𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

🔞𝟐. “𝐢𝐟 𝐢 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧, 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐞?” ♡ WC. 1,851

He hated you.

He hated your voice, quiet and unremarkable as it was, and the way you never flinched no matter what he did—not even when he split a man open in front of you, his intestines dangling like soft rope from a fresh, raw cage.

You had only blinked. You had only murmured something like, “He was lying about wanting to save that child.” And then you walked off, uncaring.

He hated that.

Humans cried. Humans screamed. Humans pleaded. Humans broke apart under his claws, and the shattered remnants of their dignity were what kept him entertained on dull days. But you—you ruined all that. You stood beside his throne like a doll carved from unfeeling porcelain, not even once gracing him with fear.

He didn’t know what you were. Not really. Sorcerer, yes. Human, allegedly. But to him, you smelled more like curse than saint, more like bloodied heaven than pious hell.

And still, you didn’t look. You didn’t react. You didn’t even breathe too loud.

Like nothing was worthy of your attention, not even him.

✦✧✦✧

He had known thousands of women.

Screaming. Pleading. Collapsing. Groveling. Worshipping.

Sukuna had carved himself a shrine out of their throats, bathed in the blood of empresses and priestesses alike, and declared himself holy.

He had never met a woman like you.

You had said no.

With eyes too calm for your age. Voice too soft for the battlefield. A heartbeat so eerily unshaken it made the demon inside him snarl.

A silent little ghost cloaked in Gojo blue.

He didn’t understand you.

Not the way he understood most things, most prey—he could crack people open like crabs, slurp the guts out and know them better than they ever dared to know themselves. But not you.

You were quiet.

Quiet in the way ancient temples buried beneath bloodied Heian fields were quiet. Quiet in the way old bones are, when they rot in cursed soil and feed trees that sprout white flowers.

He wanted to rip you apart to understand you better. Tear open that soft little chest and see what made you tick—what sort of ancient god was nestled inside your ribcage, so utterly at odds with the pathetic humans you protected. No, not protected. Merely watched. Judged. Like an executioner watching the ants burn themselves.

You spent your days among curses, shoulder brushing shoulder with grotesque monsters, and they treated you like one of their own.

Why?

What made you—an angel carved from cold marble—so much more comfortable in hell?

✦✧✦✧

Even now—draped in pale silk, your sleeves stained with blood not your own—you walked as if the Heian era wasn’t burning behind you. The moon’s light slipped across your skin like water. Mortals turned away. Curses watched from shadows. And he, Ryōmen Sukuna, King of Curses, Emperor of the Forsaken Realm, watched you more closely than he did the offerings made to his temple.

You were not a woman. You were an anomaly.

He’d come to this secret mountain festival not to indulge in the weak pretenses of human festivity, but to watch you.

A second date, if one could call it that.

You stood beneath the weeping sakura, speaking to no one, fingers twitching against your sleeves like you were rewiring the physics of reality just to keep yourself still. The firelight flickered against your face, illuminating nothing. You were blank. Utterly silent. Your gaze was steady, the way the moon was steady when it watched cities crumble.

Sukuna approached slowly. Not out of reverence, never. He wasn’t one to revere. But he was a creature of instinct, and something in your silence struck him like lightning split into flesh.

He didn’t bother greeting you. Instead, he stood beside you, just far enough for the air between you to vibrate with invisible threat.

“You prefer curses to humans.”

You didn’t look at him. But your head tilted slightly, the movement almost imperceptible.

Then you spoke.

A voice so quiet it could only be born from eternity.

“Curses don’t lie to themselves.”

He stared. Not at you, but through you. Into the mind that no one could read. Into the soul that saw too much. You, the anomaly sorcerer born of the Gojo clan, who wore apathy like a second skin and had been cursed at birth with a sight worse than Six Eyes.

You didn’t just see cursed energy.

You saw truth.

He leaned closer, four arms folded over his broad chest, the scent of ash and old blood coiling around him like smoke.

“Truth is ugly,” he said, voice thick with challenge.

Waited for you to speak more.

Waited for truth, since that’s what you claimed to love so much.

“People hate the truth. It makes them look at themselves.”

A beat of silence. Then another. The festival burned in the background. Children laughed. Fireworks cracked in the distance. And yet here, in the breath between his question and your answer, there was only stillness. As if the universe was afraid to interrupt.

Sukuna narrowed his eyes.

“And what do you see when you look at me, little priestess?”

He mocked you on instinct—derision lacing his voice, sharp like a curved blade—but there was something crawling beneath his skin. A tension.

This time, you met his gaze. And you smiled.

It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t mocking.

It was something far worse.

Soft.

Sad.

“You’re the only one who looks like what you are.”

For the first time in centuries, Sukuna said nothing. He stared at you, at that soft curve of melancholy on your lips, and understood something he hadn’t dared consider:

You were not afraid of him.

Not because you were strong, though you were. Not because you were naive, though you weren’t. But because whatever had been done to you—by your clan, by your people, by the gods themselves—had already destroyed the part of you that could tremble.

And that.

That made something dark and ancient in Sukuna thrill.

Because it was the first time in centuries someone hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t lied to him, hadn’t tried to appease him. You meant it. You saw him clearly. And that cursed thing in his chest, that rotted heart of his—whatever still beat inside him—it throbbed at your words.

You saw through everyone, didn’t you?

No wonder they hated you.

No wonder he wanted you so badly his fangs ached from clenching.

You were dangerous.

And you didn’t even try to be.

“Why keep coming back to me?” he asked, voice low. A threat, a temptation, a test.

Your answer was simple.

“Because you don’t lie.”

Something flickered in him. Not affection. Not yet. No, not even desire.

Interest. True, boiling, ravenous interest.

“Then tell me, little heir,” he rasped, stepping forward now, the space between you vanishing like breath. His voice dropped to a whisper of war drums. “What do you want from me?”

Your eyes remained empty.

“I want the truth to hurt less.”

He laughed. Loud, sharp, unholy. Heads turned. A child screamed. Somewhere behind him, a lantern shattered without being touched.

He leaned close enough for your breaths to cross.

“It won’t.”

“I know.”

You didn’t move away.

And it was then—only then—that he realized this wasn’t a game.

It wasn’t attraction. Or curiosity. Or proximity.

You weren’t fascinated by monsters. You were one. A beautiful, perfect monster made of stillness and starlight and eyes that never blinked.

A ghost of the divine, defiled by the truth of humanity.

He reached out, one hand brushing the barrier protecting you. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t even breathe.

It infuriated him. It fascinated him.

It aroused him.

But there would be no sex tonight.

Because monsters do not fuck angels.

They hunt them.

And then they wait until the angel begs to be ruined.

He stepped back.

Your expression didn’t change.

And just like that, he knew.

This was going to take a very, very long time.

✦✧✦✧

The festival continued, but Sukuna was no longer present within it. Not truly.

His body stood beside you, yes—hulking, divine in its violence, a blood-god dressed in skin—but his mind was elsewhere. Somewhere darker. Filthier. Sacred.

He watched you, so quiet, so still beneath the weeping sakura. Pale silk swaying at your ankles. Blood drying on your sleeves. A mouth untainted by sweet sake or small talk. You didn’t speak unless you meant it. Didn’t move unless necessary. You were stillness incarnate. And he wondered, as a firework burst silently behind you, if your cunt was just as quiet. Just as solemn. Just as utterly devastating.

He imagined it. Of course he did. He was Sukuna—King of Curses, not celibacy. And you, little priestess, were the only thing he’d ever wanted that hadn’t crawled to him in supplication.

In his mind, he pictured it plainly: you beneath him, tiny and pale, those cold eyes finally widening—not with fear, no, but with sensation. Shock. That was what he wanted to see. Not trembling. Not screaming.

Revelation.

You, understanding the size of him. The weight. The stretch.

His cocks—both of them, thick and ribbed, veined with the divine corruption that made gods weep—splitting you open in tandem, one in your cunt, the other forcing your sweet, gasping mouth to shape around it. He wouldn’t be gentle. Couldn’t be. The idea of being soft with you was insulting. You weren’t delicate.

You were holy.

And he? He wanted to desecrate.

In his mind, you didn’t cry. Didn’t moan. You just looked at him—blank and all-seeing—as your body was defiled. Fucked open like a scripture rewritten in blood.

He’d hold you down with all four arms. One wrapped around your waist, another gripping your wrists above your head, one buried in your hair, the fourth curved tight around your throat—not choking, just… grounding you.

You’d take him. All of him. Not because you wanted to, not because you needed to.

Because you could.

And he’d talk. Gods, he’d talk the whole time. Filthy, unholy things dripping from his mouth like curse oil:

“Look at you,” he’d growl, tongue dragging across your throat as he thrust deep. “Made to be ruined.”

You’d blink slowly, tears unfallen. Blood on your cheek from his claws. And you’d whisper back:

“Then ruin me.”

He would.

He’d fuck you so deep your womb would remember his shape. He’d fill you until even your sacred bloodlines couldn’t purify it. He’d make you his altar. His chalice. His.

And when it was over—when you were limp and trembling and stretched open around his cocks, bleeding just slightly, breath whisper-thin—he’d kiss your temple like a prayer.

Not because he loved you.

But because it was the only worship you’d allow.

✦✧✦✧

He came back to himself slowly, eyes dragging over the untouched curve of your cheek.

You hadn’t noticed his stare.

Or maybe you had.

You just didn’t care.

“And if I were to flay you open,” he whispered, leaning down closer to you. “Would the truth still smile back at me?”

You didn’t pull away.

You never pulled away.

“If you have to ask, you already know the answer.”

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

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♡ For Reader-Inserts. I only write Male Yandere x Female (Fem.) Reader (heterosexual couple). No LGBTQ+:

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Book 2 [you are here]. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I’d Burn the World.

♡ Book 4. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

♡ Library MASTERPOST 1. The Librarian’s Ledger: A Map to The Library of Forbidden Texts.

♡ Notice #1. Not all stories are included in the masterpost due to Tumblr’s link limitations. However, most long-form stories can be found here. If you’re searching for a specific yandere or theme, this guide will help you navigate The Library of Forbidden Texts. Proceed with caution

♡ Book 6. The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood.

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♡ Book 7. Corpus Delicti (CD): Donum Mortis.

♡ Book 8. Malum Consilium (MC): Primordial Hunger.