Satoru Gojo x Female Reader - Stalker/Voyeurism
Summary: you're sure someone's been invading your house while you're at work, so you set up a camera to catch him.
Pairing: Satoru Gojo x Female Reader
Content: Home invasion / stalker x stalker / voyeurism / masturbation / watching him masturbate / lingerie / cumshots / mild dub-con / briefly mentioned sex / big cock
Word count: 1.7k words
You’re sure he’s been here again. The last slice of pie from your fridge is missing, your underwear drawer is in disarray and a strong scent of ocean-breeze scented cologne lingers all over your sheets.
You don’t know him, you’ve never seen his face, never been home when he’s visited, but you know it’s him. He doesn’t try very hard to hide his presence from you. Sometimes, he even leaves bites for you to finish, of meals that he’s stolen from you. Sometimes he arranges the panties in your drawers like he’s telling you which one he wants you to wear next. Sometimes, he leaves the bed warm for you. He likes to press himself against your sheets – you’ve found strands of white hair on your pillows before.
You don’t know how he keeps getting in. You’ve changed the locks on your door, even though you don’t find them broken. You’ve installed more locks, but they’ve proven to be no barrier.
He’s like a ghost. You haven’t been able to find any breaches in your security systems, but every day when you return from work, you can smell him.
If you can’t prevent him from invading your home, you can still catch him in the act.
It’s what you think when you buy the camera. You take your time reading the instructions: you want to get it right. You need to see this man. In the corner of your bedroom, you set up the camera, angled towards the bed. You know that’s where you’ll find him.
You go to work and it’s around the evening when your camera sends an alert to your phone. You duck into the office bathroom and sequester yourself into a cubicle, pulling the feed up on your screen.
There he is.
He really does look like a ghost. His hair is white as a dove’s feather, the skin on his bare forearms shimmering pale under the evening sunlight. He’s so tall, he makes your room shrink. You can’t see his face – he hasn’t turned to the camera yet. You bury your nose into the feed, whispering to yourself. Turn around. Turn around.
He stretches his arms over his head and leisurely, almost as if he knows someone’s watching, he pulls his t-shirt over his head. His back is an expanse of taut muscles, his arms even buffer. He clearly looks after himself.
Your breath catches as he turns halfway, angling himself so you can see the side of his jaw, the rippling muscles on his sides, his abs defined by the shadows of the falling dusk. His jawline is sharp, peeking out from his messy white hair. It ripples, as if he’s smiling.
He’s beautiful – you can’t deny that. Even if he’s standing in the middle of your bedroom, big hands undoing his belt. Your lips part in shock as his jeans slip lower. He tugs his cock free, standing at a full erection pressed against his belly.
He’s so big.
He tips his head back, the sunlight painting a silhouette of his throat bobbing as he grips his length with his fist. He’s doing it slow, languorously, savouring the drag of his hand from the base of his dick to the tip, which he rubs with the pad of his thumb. You touch your neck, suddenly parched. Flutters in your body that aren’t all disgust at what he’s doing.
He sticks his hips out and you can see his cock through your fuzzy camera: swollen, thick with veins and angry red at the tip. You feel a dull throb between your own legs and clench them together. You will not masturbate with someone who’s invading your home.
A hand resting on the frame of the bed, he bends over the mattress, aiming for your sheets. It’s when you see what he’s laid out on the bed: a set of your lacy underwear, the type you save for when you want to bring a date home. Your red bra, with the bows and the sheer lace. The matching panties, the garter stockings, all with red lace trimmings. He’s arranged them on the bed like it’s you, laid out below him, the legs parted wide, the bra squished as if he’s groped it with his big hands.
He moves his hips, a deliciously languid thrust into his circled fist and you let out a soft whimper. Is this what he’s been doing all these times? Going through your underwear, fucking himself over your lingerie?
You want to touch yourself so much, it’s painful. Your clit swollen so much it’s almost peeking out of the lips of your cunt. It’s like he knows. It’s like he can sense how you’re rubbing your thighs together to release some of the tension. It’s like he can sense your arousal across the city, because he speeds up: stroking himself faster, more aggressively. Hips bucking as he jerks himself off, angrily, like he wants to ram his cock deep inside … inside you?
Is that what he wants? He wants to be inside you? Is that why he’s dripping strings of pre-cum all over your underwear?
You can’t hear what he’s saying, but you can see his jaw moving, forming words. You wish you’d spent more, on higher quality cameras, on mics that would catch his groans as he pumps into his fist. His hand is huge and even that barely fits his girth. You don’t want to imagine how it’d feel stretching you out, stuffing you until he was hilt-deep buried into you.
No, that’s a lie. You do want to imagine that; that’s all you can think of anyway when his cock twitches and jerks. You do want to imagine it’s you there: laid out under him, his face buried in your tits as he fucks his fist over your bare belly.
You don’t get a warning. One last obscene jut of his hips and his cum is shooting out of him like a hose. Strings of it splattering over your lingerie, over your sheets.
You’d have to burn those sheets.
You’re going to sniff those sheets. You wonder if you’re going to lick those sheets too.
His strokes slow down again, teasing the last of his ropey cum out and then his hand stills.
He’s done.
He picks up your panties and wipes himself with it before tucking his cock back into his briefs.
The show’s over. And you feel a ripple of anger, now that your clit isn’t pulsing demandingly.
He came all over your bed. And didn’t even invite you to join.
The entire drive home, you think about him. You can’t let him get away with this, no matter how angelic he looks. You’re not stupid: you know he can be dangerous, so you keep the police on speed dial and stuff pepper spray into your back pocket as you enter the house.
You can smell him. Ocean-breeze, a hint of cherry, damn it he smells like a summery seaside. It’s stronger the deeper you go into the house, until the full force hits you as you step into your bedroom. Your underwear’s still laid out on the bed and when you touch it, it’s damp. Fresh.
Like he’s jerked himself all over it again. Recently.
He’s still in the house.
“Who are you?” You call out, spinning, unable to spot him. A man as big as him, how does he vanish so easily? How does he move through the house without tripping any of your alarms? “Why do you keep breaking into my house?”
Your breath is cut short as long, cold fingers grab the back of your neck. He presses your face to your closet and you shudder. Is he going to kill you?
He runs his hand down your spine until it's at the waistband of your formal pants. He pauses, his lips at your ear. “I thought you’d never call for me.”
His voice is so playful. Amused. Cocky.
You don’t want him to know how wet you are – how wet you’ve been since the evening. But your body betrays you – you let out a moan against the cold wood of your closet.
“Did you enjoy the show?” he whispers, and you gasp.
He knew you were watching.
“Did you touch yourself?” he asks and you manage a small shake of your head. It makes him chuckle, deeply, darkly. “Good girl. Kept yourself wet for me?”
This time, you nod.
And when he slips his hands into your panties, you arch your back, lifting your hips to give him access. To feel his big fingers prod and stroke your wet slit, tease your hole, circle your clit.
You want his fingers inside you.
You want him inside you.
And he seems to know that already.
Tomorrow, as you’re waking up with all your limbs sore, your cervix bruised, you’ll find an envelope on the bed next to you, full of pictures that he’s taken of you: sleeping, face hidden by the mess of your hair, your silhouette behind the shower curtain, your breasts tipped with pebbled nipples, you bent over as you take off your pants after work, your naughty, secret thong stretching over your hips, you on the bed, one leg sticking out of your duvet as you stick two fingers inside yourself, your back arching off the bed, your mouth open in cries of ecstasy.
He’s been watching you for far longer than you’ve been watching him.
Tomorrow, you’d be no closer to answers. You still won’t know how he comes inside your house, how he leaves without tripping your alarms.
Tomorrow, you’ll realise you forgot to even ask him name.
But today, you’re happy to be bent over your mattress and have his cock slide inside you until you can feel it in your lungs. You’re happy with his fingers digging holes into your waist, his teeth sinking into the muscles of your back.
He’s saying your name over and over. And you can’t say his back.
It’s okay, though. Because there’s always tomorrow.
And tomorrow, you’ll set traps around the house. And maybe then, you’ll finally be able to get a name out of him.