𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫 ~ 𝓨𝓸𝓾’𝓵𝓵 𝓷𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝓮𝓼𝓬𝓪𝓹𝓮 𝓶𝓮.

Gojo Satoru’s entire life revolves around you.

You wouldn’t know it, of course. You think he’s just your annoying classmate, your arrogant rival, the guy who sits behind you in lectures and kicks the back of your chair just to piss you off. The asshole who snatches your notes, flicks the back of your head with that infuriating grin, watches with bright, laughing eyes as you shove him away and spit venom at him.

You don’t realize how deep it goes.

His routine is simple.

He wakes up early. Earlier than you. It’s the only way he can make it to your apartment in time to watch you leave for the day. There’s a camera set up in the hallway, but he prefers seeing you in person—likes watching you step out, hair still damp from your shower, books hugged to your chest. He likes to see what you’re wearing. Likes to imagine peeling each layer off, slow and deliberate, making you shiver.

He follows you to campus. Always at a distance, never close enough to be noticed. You’re so fucking oblivious. So sweet, so trusting, walking through the city like there aren’t monsters hiding in the shadows.

Like he’s not right behind you.

You don’t know that he has your schedule memorized. That he knows exactly when you’ll be at the library, when you’ll stop by your favorite café, when you’ll be alone.

He keeps track of every little detail.

He knows you don’t like coffee in the morning, only tea. That you hum under your breath when you read. That you twist the hem of your sleeve when you’re nervous. That you sleep on your side, curled up like a little animal, blanket pulled up to your chin.

He watches you at night.

It’s the best part of his day. After a long, exhausting routine of pretending he doesn’t want to carve his name into your skin, he finally gets to unwind. He settles in front of his monitor, kicks his feet up, and clicks through the camera feeds—your bedroom, your bathroom, your kitchen.

You move around your apartment, completely unaware that you’re being watched.

And fuck, it’s intoxicating.

Sometimes, if he’s lucky, you strip down right there in front of him, unknowing, unaware. The first time you did it, he came in his pants like a fucking teenager. Now he knows to be ready—knows to have his cock out, stroking himself as you tug your shirt over your head, exposing the soft, pale skin he wants to sink his teeth into.

He imagines breaking in.

Imagines pinning you down, watching the terror bloom in your pretty eyes, your lips parting in a scream that won’t make it past his palm.

It would be so easy.

So, so easy.

But not yet.

Not yet.

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