𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝟓. 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖌𝖗𝖆𝖛𝖊𝖘 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖒𝖎𝖘𝖘 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖉𝖊𝖆𝖉 ♡ WC. 4,701

He’s not sure what compels him to keep meeting you.

The fifth date, now. He counts them in his head, every encounter burned deep into memory—not because they meant anything, but because you’re still alive. A marvel, a blemish, a fucking riddle. How someone so fragile-looking, so insufferably neutral, could still be breathing after what he’s done to you. Or tried to do.

You never ran.

Not when he’d torn the heads off your companions, not when his claws had aimed to close around your throat, not when he’d shoved a blood-drenched heart into your hands and asked if you could still smile for him.

You did. Blank, pale, infuriatingly calm.

And that’s why he’s here now, standing in a graveyard where the dirt smells wet, and the ghosts cling to the air like sickly mist.

You’re already there when he arrives. You always are. Perched on the crooked remnants of a forgotten tomb, speaking softly to the air like you’re having tea with the dead. He watches from the tree line for a while, long enough to see how the spirits crawl toward you. Pathetic things. Lost souls with crumbling faces, desperate for something, anything, and you—sitting there with a patience he cannot comprehend.

You talk to them.

And he hates how you do it. Not with pity. Not with revulsion. You speak like they’re friends, like they’re people. Like they matter.

He makes himself known eventually, feet crunching over dead leaves, and you look up with that same unreadable gaze. Not even a flicker of surprise.

“You picked a fucking fine place for a date, girl,” he drawls, folding his arms, crimson eyes gleaming like twin moons in the dusk. “Most people would choose a garden. A festival. Even a whorehouse. But here?”

You shrug, and your voice is that same unhurried, distant melody. “They’re lonelier than most. They don’t get visitors.”

He laughs. Loud, sharp. “You treat the dead better than the living.”

You only incline your head. “The dead ask for nothing.”

And there it is again—that damn ache in his jaw because he can’t make sense of you. A creature who shouldn’t exist. A sorcerer powerful enough to challenge him, strong enough to survive every attempt he’s made to rip you apart, yet you walk around like an empty canvas. No arrogance. No fury. No fear.

He sits beside you anyway. A stretch of silence between you both, filled only by the whispers of the dead and the rustle of night.

“Your brother ain’t around,” he says after a time, baiting you.

You glance at him. “No.”

“Good. Can’t stand that smug little shit.”

Nothing. No flicker of anger, no defense of Satoru. Just that same glassy calm. And it needles at him, sharp and insistent.

“Why d’you let people talk to you like that?” he asks, picking up a bone from the grass and twirling it between his fingers. “I seen it. Watched ‘em. Whisperin’ behind your back. Calling you cursed. Saying you’re a tool. A weapon. Disposable. And you—” he sneers. “You don’t even flinch. You don’t lash out. You don’t kill ‘em. You don’t even hate ‘em. What’s wrong with you?”

You’re quiet for a long moment. The dead gather closer.

“Someone has to love them,” you say at last.

And for the first time in centuries, he forgets how to speak.

You stand then, robes trailing over the damp earth, and gesture to the graves. “They died unloved. I won’t let the living do the same.”

He watches you walk between the tombstones, a pale figure among the dead. And something ugly claws up his throat. Rage. Bewilderment. Hunger. Because he’s killed thousands, burned cities, crushed legacies, and no one—not a single soul—has ever spoken to him without wanting something. Power. Mercy. Death.

But you…

You don’t want anything at all.

And he doesn’t know what to do with that.

✦✧✦✧

The wind moves slow through the graves. Dry grass shivers in the dusk. He’s still watching you, bone still spinning between his fingers.

“Why,” Sukuna says, voice low, as if testing the word on his tongue. “Why d’you let people do it?”

You don’t answer. Not yet.

He steps closer. The earth feels like it sinks beneath his weight. There’s a hunger in his gaze that isn’t flesh-deep. A kind of gnawing curiosity he hasn’t felt in centuries. He watches you, still as death itself, eyes like distant storms.

“I asked you a question, little priestess.” The title is a mockery. The curl of his lip says as much. “You go around loving things that spit in your face. Is it duty? Weakness? Or are you just stupid?”

You keep your gaze on the horizon. The sky’s bruising now, streaked with dying light. The world feels old here, bones of it showing through.

“I don’t see the point,” he says, circling now. “You could be a god. You could have them crawling. But you don’t. You just… stay quiet. Take it.”

“I told you,” you murmur at last, voice soft as the wind. “Someone has to love them.”

“That ain’t an answer,” Sukuna snaps, eyes flashing. “It’s a lie. Or a coward’s excuse.”

You turn then. Slowly. The expression on your face is not soft, not kind. It’s distant. Like something long dead.

“Why do you care?” you ask. And for the first time, there’s a sliver of something in your voice. Not anger. Not fear. Something nameless. A splinter in the calm.

He stills. The graveyard feels colder.

“Because no one lives like that without a reason.” He steps in, so close the warmth of his monstrous body brushes against you. “And I want to know what broke you.”

You look past him. Far away. As if seeing something long buried. Your lips twitch into a cold, humorless smile.

“I don’t remember,” you lie.

But your gaze flickers, and he catches it. A flash of something sharp, something raw, before you smooth it over. And it stirs something ugly in him. A frustration. A wanting.

“I could make you remember,” he says, low, teeth sharp in the dying light.

You smile again, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “Would it make you feel better, Sukuna? To peel me open and see what’s inside?”

His hand twitches. The bone snaps in half between his fingers.

You step past him, robes whispering over the earth. “You won’t like what you find.”

And then you’re gone, a pale figure dissolving into the graves, leaving him alone with the dead.

And for the first time in centuries, Ryōmen Sukuna feels… frustrated.

Not because he couldn’t kill you.

But because he wanted to know.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

You were born in winter.

A quiet, bitter sort of season, where breath fogged in the cold and even the sun seemed reluctant to rise. Your clan whispered of it being an omen. You were not the son they had hoped for, not the weapon they’d waited on. Just a girl. Pale and strange-eyed, with the silence of death wrapped around you like a second skin. They called you stillborn until you cried. And even then, it was a thin, reedy thing, almost disappointed.

Satoru was already a teenager when you came along. The darling of the clan. Their miracle.

He had laughed when he first saw you. Not cruelly. Just surprised.

“She looks like a ghost. You sure she’s ours?”

Your mother said nothing. Your father scowled. But Satoru lifted you into his arms anyway, awkward and unsure, and you reached up with those strange, silent hands and touched his face. Your first smile was for him.

“She’s so quiet,” he said.

“That’s how she’ll survive,” your grandmother replied.

✦✧✦✧

You were five when you realized your parents did not love you.

You learned very young that pain could come with a smile.

They fed you. Clothed you. Taught you to kneel properly and hold a blade like it was an extension of your soul. But they never looked at you the way they looked at Satoru. Not with pride. Not with joy. With you, it was always calculation. Cold assessments. Measurements of your worth and how it could be used.

Satoru, your older brother by a decade, noticed it long before you did.

He was loud and bright and laughing, a boy who grinned even when his jokes were cruel. He could mock your stilted voice and blank expression, imitate the way your eyes never quite matched your smile—but behind closed doors, when the clan elders weren’t watching, he’d lean close and ruffle your hair and whisper, “You’re the only one I like here, you know that?”

And you did. Because even when you were small and quiet, more shadow than child, you knew your brother loved you. Not for your strength. Not for your potential. Just you.

“I think I’ll go blind before you ever smile,” he joked once. You had blinked at him, blank-faced, and he snorted. “Still nothing. Wow.”

But he never stopped trying.

✦✧✦✧

Satoru was the only person who ever looked at you like you were something more than a disappointment. He stole sweets from the kitchens for you. He’d grab your hand when the elders started talking about “proper roles” and drag you outside to play with cursed tools, pretending they were toys.

You didn’t laugh easily, but you smiled at him. Always.

He’d push your forehead with a sigh and call you creepy when you just stared at him for too long. “Say something, weirdo,” he’d mutter, but his voice was always gentle.

“Did they hurt you again?”

You never answered. He never pushed.

He would sit with you in silence. Sometimes he’d talk about nonsense until you forgot how much it hurt. Other times, he’d press his forehead to yours and whisper, “It’s okay. I’m here.”

And you believed him. Because he always was.

“What’re you crying for, stupid? Don’t you know they’ll just hit you harder if they see?”

But he always bandaged your fingers after. Always shared his sweets. Always told you stupid stories about gods with missing heads and demons who fell in love with mortals just to pass the time.

You loved him for that.

Because in a world that saw you as a bargaining chip, as something to be used and discarded, Satoru was the one person who never asked for anything.

It was why you never envied him, even when everyone else did.

✦✧✦✧

He was the favored one. The miracle child. The one who would elevate the clan, who had been born with power and personality, whose name would one day ring through generations. You were just the accident. The spare. The girl who was supposed to be obedient and quiet and maybe marry well if she didn’t die in training.

But you had something they didn’t expect: talent.

Raw, terrifying talent. The kind that couldn’t be ignored even in a clan as misogynistic as yours. You could see through people. Not just their techniques, their lies. You could see who they were underneath.

It made them uneasy. It made you useful.

So they let you train. Let you live. Let you be carved into a weapon alongside your brother.

But what they didn’t realize was that while Satoru’s power made him arrogant, made him laugh in the face of death, your power did something different. It made you feel everything. Too much. Too deeply.

You saw pain and couldn’t look away. Saw the hurt in servants’ eyes, the bruises on the other children who weren’t strong enough to fight back, the hollow way your mother sat when your father entered the room. And no one ever spoke about it. No one acknowledged the rot beneath the golden surface of your family’s name.

You watched people. You watched servants who flinched at every step, watched children who were taught to smile with their eyes downcast, watched women who lived with dead eyes and slit wrists. You saw how easy it was to kill someone slowly—how no blood needed to be spilled to make someone disappear inside themselves.

You hated it. But you did not hate them.

You watched them claw at power. Claw at gold. Claw at names and titles and prestige. You watched how they justified the bruises. The punishments. The isolation.

You were seven when you realized you didn’t hate them.

You pitied them.

They were so afraid. So desperately afraid of losing. Afraid of being weak.

They hurt you because they thought it made them strong.

It never did.

✦✧✦✧

You told Satoru one night, after a long day of training. The moonlight spilled between the beams of the dojo, pale and cold.

“I don’t want to be like them.”

He laughed like it was the easiest thing in the world. “Of course not. You’re like me.”

But you shook your head. “No. Not even you.”

He blinked. Sat up. “Then who do you want to be?”

You had to think about it for a long time. The silence between you stretched.

“I want to help people.”

He scoffed. “You’re way too gentle for this family.”

So you started to help. Quietly. Secretly. A healing touch here. A few coins slipped there. A word, a glance, a shield raised when no one else would step in.

Your brother teased you for it. “You’re too soft. Like an onigiri with wasabi inside,” he’d say, grinning. “One day someone’s going to take that kindness and break it in half.”

But he never told you to stop.

Because he understood. Deep down, he did. You both knew what it was like to grow up in a house that called itself a home but never felt like one. A house where the floors were polished with silence, where love was a currency, and you were always in debt.

✦✧✦✧

They tried to keep you apart, once your powers started to bloom. Because a girl like you—with empathy, with sentiment—was a threat. You remember the elders’ faces. The way they spoke of you like an affliction.

“Too soft. She’ll side with the weak.”

“Mercy is a liability.”

“We should’ve drowned her with the others.”

You heard them. You always heard them.

They called you foolish. They said you’d regret it. That power was meant to be wielded.

But you had tasted it.

You had watched your family rot inside its mouth.

So you refused it.

“She’ll slow you down, Satoru.”

“She’s good for a girl, but she’s not you.”

“Think of your future. Think of the clan.”

He never listened.

If anything, he held your hand tighter.

They said you were getting too attached. That you didn’t have the heart to wield your gift properly.

They weren’t wrong.

You didn’t have the heart.

Because your heart belonged to people.

To the child you once saw crying in the rain, the one you gave your own coat to, even though you’d be punished for the stain it left.

To the servant girl who snuck food into your sleeves when no one was looking. You gave her the last of your cursed energy when she was attacked. You nearly died for it.

To Satoru, who you loved more than anyone.

“You can’t save everyone,” he said once, when you came back with someone else’s blood on your sleeves.

“I know,” you said. “But I can try.”

He shook his head. Tugged your ear. “Idiot.”

But he made your favorite soup that night anyway.

You never hated your brother for being loved more. He had always given you all of his.

✦✧✦✧

And in time, you stopped crying.

You learned not to speak unless spoken to. You learned to sit still and endure. You learned to hide the bruises and the bleeding and the bite of cold through thin cloth. The elders said pain built character. You wondered how much character a child was supposed to carry.

But Satoru was always there. Bright and wild and unbothered by the rot around him. He would sneak food into your sleeves. He would ruffle your hair and tell you dumb jokes. He taught you how to play shogi, even though you always beat him. He said it made him proud.

You didn’t cry when you were punished. But once, when he came back late from a mission and found you locked outside in the snow, he did.

“I’m gonna kill them,” he hissed, wrapping you in his coat. “I swear to god, I’m gonna kill them all.”

You shook your head. “Don’t. Then you’d be like them.”

✦✧✦✧

You were eight when your father struck you for the first time.

It wasn’t out of rage. It wasn’t even personal. It was a lesson. You had overstepped—defended a servant too loudly, too publicly. He had to make an example of you.

Your brother didn’t speak to him for three months.

You never told Satoru the details of what they did when he wasn’t looking. You never cried about the nights they locked you in that room with the talismans and the whispers and the cold. You never screamed when they bled you under the guise of “tests.”

But he knew.

You could see it in the way he looked at you when you came back limping. When your voice shook from exhaustion. He knew.

And he hated it.

He’d lash out more. Against the elders. Against the rules. He became reckless, violent even. You hated that it was for you.

“Why do you let them?” he asked you once, when you were eleven and your lip was split from training. “Why do you do everything they say?”

You looked at him, that terrible sunshine of a brother, and you smiled with blood on your teeth.

“Because if I don’t, they’ll do it to someone else.”

Satoru stared at you for a long time.

He never asked again.

After that, Satoru started training harder. Pushing himself past every limit. You knew he was trying to become so powerful no one could touch you again.

✦✧✦✧

But you… you made a different vow.

You studied, fought, bled, and surpassed their expectations because you had no other choice. Not out of pride. Not for ambition. But because in this rotten, festering house, your brother was your sun—and they would’ve used his light to burn others alive.

You wouldn’t let them.

It made you sick. The taste of it. Power. Money. Greed. You saw it early—the way men spat words sweeter than poison, how women wrapped lies in silk and let them drip like honey. The gleam in their eyes when someone fell. The hunger when someone rose.

You learned what money did to kindness. What power did to love. What fear did to family.

And you decided, quietly, solemnly, painfully:

You would never become like them.

On your knees in the quiet of your room, hands folded, heart hollow, you whispered it to the dark: If power is poison, let mine be medicine. If I must wield it, let it be for others. Always. Even if they hate me.

You made a vow. Not aloud. Not in ceremony. But deep, deep inside the soul, where binding vows became law.

Your power would never be used for yourself.

Only for others. Always for others.

Even if they hated you. Even if they hurt you.

Because you remembered what it felt like to be small and alone and terrified, and you would not become the monster that watched.

✦✧✦✧

You grew up. Colder. Your eyes no longer sparked, and your face rarely moved. You were hard to read. People called you strange. Inhuman. A little ghost in the house of war gods.

But they didn’t know the things you did in the dark.

The lives you saved. The curses you freed. The villagers you healed beneath the mountains.

They didn’t know how you held dying children and cried for the first time in years. How you carried bodies for days just to bury them where their loved ones could find them. How you spent yourself until your hands trembled just to make sure one more mother saw her son smile again.

They didn’t know how many times you wanted to die, but didn’t. Because you knew that if you did, there would be no one left to stop the cycle.

Satoru teased you relentlessly. He always had. “You’re too good for this world,” he’d say, ruffling your hair. “It’s kind of disgusting.”

But his voice always caught a little when he said it.

You’d help others. Not because you were kind. Not because you wanted to be saved. But because you knew what it was like to have no one.

“You’re a sap, you know,” he’d grin, flicking your forehead so hard it stung. “Picking up every broken thing like some half-assed god. One of these days, you’ll choke on it.”

You never argued. Just smiled that thin, tired thing you always did. Because between the two of you, Satoru was fire and you were water. He was the storm, and you the deep current beneath it.

And if you could carry the broken things, maybe he wouldn’t have to.

✦✧✦✧

You weren’t surprised when they started calling you the Hollow Saint. Not with affection. With fear. Because you didn’t act like them. You didn’t revel in power. You didn’t crush the weak.

You helped.

Even when they spat at you. Even when they blamed you. Even when they sent assassins in the night because your strength made them uncomfortable.

You helped.

Because you remembered what it felt like to be a child no one wanted to protect.

Because every time you closed your eyes, you remembered your mother’s empty gaze, your father’s cold voice, and you vowed you’d never become them.

Because even when they hated you, even when they tried to kill you, you loved them.

Not with sweetness. Not with blind devotion. But with patience. With empathy. With the kind of love that bore all things, believed all things, hoped all things, endured all things.

You were thirteen the first time someone you saved tried to kill you.

You held her hand as she wept, even as her blade pressed against your ribs.

She didn’t go through with it.

She ran. You let her.

Your brother found you bleeding in the temple garden. Carried you back himself, cursing under his breath, eyes wild.

“You’re going to die like this,” he told you.

You didn’t disagree. But you smiled, faintly.

“If I do… then I die for something that mattered.”

He didn’t understand. Not then. But he held your hand anyway, and didn’t let go.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

The air was cool in the temple garden, dusk settling in like soft ink bleeding through paper. A low hum of insects sang in the distance, and somewhere nearby, a torch cracked and spat against the gathering night. You sat cross-legged on the old stone bench, hands loose in your lap, eyes half-lidded as you finished recounting the story.

It wasn’t dramatic. You didn’t linger on the blood or the betrayals. You told it simply, plainly, like reading lines off a scroll long memorized. And when the last words fell from your lips—when you spoke of your brother’s hand around yours—you fell silent.

A beat. Then another.

And then, a snort.

“You…” Sukuna’s voice rumbled, dark and rough-edged, like gravel scraped over iron. “You’ve gotta be the dumbest woman I’ve ever met.”

You didn’t turn to look at him. Didn’t flinch. The insult rolled off like water. It always did.

He loomed nearby, lounging against a pillar like some great beast at ease, arms crossed, fangs flashing as he grinned down at you. Crimson eyes glinted with cruel amusement.

“Seriously,” he went on, shaking his head with a low chuckle, “all that power, all that potential—and you waste it crawling around in the dirt, patching up peasant brats and sobbing over corpses. What kind of backstory even is that?” He bared his teeth, snide. “You a walking temple sermon? Some tragic martyr act? Hah! Idiot.”

Your lips twitched.

And for the first time in… God, you didn’t know how long, a sound bubbled out of you. A soft, light thing. Barely a breath. But it was laughter. Real, unforced, almost startled.

You laughed.

Sukuna stiffened.

His grin faltered for a fraction of a second, eyes narrowing, head tilting like a predator catching an unfamiliar scent.

“The hell’re you laughing at?”

You looked up at him then, and your expression—usually so distant, so numb—shifted. A faint smile, not the thin, polite kind you wore for the world, but something warmer. Faint, but genuine.

“You,” you murmured, voice low and steady. “I love your honesty.”

It wasn’t flirtatious. It wasn’t a ploy. You meant it.

That made it worse.

Sukuna stared. For a heartbeat, for the barest instant, something sharp and unreadable flickered in his gaze. Then it was gone, buried beneath his usual mocking sneer.

“Tch,” he scoffed, looking away, scratching the side of his jaw like he needed to physically shake the moment off. “Damn masochist. Only a lunatic would hear me call ’em an idiot and smile about it. Gods, you’re twisted.”

“Maybe,” you allowed, tone light. A pause. “But it’s… refreshing. Most people lie. You don’t.”

“Why would I? What’ve I got to gain from sparing your delicate little feelings? You think I care if you keel over weeping?” He rolled his eyes, a grin tugging back at the corners of his mouth. “Hah. Damn saint, my ass. You’re just as rotten as the rest of us—you’ve just convinced yourself it’s righteous.”

You hummed, tilting your head as if considering it.

Maybe he wasn’t wrong. Maybe you were rotten. Maybe all the healing, all the saving, all the carrying of the dead was just another form of selfishness. A way to make the weight in your chest bearable.

You shrugged.

“I don’t mind being rotten,” you said. “So long as I don’t become them.”

That brought his gaze back to you. Sharper this time.

His grin widened.

“Gods,” he laughed, low and vicious. “You really do believe that sanctimonious crap, huh? You’re not better than them, you know. Doesn’t matter how many bleeding orphans you scoop up, how many curses you exorcise. At the end of the day, you’ll bleed, and burn, and die like the rest of ’em. And no one’s gonna remember your damn vows.”

“I know.”

You said it so easily, so calmly, like you’d long made peace with it. Like it didn’t matter.

That made something twist hot and ugly in Sukuna’s chest. He didn’t know what to call it, so he called it disgust.

“Dumb,” he muttered again, but it didn’t carry the usual venom.

You only smiled, gaze drifting to the darkening sky.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The garden filled with the sounds of night, the scent of damp earth and cold stone. It should’ve been awkward. It wasn’t.

At last, Sukuna shifted, cracking his neck, red eyes never leaving you.

“Well, Hollow Saint,” he drawled, mocking as always. “Don’t come crying to me when some grateful farmer drives a pitchfork through your gut. I’ll laugh first. Might even kick dirt on you.”

You laughed again, that same soft sound, and for reasons he refused to name, it made his pulse jump.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“Good. Keep those expectations low, sweetheart.” He pointed at you with a claw-tipped finger, grinning. “I ain’t your brother, and I ain’t here to hold your hand. If you screw up, I’ll put you down myself.”

You nodded, serene as still water.

“I know.”

Damn her.

Damn that look in her eyes.

Sukuna bared his teeth, a growl low in his throat, more to himself than anyone else. He hated this. Hated that you weren’t afraid. Hated that you didn’t flinch when he threatened you. Hated that your smile wasn’t pity, wasn’t strategy, wasn’t some sickly sweet performance.

It was real.

And it was for him.

The bastard woman was gonna be the death of him.

Because he couldn’t understand why someone like you would still choose to save a world that never once saved you.

───────── ♛ ─────────

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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.

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♡ 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.