𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

You’re not sure when you stopped flinching at the sound of his footsteps—whether it was from exhaustion, or because your body finally accepted that there’s no point in bracing for impact when the impact is inevitable.

He moves through the room like the place belongs to him. It does. Not in the legal sense—though you’re sure he’d find it hilarious to call it that—but in the way his presence fills every inch, every shadow bending under his orbit.

Gojo doesn’t knock. He never has. The door slams behind him, locking with that too-familiar click that makes your stomach twist. He leans on it for a moment, sunglasses dangling from his fingers, his gaze running over you like he’s inspecting merchandise.

“Still here,” he says, like he hadn’t left you tied to his bed for hours with nothing but the sound of your own pulse pounding in your ears. “Good girl.”

The words don’t sound like praise. They sound like mockery.

His eyes narrow, his mouth curling into that lazy smirk you’ve learned to dread. He steps closer, and you instinctively press yourself back against the headboard. He notices. He likes that you notice.

“Don’t bother pretending you hate this,” he murmurs. “Your body’s already figured it out. Faster than your brain did.”

You glare, but the heat rising in your skin betrays you. He always sees it. He always makes sure you know he sees it.

Gojo isn’t gentle when he touches you. His hands are large and sure, gripping your chin to tilt your face toward his. His thumb brushes your bottom lip, not tenderly, but as if testing the edge of a blade.

“You think I care if you love me?” he says, voice low and close. “I don’t need that. I can make you need me without it. Want me without it. You’ll break long before I do.”

He kisses you, but it’s not affection—it’s an intrusion. His mouth forces yours open, his teeth nipping hard enough to sting. When you try to turn away, he grabs your jaw harder, making sure you feel the bruises he’ll leave.

The rope around your wrists bites into your skin as he pushes you down. He doesn’t ask permission. He never has. Permission isn’t part of this. You’re not sure if you’d give it, even if he did ask.

His weight presses you into the mattress, the air thick with the heat of him and the scent that clings to his skin—soap, faint cologne, something sharper underneath. Your pulse hammers in your ears as his fingers trail over you with deliberate slowness, not to savor, but to watch you squirm.

He speaks against your ear, his voice carrying that mock-affectionate lilt that makes your chest tighten. “Say my name.”

You don’t. You won’t.

The slap isn’t hard enough to be violence, but it’s enough to shock you into silence. He chuckles, the sound dripping with amusement.

“You’re cute when you’re stubborn. Still think you’ve got some kind of choice in this?”

He takes his time undoing you, every movement purposeful. There’s no rush—he enjoys the waiting as much as the act. It’s another form of control. Every gasp he wrings from you is catalogued, stored away, another tool for later.

Your mind tries to drift somewhere else, but he doesn’t let it. Every time your focus falters, he pulls you back—a squeeze to your thigh, a sharp bite to your shoulder, a hand gripping your hair so you’re forced to meet his eyes.

Those eyes are the worst part. Too bright, too knowing. They look like they’re laughing at you even when his mouth isn’t.

When he finally moves, it’s with the kind of precision that makes it clear he’s been planning this since before he walked through the door. Every shift of his weight, every rough drag of skin against skin, it’s all measured. He wants you breathless, but not enough to pass out. He wants you terrified, but not enough to scream for help you know won’t come.

You try not to react. It’s useless. Your body betrays you again and again, each sound you make met with that insufferable smirk.

“There she is,” he murmurs when your back arches involuntarily. “Knew you’d come around.”

The humiliation burns hotter than the fear. He knows it. That’s the point.

His hands grip your hips like he owns them. Like he owns you. And maybe, in this room, he does. Every movement is meant to break something in you—your defiance, your pride, your ability to think of him as anything but inevitable.

When it’s over, he doesn’t untie you right away. He props himself up on an elbow, watching you like he’s studying the aftermath of an experiment.

“Still don’t love me,” he says, almost conversational. “That’s fine. I’ve got time.”

His fingers trail idly over your skin, not in comfort, but in claim. You hate that you don’t pull away.

The ropes stay on until he decides otherwise. And when he finally leaves, the door clicks shut with that same sound, sealing you back into silence.

It’s not freedom. It’s the intermission.