stalker!gojo x stripper!reader
cw: non-con, piss, stalking, baby trapping, surveilling, somno, dacryphilia
4.7k words
Satoru Gojo considers himself a victim of circumstance.
Geto was busy doing whatever it is he gets up to when he's not entertaining Gojo's whims, Shoko was out with Utahime and Nanami was⌠never too inclined to 'waste'âas he had put itâ any of his free time with Gojo anyway. So what is a man to do when he feels like all of his friends are too busy for him?
Get sloppy drunk. Leave each of them no less than 10 voicemails that ranged from telling them he missed them to cursing them for not loving him. Then, ending up in front of the pink neon lights of Kittens Cabaret . What can he say? He's a dangerous combination of drunk, rich and lonely. The perfect cocktail to convince himself he isn't above paying for company, especially when it's coming from a pretty stranger. He'd do anythingâ pay anything to not feel so damn solitary for one more second, and who better to do it than a professional?
Through the sea of drunkards and fishnet he spots you, dancing to whatever overly sexualized pop song is most popular at the time. His eyes rake over you, greedy and lust driven. You glow under the lights, clad in a white fishnet dress with no panties on. You're tall in your pleasers, little fake fish in the clear platformsâ he finds them amusing. You, even more so.
There's something magnetic about you, the way you smile lazily as you move and contort on the stage. He wants to devour you whole, like a lion taking possession over its prey.
It starts off small at first. Satoru watches you from the tall chairs surrounding the stage, picking the ones that'll cause the least interference with his visionâ you know, blinding strobe lights and all. He watches you take men to the backrooms for private dancesâ all long legged and perfect with a manâ who looks like his parents and his parents parents might've been relatedâ following behind you.
He, of course, white knuckles the arms of the chairs the whole time. Feigns interest in the other dancers to remain unsuspicious and stays until you sneak your way back into your dressing room. He makes his way back out to his car, all long limbs and casual as he leans against it, beer bottle in hand.
He stays just teetering on tipsy, right before a warm hum starts tickling his cheeks and earsâ still too sober to pass this off as a drunken interest. He watches you walk to your car, a nice little Mercedes bought with other men's moneyâ your moneyâ watching the tail lights as it drives off. He throws his beer bottle against the dumpster where the homeless man leaning against it snaps awake and curses at him. He gets in his car and goes home, falling asleep thinking about youâ tying you up and all that super normal stuff.
The second week is when he starts getting⌠weird. He comes by 4 days out of 7, lets you tease him silently from across the club. Clenching and unclenching his fists as your spine bows and your legs spread. He grits his teeth as you bend over, your teeny tiny bikini puts your pretty pussy lips on display. He buys your company for the last 2 hours of your shift, half hard in his pants as you sit in his lap and purr in his ear.
"What's a pretty thing like you doing here?" He watches your mouth as it moves, awe struck.
He gulps, "I could ask you the same."
Keeping his cool from across the club is one thing, touching your skin and pretending he isn't teetering on the edge of orgasm at the smell of your perfume is another.
"I've seen you eyeing me." You smile, your ankle coming to rest on his shoulder, "But this is only the second night you've booked me."
You feign something between hurt and intrigue. He's handsome, tall as all hell and clearly has money if he's able to come so often and book your last two hours. You were a hot commodity, priced out at $1,000 an hour and here he was the second night in a row. 4k in two days, plus the $500 he'd given you as a tip the previous night and the extra $200 for your outfit. He was sitting at a whopping $5,400 if tonight went the same, which you had no doubt it would. He's paid your rent for two months in two nights.
"What can I say, I wanted you to notice me a little." He chuckles, pearly whites glowing in the dark light.
He doesn't consider himself particularly partial to sex workers. No, he was partial to you. You could've been a barista or a librarianâ hell you could've been a damn beggar on the street and he'd be dishing out cash your way. He buys your outfit again, another $200 dollars extra in your pocket but he tips you $600 tonight.
He has you reach inside his pants pocket, fishing out his wallet but not before feeling his hard on through the thin fabric. He prays you don't feel how sticky it is. You do.
You say your goodbyes, slinking out of the room butt naked but not before bending over and showing off the way your lower lips part. He bites his knuckles to hold back a moan before making a beeline for the exit.
He watches you walk to your car through his rear view mirror, spitting down onto his cock and pressing the bottoms part of your outfit to his nose. He takes a big breath in as he fists himself, imagining your fingers wrapped around himâ better yet your wet little mouth that keeps his ear too occupied to think about the little beads of precum your movements often left in his boxers. He laps at the little bit your pussy sits in, sucks on the thin piece of fabric that rests against your asshole. His eyes roll back, hips bucking as he tastes the sweat and other bodily fluids from the long shift. He thinks he may be able to understand addicts a little better, he feels high off the euphoria of it allâ the wrongness. His body tenses and writhes as he spits hot spurts of cum into your bottoms, savoring the way both of your scents mix together.
He deludes himself into thinking he's special, something more than a wallet to take advantage of. That you're young and naive enough to let a kind man feel like anything more than a cash cow. He is sorely mistaken, doesn't understand that you go home and scrub the nastiness of the night off and don't pay him a second thought until you count your money and hope he comes to offer more again soon. He was a transaction.
The line he's willing to cross goes further when he begins following you home, keeping a safe distance behind you with his headlights turned low. You live in a nice apartment in the middle of the city, on the top floor with a nice view, you know the ones seated behind a big gate with a security guard manning it. Gojo lies, telling the man he's a delivery driver and giving him your real name instead of your stage name. He doesn't want to think about how much he'd paid the private investigator to find that out.
Night after night, the security guard lets him pass. They make small talk as Gojo waits for the gate to open, never questioning why a delivery driver is sitting inside such an expensive car. Satoru lies about other deliveries he's been on, how much of a nightmare some customers are. A wolf in sheep's clothing.
He starts by just sitting in his car, keeping up his nightly ritual of jerking himself off with fishnet and spandex. That doesn't last long, he's fickle and covetous as most men are. He doesn't come in one night, just sits in the parking lot close to closing time in a less recognizable car. He follows you home once again, is let in beyond the gate and pulls a medical mask over his face. He's dressed in all black, a hat pulled on to cover his unruly and easily recognizable white hair and glasses pulled over his eyes. Suspiciously unsuspicious.
You don't think anything of it when he stands next to you in the elevator, there were plenty of people in your building who wanted to keep their anonymity. His cock strains against his pants when your perfume wafts around him, he likes you in your regular clothes even betterâ the way they let his imagination run wild.
He gets off on the same floor as you, pretends to go the opposite way down the hall. You don't see his phone in his back pocket and even if you did you wouldn't suspect a stranger of recording you walking into your apartment.
He watches the video back over and over once he's back in his car, zooming in to watch your tongue peek past your lips as you input your door code. He memorizes the door number, watches your fingers and maps out the door code.
He pacifies that guilty part of his conscious that tells him this is wrong by feeding the much larger part of him that believes he's doing a good thing. He tangles himself in a web of self-important delusions: he's just taking the necessary steps to make you fall for him, to be a good man to you and give you a beautiful life where you want for nothing.
Satoru begins paying closer attention to when you arrive at work instead of when you leave, putting one of those non-detectable trackers on your car before making his way to your apartment. He brings the security guy a case of beer under the guise of manly comradery. His eyes are glued to his screen, watching the little blue dot sit inside the club as he rides up the elevator.
He gets into your apartment on the first try, pushing his way in and familiarizing himself with the layout. No pets, a big white couch taking up a quarter of the living room, leading into the kitchen with all its pink utensils and pots and pans. These rooms are of no consequence so he passes through them quickly. He walks down the hall, with its warm motion sensor lighting leading the way to what is probably tantamount to the entrance to heaven.
He presses the door open, fingers itching at his sides as he decides where to look first. He takes a deep breath in, letting the air back out slowly as he fishes a hidden camera out of his back pocket. Your bed dips under his weightâ he had been nice enough to take his shoes off before stepping on itâ and places the device in the ceiling light above your bed.
The smart thing to do would be to turn tail and get the hell out of there, and as smart as Gojo isâ he has impulse control. He needs something that smells like you, he'd fucked and came inside everything he'd already bought from you, though he still keeps them by his bedside. Little trophies that he saw as equal to love letters. Misguided in his way of thinking, as if you hadn't sold a hundreds of outfits both in person and online to whatever sick fucks offered the right price.
His fingers shake as he rifles through your laundry hamper, trying to decide whether he wanted to take your stage outfits or one of the less sexy pairs you probably slept in. He goes for the latter in the end, shoving them deep in his pocket, but not before giving them a hearty sniff.
There's a vibration on his phone signaling the camera and his phone were now synced, a toothy grin pulling his cheeks up unnaturally. His footsteps reverberate around your apartment as he takes his leave, checking his phone again to make sure you're still at work like a good girl.
That night when he's all curled up in bed mindlessly scrolling his phone vibrates again. Movement detected! His overexcited fingers struggle to click on the notification, heart thrumming behind his ribcage. Frustration licks at his already fried nerves as the app loads before giving way to your room. He watches as you undress, your tits and pussy freed from the confines of your clothes and the micro-bikini hidden underneath.
He finds that he enjoys the way you look with no makeup on, gets off on the fact that only he gets to see you like this. So much so that he pulls his half hard dick out, letting it slap against the pale skin on his stomach and brush against the little patch of white just above his pubic bone. His fingers tremble as he watches you lay on your bed, stroking himself slowly as your large t-shirt is pulled just under your breasts.
Your fingers dip between your legs, your phone held in your hand as soft moans part your lips. Something akin to butterflies dance in his stomach as he matches your pace.
To Gojo, it's almost like your fucking. That overactive imagination of his creating the delusion that it's your hand and not his own pulling at his skin, thumb grazing over his frenulum.
He can hear your cunt squelching around those pretty little fingers and pulls the panties he'd stolen earlier from his bedside drawer, stuffing them in his own mouth and moaning around the fabric. Your eyebrows knit together, knees open to the point of almost laying flat against your pink sheets.
Even from here, he can tell how close you are. Your fingers are getting sloppy as they move in and out of you, his own stomach is tightening as he focuses on his tip. He mewls out your name, the crotch of your panties soaked with his drool as he picks up his pace. His balls pull tight, cock pulsating underneath his grip as he watches you cry out and spasm. His screen is painted white not too long after and he uses your underwear to clean himself and his cellular device.
That night and for the next few nights after, he falls asleep watching you do the same.
Everything comes to a head when the club starts implementing "Topless Tuesday"ânot that you or your coworkers typically wore a top anywayâ and of course Gojo's there. He's sitting in his usual chair, a particularly pink drink in hand as he awaits your arrival onto your usual stage.
His mouth runs dry when he sees you, all dolled up and glistening, music thrumming through every cell. You smile at him, naked as the day you were born with nothing more on than pink pleasers that glow under the black lights.
You follow your usual song and dance, though he buys out your time a lot earlier than usual. He watches your tits bounce with every step closer to his favorite dark room in the back, the one that smells the least like dried cum and years old spilled alcohol. You can feel the irritation buzzing off him and it makes you uneasy, seeing a man usually so easy going with a poorly concealed tick in his jaw.
"Something bothering you, handsome?" You melt into his lap like a lazy kitten, your delicate fingers on your right hand stroking the side of his face while the ones on the left run through his soft hair. His expression snaps into one of calm, quiet. The sudden change makes something in your stomach twist, the inside of your cheek pulled between your molars. You continue coddling him like a child.
"Just a long day at work." He smiles, leaning into your touch. A lie, of course, he had spent the early hours of the morning watching you, fell asleep and woke up just in time to watch you get ready for the day. He hadn't noticed how little you'd thrown in your bag that afternoon, too enthralled by you to care. He feeds you that facade of comfort until you relax, he needed you to relax if he was gonna move up his plan.
So, he compliments you and creates a web of lies about his ever-so-hard day; he pays you more than he had the time before and smiles at you as if he hadn't just handed you enough money to pay off another two months of your rent. He stays within the boundaries of normalcy whilst puppy dog eyeing you about how disappointed he is he can't buy the piece of string pressed against your assholeâ though he words it much more beautifully. He is the picture of perfection as that ugly, jealous feeling gnaws at him just under the surface.
You're especially kind, chalking him up as nothing more than a lonely stranger. You take the little black straw from his cup, pushing it past your lips to suck the liquid left behind off while maintaining eye contact. He gulps down a breath, too aware of how far you're leaning into him and the way your perked up nipples rub against his shirt.
"You're always so good to me," your breath fans against his ear as your purr, sending goosebumps down his whole body, "so let me be good to you. Just this once, 'kay?"
He nods, the tips of his ears tinged pink as he watches your legs spread, heels resting on either side of his knees. His heart hammers against your back, watching as you swirl the straw through your pussy lips, collecting your sticky slick wherever it touches. You lean further into him, head lolling back against his shoulder so you can look him in the eye when you dip it just past your entrance. He's so hard underneath you that the fabric of his pants feel like an illusion and he wishes as much when he hears the low, wet sounds emanating from between your legs. You play it up like an Oscar-winning actress, your hand coming up to play with one of your breasts as you pump the slender object in and out with an exaggerated moan or two.
You don't know that he's all too aware of what you really sound like when you're enjoying yourself, that you aren't satisfied with something so small between your thighs. Regardless, his whole body stiffens underneath you to keep him from creaming his jeans. You smile, all pink cheeked and unaware as you dip the straws back into his cup. He scrambles to his feet, closing time only ten minutes away. He needed to fade into the cover of night so he could linger behind you on your way home. You wave and tell him how you hope to see him again soon, pretending that you care as you tell him to take care of himself.
He stuffs the straw in his pocket, leaving in a hurry and sucks on it the whole time he follows you to your place.
The wait is akin to torture. Dramatic as it may be, the sentiment is true to Satoru Gojo. He sits in his car, tucked into a dark corner as he watches you lay in your bed doom scrolling. His fingers fidget with impatience, wishing to himself that there was a way he could've slipped you a sedative. Next time. Next time he'd find a way.
Ironically, it's almost 4 a.m. when your soft snores grace his ears. He waits another 20 minutes just to be safe, so logical in his depravity. The sky is blooming into the pinks and purples of morning which makes it all the more exhilarating. He's alive with euphoric delight as he pushes through the lobby, practically floating his way to the elevator. He feels the same way you do before you go on a big trip, all full of restless energy and excitement. He pulls himself together, footsteps quiet and slow as he approaches your front door. His fingers twitch as he inputs your code and lets himself inside, closing the door softly, like he was performing open heart surgery.
He knows the layout like the back of his hand at this point, he even had a map all scrawled out in panicked chicken scratch tacked to his wall at home. When he opens your bedroom door he almost stops breathing, he'd figured out you're quite restless in your sleep after many nights of surveying you. You're laying on your side, scrunched up in the fetal position. If he was a godly man, he would've thanked god for creating such a beautiful opportunity for him.
His steps are slow and soft as he inches toward you, stopping just in front of your face. He unzips his pants with careful fingers, eyes watching you harder than the camera he'd installed. His cock is heavy and weepy in his hand as he gives a few tugs. Your mouth is inviting, all hung open and wet with drool. He presses his tip to where its leaking, using your saliva to lubricate himself as he keeps stroking. Out of reflex, your tongue darts out and touches his frenulum, his eyes roll back and he bites his bottom lip to muffle and whine.
He fights against whatever rationality is left and pushes the very tip of his dick past your lips, instinct making you suckle a bit. Soft hums fall past your lips as his precum beads onto your tongue and it's a fight for him to keep from cumming. He stays like that for a while, letting you nurse his cock totally unaware. But he's greedy, detrimentally so. Especially when he pushes a bit further, his thickness making your mouth open wider and your body stir uncomfortably.
His heart stops when your lashes flutter, though his cock gets impossibly harder when your blinking up at himâ trying to discern whether you were still frolicking through dreamland or not. It's a harsh reality when you realize it's the latter, shooting straight up in bed with your mouth agape and no sound coming out. You scramble to the opposite side, hitting your knee on your nightstand as you plant your unsure feet on the ground. You try to make it to the door, heavy breaths puffing in and out. But he's on you, overpowering you in every way as he wrestles you to the floor.
"Where do you think you're flying off to little bird?" He coos, broad chest pressed to your back. It's apparent he doesn't really want an answer when his hand cups over your mouth, despite that you manage to let out a couple muffled sounds as you try to bite his hand.
It had been the wrong night to sleep nude, but the sweltering heat of the day was still trapped in your apartment. His unoccupied hand pulls your legs apart, resting his cock right where your back dimples. "It's okay baby, 's just me."
You're terrified, limbs flailing before he uses one hand to pin your wrists behind your back, sliding his cock between your ass cheeks. You don't realize it you're pissing yourself until a soft trickling sound floods your eardrums, followed by a guttural moan from behind you. "Do it again, pretty. This time when I'm inside you okay?"
He uses it to lubricate himself, disgusting enough to dip his fingers in the little puddle you've made and bring it to his lips. He gives you what he thinks is a compliment, telling you how even your piss tastes good as he pushes his reddened tip past your entrance. You recoil at the stretch, he's much too large and much too rough. He's leaning forward to nip at your shoulder, biting too deeply as he thrusts the rest of his length in. Tears prick at your eyes and that only goads him on further, covetous free hand coming to dig half moons into your hip.
"Gonna take my hand off your mouth, okay?" His tongue laves over the bite mark as you nod too quickly. "And you're gonna be a good girl and be quiet, yeah?"
You nod, not sure if you even mean it. You realize you do when his hand comes of your mouth and you're silent as a mouse. His hips continue their assault on your ass as he moves forward and back, the slapping sounds reverberatingâ you can't decide if the echo is in your head or bouncing off the walls. His biceps comes to wrap around your throat to pull you up, practically kneeling on his cock as he brutalizes you from behind.
"Why are you doing this?" You croak, fingernails clawing at his forearm. He laughs, it's cold and unfeeling, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind in its wake.
"Well because I love you, of course." He says it like it's a very obvious conclusion to have come to, you think you might throw up. You don't. "You became my companion, think of this as us sealing our contract."
The tears really have begun to fall now, all hot and wet against your cheeks. He gasps with delight when he sees them making paths on your face, licking up their saltiness with a satisfied hum. You think you feel his cock twitch when you wince at his saliva covering your face like a dog.
"This isn't right." You choke out. He sticks his long fingers in your mouth to shut you up, playing at the back of your throat to make you gag. It makes you squeeze around him and he gasps into your ear.
"Oh? But this pretty little cunt is drooling all over me." It's smug as he drills you deeper, harder. "Don't worry baby, it won't be much longer. You're making me feel so fucking good."
You hate the betrayal from your body, the way your pussy milks him as he drags his tip from just outside your cervix to that little ring of muscle at your entrance; the way your lips part to let out little pants that do anything but dissuade him. You can't deny him even if you try.
"Gonna cum in you so everyone knows you belong to me." He's aggressive, losing his mind as he delves deeper and deeper into insanity. He thinks this is what heaven feels like, all warm and wet and you. You oppose him, convincing yourself that you have descended into hell or at the very least were stuck in a very convincing nightmare. "You don't have to go back to work though. I'm prepared to take care of you forever."
"You're out of your ever loving mind if you think I'm gonna have your baby." You spit. His sentiment would be heartwarming in any other circumstance. You're struggling to regulate your breathing as an unwelcome pressure builds just below your belly button. He's pistoning so hard inside you that drops of sweat are dripping down your shoulder, seeping into your pores as if solidifying his wants.
"Hmm, maybe we'll wait then? Yeah we'll wait. I want us to have time as a couple before we become a family." He's dipping his nose into the space between your shoulder and neck, huffing you like a drug. His bicep gets tighter and tighter around your throat, his balls pulling close so they no longer slap at your clit.
Your vision starts to blur at the edges as his grunts become more frequent, his movements more sloppy. He whispers little stomach twisting praises in your ear but they sound like they're coming from a different room. He whines and cries out as he fills you up, paying no attention to the way you claw at his arm as he uses you as a means to and end. Your vision blacks and your body goes limp, yet he keeps fucking himself through as you piss on him, your cunt spasming with your orgasm.
When you wake up the next morning you're tucked between your sheets, the only evidence of the night before being a bite mark on your shoulder and a dull ache between your thighs. You almost believe it was just your overactive imagination, you were always prone to vivid nightmares. You probably could've kept deluding yourself if Satoru hadn't come to see you two nights later to repeat his little ritual.
You let him in, the door clicking softly behind him.
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