𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

♡ TW. Dead Dove // Read at Your Own Risk ; ♡ WC. 1,050

He doesn’t run. He walks.

Long-legged and loose-limbed, his gait is casual, cocky, like he’s on his way to tease a friend—not hunt you through a locked-down school building after hours. But you hear it. The echo. The soft thud of his soles rolling heel-to-toe against linoleum, steady and slow like a ticking clock. You know exactly how he moves. He’s done this before.

You’ve seen him do this before.

That day he backed another girl into the janitor’s closet with a sick grin on his face, not because he wanted her—but because you were watching. That girl’s whimpering wasn’t even muffled by the closed door. That was the first time you noticed: Gojo doesn’t chase what he wants.

He makes you run, then follows.

You round the corner too fast and your shoulder clips the wall. Pain flashes hot, but you keep going. Lockers blur by. You can feel the cold sweat down your spine, plastering your thin blouse to your skin. It clings. He’ll love that.

You duck into a dark classroom and slam the door. No lock. No window to climb out. Only one entrance—and it’s his.

You breathe hard, sucking in cold air like it’ll save you. Maybe you’re fast enough this time. Maybe he’s just messing with you. Maybe he’ll get bored—

You hear the click of the handle.

A slow, deliberate twist. He’s not breaking in. He’s opening it like he owns the place. Like he owns you.

You freeze, hidden behind the teacher’s desk. The door creaks open. Light spills in.

He doesn’t say a word.

Not at first.

Just the creak of the door swinging shut behind him. The soft shuffle of his shoes as he enters. Then the sound of it—Smell—cologne, sharp and clean, the one you know he wears. Because he’s bent close enough for you to memorize it. Because he’s pinned you against walls and locker doors and flicked that scent off his collar right into your mouth.

You cover your own with your hand.

Gojo says your name.

A singsong tease. Drawn out and too amused.

“Come on. This again?”

He sighs like you’re being inconvenient, like you’ve forced him into this. Like this chase—this hunt—is your idea. “You always do this dramatic run-away act when I haven’t even touched you yet. Kinda rude.”

You stay still. Still as a corpse. Still as prey.

He steps further in.

Silence stretches. Then—thud.

Something lands on the floor.

You peek. His blindfold.

It’s always worse when he takes it off.

He stretches, groaning like this is a chore. You don’t need to see him to feel him grin. “I could pretend to be patient, y’know. But you don’t really want that, do you?”

Your throat tightens.

His voice drops, velvety and lethal: “You like it when I’m mean.”

He knows where you are.

He always knows.

You scramble from behind the desk. Bolt to the back door—dead bolted. Turn around—too late.

He’s already there.

He’s already in front of you.

“Hi.”

White hair like static. Eyes like frostbite. The devil in a school uniform.

Gojo tilts his head. “Where’re you going, little thing?”

You don’t answer. Your silence is the only power you have left.

He crowds you.

“You look like you wanna cry.” His eyes flick over you, drinking in your trembling frame, your soaked-through shirt, your torn skirt. His voice softens, mockingly sweet: “What’d I do this time, hm?”

You step back. He steps forward. You try to move left. He blocks it. You try right—his hand’s already braced on the wall beside your head.

“Always playing the victim,” he murmurs. “But you keep showing up. Same hallways. Same seat in class. Same tight little skirt. You know what I think?”

His other hand lifts.

You flinch—but he doesn’t touch you.

He taps your lip instead.

“I think you like this.”

You slap his hand away.

He freezes.

For a second, the air drops.

Then he laughs. Not kind, not surprised—delighted.

“Ohh, I love it when you pretend you have teeth,” he purrs. “You think that’s gonna stop me?”

Then he grabs you.

No warning. Just hands—one fisting your hair, the other yanking your wrist behind your back. He spins you and slams your chest to the door.

You gasp, and he leans in.

“You’re shaking.”

His voice is low, hoarse with restraint. He shoves his knee between your thighs, nudging them apart. Not doing anything. Just holding you there. Like he could. Like he might. Like it’s inevitable.

“Scared?” he whispers.

You nod.

He doesn’t let go.

“Liar.”

You twist. Struggle. He pins you harder, until the edge of the doorknob digs into your ribs.

“You want this,” he snarls. “I see the way you look at me. Every time I put my hands on someone else. Every time I call another girl cute. You hate it.”

You choke a protest. He cuts it off.

“You’re obsessed.”

His mouth is at your ear. You feel the brush of his teeth as he grits: “You’re mine.”

He rips your wrist higher, grinding bone against bone until it burns. Not hard enough to break. Just hard enough to make you squirm.

“Say it.”

You shake your head.

Wrong answer.

He pulls your head back by your hair.

“Say it,” he breathes, “or I’ll fuck you right here. Door unlocked. Lights on. Maybe I’ll let Nanami hear. Bet he’s still grading papers.”

Your breath hitches.

He grins against your cheek.

“Say you’re mine.”

“…I’m yours.”

He hums, satisfied.

He lets you go.

You collapse to the floor, gulping air, your limbs trembling. He squats beside you, fingers trailing down your arm, deceptively gentle.

“I’m not mad,” he murmurs. “You’re just stupid.”

He tilts your chin up.

“Pretty little idiot.”

You close your eyes. It’s worse when he’s soft. Worse than the rage, worse than the threats. Because this is the part he means.

“You’re not going home tonight,” he tells you.

Not a question.

He picks up his blindfold and pockets it. Brushes dust from his sleeves. Stands tall, perfectly composed.

Then he holds out his hand.

Like a gentleman.

Like a monster pretending to be one.

You hesitate.

He waits.

And you take it.

Because the scariest part isn’t the chase.

It’s the part where you stop running.