summary: no matter what, there are some guarantees to life: you can always come back to your older brother for help, and he is always willing to indulge you.
notes: first time writing for lads orz.... wrote this mostly on my phone so it's in lapslock. i was simply plagued with the thought of caleb getting bricked up over helping you. enjoy. dividers by cafekitsune
read on ao3
you’re nervous.
you dont have any real reason to be nervous, but that doesn’t make the feeling any less tangible.
it’s caleb’s birthday, and though everything else you’ve planned has gone swimmingly, you don’t know how to feel about this. how he’ll feel about it.
by the time the two of you make it back from dinner, you’re anxiously twiddling your thumbs. caleb—of course—is quick to notice.
his expression softens immediately, his hand gently grasping yours as he looks into your eyes.
“something wrong?”
“n-no, not exactly,” you answer, squirming further into the couch’s cushions.
“then why’re you acting weird?”
“i’m not acting weird!” you huff defensively, something you’ve done a million times with him. “i just…”
“just what?”
“i shaved.”
“shaved?”
you look down at your lap, and caleb's face turns bright read once he realizes just what you're saying.
“but… i wasn’t really able to get all of it,” you squirm under his gaze. “might look a little weird.”
when you look back at him, you realize something shifted in the air. his edges soften, and he looks at you in a way that’s all too familiar. it’s the same the way he looks at you when he can tell you can’t reach a cup on a tall shelf, when you need help with a homework question that's giving you too much trouble.
“do you need gege to help you?”
you can hear the restraint in his chest as he asks you. the way his voice takes on the tone you know all too well of older brother rather than romantic partner.
"mhm."
within a few minutes, you’re sitting in the on the edge of the bathtub, warm water trickling from the spout. caleb kneels in front of you, the way a knight would for its king, the way a guard dog bows for its owner.
you can’t deny the sight makes your cheeks burn hot.
“well?” he asks.
“well, what?” you ask back.
he chuckles. “you have to strip if you want me to help.”
“oh, right,” you mumble to yourself, as if you’ve totally forgotten what you signed up for.
you stand for a moment to tug off your shorts, only to feel a rush of self-consciousness run through your body with the way caleb looks at you. there's a light in his eyes as he watches the hem of your shorts drop lower and lower, until they've fallen onto the floor. maybe you should've taken off everything in one go, because the way he stares at you in anticipation as you loop your thumb around the sides of your underwear makes you feel like a fawn staring down the barrel of a hunter's gun.
caleb's gaze is unfaltering, like he's burning a hole in your skin. you should rip off the bandaid, but you can't bring yourself to take it off any faster. so you do it achingly slow, watching his throat bob as he gulps, the way his eyes drag down your legs until the cloth falls to your feet.
you sit down on the edge of the bathtub, cold porcelain against your skin catching you by surprise.
“you’ll have to spread your legs a little bit more if you want me to help,”
“o-ok,” you stammer, doing your best to follow his instructions.
“why are you getting all shy on me now?”
“i don’t know,” you mumble under your breath, “just feels different like this.
it shouldn’t be different. even before you made things official, seeing each other naked or close to it was the norm. by now, you've gone through all the motions of being a couple— seeing each other in carnal moments of desire, spouting every curled want you’ve kept deep in your heart, indulging in the soft embraces that comes after. you thought that was the pinnacle of intimacy.
you couldn't have predicted the way this would make you feel. the way your heart beats faster with the slightest touch, the shakier your breath gets when your eyes meet for a split second. you can't bare to stare at him for too long, but he has no problem taking in the sight of you. his gaze is intense but not scrutinizing. if you had to choose a word to describe it, you would say it’s filled with adoration.
with the way he touches you, you can’t tell if he’s taking advantage of the situation, especially when his fingers gently press down on your skin before spreading your lips open.
you give him an accusatory glance, and he lets out a chuckle.
“i’m just helping you out, pips,” he insists.
he’s enjoying this too much for you to believe him.
you don’t grace him with a response, so he continues getting you prepped up.
a chill runs down your spine when he rubs the shaving cream against your skin. he does it carefully and with intention. despite this, you swear you’re running hot under his touch.
you can’t help yourself from shifting as he presses the blade against you. you weren’t this jumpy when you took care of it yourself, but you just can’t stop yourself around him, especially with him staring so intently at your bare pussy.
“don’t move too much, ok? i don’t want to hurt you,” he says softly.
“i’m doing my best,” you reply, giving him a little pout.
“i know you are,” he reassures you.
you give him your best, biting back the urge to flinch every time he rinses the blade and brings it back to another patch of hair. he makes it harder for you when his thumb presses against your clit, and you swear he’s doing it to mess with you; but when you look down he seems completely focused on the task at hand, carefully running the razor against another spot you missed.
you start to doubt yourself when you feel his thumb move against the bundle of nerves, as if he's determined to ellicit some type of reaction out of you. it's easy to give him what he wants when you can't hold yourself back—a hushed groan makes it past your lips.
“why’re you doing that?” he asks with a snarky grin.
“doing what?”
“makin’ those cute noises,” he coos.
if it weren't for the razor against your skin, you would playfully hit his back, the way you usually do when he says something cheesy. instead, you're barely able to glance his way when you respond.
“just feels nice, i guess."
"does it now?" he asks. you don't have to look at him to know he's smiling.
you nod shyly, the way you always do when he takes care of you.
it is both a blessing and a curse that caleb pays so much attention to detail, especially when it comes to you. at the very least, you're comforted by the fact that you know he'll do a perfect job. on the other hand, this is taking too long for your poor heart. it hasn't stopped racing since you've started.
“you’re really taking your time there,” you huff through gritted teeth.
“can you blame me? want to make sure i get it right."
it's as if caleb really decides to take his time now. it doesn't help when he drags the razor across your mound even slower than before. every pass of the razor against your skin has you tightening your grip against the porcelain and holding your breath in anticipation. anticipation of what, you're not sure.
after what feels like a lifetime, caleb finally puts down the razor. he takes a look at you, pressing and rubbing against the now smooth skin to check his work. he did a great job, if you say so yourself.
"spread your legs a bit more for me," he demands, standing up for a moment to grab the handheld showerhead.
despite the embarrassing pose, you diligently obey, the way you would when he bandaged your wounds as a kid.
caleb pulls up the water diverter, testing the temperature of water on his hand before bringing it to your cunt. the sensation is fine, comforting even at first, until he spreads your lips apart, focusing the water against your poor clit. it catches you by surprise, making you grip the ledge of the bathtub as you bite back the urge to moan.
caleb doesn't seem pleased with this, pressing the showerhead closer until you cry out his name, grabbing on to his back for some semblance of stability.
"a-are we done now?" you whimper, hoping he'll finally take some pity on you.
"gimme a moment pips," he chuckles.
you think you finally have a moment of peace when he sets down the showerhead, only for his fingers to catch you off guard, parting your lips for him to have a full view of your cunt. his face is dangerously close, close enough for his breath to graze against your most sensitive parts. he plays with you again, his touch just a ghost along your clit before dragging down your lips.
it's just enough to make you squirm but nothing beyond that. part of you wishes he would just do something, instead of keeping you waiting on the edge like this. another part of you knows that you don't want to test him right now, because he'll easily make you eat your words while you're on the edge of overstimulation.
"just gotta make sure you're all cleaned up, you know?"
his fingers teasingly poke at your hole, pressing in gently without penetrating before pulling back out. you really aren't sure if this is any better then what he was doing before.
"i don't think you need to check that," you insist.
"i think i do, as your brother and all," he teases. "i'm just taking care of you, pips."
the moment you open your mouth to respond, his finger presses into your cunt. it's barely in, makes you wish he'd go deeper just for a bit of relief. but before you can ask, you're mourning the loss of the sensation when he pulls it back out.
“wonder what this is,” he comments, sliding his fingers up your slit before examining it further, “doesn’t look like shaving cream or anything.”
“it’s nothing,” you immediately huff back, even with the evidence of your arousal running down his fingers.
"hmm," he says, before rinsing his fingers and turning off the tap. “sure it is.”
tags: pseudocest, pwp, fingering, friends to... lovers that engage in big bro/lil sis rp?, oliver lowkey loves bullying/embarrassing you, reader is extremely tsun
wc: 1.8k
summary: the first step of commitment is to be honest with yourself and your partner. the second step, is to fail that completely. or you're unsure about committing to oliver. oliver commits too hard to a bit.
a/n: ty @nyxypoo for beta reading for me!! <3 idk oliver just has a raging nii-chan/making reader squirm in embarassment fetish in this. enjoy!!
read on ao3
"Let me take you out on a date."
Oliver's words catch you off guard. He doesn't flinch, stutter, or hesitate. He has all the confidence a professional athlete of his calibur is expected to have. Part of you wishes he didn't.
"Huh?" you ask, completely dumbfounded.
"Let me take you out on a date," he repeats again, making himself comfortable by leaning against the arm of the loveseat you're sitting on. "Somewhere nice. Not this whole takeout situation we do all the time."
You do your best to calm yourself down. What's that thing you're supposed to do when you're freaking out? Five things you can see? Well, you can see your food getting cold on the coffee table, the way the sunset spills through the windows and paints Oliver in a warm ethereal glow, his handsome smile that makes you want to melt into him, and, and, and—
This isn't helping.
It takes you a moment to get your head anything close to clear. But, despite everything, you like what you have going on with Oliver. You've never dreamed of being his girlfriend in any realistic sense. Didn't want to deal with the stress of either being a celebrity's secret partner or the harassment that comes with going public.
Frankly, you don't want to ruin what you have. This is good enough—or so you've convinced yourself.
"I'm… I'm not interested," you finally reply.
"Oh, really?" he asks, crossing his arms and tilting his head. Despite just being rejected, he keeps his cool. Even smiles a little, and you hate that you think he looks cute.
"Yeah, really," you insist.
"Can I get a reason at least?"
If you're being honest with yourself, you don't want to give him one. Part of you knows whatever shitty excuse you try to use with him, he'll see right through it. That doesn't stop you from making an effort.
"You're like a brother to me."
It's a shit excuse, you know it. But it's the only thing you were able to come up with in your scrambled mind.
"That's fine with me."
For the second time tonight, he's left you at a loss for words. Even though you knew he'd shoot down any excuse, this wasn't the response you were expecting. You sit there for a moment, trying to think of a response to push past your lips but all that comes out are choked sounds, short of being anything close to comprehendible words.
"W-what do you mean that's fine with you?" you spit back at him, incredulous. "What, should I call you nii-chan to get you to back off?"
"Only if you want me to get hard."
Unbelievable. At this point you can't even bring yourself to look him in the eye. Maybe lying to him was the best option. You could only imagine how cheeky he would get over you telling him the truth.
"You're a fucking freak," you scoff.
"I thought you said I was your brother," he says back, emphasizing the last word with a teasing lilt.
"You can be two things at once."
"And what does that make you?"
"What do you mean what does that make me?"
"Just look at you, getting all worked up by this. You can't even look me in the eye right now." As if to prove his point, he forces himself into your field of vision, only for you to turn away.
He doesn't let you get away with it though, his hands coming up to squish your cheeks and make you face him.
"Don't lie to me and give me this brother bullshit."
"I'm not lying," you strain through your teeth.
"Yeah? Then how about you let your nii-chan take the lead?" he asks, tilting his head before he comes around to whisper in your ear. "Fuck you all nice and sweet? Maybe it'll make ya more honest."
He doesn't really give you a chance to answer him, not that you think you'd be able to. How could you bring yourself to say anything when he kisses your ear so gently?
He pulls away for a second, bringing you to face him once again.
"Fuck, you're not gonna stop me?"
The last thing you want is for him to stop. You may have been too shy to take the leap but if Oliver's going to dive in head first, who are you to stop him? All you give him is a shy shake of your head, hoping it's enough to keep him going.
"Seriously?" he scoffs, "I wanted to be a gentleman for once and now we're going at this all out of order."
His hand traces up your thigh, inching up slowly. Each inch he drags along the skin makes you feel hotter, needier for his touch elsewhere. You can't help but get restless, squeezing your thighs together for something, anything to soothe the aching desire growing between your legs.
"For what's it worth," he says, voice deep and low into your ear,"I wouldn't ask you to call me nii-chan till our third date. Minimum."
Part of you thought he'd be more impatient, more insatiable. You're not sure how you feel about this side of Oliver, too good at keeping you on the edge for his own entertainment, but one thing is certain: the suspense is killing you.
"Come on, tell nii-chan what you want. You can do that much, can't you?" he coos, like a parent trying to get their spoiled child to share a toy. "Though I guess that's how we got into this mess in the first place, huh?"
"God, don't be weird about this," your voice wobbles unsteadily.
"I didn't make it weird," he sneers, "And even if I did, it looks like you're enjoying it."
His hand finally makes its way to the wet patch of your underwear, and you're hit with the sudden realization that this is actually happening. Oliver's just one thin layer of fabric away from touching you, from giving you something you were so close to denying. You can barely hold back your voice every time he runs his fingers over your clothed cunt, especially when he presses down on your clit.
"Don't hold back," he purrs, "how's nii-chan supposed to know you're feeling good?"
"You're such a perv," you attempt to spit back at him, only for your voice to waver as he starts tracing circles around your clit.
"Look who's talking."
His fingers finally make their way under your underwear and you let out a shaky moan in relief and anticipation. It's unlike you, getting so worked up over the simplest touches, but Oliver has that effect on you.
As his pace quickens, it's much harder to keep your voice held back, choked whimpers spilling from your lips as he gets you closer and closer to the precipice of pleasure.
The whole thing is embarassing, and Oliver is reveling in it; he hasn't had that stupid smirk wiped off his face since he started touching you. It doesn't help that you can't hide just how wet you are once his fingers drag between your lips before pressing shallowly against your hole.
"Didn't you think of me as a brother? Now look at you, getting all wet for him,"
"I'm not," you whine, your voice sounding foreign to your own ears.
"Yeah?"
You make a poor attempt to talk back, only to be interrupted by Oliver's fingers slipping inside you, achingly slow. He's messing with you again.
"Is this enough for my precious baby sister?" he asks, voice saccharine sweet before digging his fingers in deeper. "Or does she need more?"
His words light a fire in your core, causes heat to bleed from your cheeks. It shouldn't have such an effect on you. Still, you squirm more under his touch, attempting to close your legs shut, feeling much too vulnerable in front of him. He doesn't relent, his hand pressing against you to keep you splayed open for him.
So you bite through the embarassment, barely able to force out a meek,
"More—"
"Hm? I didn't hear that."
"More, nii-chan," you moan out in the sweetest tone you can muster. Anything to mess with his head just as much as he's been messing with yours.
Something snaps in him.
He's finally starting to act more like the Oliver you expected— greedy, and grabbing at any part of you he can get his hands on. His fingers are practically knuckles deep inside you, scissoring around to find your most sensitive spot.
Once he finds it, he doesn't let go. He doesn't even get close to letting go when tears well up in your eyes. It's all so overwhelming—his fingers are already enough to stretch you out so deliciously. How could you feel so full just from this?
It doesn't help to hear his breathing stagger as his fingers fuck you in earnest. All you can do is blabber incoherently in a poor effort to ask him to slow down, but of course Oliver doesn't honor that.
"Didn't know you could get like this," he casually remarks as he thrusts his fingers deeper inside of you. "I'm lucky to have such a cute sister."
It's not lost on you how his praise makes you all fuzzy and light-headed, makes your walls flutter around him, as if his words are touching you too. All you can do is hope he doesn't notice, but luck isn't on your side.
"Fuck, you really are just as perverted as me, you know? At least I'm honest about it," he's practically groaning into your ear, only adding to your arousal. "It's ok, at least your body's more honest than whatever comes out your mouth."
Oliver gets mean; meaner than before. He breaks out all the stops, massaging your clit in tight circles while bullying your cunt by hitting the spot that makes you scream for him. It's too much, all at once.
"Yeah? You gonna cum for nii-chan now?"
It's impossible to form a coherent response—you're too distracted by the impending high and the way your pussy threatens to clamp down on his fingers like a vice. It crashes into you just a few moments later, all broken moans and choked breaths as the waves of your orgasm wash over you.
"It's ok, nii-chan's got you," Oliver guides you through it, his fingers finally slowing down as you writhe under him.
Once you're able to catch your breath, Oliver takes his fingers out from you. Seeing your arousal painted so plainly on him is enough to make your cheeks burn hot all over again.
"And you said I was a freak," he scoffs, admiring the wet mess you left behind on his fingers.
tags: noncon, stalking, yandere, breaking in, unreliable narrator (mostly yuuta pov), aged up charas (yuuta’s in his 20s), solo male masturbation, squirting, breeding/pregnancy talk/baby trapping, multiple orgasms, overstim, cunnilingus, fingering, yuuji makes a short guest appearance in the intro lol
wc: ~8.6k (... idk how this happened)
summary: Yuuta’s oshi is a horrible enabler.
a/n: happy belated birthday yuuta! atp you can rip underground idol!reader from my cold dead hands. based off of a post i made a while ago. thank you @infinitatis-ink for beta reading :> dividers by @/adornedwithlight
ao3 link here
It’s not Yuuta’s usual scene, but he felt bad when nobody responded to Yuuji’s invitation to spend a night out in Shinjuku. In Yuuta’s defense, he thought they would maybe go to an izakaya or two, get a meal and a few drinks before heading home. However, what Yuuta was unable to predict was Yuuji deciding to go to an idol show on the fly. Yuuji was practically begging him to go, making promises that it’ll be a lot of fun. And when words don’t work, Yuuji grabs Yuuta by the wrist and leads him to the venue despite his protests.
So that’s how Yuuta finds himself in a random basement venue crowded with sweaty guys on a Saturday night. Again, not necessarily his idea of a night out. But Yuuta’s a good sport, so he’ll do his best to enjoy the show anyways.
What starts as a murmur bursts into a boisterous cheer as soon as the stage lights flash on. It’s radiant, nearly blinding. It’s not the lights that sear a black hole into his vision. No, it’s you.
In that fluffy costume that makes you look like a slice of cake personified. The way your skirt bounces exemplifies the pep in your step as you make your way around the stage. Your eyes meet his as you wave into the crowd, and he thinks he’s having a heart attack.
“Good evening everyone! We really hope you enjoy the show we have in store for you tonight!” you speak into the mic, exuding a blissful aura like it's second nature. Yuuta swears he can feel it embrace him, the first warm ray of sunlight you feel after a barren winter.
The crowd roars in response before quieting down. The silence only serves to spur the anticipation drumming throughout his body, his heart beating loudly in his ears, catching in his throat.
The instrumental starts with a sweet chiptune lead, and all hell breaks loose. The rhythmic chants and clapping nearly blow out his ear drums, and he loses Yuuji in the chaos of fans rushing closer to the stage. It’s disorienting, trying to follow along while not losing his sights on you.
He moves along with the crowd, ebbs and flows like the ocean’s waves. No matter how much he’s pushed, he’s focused on you. Once he finds his footing, it gets a bit easier. It lets him focus on other things, like learning your name through the fan chants. It’s a cute one, one he savors on his tongue whenever he yells along with the crowd as you sing.
With every step, every graceful note that spills from your lips, he can only feel himself falling deeper. It’s like you’re a siren, and him, the unfortunate sailor who’s all too willing to walk to his demise. He yells and cheers even louder in his trance, just to see if you’ll grace him with another look.
And you do.
It’s brief but you look right at him again for the second time tonight, with a dazzling smile that puts the sun to shame.
How can he keep your attention? Maybe he should’ve stopped by and bought a lightstick or two before coming in.
Song after song after song, he roots for you with a frenzied energy he didn’t know he had in him. It’s a battle against his parched throat to force the words out and really make sure you can hear him. Every time you look his way, he feels electric. It’s like static, all his hair standing on edge
like he’s rubbed a balloon and your gaze is the point of contact that zaps you both.
Before he knows it, the show’s over. It’s far too soon for his liking. Even though it was Yuuji’s idea, Yuuta’s really warmed up to the whole thing–far more enthusiastically than he thought he’d ever be, so much so he’s tallying the number of times you looked his way.
Six. Six times he’s felt that electricity run through him, six times you’ve made him catch his breath and nearly choke on it. Did you feel it too? There’s no way you didn’t. He could see it in the way your eyes sparkled, in the smile that was hand-delivered to him. It’s too many times to be a coincidence.
Yuuta only manages to snap out of his trance when all the lights turn back on and Yuuji slings his arm around him.
“Sorry I lost ya earlier,” Yuuji apologizes, out of breath, presumably from dancing and chanting with the wotas, “how was it?”
“It was,” he pauses for a moment, “fun.”
“See, I told you it’d be fun!” Yuuji beams at the confession. “You wanna get chekis?”
“Chekis?”
“Yeah, like a picture with one of the girls. I already know who I’m choosing tonight!” Yuuji pats Yuuta on the back, a friendly gesture Yuuta returns in kind. “But since you don’t know the members, you can just choose a color. Doesn’t really matter.”
It doesn’t really matter, he said, but it really does. Because if Yuuta chose differently he never would have been able to meet you.
So once he gets to the front of the line, he points at the laminated picture of you.
It shouldn’t be this overwhelming. Idols are normal people too. It’s a lot more obvious with underground idols, in the dingy live venues they book, in the way they stumble over their words on stage or occasionally forget a dance move or lyric. There’s appeal in the imperfect, a diamond in the rough.
But that’s the thing, you still shine bright, blindingly so.
As Yuuta walks up to you, his nerves only get worse. His senses are running on overdrive taking you in, in all your ruffly glory. Something sweet and floral hits his nostrils as he breathes in. He didn’t consider you’d be wearing perfume. It’s the right amount – just enough to whet the palate and bite his tongue in fear of saying something wrong.
He thinks he’s seeing things when he’s barely an arms width away from you, and everything about you seems to sparkle.
You look giddy when he gets up to you, a large smile plastered on your face with open arms as if you’re reuniting with an old friend.
Is he supposed to hug you?
While he hesitates, you’re quick to close the distance, wrapping your arms around his waist. Yuuta carefully does the same to you, doing his best to not implode on the spot. When you let go, he’s flushed in the face and has to think about something else to calm himself down.
“Ah! I haven’t seen you around,” you ask with your hands behind your back and eyes wandering like you’re examining him, “you’re new here, aren’t you?”
“Y-Yeah, you could say that,” he says. The room feels ten degrees hotter.
“What’s your name?”
“Yuuta.”
“Yuuta…” you repeat carefully, as if you’re tasting it on your lips, “Cute name for a cute guy. Is it ok if I call you Yuu-tan?” You look at him with this doe-eyed expression that makes his chest taut.
When you say it like that, with your eyes glimmering under the stage lights, how could he say no? Yuuta’s stumbling over his words, babbling like an idiot before he’s finally able to get out a meek, “sure.”
You seem to like that, your face lighting up with pure glee.
“Alright Yuu-tan, what kind of pose did you have in mind?”
He absolutely did not think this far ahead. He has to tell himself to calm down, breathe in, breathe out, before asking, “what kind of poses do you usually do?”
“Mmm… Hearts are pretty common I’d say.” You gently grab his hand and the softness of your skin triggers alarm bells in his head. He’s in danger. “But since it’s your first time, how about we do something special?”
You say it in a way that has him blushing harder – first times.
“S-special?” he repeats.
Carefully, you wrap your arms around his waist. Softer than when you first grabbed him. Like there’s a gentle affection weaved within your embrace.
Your face is pressed against his chest. It’s enough for his breathing to shorten, to be far too aware of the pressure you place on him.
With an innocent pout you look at him, softly reassuring him, “Just pretend I’m like your girlfriend or something.”
You’re close–too close. And this whole situation is just too much for him. There’s no escape from you–your smell, your warmth, the softness of your skin.
“Do you have a girlfriend, Yuu-tan?” you ask, leaning into him more.
Did he hear you right? Every time you talk it feels like you do so with the express purpose of stealing the air from his lungs. But still, there’s no way that’s what you asked him. Right?
“Huh?”
“I said,” you purr into his ear before repeating your question, “do you have a girlfriend, Yuu-tan?”
So, he did hear you right. Now he’s scrambling again for an answer, blood pumping so hard he can hear it steadily pulsing in his ears.
“N-No.”
“Then you can think of me as yours!” you exclaim, far too easily. It echoes like a clocktower’s bell at noon. If he listens close enough, he swears he can hear the notes of a wedding march.
The only anchor that can bring him back down to Earth is a tug on his shirt, a whisper of your touch against his chest. When his eyes meet yours, he’s starstruck. The glitter around your eyes only serves to make his heart beat faster, how it sparkles and makes you look even sweeter.
“Alright, look at the camera for me, okay?”
So he does. You get in position too, soft lips pressing against his flushed cheek. It happens too quickly for him to react, and with a countdown from three and a flash, the picture’s taken.
You’re quick to sign the polaroid, and Yuuta can barely get a look at what you’re writing before you finish.
“Hold it carefully, ok? The ink can smudge,” you instruct him, gently passing over the picture. “And don’t shake it! The whole shake it like a polaroid thing is a myth.”
He silently takes the picture in his hand, carefully taking it in. You’re able to fit a decent amount on the picture. In the top left corner, “To my beloved Yuu-tan,” and in the bottom right, “Thank you for coming!”
“I hope you’ll come back again,” you say sheepishly, a bit like a girl who just confessed to their crush on the school rooftop.
“O-Of course!” Yuuta’s practically forcing the words out of his words, doing his best not to choke.
“Pinky promise?” You lay out your pinky for him, waiting expectantly. Yuuta, on the other hand, is struggling to recollect himself.
“Mmhm.” He brings his pinky over to yours, and you wrap around each other’s fingers. Yuuta thinks it’s just that until you bring your hand back to kiss your thumb.
“Seal it with a kiss?” you ask with an innocent smile.
“Huh?”
You don’t repeat yourself, simply look at him in a way that makes his cheeks red. After a moment, Yuuta repeats the motion, nearly shaking as he brings both of your hands closer to his lips before kissing his thumb.
By the time he finds the courage to look you in the eyes, he’s sure there’s steam coming out of his ears. His gaze shifts down, but darts back up as soon as he hears you giggle.
“You promised! No take-backsies. I don’t like broken promises.” You pout before breaking back into that picture perfect smile of yours. “Thanks for coming by, Yuu-tan!”
–
The post concert dress down is the same as usual. Struggling to get out of polyester costumes clinging to your skin from sweat, doing your best to fold your ruffled layered skirt into a manageable mass and failing the first couple of times. It’s a routine you’ve gotten used to.
What you’re not used to, is receiving a warning from one of your groupmates.
“Hey.” Your group leader stands over you as you attempt to continue packing your costume away. “You've gotta be a bit more careful.”
You look up at her with a raised brow, taking in her disappointed expression. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” she relents, her tone becoming more annoyed than disappointed.
So this is what you think it’s about. But it really isn’t any of her concern. You haven’t had any problems until now, so what’s the harm in continuing? If anything, she should be grateful. If you were to crunch the numbers, you’re sure you bring in a decent amount of fans by playing up the girlfriend experience schtick. And not just any type of fans – devoted ones. Those that return to night after night to spend a minute of their time with you. Those that would empty out their wallets at a snap of your fingers.
If you were to be honest with yourself, you like the power you hold. There’s a thrill that rushes to your head when your fans are stumbling over their words, stringing along a response for the sole purpose of pleasing you. But there’s no way you’d ever admit that to her. She just wouldn’t get it.
You let out a deep sigh. “It’s fine! This type of crowd is harmless. I’m just trying to do my job, you know.”
“You’re going to attract some crazies if you keep going down this path.”
“Yeah, yeah.” You shrug her off as you finally fit your costume into your luggage, swiftly zipping it close before it has the chance to recoil.
“Hey.” She grasps your shoulder to grab your attention. “Listen, I’m being serious,” she says, and there’s a genuine tinge of concern in her voice.
“Me too. I’m making us money. Good money. And if it means I have to bat my lashes and put on an act, then that’s what it is.”
She sighs, defeated. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
–
In the days after the concert, Yuuta falls into a rabbit hole. It’s just too easy – your group is pretty active on social media, trying and promoting just about anything that’ll stick. It starts simple enough with a livestream here and there. Just listening to you talk makes his heart all warm and fuzzy.
The longer he lurks and follows, the more he realizes just how many opportunities there are to take you in. You being an underground idol works in his favor. Desperation’s the name of the game, with you selling just about anything you can get your likeness on – signed polaroids, acrylic standees, can buttons, the list goes on.
Eventually, he’ll put in orders for those as well, but none of them replace the sensation of holding your hand in person, of your soft lips against his face.
At the end of the day, there’s no way you can’t see his devotion towards you. At this point he knows everything there is to know about you–through the selfies you post online, the memes you retweet, even the daily blog post where you write about your day.
There’s more than that as well. There’s an inherent intimacy he feels in the single shot chekis he orders as soon as the shop link drops on Twitter, in the comments he leaves on your livestreams, with the username you unknowingly gave him.
And in the short weeks he’s been following your account, he’s greeted with a rare chance encounter. A custom video, made by you, just for him. And though the price is probably hefty for what it is, he’s quick to seize the opportunity.
Sure, he’s burning a hole in his wallet. But how can he complain? When he can hear your sweet voice again, talking to him like he’s the only one in the room. It’s the closest thing he can get to seeing you for now. Things have just been so busy these days. He wonders how other sorcerers play the balancing act between dating and work.
But just a couple weeks later he gets an e-mail. He nearly jumps in his seat in his room when he sees the e-mail notification with the subject line “to my beloved yuu-tan~”.
His phone comes alive with you in frame, sitting in something different from your usual stage costume. Something cute, something that sends butterflies to his stomach and a blush to his cheeks. A comfy sweater that seems just a little bit too big for you, along with a matching skirt. The hem dangerously brushes against your upper thighs, and he has to make a considerable effort to draw his gaze back to your eyes.
The background is a simple white backdrop, and judging from the lighting situation, it’s probably something you filmed in your room. You’re filming this. In your room. Just for him. The thought is enough to make his heart race.
“Is this on?” Your finger taps on to the camera, face getting closer to the lens before moving back. Even when you’re clueless, you’re adorable. “Ah, it is.”
“Yuu-tan! Thanks for supporting me so much as you always have!~” Your voice is bright as always. The way your nickname for him dances on your tongue feels like a salve for even the most mortal of wounds.
“Your support is number one in my heart, you know. But Yuu-tan…”You drag out his name in a way that’s too much for him, and the way you pout up at the camera? This has to be attempted murder, he thinks. But he continues listening attentively. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you. I miss you, I really do.” Your voice pulls on his heartstrings and makes him ridden with guilt. It genuinely pains him to hear you like this, his chest tightening at the sound. But then your voice lightens up, your expression brightens with the next words that slip past your lips, “you’ll come to the next show, won’t you?”
Yuuta finds himself nodding at his phone, as if you’ll be able to see his response if he’s enthusiastic enough. Yet, it’s as if you knew exactly how he’d reply.
“Alright, I’ll see you there then! This is a promise.” You lift your pinky up to the camera before pulling it back. “Oh wait, I don’t think I can do this through the camera, haha. Guess you’ll just have to finish it in person! Bye bye!” you sign off, and the video ends there, paused on your angelic smile.
Yuuta nearly breaks his phone replaying the video over and over again. It’s surprising the image of you hasn’t been burned onto his screen. But there’s one part in particular that’s his favorite.
It’s when you pout and disarmingly look up at the camera. Bat your eyelashes in just the right way to make him pitch a tent in his pants. That combined with the way you say his name, it’s no surprise the next thing he does is frantically search for the bottle of lube in one of his drawers.
What happens next, there’s no way you can fault him for it. All he can think about is how cute you are as he dispenses lube on to his right hand and unzips his pants with his left. Once his cock’s free, he groans as he palms himself, daydreaming about how you’d hold him. His other hand finds his phone, repeatedly going back to the same timestamp where you’re practically moaning for him.
He finds a rhythm, fast. Not just for jerking off, but looping your voice in a way that makes him light-headed. It just adds another layer to the image of you playing in his head. If he times it just right, he can pretend that slick wet sound of him fucking his hand is your sweet pussy instead. His pace gets faster, thinking about the other kinds of sounds he could wring from you.
You would moan so sweetly for him. He’d do everything in his power to make sure of it. He’s far from a selfish lover. He’d be sure to prep you beforehand, his hands tracing the curve of your body before delving into your underwear. Start a bit slow, teasing you into asking for more as he plays with your clit. He wonders what kind of expression you’d wear.
Maybe you’d be a bit shy. Maybe you’d be needy, desperate to ask him for more. Whatever’s the case it doesn’t matter, as long as he gets to hear your sweet voice.
Once he’s tested the waters he’d go faster, and he thinks about the heave of your chest, the short breaths you’d give him as you’re getting closer. Would you call him by his real name, or the nickname you’ve given him? He doesn’t really mind either way, but part of him hopes for the former. Regardless, the mental image of you cumming on his fingers along with your voice played on loop is enough to send him over the edge with a choked moan, hot ropes of his seed spilling from his slit. Yuuta’s body nearly gives out as he relaxes back into his chair, exhausted and out of breath.
“Alright, I’ll see you there then! This is a promise!” Your voice plays again through his phone as he finally comes down from his high.
So he steels himself. Tells himself that it doesn’t matter what the occasion is, he’ll make sure to go to the next live show, the one after, and the one after that. It’s a promise, after all.
—
The next time Yuuta goes to see you, he’s a bit more prepared. At least, that’s what he likes to tell himself.
In reality, he’s still just as nervous as the first time. While the video was nice, it just doesn’t hold a light to seeing you in person. Getting a waft of that sweet, floral perfume of yours as he approaches you, relishing at how the smell of the live venue just seems to disappear in your presence. Then there’s the ball that forms in his throat that he can’t swallow as he gets closer.
You light up as soon as you see him, star-bright.
“Yuu-tan!” you shuffle up to him with your arms outstretched for a hug, “I missed you!”
“I missed you too,” he says, and it feels like a weight’s been lifted off his chest. He brings you in closer, but feels a bit self conscious when he realizes just how tight you’re holding on to him. Tight enough that he can feel the curve of your tits pressed against him. Then he finds himself panicking and letting go.
“Did you have a good time at the show?” you ask, seemingly unphased by his internal plight.
”I did, I did,” he replies, nodding a bit too enthusiastically.
“I’m so happy you remembered our promise.”
”O-Of course.”
“What kind of pose did you want today?” Your expression softens as you put your hands behind your back and bend slightly, look up at him doe-eyed and curious.
After all he put into coming to the show, he’s stunned into silence. He had one in mind, but the idea simply melted as soon as he saw you. He can’t help it, it’s just what you do to him. He’s sure he’s making a fool out of himself again, and can feel it in the way his cheeks burn with embarrassment.
”Could you choose again?” he asks meekly.
“Hmm…” you muse, pouting dramatically and placing your chin in between your thumb and index finger. Yuuta waits with bated breath.
“Could you make a circle with your arms?” you say with a snap of your fingers.
”H-Huh? Sure.” He awkwardly follows your instructions, his fingertips meeting one another, miming the act of holding a large box against his chest.
You bend down and disappear from his vision, only to reappear between his arms.
“Boo!” you exclaim, palms faced outward with your fingers spread apart.
Yuuta’s startled. It isn’t that the act itself is scary, but the way you press against his chest and grin at him awakens a gnawing desire in his head. The lengths he would go to see you smile like this for him–just for him. By the time he’s shaking out the thoughts out his mind, he realizes you’ve been waiting for a response.
“Ah, you really scared me,” Yuuta jokes, feigning a scared expression to soothe his nerves.
“Hm? You think I’m scary, Yuu-tan?” you quip back, but then you’re pouting your lips, and the way the glitter glimmers under the stage lights makes it look like you’re going to cry.
It’s like you’ve pierced his heart, he swears he can feel it. Maybe with Cupid’s arrow. It seems like a side effect of this is becoming a blubbering mess every time he tries to speak.
“N-No, that’s not what I meant!”
“Don’t worry,” you giggle with a bright smile that soothes his heart, “I’m just messing with you.”
Gently, you adjust his position until his arms are wrapped tightly around your waist.
But when you press up against him, Yuuta thinks you’re approaching dangerous territory. Even with all the layers in your skirt, he swears he can make out the shape of your ass. It doesn’t help that you keep adjusting your position, brushing against his clothed cock multiple times over. All he can do is bite his tongue and hope that nothing comes to light.
“Yuu-tan, is this ok?” You look back at him with that innocent glimmer in your eyes.
”Y-Yeah, it’s perfect,” he replies, nearly biting his lip as he does so.
You give the cameraman the okay to take the picture, and with a countdown that feels longer than last time, the picture’s taken.
“You’ll come to the next show, right, Yuu-tan?”
“Of course.”
“Pinky promise?” You outstretch your pinky again, and this time, Yuuta’s swift on the uptake, wrapping his pinky around yours with more enthusiasm than last time. It’s such a simple gesture, but Yuuta is fond of promises and all they represent. Love intertwined in a simple hook of pinkies. The gentleness of your thumbs pressing against each other, the giggle that leaves your lips as you make a heart with your hands.
“Pinky promise,” he repeats with a gentle smile.
—
In the days that follow, Yuuta’s come to a realization.
Don’t get him wrong, seeing you perform is great and all, but his favorite moments with you are the intimate ones. The one on ones, the short and sweet conversations where he can tune out the rest of the world. And when he does the math, they’re too few and far between.
Simply put, he can’t wait for the next show. So, he forges his own opportunities. It’s just too easy to do when you post selfies of where you’re handing out flyers for the night. Part of him thinks your agency should be a little more conscious of internet safety, but then again he wouldn’t have been able to find out where you were if that were the case.
Thanks to your social media posts, it doesn’t take that long to find you. It’s busy in Shinjuku but it’s pretty easy to follow the endless trail of girls hanging out flyers. Even though you’re lined up with all the other idols, hostesses, and maids dressed to the nines to promote themselves, he could easily pick you out of the crowd. They just don’t hold a candle to you.
“Please come to our show!” you exclaim with a smile, waving the flyer and hoping the random man in front of you will take it. And for once, he does. So you look up. “Oh! Yuu-tan! What’re you doing here?”
Yuuta feels all warm and fuzzy at the mention of the pet name.
“Ah, I was just running some errands,” he says sheepishly.
“Really?” you ask back in a hushed whisper before breaking into a smile, “what a coincidence!”
Before you can comment any further, a man sneaks into your field of vision and interrupts the conversation, shyly waving his hand at you and asking for a flyer. Your eyes light up for a second before you turn to give him your attention.
“Please come to our show!” you casually hand over the flyer to the stranger with a smile.
Yuuta doesn’t like that.
For a split second, he thinks you should quit being an idol. But then the thought boomerangs back, sits and marinates as he considers it further.
Yeah. That might be a good idea.
“It was nice chatting with you Yuu-tan, but I really gotta get back to work.” You pout at him. It hits him differently this time. He almost mistakes it for guilt, but it’s not quite that. It’s not as surface level, gets deep under his skin like poison and spreads unease throughout his body.
“I’ll see you at the next show, Yuu-tan!” you send him off with a wave and a smile, one he thinks is too soon.
Yuuta waits for you to brand your pinky for him, but it never comes.
Disappointment. It’s disappointment.
He’s been a fool. You’re distracted by all these so-called fans that you can’t see what’s right in front of you. Worse of all, your agency is putting you up to it. He really thinks it’s time for you to quit.
So Yuuta waits.
For an idol, you lack a crucial sense of self-awareness. You don’t even notice when Yuuta follows behind you once you finish your shift. Even as the bustle of the city crowd quiets down as you make your way to your agency building on a random side street, you don’t notice he’s trailing behind. Imagine how much danger you’d be in if some crazy fan were to follow you. You’re lucky to have Yuuta there for you, he just needs to make you see it too.
He almost loses you when you leave the agency building in much more normal and muted. He nearly has to stop himself from drooling at the sight of it. He can see it so clearly, the image of you wearing it on a date with him. Maybe it’d be at a cafe, somewhere he can see you laugh and smile with him as he feeds you an intricate, overpriced slice of cake. But before he gets too lost in his imagination, Yuuta shakes it off and resolves himself to continue following you.
The longer he follows you, the more Yuuta starts to feel invisible. You don’t notice him when he’s right behind you at the turnstill. When he follows you through all the twists and turns of the station, hell, even when he’s three spots behind you in line for the train. The lack of self-preservation is stunning, he thinks. More than that, how could you not notice your number one fan, your boyfriend, putting in all this effort to make sure nobody hurt you? But it doesn’t matter–soon enough you won’t have to worry about that.
You step off the train after a few stops, and Yuuta’s always behind you, not that you’re aware.
The rush of people leaving the train is enough to help him blend in, but once you leave the station he adds some slack to the distance.
Another fifteen minutes of walking and he’s there, watching from a distance as you unlock your apartment and go inside.
Yuuta waits a minute before approaching the unit you just walked into. The lock to your apartment isn’t anything he can’t break through, and with a pointed blast of cursed energy, the lock breaks with a quiet snap. He makes a note to himself to tell you to get a better place.
Then again, it’d be best if you just lived with him anyways. He’d take care of anything, everything, as long as it’s for you.
The door creaks just a little as he opens it slowly, careful not to disturb you.
The apartment is cramped, narrow halls made even smaller by the coats you have hanging on wall hooks, but just down the corridor he can see your living room. Calmly, he takes off his shoes and places them down neatly next to yours before quietly walking over. You aren’t there.
He backtracks to where the hallway splits, approaching the bedroom door. It’s slightly ajar, tantalizing like a bow on top of a present. It’s as if you were expecting him.
When he pushes the door open with a slight tap, Yuuta’s greeted by a half naked figure. You were probably in the middle of undressing. He takes a moment to mentally thank whatever higher up there gave him the blessing of perfect timing.
“Get out of my apartment!” you yell, throwing whatever you can at him, but it doesn’t seem to do any damage. He walks casually towards you, even as you tremble. He doesn’t understand why you’re shaking, but he knows he can fix it. You have nothing to worry about, everything will be better now that he’s here.
His expression softens as soon as you look him in the eyes.
“Hey, hey, it’s just me,” Yuuta coos.
“Y-Yuu-tan?” you ask, voice out of breath from thrashing around, “what are you doing here?” your voice drops in a way that he hasn’t heard before. It’s intimate, he thinks.
“I’ve been worried about you,” he says, a tenderness wrapped in his words.
“Worried?” you ask in the softest tone he’s ever heard. It endears him.
“Yeah. You didn’t pinky promise me today.”
“Huh?”
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay. You usually pinky promise me before you say bye. But you were so distracted today.”
There’s a brief pause, but it feels like it lasts a lifetime. Yuuta studies your expression, one he doesn’t recognize. When your eyes meet his, he takes it as a sign to explain himself further.
“And it’s not just that. During your lives, I see you looking at other guys and it really hurts me,” his voice softens, his chest tightening at the confession. He notices the tears falling down your face, and scrambles to make it better. “But you don’t need to do any of this anymore. You have me,” he says with a hand against his heart.
It doesn’t seem to help as your barely contained cries become louder.
“Yuu-tan, you’re scaring me,” you confess.
He tilts his head.
“I don’t think I’ve said anything scary?”
Another pause. He waits for an answer but isn’t given one he wants as you run for the door. It’s a losing game to run from him, his body quick to shield you from the door, his hand tightly wrapping around your wrist.
“Why are you running?” he asks, genuine hurt in his voice.
“Because you’re scaring me, Yuu-tan,” you reply, voice trembling.
“I’m not trying to be scary, I just want to be a good boyfriend for you,” he whispers softly against your ear, and to prove his point, his hand grazes your thigh, traveling further until his fingers hook around the waistband of your underwear. “Make you feel good like you’ve done for me,” he says breathlessly.
“N-No, I don’t want this, please,” you beg.
Your words are rearranged by the time they hit his ears. For all intents and purposes, all he hears is “I want this, please” and that’s all he needs to kiss you. It’s soft for a moment, but then it’s as if something snapped inside him.
There’s no patience behind it; he’s waited so long after all. He kisses like his time with you is sand trickling down an hourglass and he’s on his last grains. All groans and grasping at your cheeks to keep you with him, hot and heavy.
“Y-Yuu-tan, please,” you plead shakily.
There’s something at the end of your words he doesn’t catch, but he’s all too willing to give you what you want, especially when you’re asking so nicely.
Your breathing quickens as his hand presses down on your legs so you can’t escape. Yuuta’s hand gingerly traces up your thigh until he gets to your underwear. The soft breath you let out when he brushes over your clit sends blood rushing straight down to his cock.
His tongue brushes against the cotton fabric of your underwear, a cute moan leaving your lips, just for him. It’s what he’s been craving to hear, the subject of all his sweetest dreams and basest fantasies, and it’s better than he could have ever imagined. Now that he has it, he needs more.
There’s no warning, no tact to his movements, he can’t hold himself back any longer. There's only pure, unadulterated desperation with every stroke of his tongue against your underwear until he finally pulls the fabric to the side.
When your hand grasps his hair, he’s taken by surprise but he doesn’t dislike it. He indulges you and even lets out a throaty moan when you tighten your grip. He didn’t take you for the rowdy type, but you’re full of surprises, aren’t you?
It enables him further to dive into you and lap around your clit to hear those short gasps that sound like music to his ears. His arms wrap around your thighs to bring you in further, his nose pressing into you as he starts to build a steady tempo.
It seems to be too much for you with the way your body keeps shifting, but Yuuta is nothing if not determined. Maybe you’re testing the depths of his dedication, but there’s no universe where he’d ever fail you. No matter how much you move, he’s stuck to you like a leech, sucking at your clit with fervor. There’s intention with every motion, in the way he huffs and inhales deeply through his nostrils, in the messy way he sucks and slurps at your slick.
Even though he’s working so hard to please you, something’s not quite right. You’re so… quiet. It makes Yuuta think you’re holding yourself back. There’s no need for that, especially between lovers. Soulmates, even.
“Let me hear how good you feel,” he pants between breaths, “it’s okay.”
His movements become more pointed, determination lighting a fire in his stomach just to hear how sweet you get when you cum. The anticipation is killing him, but he thinks there’s been a breakthrough when your thighs tighten around his head, your breaths getting shorter by the second.
When you finally cum, it’s nothing short of heavenly. Sweeter than any note he’s heard you sing on stage, better than what he’s heard in his dreams. It’s not just that, but the full body reaction as well. The trembling, the taut muscles, the rise and fall of your chest– it’s all so erotic.
So your love language is words of affirmation. He makes note of that.
The only complaint Yuuta has is that the moment was far too short lived for his tastes. He has to hear more. See more. Have more. His fingers press gently against your wet hole, one small push from penetrating.
“W-Wait, it’s sensitive–”
Yuuta cuts you off by slipping it in with ease, quickly followed by another. Hungrily looks at the point where he’s connected to you. He starts slowly, fingers carefully pressing and curling until he finds a spot that gives him the reaction he’s looking for.
“Too-too much, stop-”
He doesn’t. Why would he ever deprive you of pleasure? He presses in further, bullies the spot that makes you scream louder. It’s not long until he sends you tumbling into another climax. It’s far more drawn out than the first. He can feel it in the way your walls convulse around his fingers.
Even though it might be too much, Yuuta still fingers you through it. He can’t help it. You just look so cute like this, reduced to a sputtering mess. And knowing that he’s the only one who has the privilege of seeing this side of you? He’s on cloud nine.
He knows he’s being a bit mean right now. But there’s so much lost time to make up for. He might also be letting his jealousy of seeing you with another man get the better of him right now, but it’s ok. At the end of the day, he’s making you feel good.
Yuuta watches with wonder and amusement as you cum again. He almost feels bad for pushing you this far, seeing the way you squeeze your eyes shut and thrash around through your orgasm. While he’s not a fan of your pain, he loves being your source of comfort, the one to clean up your tears. It’s a necessary evil, he tells himself.
Yuuta plants a trail of kisses down your neck to help shoulder the burden, and it seems to help as you come down from your high.
“You’re doing so good for me,” he sighs, adoration laced in his voice as he kisses your forehead.
“Y-Yuu-tan,” you pant, “you’ve already made me feel so good. D-Don’t you think that’s enough?”
“Of course not,” he responds with a soft gasp as if he’s incredulous at the idea, “I have so much more I want to give you.”
“More?” you ask shakily.
“Mhm,” he purrs with a soft smile, unphased by the tremor in your voice. His fingers slide in and out of you with ease, drawing another soft lewd sound out of you.
“No, no, no, I can’t, I can’t-” you plead, before you’re cut off by a kiss. Yuuta notices you have this habit of denying yourself anything good for you, but you don’t need to do that. What are boyfriends for? He doesn’t stop, even when you scratch and leave blossoming trails of rose on his skin. It only makes him intensify his movements, picking a fast rhythmic pace to hit that spot that makes you moan so sweetly.
When you cum with a wail, Yuuta’s there to swallow every cry you give him, tongue swirling against yours to help you through it. There’s a tenderness to it, as if he’s telling you it’ll all be okay. In between labored breaths he huffs in your ear with a neediness in his tone, “let it all out for me.”
He didn’t mean it literally, but he’s not displeased with the results either. That being said, it does catch him by surprise when you clench and gush all over him and the sheets. The warmth of you soaking his pants makes him feel dizzy with lust. Next thing he knows he’s nose deep into your folds, lapping up at everything you have to give. Not a drop goes to waste, not when he lifts your legs and traces the trail of juices from the fat of your ass to your inner thigh.
It’s just too much for him. When he comes up for air, he’s hastily picking at his pants.
“Have you done this for anyone else?” he asks as he unbuckles his belt and slides down his pants.
You shake your head furiously in embarrassment. It’s cute. Part of him wishes he could record a video of it and save it for later. But there’s more pressing matters at hand.
Yuuta’s hard cock presses against the fabric of his boxers, begging to be freed. His hand barely breaks through the elastic when it springs free, slapping his stomach from the recoil. Seeing your hole slick with arousal for him is almost enough to make him cum right there. He takes a deep breath and tries to collect himself.
Yuuta strokes his cock before pressing it between your folds, collecting all your arousal along the way. Even this is enough to make him shiver, feel it deep in his core. He bites his lip and lines himself up with your entrance. The sight of your hole quivering as he taps his tip against it makes him lightheaded.
So he starts slow, presses against your cunt steadily until he gets past that first ring of muscle that makes you gasp. From there, it’s just a matter of patience and self control, pushing further and further until he finally bottoms out with a groan. It goes in so easily, it’s like you were made for this–for him. Yuuta feels like he’s floating.
While Yuuta’s never been one to think about his size, he still sees you squeezing your eyes shut. His hand caresses your cheek before he reaches for your hand, interlocking his fingers with yours. He brings your hand up to his lips and gives your fingers a chaste kiss, from one lover trying to comfort another.
“Hey, it’s in. It wasn’t that bad, right?” he asks softly, like he’s letting you in on a secret.
You give him a shy nod, and he smiles at that.
“You’re doing so good for me,” he praises, gently wiping the tears from your eyes. Even in the afterglow of your tears, you look beautiful. Then again, he’d find beauty in anything you give him. It doesn’t matter what kind of expression you wear, as long as it’s just for him.
“I’ll start slow, ok?” Yuuta brandishes his pinky.
There’s a moment of pause, a shake to your hand as you wrap your pinky around his. He’s already one step ahead of you and swiftly seals it with a kiss and a giggle.
Yuuta keeps his promise, as he languidly rolls his hips into yours. It takes every ounce of self control to keep a slower pace, but he has to savor his first time with you. You feel perfect around him–your warmth enveloping him like a blanket, almost suffocating with its embrace. It’s too much for him, he can’t keep biting his lip and holding back his moans. Then again, he’d be a hypocrite holding himself back, wouldn’t he?
So he lets whatever sounds caught in his throat escape through his lips, lets you hear just how much you’re messing him up. All broken groans and whimpers of your name. And maybe it’s a bit too much for you, seeing you grab the pillow to cover your face. But Yuuta isn’t embarrassed, and you shouldn’t be either, so he’s quick to toss the pillow off the side of the bed.
“Y-Yuu-tan, please,” you ask.
It sounds like there’s something else you were going to say, but the noise thins out into a hushed whine. But Yuuta can read between the lines. His hands spread your legs apart further for leverage, his lips pressing against yours until he builds it up to a slew of open mouthed kisses. Tongue against tongue, choked gasps and moans escaping into each other’s mouths. He kisses you like he wants to consume you, breathes in so intensely like you’re the air he needs in his lungs.
It’s everything he’s ever wanted. He can’t help himself from rutting his hips into yours a little harder, losing himself in the soft plush of your walls squeezing him tighter with every passing moment. Even the wet sounds of his cock fucking into you is melodic to him, along with your staccatoed gasps, it’s an earworm he wouldn’t mind keeping.
He can’t let himself all the fun though, his fingers making their way to your throbbing clit. It seems to catch you by surprise, earning a yelp from you that soon melts into a moan.
“Yuuta-”
The world stops moving. It’s as if he’s frozen in place as soon as he hears his name from your lips. No nickname, no extra letter. Just Yuuta. It’s enough to make his head spin, his nerves go haywire as he snaps his hips into yours faster, desperate to hear it again.
“Say it again,” he groans breathlessly, desperately trying to keep himself from cumming right then and there.
“Yuuta, Yuuta-” you whine in that tone he’s dreamt of, stroked himself to on lonely nights and he’s so close. All self control goes out the window as he practically fucks you into the mattress. He feels delirious feverish with an ailment that can only be cured through you. He can’t let you go; not now, not ever.
An idea hits him like a strike of lightning, reverberates throughout his entire being. His pace slows for a second. There’s a look of confusion on your face.
“If we have a baby, you’ll have to quit, right?” he asks, his finger gently tracing a heart around your stomach.
Your pupils dilate. Yuuta recalls that it’s a sign of love. Affection. His heart skips a beat.
“Y-Yuu-tan,” you mumble, a tremor in your voice, “what are you saying?”
“You’ll have to stay if we have a baby,” he whispers into your ear before his hips snap into yours, “right?”
You make some unintelligible noise in response, but he knows it’s just because you’re overwhelmed with joy at the idea. Knowing you’re happy makes him happy too.
There’s no time to waste, an urgency to Yuuta’s movements as he pushes against your legs until you’re folded into a mating press. His hips pick up a steady rhythm, the loud slap of skin echoing throughout the room.
Yuuta fucks you like he means to make good his proposal–his body pressed flush against yours, his hands wrapping around the back of your head to bring you into his embrace. He throws caution to the wind, lets lust take over.
Everything about you is overwhelming. How you scratch at his back, how you bite down on his neck hard enough to draw blood, how your legs tremble with each stroke. It’s like you want it just as bad as he does.
And who is he to deny you? His hand slips between your sweat covered bodies, trails down to your throbbing clit to show it some love. He wants you to feel as good as he does, or better. Preferably the latter.
He knows he’s doing a good job when he hears that tell-tale sign of your breaths quickening, along with your heart beating faster against his chest.
But something’s off.
You won’t stop throwing your body around, as if you’re trying to loosen his grip around you.
If this is your way of testing his love, then he’s passing with flying colors. It only lights a fire in him, determination ablaze in his fingertips as he draws tighter circles around your clit, the roll of his hips morphing to something slower, but deeper. It’s only a matter of seconds before your body gives in to his love and affection, cries sputtering from your mouth as your muscles tense up around him.
Yuuta can’t control himself any longer with your pussy convulsing around him, his pace becoming erratic, his breathing heavier. His voice breaks, a shaky whine catches in his throat before he goes over the edge.
“Love you, love you so much,” he cries before cumming, burying himself deep inside and making sure to give you everything he has. Every twitch of his cock leads to the undeniable warmth of his seed painting your insides white.
He takes a moment to collect himself and catch his breath, but he doesn’t take himself out of you. It’s like the intensity catches up with him all at once as he collapses onto you. Even in his state of exhaustion, he finds the energy to gingerly kiss your forehead.
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,
tags: established relationship, pwp, dry humping, cunnilingus, pet name (pretty girl), honestly the most vanilla thing i’ll ever write probably tbh
wc: 2.4k
summary: your boyfriend is adamant on showing just how much he loves you.
a/n: yeehaw first time writing for blue lock! vanilla and like... romance is not my usual thing so hope it's ok lol. dividers by @/adornedwithlight
ao3 link here
Everything’s great with your boyfriend.
For the most part.
He’s perfect on paper: kind, treats you well, adored by friends and family members alike. Never fails to bring a smile to your face whenever you see him. But that’s what makes it all the more frustrating when his hands grab your thighs with an ironclad grip, begging you to stop straddling him.
It’s not the first time this has happened, far from it. Maybe you were a bit foolish in knowingly dating someone so chaste, thinking you’d be able to convince him otherwise. But every time he rejects your advances, you can’t help but wonder why he’s still with you. Still, you heed his request, getting off him to take a seat next to him on the couch.
“Yukki…” you trail off, huddling into yourself as you find the words to say next, “do you like me?”
Kenyu’s eyes widen, his expression full of concern, as if you kicked a puppy right in front of him. “Huh? Where’s that coming from?”
“I mean…” you mumble, resting your face on top of your knees, “we never do anything more than kissing.”
Once you start, it’s hard to stop. The ball in your throat grows, the words spilling from your mouth, like water from a dam that’s been compromised.
“I know you want to wait ‘til marriage but, sometimes it feels like you don’t like me when that’s all we do,” you pause, looking over at him when a twang of guilt strikes your chest before looking down again, “I-I mean we don’t have to go all the way or anything like that.”
“I-It’s nothing like that,” he sighs, pinching his temple before continuing, “I like you, a lot. You could even say that I love you.” The confession makes your skin run hot, even though you’ve heard it plenty of times before.
“It’s not that I don’t want to do it, I’m just scared.” Kenyu shifts again, attempting to face you before continuing, but the second his eyes meet yours, he looks away. “When you get on top of me like that…” Now it’s his turn to be flustered, his skin blooming a pretty shade of pink as he struggles to thread his words together. “I don’t think I can last long.”
You sit up properly, tilting your head quizzically. He has your full attention now. “Huh?”
“It feels crazy good,” Kenyu continues, struggling to meet your gaze, “good enough to make me… You know.” He stops himself short of the word, but you both know what he means. He won’t say it out loud because he won’t know what to do with himself. Though if you’re being honest, you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself either.
The silence is deafening. It’s as if the room is waiting for a response. The realization strikes you like lightning, sudden and bright. It’s not that your boyfriend doesn’t like you, quite the opposite in fact. He might like you a little too much.
“Ah, but that’s kinda embarrassing, isn’t it?” he asks sheepishly, breaking the silence first and brandishing a forced smile to hide his insecurity.
“Yukki,” you say before putting your hands on either side of his face before pressing, “look at me.”
“I’m looking,” he mumbles through his squished lips.
“I don’t mind. Actually…” you look off to the side even though you’re the one who forced this intimate display of eye contact, “I think it’s really hot.”
His eyebrows manage to shoot up in shock, even in this position. “You sure?”
“You think I’d lie to you?”
He chuckles, and you can hear the relief in his voice. “No, you wouldn’t.”
“Then will you let me do the honors?” you ask, looking up at him doe-eyed and fluttering your lashes.
“S-Sure. But can we take it slow?”
“Whatever you want, Yukki,” you say softly, voice honeyed with affection as you get on top of him again. Kenyu shifts, his hands wrapping around your thighs softer this time.
It’s as if something’s shifted. You’ve kissed each other plenty of times before, but now that the intention to go further lies in the air, it’s like your first time again. Awkward, flustered, apologetic as you try to kiss him and accidentally bump foreheads together.
Kenyu laughs, because no matter what you do, he always finds you adorable. He decides to take his hands off your thighs and place them on the back of your head, gently bringing you in for a kiss that puts romance movies to shame. He’s in no rush, savoring the taste of you on his lips as he always does.
Kenyu always knows how to bring you back to Earth. He cherishes you–holds and kisses you like you’re the most delicate piece of china in a glass cabinet. And while this is nice enough on its own, you have other things you’ve been wanting to try. You keep his preferences in mind, taking it slow with a lazy roll of your hips. Even with that, you can hear his voice catching in his throat.
You use the opportunity to take it a bit further and slip your tongue in, which he welcomes. Every time you take it a bit further–whether it’s biting his lip or playing with his tongue–his self control chips a little more, whispered moans filling your mouth.
With every kiss, every roll of your hips, you can feel his length growing, getting hotter even when it’s confined by the fabric of his pants. It makes you want to work just a little harder, get yourself a little closer to cumming with him. The fabric is frustrating, an annoying reminder of just how close yet far you are from him. Though, that frustration starts to melt when Kenyu follows the rhythm of your hips.
It’s getting harder to keep your promise when he’s this cute. When you wrap your arms around his neck, you can feel just how hot and bothered he is, as if his soft whimpers weren’t enough of a testament already. What was once a soft grasp behind your head grows into something more primal and unrefined, desperation running through his fingertips as he grabs whatever he can to bring you closer to him.
You’re not any better, the speed of your hips picking up, desperate to hear him so needy. It’s the first time you’ve heard him like this.
As you lose your control and composure, your hips grind against him harder. Kenyu can’t keep his voice back any longer, desperate groans leaving his mouth with a quiver of his lips. Every sound he gives you goes straight to your pussy, making you warm and greedy for more.
You can feel the wet spot on your panties grow as you rub against him and wonder if he can feel it too. It might be pushing it, but the thought of freeing his cock shoots through your head. It feels and looks so tight against the fabric, it wouldn’t hurt to ask, right?
“Yukki,” you pause and give a glance at his zipper, “can I?”
“I thought we weren’t going all the way,” he replies, breathless as he looks up at you.
“We aren’t… I just wanna feel you more,” you say meekly, “that’s ok, right?”
His eyes widen like saucers before nodding. “Y-Yeah, go for it.”
So you do, unzipping his pants like you’re unwrapping a present—it might as well be one. You adjust and place yourself right on top and start again, though the sensation is much better this time around for both of you. You see it in the way Yuuki immediately throws his head back and moans, feel it in the way your cunt slides against his heat with only two layers of thin fabric keeping you apart.
All of it’s just too much for you–the pre that’s smeared on his boxers, the warmth of his cock against your clothed folds. It’s the closest you’ve been to him, to going all the way. Everything about it makes you more desperate to see him cum, so you focus all your attention on his leaky tip, just to see how sticky you can make it.
The sight of you proves to be too much for Kenyu, as he brings up his arm to shield his eyes. You’re quick to move it out of the way, a silent plea for him to look at you, look at where you’re nearly connected.
“Getting close?” you ask, sweet as sugar. Just the sound of your voice is enough to send him over the edge, but he wants to hold out, even if it’s just for a moment longer.
“You gotta look at me when you cum,” you plead.
Kenyu bites his lip and groans before shakily nodding.
You wrap your arms around his neck, bring your face closer to his until you’re touching forehead to forehead–close enough to feel every pant, every tremor of his voice.
“You love me?” you moan, digging your hips into him deeper.
“God, I love you so much,” he moans back, eyes lined with tears that are one blink from falling.
Kenyu’s desperately rutting his hips into you, and you swear you can feel him prodding at your entrance.
You feel it when Kenyu cums with a gravelly groan, his chest rattling as he cries. Even more so when you keep humping him, as his boxers get stickier and mix with your slick.
“W-Wait, too much,” he gasps, muscles visibly tightening in his neck as he throws his head back.
You can’t take your eyes off of the point where your undergarments meet, fabric soaked and darkened from the fluids.
“You really love me, huh?” you ask with a smile.
“Of course,” he sighs contentedly before giving you a soft peck on the cheek. It makes it all too easy to snuggle into him and lie your head on his chest. Before you can get too comfortable, Kenyu shifts his body and you’re suddenly far too aware of the sticky patch touching your underwear.
“Um… Should we clean up?” you ask, preparing yourself to dismount before Kenyu shifts his weight to push you back down on the couch, his hands around your wrists. Determination lights a fire in his eyes.
“You gotta let me return the favor.”
“H-Huh?”
“Let you…” he glances down at the wet spot of your panties before looking back at you, “you know?”
Oh.
“N-No, this is enough for me Yukki, I don’t wanna do anything you don’t wanna do.”
“But I do want this,” he assures you before kissing your cheek, his hands carefully tracing the curve of your hips, “I want to make you feel good. Will you let me?”
“I mean,” you pause, shuffling a bit and adjusting your gaze away from him, “if you’re okay with it.”
That’s all the approval he needs to kiss you, drawing a trail down your body.
Kenyu’s careful and meticulous, savoring every press of his lips against your skin. Whether it’s your neck, chest, waist, he lingers as if he doesn’t want to leave it behind. Every opened mouth kiss, flick of his tongue filled with adoration.
Whatever ritual he has going on, it doesn’t fail to make you shiver in anticipation, have butterflies blooming in your stomach. It makes you shy, being so exposed in front of him. In a way, it’s a little nostalgic—reminds you of the first time he dropped you off at your apartment and said his goodbyes with a kiss.
But then you’re brought back to the moment when Kenyu adjusts and shifts you to lie down on your back. His hands are there every step of the way, a silent plea to let him take care of everything.
He takes his time with you, slowly kissing a path up your leg. With each kiss, he lingers a moment longer. A playful bite here, a hint of tongue there. It keeps you on edge, just a little. Every hushed gasp or squeal earns a huff and a smile out of him.
“My pretty girl,” he sighs, adoration laced in his breath.
Carefully, he tests the waters with a delicate kiss before going in with a drag of his tongue as soon as a moan slips from your lips. From there, he uses his tongue with a determination you usually only see on the field from afar, like he’s trying to tear a hole in your underwear. The cotton gets wetter with every stroke of his tongue, sticky fabric clinging to your lips.
With his enthusiasm, it’s as if the underwear isn’t even there. All you can feel is Kenyu’s tongue, hot and heavy, incessantly drawing circles around your clit. It’s too much, looking down and seeing his head disappear under the fabric of your skirt. When you instinctively shut your legs out of embarrassment, his hands hook around your thighs and bring you closer. It brings a newly lit passion out of him, has him pressing his face even harder into your pussy.
The noises he makes while sucking on the fabric is too much for your ears, too much for a first time. It’s messy, unrefined, and nothing you would expect from your prim and proper boyfriend. Something about seeing him like this, so desperate and eager to serve, only adds to your arousal.
Despite how laser focused he is on your clit, on making you reach the apex of pleasure, he brings his hand to yours, your fingers intertwining. His thumb rubs circles into your skin, something he always does to comfort you. Maybe he feels it coming before you, with the way your breathing intensifies, the way your moans get louder and all the more cuter.
“You love me too, don’t you?” he asks, hushed and panting.
“L-Love you so, mmh, much Kenyu,” you cry back, biting your lip.
“Wanna show me how much?” he asks before going back into you, passion woven in each stroke of his tongue.
“Yes, yes, yes-” you cry before your climax finally hits you like a wave. Even though you barely recognize the sounds pouring from your lips, you wonder if Yuuki does. All stuttered moans and hushed pants as he guides you through it. His pace starts to slow as you come down from your high, before sealing it with a kiss on your clit.
“Next time you think I don’t love you,” he pauses to meet you face to face before pressing his lips onto yours, “I hope you’ll remember this.”
tags: exhibitionism, established relationship, toys (vibrator), idol AU (reader's an idol), praise, multiple orgasms, overstim, dacryphilia, clothed/floor sex, pet names (angel/sweetheart/princess), satoru being a wee bit possessive/mean, reader’s kinda tsun
wc: 4.6k
summary: your boyfriend wants you to put on a special show for the night, and your audience is none the wiser.
a/n: happy holidays! let's completely ignore canon together <3 i'll be free from idol AU bs one day. today is not that day. i got a tag on my blog for any idol!reader stuff involving gojo at #iettoru! if it piques your interest! special thanks to @angelbunsx and @surpassing-morning for looking over this for me <3 dividers by @/adornedwithlight
❥ ao3 link here
This was a horrible idea. Well, it still is a horrible idea, but you went along with it anyway. At the end of the day, you only really have yourself to blame, even though you would really like to split it with your boyfriend.
It took a bit of convincing, maybe a bit of guilt tripping, but it doesn’t change the fact that there’s a vibrator stuffed inside you as you walk onto the stage. Everything feels more intense than usual– the brightness of the stage lights, the stuffiness of the venue, the cheers of the crowd.
You inhale deeply but the words that follow come out shaky, “T-thanks for coming, everyone!” It catches you off guard, but not enough to stop talking. Your group members, however, give you a worried glance. You can’t afford to make them worry about you, not when there’s nothing worth worrying about other than your boyfriend’s perverted fantasies. So you continue, yelling into the mic as a way to hide your unsteady breathing, “We have a great show planned for tonight, so we hope you enjoy it!”
The crowd cheers, as per usual. Though this time it rumbles through you, intensifying the already overwhelming vibrations stirring you up. You don’t have much time to think about it. The start of the backing track catches you off guard, as you rush to catch up with your members’ formation. Everything feels hot, and you’re not sure what it is, the embarrassment of a rare mistake, or the vibrations rushing through your body with each step.
And though you’re struggling to keep up with the routines you’ve practiced dozens of times over, Satoru doesn’t seem to be phased. He’s business as usual, a sun bright smile plastered on his face as he yells and waves his penlight in the air. He might even be cheering louder than usual, the bastard.
Every move feels risky, like taking a block from an unsteady tower of jenga. The world’s worst game of flipping the coin. Either the vibrator will adjust inside you, press against somewhere that might make you moan, or maybe it’ll move around enough and slip out. Thinking about the latter is too much for you, so you surrender yourself to moving a bit less than usual. Focus on shining that dazzling smile to the crowd and hope they won’t see how it falters with every shift of your body.
And thankfully, it works for the first performance. You’ve never been so grateful to hear the crowd whoop and holler. Even more so that you’re not introducing the next song.
But that moment of relief is cut short. The vibrations pattern changes to something more intense, staccato pulses that make you wince with each throb. It catches you off guard, a soft moan escaping your lips before you try to cover it up with a cough, though you’re not sure it’s that convincing.
“You doing okay over there?” Your member’s voice barely registers in your ears as you rush to put on a fake smile.
“S-Sorry, I’m doing okay! Just recovering from a cold,” you reply with a shaky chuckle. Everyone seems to be content with your answer, though Satoru seems exceptionally proud of himself. It takes every bit of self control to keep your breathing steady, as your members banter amongst themselves before introducing the next song. Their speech feels like it’s going on for ages until they finally get themselves in position.
Thankfully, you’re not caught off guard this time, though the choreo’s a lot more complicated for this song. You don’t have the safety of being hidden in the back, being front and center for a good chunk of the performance. Though the audience cheers, you can see some concerned faces interspersed between the sea of penlights, some murmurs and whispers beyond what you can hear. It’s not hard to imagine what the conversation would consist of.
Even on a good day this routine would leave you breathless, but it’s on a whole other level now. It’s hard to keep your muscles clenched, terrified of having the toy slip out of you from your frenzied movements. And seriously, who thought adding this many jumps was a good idea?
But with each hit of a drum, you jump anyways, though a little less enthused than your members. Then, as if it’s a punishment for not giving enough effort, the speed of the vibrator increases. Your eyes dart to find Satoru in the audience, but he’s cheering innocently as usual, though one of his hands is dug deep in his pocket.
You’re going to kill him later.
With each move, it’s getting harder to ignore the tension building in your core. But you just have to get through this song and another before the buppan period. It’s only another ten minutes max, you can keep it together till then, you think.
Satoru plays more with the settings and you can feel him pushing the buttons for each one, carefully watching your reaction to see which is the most effective. Unfortunately for you, it’s written clearly on your face when your smile breaks and your eyes squeeze shut for a brief moment, just enough for Satoru to hone in on it.
You’ve vastly overestimated your ability to stay calm and collected. The buzzing inside you is erratic now, each pulse getting you closer to the edge. But the song is so close to being over, maybe if you just move a little less, catch a small break where you can focus on standing still, you can make it through. Though, it’s hard to concentrate when you can feel a pool forming in your underwear, the wet cotton sticking to your skin wherever you go.
It’s as if you can feel yourself developing a fever in real-time, heat boiling beneath the surface of your skin as you struggle to keep up with your members. It doesn’t help that Satoru keeps changing the vibrations to a pattern that doesn’t match the rhythm of the music, yet another added distraction. It demands your attention as if it’s a living, breathing being, gnaws and claws at your core until you finally give it what it wants.
The vibrator wins over your self-determination.
You at least have the self control to fake a cough over it, but not before your knees give out on you, trembling as you try to hold yourself back up. With every pulse, ecstasy courses through your body, small choked moans escaping your lips.
Your group members, sweet as they are, immediately come to your side to help you up, and you’re rushing back to coughing to hide the truth.
“H-Hey, you really don’t have to push yourself, you know,” she whispers to ensure the audience doesn’t hear.
You do your best to swat her away without actually hitting her, afraid she’ll be able to feel the toy vibrating through your skin and discover your dirty little secret.
“N-No, I’m fine, I can do one last song,” you get out, enunciating each syllable carefully to not spur any suspicion.
“You sure?”
“Y-Yeah, it’s just one more,” you assure her.
“Okay…” Hesitantly, she lets you recollect yourself, watching over you until you stand, give her a smile and a thumbs up.
“Sorry about that everyone, I’m okay! But this will be our last song of the night,” you announce into the mic, swiping the dust off your skirt.
You get a bit of your spirit back now that you got that out of your system. That doesn’t make the vibrations any less incessant.
Unbeknownst to the audience, it’s not a performance anymore–it’s a competition. To show Satoru you can hold it out till the end.
And with the start of the instrumental, you’re off to the races.
A thread of melodic synths weaves its way through the room, and the crowd fires off their usual chants during the introduction. It’s a nice distraction to hold you over until it’s your turn in the center. When it’s your time, you beam and sing sweetly into the mic, like it’s just your average performance. Satoru doesn’t let you go that easily, adjusting the attack pattern to diminish and swell in a way that catches you off guard.
And though it’s hard, it’s not the worst of the night. You hiccup on a note for a split second, but it seems to go unnoticed by the audience, considering how hard they’re waving their penlights. That’s one third of the song out of the way.
Even when you’re out of the spotlight, Satoru doesn’t take his eyes off you, nor does he take his fingers off the remote. Every move is an opportunity to see you break, even if it’s just a little. He does his best to find a rhythm, one that pulses with the beat of the music, and you feel it reverberating through you with each step. It’s not quite enough to make you break, but it’s enough that you’re hyper aware of it.
A frenzied mix of bass and synths meld together for the bridge, and the crowd takes it as their cue to do the appropriate chants, their yells rattling your chest almost as intensely as the vibrator. It’s bad timing to feel the heat in your core swell as you take your spot center stage for your solo with the instrumental toned down. The crowd quiets down too, a rush of soft claps pattering like butterflies filling the room. On a regular night, this display would be cute, heartwarming even. But now it only serves as a reminder that all eyes are on you, and only you.
Don’t mess up.
So you take a deep breath, gripping onto the mic like a vice. All of your focus is on the lyrics, singing them as softly and sweetly as you can. Even though the night was off to a rough start, you think you’ve redeemed yourself with this, hitting every note just right, even with the vibrator doing its best to pull your attention back to it. Back to Satoru.
You can take it easy now. It’s almost over. Just repeat the dance you've already done twice over from the other choruses.
And for once, it’s just as simple as that. The vibrating is incessant, but you’ve gotten used to it at this point, even with the occasional change in pattern. Your chest rises and falls harder than usual as you hold your finishing pose, your skin covered in beads of sweat you aren’t accustomed to.
Despite everything Satoru attempted to throw at you, you made it, and that’s all that matters. The performance is over.
For now.
—
The buppan period is worse than you thought it was going to be. To your surprise, Satoru didn’t do his usual frenzied ticket buying spree and now you’re left to face the masses he usually doesn’t let you see. You don’t recognize the fan in front of you, can’t even determine if he’s a first time fan or if you’ve met him so long ago the passage of time has done your memory in.
“H-Hi, thanks for coming!” you exclaim, taking his ticket and placing it on the table.
“Thanks for the performance! I really hope you’ll feel better soon,” he remarks. The way he scratches his neck tips you off that he’s nervous.
“Aw thank you! I’m already feeling better for the most part, I’m just coughing a little here and there,” you do your best to assure him, lying through your teeth.
“Despite it all, you still did great today,” he says, whispering towards the end of his sentence.
“Thanks,” you smile, and you don’t want to admit it but you are a bit touched by his words. Quickly, you shake the thought away. Maybe you understand why Satoru monopolizes your time now. “So, did you have a pose in mind?”
“Yeah, just a hand heart, if that’s okay,” he offers, a bit hesitant, shakily playing with his hands to show you the gesture he’s thinking of.
“Sounds good!” You give him a thumbs up before leaning in a bit closer to him, just enough that your fingertips are touching. Look into the camera with your usual smile, and count down from three.
As soon as the flash of the camera dissipates, you’re hit with a rush of pulses to your core. It’s almost enough to make you keel over, a sliver of a groan escaping you as you bend over to grab your stomach.
“A-Are you okay?” he asks, his hands hovering over you wanting to help, but unsure if he should touch.
You don’t think you deserve his kindness.
“Y-Yeah, sorry, just,” you sigh, barely able to keep it together. Each pulse takes the wind out of you, gets you closer on that precipice you don’t want to experience here, not this close to a stranger, much less a fan. So, you wave the white flag for now, gritting your teeth to get the words out between deep breaths, “I think I gotta go. I’ll be back in a bit.”
–
Your absence doesn’t go unnoticed by Satoru. If anything, this is probably what he had in mind, push you to your limits until you just can’t take it anymore. By the time you barely have a moment to collect yourself, he’s already found you on the floor of the green room. It’s pathetic, letting him see you like this–breathless, panting, and desperate for relief.
The way he hovers over you paints him in a surreal, hazy light, as if he’s an angel coming down to save you from your strife, when he’s really the demon who put you in this scenario to begin with.
“My angel loves the attention, doesn’t she?” he asks, sickly sweet.
“Fuck off, Satoru,” you bite back, but you don’t stop him when he bends down to shuts you up with a kiss. It’s impossible to keep your voice back when he splits your legs apart with his knee, pressing up against your soaked panties while the vibrator continues to hum inside you. It’s more overwhelming than you thought, finally getting what you want and letting yourself melt into his touch. Satoru doesn’t let you savor it for too long, pulling away with a shit-eating grin.
“Feisty. Did I make you wait too long?” he sneers, pressing his forehead against yours.
You don’t give him a response, too embarrassed at the mess he’s made of you, at the way your wet underwear clings to your sticky folds.
“Don’t worry, I’ll give you all the attention you need,” he coos, sliding his hand up your thigh to pull down your shorts and underwear.
Satoru takes his sweet time because he always enjoys seeing how restless you get over him. The way you look up at him, the hint of tears forming on your waterline while pawing at him as you silently beg for him to take care of you. He could never get sick of it. So, he gently massages your inner thigh, fingers creeping up closer to your pussy until you’re nearly crying, pleading for him to do something.
“P-Please, take it out ‘Toru,” you whine, sniffling a bit because you’re so close to being overstimulated.
“Such a good girl for me,” he whispers soft and low, “since you asked so nicely…” he trails off, lithe fingers pressing into your soaked cunt, but not before he has some more fun with you. Satoru takes his sweet time, letting out a little “oops” to pretend the toy is slipping from his grasp, only for his fingers to go deeper than the vibrator.
The moment you part your lips to ask him to stop is the moment he finally shows mercy and slowly pulls out the vibrator. The sudden loss of sensation is a contradiction, both welcome and not. It’s strange to have nothing inside you, it almost makes you wish something else was in there to take its place.
One thing that catches you both off guard is just how wet it is, nearly dripping with your arousal.
“Wonder if any fans noticed you’re practically leaking,” he says before licking a long stripe off the vibrator, “not that it matters, you’re all mine, aren’t you?”
“It’s just sweat,” you retort, looking off to the side because you can’t stand to inflate his ego when he gets like this.
“Sure it is. Were you thinking of me up there?” he asks, following your gaze.
“Maybe,” you mumble.
“Huh? What was that?” he perks up, bringing a hand to his ear for dramatic effect.
“Toru, just put it inside already,” you huff with a soft pout.
“Wooooow,” he comments, drawing out the vowel for dramatic effect, “needy today aren’t we?”
“It’s your fault anyways,” you say, an attempt to throw the blame back at him. Still, you wrap your fingers in his shirt before pulling his body closer.
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll take the blame as always. For what it’s worth, you’re just as bad as me,” he comments. His fingers slide against your slick folds and you bite your lip to hold your voice back.
Satoru savors every moment he has with you, drinking in the sight of your cunt practically dripping arousal onto the floor. The more he stares, the more your face burns. No matter how many times you’ve done this, you can’t get over how attentive he is.
He sinks in a single finger, and it’s already enough to have you groaning at the sensation, to have your hips bucking into him.
“What kinda idol runs off to the green room in the middle of an event to get fucked?” Satoru teases, his finger pressing into you harder.
“Y-You’re being mean, ‘Toru,” you whine.
“You like when I’m mean,” he quips back before pressing in another finger with little resistance.
Satoru does what he always does–starts slowly, listens carefully to the way your breath hitches as he curls his fingers to find that special spot. When he gets there it’s hard not to relinquish control, as you lean back and let him take care of you. As much as he loves to listen to your moans, he likes swallowing them up too, feverishly kissing you without letting a single one slip from your lips. Satoru only pulls away from a moment to tease you.
“C’mon angel, you gotta let me know if it feels good,” he coos before picking up the pace. It’s too much, embarrassing to hear the wet squelches leaving your pussy the more he fingers you.
Every part of you runs hot as the tension that’s been simmering in your core builds to a roaring boil. Desperation overrides any rational thought as you find a rhythm and ride his fingers, nearly drooling as you feel your muscles tensing up. You’re so close, and he knows it too, because Satoru’s kisses always get messier when you get close to cumming.
“T-Toru, please,” you whine between moans, but you’re not sure what you’re asking for.
“I know, I know,” he coos before giving you a soft peck on the cheek, “let it all out for me, sweetheart.”
It’s as if he knows your body better than you as the tension in your core finally snaps as you cum on his fingers. Satoru being the fiend he is, continues fucking you through it, pushing his fingers in harder when you inevitably clench around him.
“Too much, too much, ‘Toru,” you cry, attempting to grab his wrist but he simply pushes himself deeper into your cunt.
“One more? I know my princess wants another,” he teases before kissing you to cut off of any chance of a response. It’s not like you would be able to give him an answer anyways, not when his fingers play with you so easily, his lips greedily stealing every one of your breaths and moans for himself.
One thing about Satoru is that he likes to overindulge. Likes when you’re extra loud and needy for him, seeing the pleasure written plainly on your face when he fucks you, whether that’s with his fingers, his tongue, his dick, or anything else he can get his hands on. But that makes him insatiable in some aspects, when he makes you cum on his fingers multiple times before he’ll even entertain the prospect of fucking you properly.
Can you really blame him? He just wants to feel all your love for him dripping down his cock. Maybe even make you cry a little because you just look too cute when you do, and even cuter when you sniffle as he wipes your tears and kisses them. It sets off something in him.
But it’s also hard to keep up with him. When you grip onto his hand and try to pull his fingers out because it’s too much, he simply wraps his arm around your waist and keeps you from escaping. Satoru’s determination is a wild animal that can’t be tamed, especially when it comes to you.
It always pays off for him, but that means it pays off for you as well. Though, you’re in tears when he rips another orgasm out of you, your moans too deafening to quell with a kiss. Your legs involuntarily squeeze close as Satoru gets you near the edge of ache and overstimulation, but he uses his other hand to split them open, watching closely how your pussy convulses and flutters around his fingers as you come undone. Only when you finally come down from your high does he slow down, examining just how much you soaked his hand.
“You didn’t have to go so hard, Satoru,” you scoff when he finally gives you a break.
“Just gotta make sure you’re all prepped for me,” he mewls, pulling out his fingers from your messy cunt. They glisten under the fluorescent lighting, before Satoru shamelessly sucks on them before releasing it with a pop.
“Don’t have to go all above and beyond on me,” you mumble, a bit embarrassed at his shamelessness even though it’s just the two of you in the room.
“But my angel only deserves the best,” he says, voice low and sultry. Hastily, he’s stumbling over himself to unbuckle his belt and unzip his pants before palming himself over the fabric. That doesn’t last long before he finally frees his cock, already hard and raring to go.
Satoru pulls up your skirt to your waist before slotting himself between your legs. Even still, he teases you, tapping his cockhead on your slick folds and letting out a whistle when a thread of your arousal sticks to him before thinning out and breaking.
“T-Toru, please,” your voice breaks with each tap of his cock against your cunt, the desire to be filled up driving you to the edge of tears.
“Please what?”
“Put it inside already,” you beg with a pout.
“Whatever you say, princess,” he coos before pressing the tip of his cock against your hole, and both of you moan when he bottoms out quicker than usual, thanks to all his hard work. Satoru holds your head in his hands as he pumps into you with a steady rhythm, each stroke punctuated with a hard snap of his hips.
“Fuck, you really are made just for me, aren’t you?” he pants breathily, before planting a wet kiss on your neck.
You can’t bring yourself to answer, not that he really needs one. With his mouth elsewhere, your lips are free to spill all the moans it wants, and they’re abundant. It’s music to Satoru’s ears, as he hums in delight while biting down on your shoulder.
“Can’t be so loud angel, the others’ll hear you,” he teases, as if that isn’t his dream come true. His lips press into yours, and you don’t hesitate to give him the opening he wants. Satoru kisses you sloppily, spit and drool mixing with yours before spilling from the sides of your mouth.
“Is that what you want? Want your fans to know what a pervert you are?”
“No, no, no,” you protest, shaking your head with a tinge of guilt in your chest. You can only imagine the shock your fans and members would have if they ever knew about this happening just a handful of meters away. But that concern disappears as fast as it came when Satoru turns on the vibrator again and plants it against your clit. Your body writhes from the simulation suddenly being introduced again, but Satoru is unrelenting, keeping it right against the sensitive bundle of nerves no matter how much you move.
“It’s okay, I’ll keep your secret,” he says softly, almost gentle, contrary to the position he currently has you in.
Satoru adjusts and presses your legs as far back as he can before he starts building a merciless pace. The weight of his body against yours is suffocating, but you can’t bring yourself to care, not when he hits your deepest parts from this angle.
“Fuck, you’re getting close, aren’t you? Can tell from the way you’re squeezing me,” he groans, his voice getting breathier with each word, “you wanna cum, sweetheart?”
“P-Please make me cum, ‘Toru,” you pant out.
Satoru answers by frantically thrusting his hips into you, hitting your deepest points at a pace that’s dizzying. Words are the last thing on your mind, too fucked out and crying from how good it feels. You don’t even protest when Satoru bites down on your neck, even harder than before. All you give him is a drawn out whine as he sucks on the skin and with how intense he’s being, it’s definitely going to leave a mark.
It doesn’t matter. All you can focus on is tightening your muscles, preparing yourself for your fourth climax of the night. Satoru is merciless, thrusting into you like an animal functioning on a base desire to breed. The sound of skin-to-skin slapping fills the room, nearly muffling your own babbled cries as you get close. The tension in your core builds and builds until it snaps and crashes into you like a tidal wave, deep and full-bodied.
Your nails dig into his chest when he continues to fuck you through it like he always does, thighs trembling as your walls convulse and flutter around his cock. Satoru curses under his breath as his pace slackens, your orgasm being a precursor to his own. Despite him making a mess of you, he’s just the same as you when he’s cumming, maybe even worse–desperately humping into you and repeatedly whispering “I love you” and moaning until his hips finally give out.
Satoru digs himself deeper into you as he cums, making sure you can feel all of his love for you in the hot ropes of white that paint your insides. After he’s emptied all that he can inside of you, he finally dismounts and gives your body the chance to recover.
You barely take a moment to recollect yourself, still panting and sweating from the intense orgasm when Satoru uncharacteristically rushes to get his clothes back on.
“What are you doing?” you ask, still out of breath.
“Going back out. I still have these to redeem,” he says matter-of-factly. Satoru rummages through his pockets before brandishing a handful of cheki tickets, all with your likeness smothered on them. Before you can even offer up a response, he gives you a peck on the cheek. “You’re not going to keep me waiting, are you?”
tags: dubcon, noncon elements, vomit/emeto, power imbalance, cockwarming
summary: The name of the game is cruel and unusual punishment, and you just happen to be the unlucky winner.
notes: yeah idk. read the tags and read them again before you click the read more. sex is dubcon at best, the vomit is def noncon. you've been warned. dividers by @/adornedwithlight
❥ ao3 link here
After the months you’ve spent at the monastery, you have no idea how Geto-sama feels about you. Now and then you see him, but he’s distant at best, unreadable at worst.
Rumors float around and they always find their way to you. Sometimes innocent ones, other times things you have no stake in. But there’s one that seeps through the halls of the monastery, one that makes your stomach tighten, your breathing needle sharp.
Geto-sama isn’t very fond of you.
It’s childish, you know you shouldn’t let it bother you. But it does. Especially when it’s followed by baseless accusations that you know aren’t true.
You’re irresponsible. A burden to the family. As you walk down the corridors, you swear you can hear the echoes of your peers' voices–what is your contribution?
Though you know this isn’t true, it still weighs on your conscience. Just enough for you to get desperate to prove everyone wrong, shut them up for once.
But you weren’t able to.
You’ll admit, it was a poor decision made in the heat of the moment. Sick of hearing whispers of your incompetence, you would do anything to prove it, including bringing back a curse for your beloved master. Though you’re out of practice, a grade two should be well within your capabilities.
Unfortunately, some things are a lot easier said than done.
It’s a miracle he noticed something was amiss. If it weren’t for him coming to your rescue, you would be nothing but a pile of broken bones by now. And while you’re grateful for him saving you, it does not spare you from the embarrassment and shame of the now reinforced idea that you’re irresponsible.
The trip back to the monastery was held together by an eerie silence. Suguru wore no emotion on his face while you wore yours on your sleeve, all wandering eyes and nervous tics. By the time the two of you make it back to a private room, nothing has changed. You’re still a nervous wreck, and Suguru does nothing to acknowledge it.
He simply sits down on the armchair, letting out a heavy sigh as he bends. Slowly, he places his chin on his hand and tuts. “Why did you do it?”
You’re barely able to look him in the eye. “I felt like I needed to prove myself.”
“Why?” he asks again, his voice low and dangerous.
You inhale sharply as an attempt to get the words out easier. It doesn’t help.
“I’ve heard some people say that you don’t like me,” you state, and the words choke on the way out, a ball forming in your throat as you attempt to push them out, “because I’m irresponsible.”
“The first half isn’t true. I’m actually quite fond of you…” he pauses, and you get your hopes up in the brief silence, “but you did prove the latter.”
As quickly as you got your hopes up, they crash to the floor. It stings, hearing him say that.
”There’s a reason why things are the way they are…” he trails off, eyes analyzing your form from top to bottom. It feels like he’s dissecting you with a scalpel in hand, cutting into the skin to see what’s hidden underneath.
“You don’t need to prove anything,” he hums with–if you’re not mistaken–the slightest hint of amusement, “but you do need to be punished.”
Even though this is supposed to be a punishment, his words send heat rushing to your face. It only worsens when he beckons you to come closer, your breath hitching when he’s close enough to touch.
”Don’t be shy,” Suguru coos, patting his lap, gesturing for you to come take your seat. It feels like a trap, but you know you can’t refuse him.
Awkwardly, you raise one leg over the other, gently sitting down, doing your best to avoid touching chests together because that would be too much for your poor heart. Seeing him this up close is a sight to behold. Soft skin that can only be achieved with a meticulous multi-step care routine. Silky tresses of obsidian that makes you wonder how he takes care of it, if he has someone brush it for him in the mornings. You feel a tinge of jealousy at the thought.
“Is this something you do with the others?” you ask, hushed and quiet because you’re unsure if this question will spur on another punishment.
He tilts his head quizzically before smiling gently. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “No.”
It shouldn’t excite you, but it does. Something hot and honeyed makes its way down your core when his large hands wrap around your upper thighs and straddle you closer to him until you feel something hard pressed against your clothed cunt.
The sensation is enough to make your heart race, and intensifies even more when you realize you don’t even know what your punishment is yet.
His hands pull and adjust your skirt until he exposes your underwear. From there his hands are agonizingly slow, his finger tracing up your thigh until he reaches the gusset. With a swift movement he pulls it off to the side, the sudden exposure to the cold air making you wince.
”Geto-sama?”
Your question goes unanswered.
It feels far from a punishment when his fingers make their way to your clit, gently tracing circles until you can’t hold your voice back. As soon as he hears you moan for him, it’s as if he’s trying to rip it out of you, motions becoming tighter and faster as your breath quickens.
And as quickly as he gets you on the precipice, he takes his fingers away, making you whine at the loss of his touch.
“This is a punishment,” he reminds you, a teasing lilt woven into his voice, “turn around.”
So you do as he says, waiting in anxious anticipation for what comes next.
You hear the sounds of fabric shuffling and shifting before something hot and hard presses against your ass. A shaky breath leaves your lips as he rubs against you. Geto’s patience knows no bounds, while you’re desperate for him to get it over with, grinding against his cock to entice him to put it in already. He finally heeds your call, but only after pressing against your hole teasingly before pulling away a few times, just to hear that high pitched whine when he doesn’t give you the satisfaction.
When he finally gives you what you want, you nearly regret asking for it. Geto takes his sweet time putting himself into you. It’s painfully slow, as if you can feel every part of your pussy stretch itself out for him inch by inch. All you can do is steady your breathing until he bottoms out, and let out a shaky moan when he does.
Geto doesn’t let you catch your breath before asking, “You know about my curse technique, don’t you?”
This hardly feels like the time to have a talk about sorcery and the like, but it’s not like you have many options.
”I’m aware, yes,” you do your best to sound composed, though your voice is breathy, your head somewhere else entirely as you look down where you’re connected to him. That aching need grows at the sight of it, your hips moving before you realize what you’re doing.
“How much are you aware of?” Geto continues, and the contrast between your composures is laughable. His hands grip tightly onto your hips, holding them in place.
“You can absorb cursed spirits, and you have a lot of them stored up.” You hope this is the right answer, as if this is a test you have a chance of passing.
(You don’t.)
“Do you know how I absorb them?” he coos, as if he’s amused by your answer. It’s difficult to tell if his interest is genuine or not, but realistically you guess it’s somewhere in the middle. Getting tested about his cursed technique isn’t exactly what you had in mind as a punishment, but Geto can be a bit of an eccentric character when he wants to be. Cult leader things, you suppose.
”No.” you reply, ashamed because it’s the truth. You’re not exactly trusted with much in regards to cursed spirits, working more with administrative tasks that are deemed too tedious for the stronger curse users.
His thumb brushes against your lips before he gets closer, so close the warmth of his breath tickles the shell of your ear. “I swallow them.”
It’s a strange mental image to conjure, and not one you particularly want to imagine at the moment. If you were to be honest, you think it's beneath him, but you'd never voice that opinion out loud.
“Have I ever told you about the taste of a curse?” His timbre changes to something dark and low, a threat lurking beneath the surface of his words. Suddenly, despite yourself, you feel exposed. Like a deer in headlights, frozen and staring down the car that’s going to run it over. Nothing good can come from this.
You do not know. You do not want to know. But one thing is certain: he’ll tell you anyway.
“It tastes horrible,” he states simply. He presses his lips against your neck, gently nibbling against the supple skin. The way he kisses you is soft, something too intimate for a subordinate and superior. It’s almost enough to distract you from the words that leave his mouth next, “like a rag soaked in vomit.”
And though his words strike fear in your heart, it’s not enough to pull yourself off of him. You shouldn’t be enjoying yourself, but Geto has a way with his fingers. With the way he has you melting in his hands when he touches your puffy clit, desperate for any kind of simulation.
“It makes you want to retch and gag, yet nothing comes out.” His words don’t match his actions–the former filling you with unease, the latter keeping you on the edge of pleasure. Either way, your heart beats faster, along with an unsettling tincture of cortisol and adrenaline coursing through your body.
His thumb gently swipes over your lips before pushing into the seam, a demand for an opening. You give it to him before you can stop to think about it and the way his fingers touch your tongue makes your stomach twist in fear. It’s cold, analytical, like a researcher examining a specimen with gloved hands, pressing and prodding with the goal of invoking some kind of reaction.
“Since you want to know so badly, why don’t you have a taste?”
He doesn’t give you the chance to respond, shifting gears to stuff his fingers down your throat as deep as possible. The sounds that leave your lips are unfamiliar and unwelcome to your ears, forced retches and coughs filling the empty room as you receive your punishment.
Geto doesn’t blink when you vomit, nor does he move his fingers away. He simply watches with a cold eye as you empty the contents of your stomach onto his arm and the floor.
There’s nowhere to run, his free arm wrapped firmly around your waist to bring you further into him. Every muscle in your body tightens in all the wrong ways as he attempts to get another out of you. It comes out too easily, as if your body is willing to give him whatever he wants.
If this is what his affection is like, you don’t want to experience his contempt. Or maybe it’d be better. Gracious. A quick cut to the throat. A gunshot to the chest. Not whatever this is, this drawn out torture, rendering you into a pathetic state where you can’t even beg for mercy.
The muscles in your stomach ache from twisting and constricting when there’s nothing left to purge, but Geto doesn’t stop. Even when your throat burns with bile in places it shouldn’t be, when you claw and scratch into his arms enough to draw blood. Not until he gets a few shallow strokes in, grunting at the way your body tightens up for him with his fingers down your throat.
Geto can’t stop himself from cumming inside you, not when every part of you seems to be gripping around him for all his worth. Drool spills from your mouth as he empties himself inside you, each hot spurt of his seed making you groan.
“Maybe, I was a bit rough,” Geto removes his hand from your mouth and returns to the soft tone he carries when talking with his family, though it does nothing to soothe you. If anything, it puts you on edge, in fear that he wants to take more from you.
“But you did good for me. Surely, that warrants a reward.”
You don’t want whatever reward he’s offering but you’re too scared, too worn out to fight. You don’t give him a nod, you simply watch as his fingers find your clit. Despite his cruelty, his fingers are generous, and it’s jarring enough to give you whiplash.
Like his punishments, Geto’s swift with his rewards, drawing tighter and tighter circles around your clit until you cum with his softening cock inside you. Your orgasm is tainted even though pleasure courses through your body, your muscles too worn out to truly indulge. Even still, your cunt convulses around him as you cry and cough when you finally recieve that release you’ve (regrettably) been begging for.
Geto slowly pulls his fingers away from you as you come down from your high, his arms wrapping you in a gentle embrace. Every hair on your body stands, every nerve on high alert.
“I hope you learned your lesson. I won’t be so nice next time.”
gojo satoru x f!reader. tags: established relationship, idol au, squirting, cunnilingus, pet names (angel), gojo referring to your pussy as "she", inappropriate-ish use of muffler towels. wc ~ 1k. divider by @/adornedwithlight
“Isn’t this like…” you trail off, looking at the muffler towel splayed across the bed. You’ve never really gotten a good look at it, despite Satoru wearing it to all your shows. In your defense, it’s usually hung around his neck, or when he’s really excited, he’s whipping it around like a lasso.
It’s cute. Decorated with whimsical doodles in the background, a chibi drawing of your likeness in the center, along with your group logo in bubbly letters on either side of you.
“Like what?” Satoru asks.
There’s a lot of words floating through your head, the longer you look at it. It’s thin—impractical for what he’s proposing. Weird is another thought that shoots through your mind, but then again, it’s Satoru. He’s suggested stranger things.
“I don’t know… sacrilegious?” It leaves your mouth before you’ve really had the chance to let it ruminate and sit on your tongue. Frankly, the most unconventional word you could’ve landed on.
Satoru raises a brow with a boyish grin, his frame pushing closer against yours before cooing, “you tell me.”
It’s so easy for him to get you flustered, make you rub your legs together to quell the desire burning in your core, it’s almost infuriating.
“I mean, it’s worth a lot secondhand…” You’re not really thinking about what you’re saying, too distracted by Satoru—the smell of detergent that lingers on his shirt, the way snow white strands caress his face, the look of pure adoration in his eyes as he gently leads you onto the bed, the towel placed under you. No matter how long you’ve been together, you’re not sure you can ever get used to it.
“You think I’d sell this?” Satoru dramatically grabs his chest and pouts. “Oh how you hurt me, angel.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.” You pout back, looking off to the side.
Satoru simply smiles again before hooking his finger around your underwear before pulling.
“I know, it’s just cute to see you get embarrassed.”
“I’m not embarrassed,” you murmur back.
“Are you now?” Satoru presses against the seam of your legs, spreading them slowly as if he’s savoring the anticipation. Once he gets a good look at your pussy he licks his lips, nearly salivating at the sight. “Guess you’re right, she doesn’t seem that embarrassed to me.”
“You’re a freak, you know that?”
“And you love me.”
You can’t deny that. And you can’t deny the heat pooling in your core as his fingers tease your labia, already slick with arousal.
“This wet for me already?” he teases, finger drawing soft circles around your clit that earn a moan from you. “You sure you aren’t the freak?”
“Shut up.”
“Gladly.” With that, Satoru licks a long stripe against your pussy before swirling around your clit with his tongue. It’s maddening, starting off so aggressively. If anything, he’s the one shutting you up, your breathing hushed, the only sounds really escaping your lips being whiny moans.
“T-Toru, w-wait, it’s too much-”
He hears you. You know he hears you because he does the opposite of what you want him to do, his finger pressing into your wet hole, slipping in until he hooks onto your g-spot. You can feel his lips curve into a smile against your cunt when you let out a loud whine.
Your grip on his hair only tightens as he continues, but he takes it in stride. By the way his tongue is moving you’re sure he’s taking it as a sign to go harder, licking and laving at your clit with frenzied fervor.
It’s too much to listen to. Lewd, wet squelches echoing throughout the room as Satoru eats you out like a man ravaging his last meal. There’s nothing delicate about it, just raw, unadulterated indulgence. All you can do is grip onto him harder, tighten your muscles for the climax to come.
You barely notice when he slips another finger in, pussy soaked from the mix of your arousal and his spit. It’s only when he starts bullying that spot that sounds like pure liquid sloshing around, only getting louder the longer he continues, that you notice.
“W-Wait, Satoru, something’s coming-”
“I know, let it all out for me angel,” he hums sweetly between strokes of his tongue, his fingers reaching an unrelenting pace as the coil in your stomach comes to an abrupt snap.
All you can let out is wail as you come undone, your orgasm full-bodied, pleasure rushing through every nerve and synapse until it frays out. Satoru doesn’t stop though, eating you out and fucking you through it till you’re in tears.
“S-Satoru please, wait-”
But he doesn’t. It’s like he has something to prove as his tongue flicks at your oversensitive clit and laps up your arousal like a dog led to a bowl of water. His fingers reach a steady rhythm again, pressing against that wet spot until you give him what he wants.
“You can give me another, I know you can,” he coos, and you’re not sure if it's directed towards you or your cunt. That tension rises and builds again before you’re crashing again with a moan, all your muscles taut as you gush around his fingers with an ironclad grip on his hair. Satoru enthusiastically laps up everything you give him—the remnants of your arousal on your inner thighs, the patch of liquid pooled underneath you, too much for the towel to absorb.
Your grip finally loosens around him, petting his head gently before running your hand through his hair, a silent act of affection.
When Satoru emerges from your legs, he looks just as fucked out as you, hair mussed and wet from all the liquids you unleashed onto him, face painted with a rosy blush. Satoru pulls the towel from underneath you, and it’s only then you realize just how drenched it is. When he holds it up, it’s dripping. Really, the towel was a moot point.
Satoru’s unphased by it all, wrapping it around his neck like he would at one of your concerts.
“Should I wear this to the next show?” he asks with a proud grin.
