𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

It’s the sound of the lock clicking that yanks you awake.

Not gently. Not the way most people wake. It’s more like a switch in your chest being thrown, a sudden flood of dread that makes your throat tighten before you even open your eyes. You don’t have to look to know it’s him.

His footsteps aren’t loud, but the weight of them presses on the air. You lie still, staring at the wall, breathing shallow because you know he likes when you pretend not to notice him. He likes to decide when you’re allowed to acknowledge his presence.

The silence stretches, taut and deliberate, until the mattress dips. The heat of his body is immediate — leaning in close enough that you can feel the ghost of his breath at your ear.

“Still asleep?” Gojo’s voice is warm, amused. But it’s that particular warmth you’ve learned to dread: the kind that feels like sunlight before a wildfire swallows the horizon. “Cute.”

You flinch when his fingers close around your jaw, tilting your head up toward him. He makes a low sound in his throat, like he’s disappointed you haven’t been quicker to obey.

“Eyes on me,” he says, voice dropping into something sharper. You open your eyes because not doing so would be worse.

The first thing you see is that smile. That lazy, infuriating curve of his mouth that never quite reaches his eyes. White hair falling into his face, catching the dim light. Blue eyes so pale they’re almost inhuman. They’re steady on you, and the rest of the world fades under their weight.

“Good girl.” The praise is laced with mockery. His thumb drags over your lower lip before slipping into your mouth. “That’s better.”

You can taste the faint salt of his skin. The leather-warm scent of him fills your lungs, and beneath it all is the faintest trace of something sweeter — cloying, dangerous. He doesn’t move his thumb away when you try to breathe around it. In fact, he pushes deeper.

“Mm, that’s right,” he murmurs, tilting his head like he’s studying something fragile he plans to break. “Suck.”

Your stomach knots, but you obey. His pupils flare, just slightly.

“Knew you’d be good for me.” He chuckles, a low, vibrating sound. “You always are.”

Gojo shifts, pressing his knee between your legs until you’re forced to adjust. His free hand drags down your throat, the pressure light enough to make your skin prickle, heavy enough to remind you it could tighten without warning.

“You ever think about how pathetic you look like this?” he asks casually, like it’s idle conversation. “On your back, mouth full, eyes all wide. You wouldn’t last two minutes without me.”

You try to glare, but he just laughs. The laugh that says he owns every twitch of your body, every flicker of rebellion.

Then his thumb leaves your mouth. You barely have time to breathe before his fingers tangle in your hair, dragging you upright and off the bed. The floor is cold under your knees.

“There,” he says, voice syrupy with satisfaction. “Right where you belong.”

You keep your gaze down, partly because you don’t want to see that look in his eyes and partly because you know he likes it when you avoid his gaze — it gives him an excuse to force you to look later.

He shifts, and you hear the faint sound of a zipper. Then the air changes. Warmer. Sharper. You can’t stop the way your throat tightens.

Gojo tilts your chin up, making sure you’re watching him. “Gonna take it nice, yeah?”

It’s not a question.

When he pushes into your mouth, the heat and taste of him hit all at once. He’s heavy on your tongue, filling you until your jaw aches. You can hear the sharp hitch of his breath, feel the twitch of amusement in his grip when you gag around him.

“Don’t pull back,” he warns softly. “Not unless you want me to hold you there until you cry.”

You stay still, breathing through your nose, feeling the weight of him sliding deeper. His fingers tighten in your hair, guiding every movement, every shallow pull and push.

The sound he makes when he hits the back of your throat is low and satisfied. “Mm. You feel that? That’s mine.”

His pace picks up, hips rolling forward with more force, just enough to make your eyes water. His laugh is quiet, almost tender if not for the edge in it.

“You look perfect like this,” he says, thumb brushing away the tear at the corner of your eye. “Pretty little thing.”

The taste of him changes subtly — heavier, more insistent. You know the signs by now. His breathing goes rougher, shoulders tensing as his grip tightens painfully in your hair.

“Stay,” he mutters. “Don’t move.”

The heat of him pulses against your tongue, a sudden flood as his hips jerk forward. His release hits the back of your throat, and the taste is sharp, salt-heavy, overwhelming. He doesn’t give you room to pull away. The weight of him stays until he decides to let go.

You swallow because you have no choice. His satisfaction is palpable.

“Good girl,” he says again, softer now, though it’s still soaked in that cruel amusement. “Didn’t spill a drop.”

He draws back slowly, watching your lips, the way you lick them instinctively to erase the last trace. His eyes darken.

“You taste like me now,” he says. “You should.”

Before you can move, his hand is on your jaw again, forcing your mouth open so he can look inside, like he’s checking his work. The smile that curves his lips is wicked.

“Perfect.”

He stands, towering over you while you’re still kneeling. “Stay there. Don’t stand up until I say so.”

You obey because the alternative is worse.

Gojo moves to the side, collecting something from the dresser. You hear the faint clink of metal before you see the cuffs in his hand. The gleam of them catches the light.

“Wrists,” he says.

You hesitate a fraction of a second too long. His smile sharpens.

“Do I have to count?” he asks, voice low, almost pleasant. You offer your wrists.

The cuffs are cold, biting into your skin as he locks them. He tugs once, testing the resistance, before tilting your head up to meet his gaze.

“Mine,” he says simply. “Every breath, every sound, every thought.”

There’s no room to argue. There never is.

When he finally lets you stand, the cuffs force your balance to shift, your shoulders pulling tight. He steps in close, his breath brushing your cheek.

“You know the thing I like most about you?” he murmurs.

You shake your head.

“You break so beautifully.”

The words land in your chest like a blade. He tilts his head, studying the flicker in your expression, the way you can’t hide the jolt of fear.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll put you back together.”

His lips brush your ear as he adds, almost fondly, “Eventually.”

And you know — deep in your bones — that he means it.