𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

♡ TW. Dead Dove // Read at Your Own Risk ; ♡ WC. 973

You never saw him coming. That was the problem.

He was always smiling, always laughing—bright, loud, brilliant. Everyone looked at Gojo Satoru and saw light, chaos wrapped in silk. You looked at him and saw noise. White noise. Too bright. Too loud. Too much.

He noticed you for that alone. You didn’t laugh when he joked. You didn’t flinch when he flirted. You looked at him the way a scientist might look at a blade of grass—an object to be analyzed, not worshipped.

So he made you worship him.

He was smart enough not to show his hand at first. No bruises. No yelling. Just small things. Your friends started drifting away, their phones suddenly dead when you called. Professors turned colder, colder still. Your favorite café changed staff. Then shut down.

Everything quieted. Except him.

He was always there. Looming. Crooning. Sitting just a bit too close. Hands too familiar. Always smiling.

And when you snapped—when you finally stood, spine straight and logic clear—he tilted his head and looked at you with something ancient behind those blue eyes. Something not meant for light.

“You really think you’re not mine?”

✦✧✦✧

He’s touching you like he owns you because, in his mind, he does. His hands, gloved in mockery of decency, trail down your spine as you shudder beneath him—not in pleasure, but in the forced friction of dread and desire crawling along your bones.

You’re shackled. Not with chains—those would be too kind—but with promises he made to himself. You. Are. His.

“Always so quiet, huh?” he hums against your ear, the pads of his fingers sliding between your thighs, spreading you with the practiced nonchalance of a man who has never heard ‘no’ spoken like it mattered. “Smart little thing. Thought you could out-think me? Sweetheart, I’ve been rewriting your story since the first day you walked in.”

You writhe, a tremor betraying your body’s confusion. You’re dry-mouthed and breathless, skin hot where he touches, mind cold where he speaks.

His voice softens. “I love how you look when you break.”

He says it like a confession. Like he’s telling you the sky is blue.

The blindfold’s there not to protect you, but to humiliate. He likes the way you gasp when you can’t see his hands, when you’re forced to feel instead of understand. Always calculating. Always watching.

But not now. Not here.

He fucks you like he’s proving a point. There’s nothing gentle in the way he pins your hips, nothing soft in the way he mouths your shoulder, teeth grazing like a warning.

“You’re nothing without me,” he says, not cruel, just honest in that deadpan Gojo way that makes your blood go cold. “You just haven’t accepted it yet. But don’t worry—I’ll help.”

You bite your lip hard enough to taste copper. His hand snakes around your throat, not squeezing—just resting. A reminder.

His pace is slow, deliberate. Each thrust calculated to make you feel everything. The shame. The need. The degradation of being so fucking helpless to your own reactions.

He leans down, lips brushing your ear again.

“Whimper for me. Come on. Just a little. Make me proud.”

The command is casual. The smile in his voice makes your skin crawl.

But you do. God help you, you do.

He groans, satisfied, and grips your jaw, forcing your face up like a doll. “See? Doesn’t that feel better? Obedient. Pretty. Just like I like you.”

You try to twist away, and he laughs. Not mocking—amused. Endlessly, childishly delighted.

“Still fighting? Sweetheart, you’re so cute when you pretend you have a choice.”

He flips you like you weigh nothing, one hand pinning both wrists above your head, the other tracing the curve of your belly like he’s planning where to carve his name. You squirm, hating the way your body arches into his touch, hating the way your mind can’t keep up—how everything is blurring into sensation and noise.

“You think anyone would want you like this? After I’m done?” he asks, not angrily. It’s almost tender.

You freeze.

He kisses your neck then—soft, warm, too gentle for what he’s doing below.

“Exactly,” he says.

He reaches between your thighs again and this time it’s worse. Because your body wants. You’re soaked now, every nerve ending betraying you, and he knows it. He’s watching your reactions like a man admiring a painting he made himself.

“That’s it,” he purrs. “Let me in. Let me have you.”

He’s not asking. He never was.

The room is cold, but you’re burning. There’s nothing in the air but his cologne and the scent of sex and ruin. Your ruin.

He kisses your mouth—not rough, not harsh. He kisses you like a lover, like someone who means it.

That’s what makes you cry.

His smile is against your lips. “Beautiful. Broken. Mine.”

You sob once, silently, and he moans.

“Say it.”

You shake your head.

He thrusts harder, making you choke on your breath.

“Say it.”

You can’t.

So he says it for you.

“You’re mine. You belong to me. And I don’t care if your little brain’s still in denial. Your body knows. Look at you. Look. At. You.”

He grabs a mirror—when did he put that there?—and angles it down.

You see it. The way you’re writhing. The way you’re trembling. Slick and spread and ruined.

“That’s not a girl who wants to leave,” he says, kissing your temple. “That’s a girl who knows what she needs.”

He fucks you harder now, crueler, like punishment, like worship. And you can’t breathe through it—can’t think. You’re gone, already gone, and his name is the only thing your mouth can shape as you break beneath him.

“Good girl,” he breathes, proud, wicked, triumphant.

You whimper.

And he smiles again. Bright. Beautiful. Terrifying.

The scariest part is how much he means it.