𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

🔞𝟑. 𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫—𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 ♡ WC. 2,284

He sits on the gilded dais, limbs splayed like a deity carved from violence and smirking blood, four arms draped lazily around two moaning women clinging to his bare chest, their perfume-slicked skin shivering under his touch. He isn’t looking at them.

His eyes are on you.

You, sitting perfectly still just a few paces away, flanked by shikigami guards you summoned with a flick of your wrist the moment you entered his court. The translucent beasts crouch in perfect silence beside your chair, tails brushing against your ankles as they scan the room for threats. You haven’t moved once.

Not even when one of his concubines moans his name in a voice sticky with practiced desire, tilting her body in a way designed to draw male attention.

Not even when he cups a handful of flesh and bites into it, eyes slitted sideways to catch your reaction.

You blink. “I like your choice of wine today.”

He bares his teeth. Not at you. Not yet.

You speak with the tone of someone who’s never tasted fear. Apathetic, flat. The kind of voice that makes lesser men feel insulted even when you say nothing offensive. That blandness, that maddening neutrality in the face of him—the King of Curses—grates more than any insult ever could.

“Didn’t expect you to enjoy Onogoroshū,” he says, tearing a strip of flesh from a leg of boar with his teeth. He speaks past the woman kissing his throat. “It’s bitter.”

“That’s why I like it.”

The woman on his left coos something obscene into his ear. The one on his right giggles and grinds her hip into his leg. He doesn’t stop them.

You watch with the expression of a scholar listening to a lecture. Impassive. Observant. Clinical.

And that—

That pisses him off.

He doesn’t understand why. He shouldn’t care. Why would he care if some dull-eyed Gojo heir with a porcelain demeanor didn’t flinch when he put on a show for her? Why should it bother him that you’d rather make small talk about fucking wine while he’s groping someone in front of you?

He’s the fucking Emperor.

He could kill you. Right here, right now. Snap your neck. Make you scream. Tear your precious shikigami limb from limb. Make an example of you like all the other dead prodigies left twitching on the battlefield under his clawed hands.

But you’re not dead. You’re here.

Willingly.

Three dates. Three meetings.

The first was tense, a standoff in a burning shrine where blood ran in rivers and you appeared before him like a ghost with pure lashes and calm eyes, no fear in your voice even as you held off five of his generals with one hand.

The second—odd. He summoned you, and you came. Sat with him beneath a cursed moon and listened to him monologue about how the weak should be crushed. You ate what he served. Didn’t gag at the taste of cursed meat. Even complimented the seasoning.

And now this.

Now he’s taunting you.

For some reason.

Like a child. Like some pathetic mongrel trying to provoke a reaction from a statue.

The woman in his lap moans as he squeezes her throat.

You sip your wine. “The boar was overcooked.”

He growls, tossing the concubine aside like a used napkin. She squeals as she hits the floor. The other flinches but remains, her eyes flicking from his face to yours, fear blooming in her mascaraed lashes.

Sukuna leans forward. Slowly. Predator to prey.

Only you don’t twitch. Don’t shift. Don’t breathe faster.

“What do you want, little Gojo?”

You tilt your head.

“You summoned me.”

“You came.”

“You asked.”

“And you accepted.”

A beat. Your lips part, just barely.

“I was curious.”

He slams his hand down beside your thigh. The shikigami growl.

You don’t flinch.

You just look up at him. Blank. Beautiful. Bored.

“You always surround yourself with women like that?”

His snarl is instant. “Like what?”

“Performers.”

It shouldn’t hit. It does.

Because you don’t say it with disdain. You say it like it’s true.

He hates that. Hates how your words dig under his skin, how your cold logic makes him feel like a fool, like some teenage brat playing games with a girl too clever to be caught.

You sip your wine again. “I’m more interested in the cursed technique you used to fuse that sorcerer’s arm to your own last week.”

He’s still looming over you. Still bristling. But you’re already shifting topics, already dragging him into that cold intellect you wield like a blade. The court watches with bated breath.

And he…he sits back.

His cock is half-hard. And he doesn’t know why.

You never touched him. Never smiled. Never gave him anything.

Except your presence. Except your gaze. Except that ever-calm demeanor that makes him feel like a raging monster slamming himself against an angelic wall he’ll never crack.

He wants to. He needs to.

But not yet.

He licks the blood from his thumb and smiles at you. Not the false one he gives the masses. A real smile. One with teeth.

“Then I’ll show you.”

Your head tilts the other way.

“Show me what?”

He stands. Walks down the steps of the dais until he’s level with you. Taller. Towering. One clawed hand reaches toward your face—and hovers. Blocked by that damn barrier.

Your shikigami bristle. You don’t move.

His fingers curl away.

“The technique.”

You nod. No fear. No gratitude. Just that maddening neutrality.

He wants to ruin it.

Wants to break the porcelain.

But not yet.

He’ll wait.

Because when you finally scream his name, when your glassy expression finally shatters under his teeth, when he sees your mind fracture just a little from what he does to you…

It’ll be real.

And for some reason, that’s all he wants.

Even if he doesn’t understand why.

✦✧✦✧

The halls of his palace echo with the weight of centuries, every stone whispering of bloodshed, of power, of pain. The red of the tapestries, the grotesque elegance of cursed artifacts displayed like trophies along the walls, the quiet groan of wood underfoot—it’s all carefully curated horror. A space designed to make intruders feel small.

You don’t.

You walk beside him like you belong here.

He doesn’t speak. Neither do you. The silence is not uncomfortable, though it should be. It should grate, should press into his skull and make his teeth itch. But you walk with your hands folded loosely behind your back, eyes scanning the monstrous decor like you’re a child in a museum, like you’re cataloguing every grotesque marvel for academic purposes.

It’s infuriating.

And—worse—enthralling.

He slows as the corridor opens into a garden. Or what passes for one. The sky above is perpetually choked with cursed clouds, a red sun dripping on the horizon like a wound refusing to clot. But the trees grow anyway. Sakura trees. Dozens of them. Blooming.

Unnatural. Cursed. Petals soft as sin and pink as virgin lips fall in silence around you.

You stop. So does he.

Then you reach out. Not to him. To a branch.

And pluck a blossom.

It’s so delicate in your hand. Fragile. Temporary.

He waits for you to tuck it into your own hair. Or drop it. But instead, you turn. Step toward him.

And offer it.

A sakura blossom. In the hand of a Gojo. Held out to Ryōmen Sukuna, the King of Curses, like a token from a lover.

He sneers.

“How poetic.”

You blink at him.

He takes the blossom. Crushes it between his fingers. Petals bleed into pulp.

You don’t flinch.

You don’t scold.

You… smile.

Not the soft curve of lips you show the elders or the mechanical one you give civilians.

No.

This one—brief, barely there—is different.

A smile of genuine mirth.

Like he just did something funny.

And then it vanishes.

You step past him, silent as the petals falling around you.

He stares at the crushed blossom in his hand.

And feels—

His cock throbs.

He’s hard. Harder than he was with both of those courtesans grinding on him like feral things.

For this?

For you?

For a half-second smile and a sakura petal?

He grips the balcony ledge until it groans beneath his strength.

His mind flickers. Wanders. Drowns.

Imagines you bent over that ledge. The garden behind you, cursed wind in your hair. Your body still, perfect, calm even as he rips you open. Even as he fucks you raw. Even as the shikigami vanish under the weight of his domain and he finally—finally—gets to hear that voice break. Those lips open.

He imagines it public. The entire court watching. His concubines trembling. His advisors silent.

He wants them to see it. Wants them to witness the only thing in the world that could make him feel.

He’d fuck you in front of them. Tear that calm mask from your face with every brutal thrust. Watch you fall apart on his cock, unravel beneath his hands, your breath catching on his name like a prayer you didn’t know you believed in.

But the barrier remains.

A perfect, shimmering thing. Untouchable.

You’re still walking. Unaware. Or pretending to be.

He licks the blood from his palm.

He can wait.

He will wait.

Because when the porcelain cracks—

When you break—

It will be real.

✦✧✦✧

You pretend you didn’t smile.

As though nothing had passed between you. As though you hadn’t just handed him a blossom with the same casualness one might offer a pen. As though he hadn’t crushed it, expecting a wince, a tremble, some shift in your glassy calm—and instead received laughter. Quiet. Internal. Real.

You walk ahead of him now, hands still folded behind your back, steps measured and graceful. The cursed wind stirs the hem of your robes, flutters the fabric against your legs, and catches in your hair. That strange, haunting stillness remains. But there’s something else now. A twitch of the corner of your mouth. The tiniest hitch in your breath. Like you’re holding back a laugh.

Infuriating.

He sneers, stalking after you, his footsteps heavier, angrier, each step a wordless curse.

“Mock me, will you?” he drawls, voice thick with venom, laced in contempt. “Think you’re clever? Think you’re above me?”

You glance over your shoulder.

Your expression is blank.

Too blank.

And somehow, that’s worse.

It means you are amused.

You find him amusing.

And you don’t even have the decency to pretend otherwise.

“You’re not special,” he snarls. “No one likes a smug little doll who thinks silence is wisdom.”

You hum.

Hum.

It’s the closest thing to a response he’s gotten.

It sends rage crawling under his skin like insects.

You keep walking.

He watches. Watches how the sun stains you red. Watches the soft petals cling to your clothes, your hair. Watches the way the light makes you look ethereal. Cursed. Beautiful.

And that, more than anything, unsettles him.

You are beautiful.

Not in the obvious way some of his courtesans are—all lips and tits and perfume. Not in the pristine, sculpted way idols are.

But in something quieter. Stranger.

Like an old painting no one dares to hang because they swear the eyes follow them.

If people weren’t so uncomfortable around you—if they weren’t afraid of your powers, your silence, your mind—you’d be favored. Admired. Desired.

That should mean nothing to him.

He has women. Dozens. More than he wants. More than he needs. He fucks when he wants to fuck. Takes what he wants when he wants it.

So why does the idea of others looking at you with longing make something inside him ache?

Why does the thought of you, married to some weak sorcerer who pretends to understand you, make his vision flash red?

Why should he care what you do?

What an idiot like you chooses?

Why haven’t you been chosen already?

No lover? No husband? No one brave enough to touch you?

He doesn’t ask.

But his mind does.

And then it spirals.

Fucking spirals.

It brings back the image of you bent over the balcony again.

This time it’s clearer. Sharper. More visceral.

The wind blows. Your robes flutter, caught on the rails. Your skin is bare. Smooth. Pale in the dim red sun. You’re quiet, as always, but your back arches. Your breath catches. He can see your fingers gripping the ledge. Still composed. Still you. But only just.

And he’s there.

Behind you. Inside you.

Fucking you hard, brutal, unrelenting. The way he fucks when he wants to destroy. When he wants to conquer.

And yet you don’t break. Not easily. Not right away.

Your calm cracks slowly. A moan. A gasp. A name—his name—hissed like a secret you swore you’d never tell.

The court is there. Watching.

His concubines tremble, eyes wide. His guards turn away, some unable to bear the sight. Others can’t stop staring.

And his advisors…

Silent.

Because they know what it means.

To have you like this.

To claim you.

To be the first and only to breach that barrier.

And when he comes—when he empties himself inside you, snarling your name like a curse and a prayer—he thinks he might actually lose his mind.

Because you smile again.

That same, brief smile.

Like you knew all along.

Like it amused you.

Like he was the punchline to some ancient, private joke.

He’s hard.

So hard it hurts.

And it disgusts him.

Because the real you keeps walking. Calm. Distant. Not even sparing him a glance.

Still behind that shimmering, perfect barrier he hasn’t yet cracked.

He clenches his fists.

He can wait.

He will wait.

But damn him, it’s going to kill him.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

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

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