โก TW. Dead Dove // Read at Your Own Risk ; โก WC. 950
You donโt know why heโs being sweet today.
It should scare you more than it does. And it does scare youโthe kind of low-level dread that clings to your ribs, sour and slippery. But more than that, it confuses you. Because Gojo Satoru isnโt sweet. He doesnโt do nice. He does mockery, smirks, pressure, pushing your head under water until your lungs burn with humiliation. And he likes it. He lives for your recoil. For your silence. For the broken things behind your eyes.
So when he brushes your hair back and kisses your temple, when he whispers you look beautiful when you cry, like itโs a compliment, you freeze. You freeze because you know this isnโt mercy. Itโs another weapon. Just sharper.
He watches you squirm. Smiling.
He always smiles. Even when he’s destroying you.
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He never gives you time to prepare. He likes it better when you’re off balance, when your words stutter or fail entirely. When your body responds before your mind can form a protest. That sweet little silence you make when you’re too overwhelmed to speak? He treasures it.
And tonight, he wants all of it.
His hands are on your throat before the door even shuts. Not tight. Just a warning. A reminder. That he owns this moment. That your thoughts mean nothing unless he’s carved them into you himself.
“Donโt run tonight,” he says, mouth near your ear, breath hot. “Iโm being nice. Donโt make me regret it.”
You donโt run. Of course you donโt. He likes that. It makes him soft. But soft for him is still something terrifying. Still full of the kind of danger that doesnโt raise its voice, just gets closer.
He shoves you gently against the wall. A palm splays over your chest, right above your heartbeat, and he laughs under his breath when he feels it jump.
“Scared of me?” he murmurs. “Thatโs good. You should be.”
He kisses you like he’s trying to brand his name into your mouth. Tongue forcing its way past your lips, hand in your hair, yanking until your scalp burns. Thereโs no warmth in it. Just need. Just the sharp cruelty of a man who knows youโll never escape.
“Good girl,” he mutters as your knees buckle, voice syrupy and dark. “Knew youโd take it. Always do.”
You don’t answer. You learned not to. He doesn’t need your words. He never has.
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He’s methodical.
Always has been. He knows how to break you in pieces, which parts of you flinch first, where you’re most sensitive. He traces them with teeth. With words. With rope, some nights. But tonight, he wants skin.
He undresses you like he’s unwrapping a gift he bought for himself. Something expensive. Fragile. Easy to ruin.
And he will ruin it.
His hands are rough. Too rough. Not careless, but cruel. He wants the bruises. He needs to see them later. Needs you to see them and remember whose fault they are. Whose name they spell.
Your shirt hits the floor. He clicks his tongue at the sight of your bra.
“Still covering up, even for me?”
He rips it off.
Not even with impatienceโjust delight.
And then he looks. Really looks.
Like you’re a painting he commissioned. Something to study. Something to dissect.
“You look better like this,” he says absently. His fingers graze your nipples and he watches your mouth twitch, watches the way your breath hitches. “All exposed. All mine.”
His belt drops with a soft clink.
You brace for it. And you shouldn’t have to. You shouldnโt know the rhythm of this. But you do. Youโve learned it like religion.
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He fucks you like a punishment.
Like you did something wrong just by existing. Like being quiet, being good, being obedient wasnโt enough.
His hips slam into yours and the sound echoes through the room, obscene and wet. One hand keeps your wrists pinned above your head; the other moves to your throat again, squeezing just enough to make you lightheaded.
“You make the prettiest faces when you canโt breathe,” he hums.
Youโre gasping. Not even from the air deprivation. From the stretch. From the pain. From the heat. From the way your body betrays you, traitorous, trembling and slick under him.
He sees it. He loves it.
“See? You like this,” he says, low. His mouth is right at your ear again, words poisoning their way in. “You pretend you donโt, but you were made for me. Every part of you… tight, wet, ruined. And youโll still beg me for more.”
You hate him.
You hate how he knows. How he always knows.
His pace never slows. Not when you whimper. Not when you claw at his arms. Not when your legs shake so violently he has to hold you in place just to keep going. He loves that part too. The mess. The collapse.
The degradation is constant.
“Dumb little thing,” he mutters as your eyes roll back. “Look at you. Fucking wreck.”
He slaps you. Light, but enough to sting. Just to make sure you’re still here.
“Focus. I want you to remember this.”
Like you could ever forget.
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When he finishes, he doesnโt pull out. He stays buried, body pressed over yours like a warning. Like a cage. His hand pets your hair like he’s comforting you, like you didnโt just fall apart under him like glass.
“See? I told you I’d be nice.”
His voice is so gentle it makes your skin crawl.
Because he believes it.
He thinks this was kindness.
And maybe, for him, it was.
He leaves you there.
Still trembling. Still open. Still leaking.
Still his.
Always his.
Whether you want to be or not.
๐๐จ๐'๐ฌ ๐๐ซ๐จ๐ญ๐๐ ๐จ๐ง๐ข๐ฌ๐ญ 