𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

You shouldn’t have looked at him that way.

Not in the hall, not when he already knew your tells. Not when you couldn’t hide the way your eyes flinched just before you forced yourself to hold his stare. That stupid, stubborn defiance that only made him want to grind it out of you.

Gojo leans against the wall across from you now, one hand buried in his pocket, the other lazily twirling a piece of black cloth — the kind of blindfold you know too well. The corridor is empty. It’s late. You should’ve gone home. You didn’t.

“You know,” he says, voice deceptively light, “for someone who keeps saying she hates me, you sure give me a lot of opportunities to catch you alone.”

You tell him to fuck off.

The smile doesn’t leave his face, but it changes — sharper, almost cruel. “No, princess. You don’t get to talk to me like that. Not when you’ve been walking around with my name still bruised into your skin.”

His hand shoots out, catching your chin in a grip that makes your teeth click together. The cloth dangles from his fingers.

“For me,” he says, tilting your head just enough for you to feel how trapped you are, “love is a curse. And guess what, sweetheart? I curse you for making me fall.”

You don’t have time to react before the blindfold is yanked over your eyes. Darkness swallows you whole. Your pulse spikes. His fingers slide deliberately down the side of your neck, slow and invasive, feeling every twitch.

“Better,” he murmurs. “Now you’re exactly how I like you. Not seeing, not predicting… just waiting.”

You hear the door shut behind you. The lock clicks. He moves, footsteps deliberate — circling, like a predator getting comfortable before the kill.

“You’ve been pissing me off all week,” he says casually, like you’re talking over coffee. “So today… I’m going to remind you what you’re for.”

He doesn’t touch you right away. That’s worse. Instead, his voice slides around you in the dark, closer, then farther, never where you expect. You feel the whisper of fabric against your arm, the warmth of his breath against your ear — gone before you can lean away.

Then his hand is in your hair, yanking hard enough to make you stumble. The sharp sting blooms along your scalp. He drags you somewhere — carpet under your shoes becomes cool tile. The faint hum of fluorescent light above is all you hear besides his breathing.

“You know what’s funny?” he says, pushing you down to your knees so fast you gasp. “You could scream. Right now. You won’t. Because you like this too much.”

You start to protest. His palm slaps over your mouth.

“Don’t lie to me, baby girl,” he whispers, his tone dipping into something darker. “You’ve been begging for this since the day I first slammed you against a wall.”

He makes you crawl. Hands and knees scrape the floor, your blindfold slipping slightly with the movement. Every time you hesitate, the flat of his hand smacks against your ass, sharp and humiliating. You lose track of how many steps, how many turns.

When he finally stops, it’s to strip you down — efficient, unhurried, utterly shameless. Cold air licks at your bare skin, your clothes pooling useless on the floor somewhere behind you.

His fingers trail over your spine, down to your hips, then snap a band tight around your wrists. Rope, rough enough to bite.

“You feel that?” he murmurs in your ear, pulling the knot tighter until you can’t move without the fibers digging in. “That’s mine. You’re mine. Every inch of you.”

He forces you forward until your cheek presses against cold tile. His knee wedges between your thighs, kicking them apart with zero patience.

“This is what happens when you make me fall for you,” he says, almost conversationally. “I ruin you. Again. And again. Until the only name you remember is mine.”

He doesn’t give you time to breathe before his hand is at your throat, pressing down just enough to steal part of your air. The blindfold makes it worse — the uncertainty, the sharp awareness of every sound, every brush of his skin.

When he finally moves against you, it’s brutal — no warning, no tenderness, just claiming. Your bound wrists jerk uselessly. Every movement forces you to feel the way he controls the pace, the depth, the burn of him filling you until you’re dizzy.

“Say it,” he orders. You shake your head. His hand tightens on your throat.

“Say my name.”

You choke it out. He hums like he’s pleased, then starts using you harder. You don’t get to adjust, don’t get to prepare — it’s all ragged sounds and helpless gasps now, the tile slick under your knees.

“Good girl,” he purrs, mockingly sweet. “See? You were made for this. For me.”

The world narrows to the pressure at your neck, the bite of rope at your wrists, the relentless rhythm he sets. Every degradation, every filthy word drips from his mouth into your ears.

“You think anyone else could handle you?” His laugh is sharp. “No one’s stupid enough. No one’s sick enough. Except me.”

Your body betrays you, reacting even as your mind screams. He feels it, of course. His grip slides from your throat to your jaw, forcing your face up though you can’t see him.

“Pathetic,” he says, voice low, satisfied. “I break you, and you thank me for it.”

It ends when he decides — not when you can breathe, not when your trembling legs give out. He keeps you exactly where he wants you until you’re ruined in every way that matters.

When he finally lets go, it’s only to catch you before you hit the floor. The blindfold stays on. He presses his lips to your ear.

“Remember this, princess,” he whispers. “For me, love’s a curse. And I’ll keep cursing you until you can’t remember what it’s like to live without it.”