between hushed breaths, the muscles in your core tightening with each syllable.
"You know there's nothing to be scared of with me," he mumbles into your cunt, barely dignifying you with an answer, as if his task at hand is of greater importance.
"C'mon, let it all out," he purrs, and it's like something in your body snaps.
A rush of pleasure. Feeble attempts to fight against it but it's too late. You're reduced to nothing but a mess of breathy huffs and high pitched whines. Taut muscles and blurry vision.
Satoru doesn't seem to be calling it quits anytime soon, his fingers and tongue continuing to guide you through your climax. Past it, actually.
"'Toru, no, no more," you beg, tears lined in your eyes.
"You only deserve the best," he coos, syrupy and sweet.
You know it's meant to comfort you, make you anticipate what he has in store, but it only does the opposite when he doesn't stop. Doesn't stop his tongue lolling over your aching clit, his fingers pressing against your pulsing walls.
A dizzying mix of fear and anticipation runs through your veins when you realize he's determined to get you to cum again. Despite the ache and soreness in your muscles, you want to push him off. And despite your efforts, Satoru holds on. Intensifies his movements, as if he's punishing this act of insolence.
"I can't," you squeal.
"You can," he insists, "I know you can."
It's as if his words begets the truth, and with tensed muscles and frayed nerves, you cum again. It hits you like a freight train, its impact robbing you of your ability to control yourself.
You can barely utter his name. Despite the effect of the drugs wearing off, your body still feels heavy, with the added effect of your muscles being sore from the back to back orgasms. When Satoru adjusts your limbs, you let him, too exhausted to fight back. What's the point when your body is so enthusiastic to deny your command, and listen to his every whim?
Yet, you still jolt when you feel something hard rubbing against your folds. Something unfamiliar— larger than his fingers, warmer than his tongue.
The realization hits you before you make a poor attempt to shake your head, utter anything more than a soft, "P-Please."
"Of course," he croons, "I shouldn't keep my princess waiting."
Though he says he shouldn't keep you waiting, he takes the process achingly slow, dragging his cock in between your slick folds and hissing through his teeth as he aligns himself with your entrance. You're both holding your breath with some type of nervous anticipation as he starts to push himself in.
It's hard not to bite back a moan as he makes his way in, inch by inch.
When Satoru finally makes it into you, he seems like he’s fighting for his life not to cum then and there. His breathing tightens, his hands shake from white knuckling the sheets. And though his movements start slow, he's hitting you so deep inside you're seeing stars, a flurry of stage lights. You can't help but sing out in pleasure.
"You're so cute like this," he purrs, "I know you can be even cuter."
You don't have a moment to question what he means before he picks up the pace. It's as if the dam holding back his inhibition breaks, and all hell breaks loose. His hands are everywhere, touching anything he can get a grip on as if you're seconds from turning to sand under him. You swear his thrusts hit you even deeper once he pushes your legs up to your shoulders.
Satoru fucks you like he wants something from you. A reaction, a moan, a cry of affection. Unfortunately, your body is all too willing to give him what he wants.
"'Toru, 'Toru, too much, too much-" you cry, your poor nerves frayed and muscles sore and taut from squeezing around his cock. Even as your walls flutter around him, he's unrelenting. Satoru continues, goes further with adoration in the palms of his hands, exploring every curve of your body. His hands go lower, until he finds your throbbing clit, rolling it in his fingers with a frenzied determination.
"I know, I know," he whispers softly, as if to placate you, "feels too good, huh?" He presses his forehead against yours, your eyes less than an inch apart. Everything gets mixed together when you're this close; sweat, breaths, and nerves.
"Feels good for me too," he gasps, "better than anything I could've dreamed of."
Satoru adjusts and presses into you even further, his hips becoming erratic as he tries to bury himself into you. You thought you've experienced all he has to give but he somehow manages to exceed your expectations, as always. You have nothing to give; just choked moans and cries of his name, but Satoru is grateful nonetheless.
"I love you," he cries, "I love you so much, love you, loveyouloveyo-"
With one last thrust, Satoru cums inside with a drawn out shaky moan, hot spurts of his seed painting your walls. Even after all he's spilled into you, he refuses to pull out, his gaze stuck on where you're connected together.
You're a mess. All sweat and tears and aching muscles. On the other hand, Satoru's beaming, even with the mussed hair and beads of sweat gliding down his temple. You swear his eyes sparkle when he smiles and tells you,
"I hope you liked your present."