♡ TW. Dead Dove // Read at Your Own Risk ; ♡ WC. 924
You don’t remember when he started watching you. Probably before you ever noticed. That’s how he is.
He makes noise when he wants to be seen. And he’s always quiet when he doesn’t.
So when Gojo Satoru pressed you to the locker room wall the first time, it wasn’t love. It wasn’t hatred either. It was that same careless, half-lidded look he gave the world, like it wasn’t worth his attention unless he felt like ruining it.
And today, he feels like ruining you.
He drags you by the wrist when class ends. Doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask. Your name comes out of his mouth more like a mutter, low and private, like a complaint. His grip is bruising. Your steps stumble behind him. You’ve stopped fighting weeks ago—it never made a difference.
No one stops him. No one meets your eyes.
He shoves the door open, throws you in ahead of him. It slams behind. You flinch, but he only laughs under his breath. There’s amusement in it, genuine and bitter, as though you are what’s funny.
“You wore this?”
You blink. He’s staring at your skirt. It’s regulation. You checked.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls. “You want me to do this.”
He crowds you, presses your spine to the cold concrete, fingers at your collar. He undoes the top button with practiced laziness, like he’s unwrapping candy. His gaze flicks up to your face and holds. A lazy grin, sharp at the edges.
You don’t respond. You never do. And it doesn’t matter. It never does.
He pushes your legs apart with his knee.
“Still not talking? That quiet little brain still hiding in that skull of yours? God, you’re so boring sometimes.”
It’s venomous, but he sounds entertained. The kind of entertained you’d get watching a beetle struggle under your shoe. He drags the back of his knuckles along your jaw, tilting your head up. You swallow.
“You think I like you, don’t you?” he whispers. “That I give a fuck about you. That’s cute. That’s fucking adorable.”
He laughs again, harsh this time. There’s no one around. No one would come even if they heard.
He slides a hand up your thigh, under your skirt. You clench, body going rigid. He sees it. Loves it. He feeds on it. That barely contained flinch, the trembling breath in your chest.
His palm covers your mouth.
“You can scream if you want. Doesn’t bother me. You sound better that way.”
Your nails dig into his sleeve, trying to push him off. He doesn’t budge. Instead, his hand dips lower, fingers cruel and deliberate.
“Pathetic,” he hisses into your ear. “You squirm like this, and you still act like you don’t want it. You want me to stop?”
You nod. Instantly. It only makes his grin widen.
“Wrong answer.”
He throws you to the floor.
The impact knocks the wind from your lungs. You barely register his hands on you again until your clothes are being yanked, torn. Fabric gives way in his fists.
You’re not sure what part of you is more exposed: your skin or your fear.
He kneels over you, pushing your thighs apart with no more care than he’d use on an object. Something used. Something his.
He never says it. Never says you belong to him. Never says he loves you.
He just acts like he does.
It’s in the way he handles you, not gentle, but possessive—each bruise deliberate. Every inch he touches is a mark. You’ll see it tomorrow in the mirror. You’ll see him in the imprint of your body.
His fingers are unrelenting, working you open, too fast, too harsh. There’s no preparation. He doesn’t care.
You’re a thing to him. Something to break apart and study. A puzzle he’ll never bother solving because it’s more fun smashing the pieces.
“You don’t even look at me anymore,” he says, voice mock-hurt. “I used to catch you staring. What happened? Got tired of your little fantasy? Thought I wouldn’t notice, huh?”
You gasp, choking back a whimper. His palm is at your throat now. Holding. Threatening.
“Don’t fucking look away.”
You look. You look, and it’s worse. His eyes are smiling, but there’s nothing warm in them. They’re bottomless. White-hot. Starved.
He thrusts into you without warning.
The pain is sharp, invasive, body-wrenching. He moans low in your ear like it soothes him, not you. Like your discomfort is a balm he’s been craving all day.
“God,” he snarls, rhythm unrelenting, “you feel even tighter when you’re scared.”
You try to push him off. He pins your wrists above your head with one hand and slaps you with the other. Not hard. Just enough.
“Don’t be ungrateful.”
His pace grows faster, sloppier, crueler.
“You should be thanking me.”
His voice is low and furious now, breath ragged in your ear.
“No one else would want you. Not with that weird little head of yours. But me? I see you. I fucking see you.”
You don’t cry. You can’t. You’ve done it before and it only made him more interested.
You just breathe.
You go away.
But he brings you back.
His teeth dig into your shoulder. A growl. A noise like ownership.
He finishes inside you, holding you in place like your body might run without you.
He doesn’t pull out.
Instead, he stays. Breathing. Sweating. Fingers still tight around your throat.
Then he leans down.
Mouth brushes your ear.
Voice like silk and knives.
“You’re mine.”
He never says he loves you.
He doesn’t have to.
𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭 