𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫 ~ 𝖆 𝖙𝖗𝖎𝖇𝖚𝖙𝖊 𝖙𝖔 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖉𝖎𝖛𝖎𝖓𝖊

The temple reeks of blood. Thick, metallic, saturating the air, the stone, your skin. It drips from your trembling thighs, painting crude offerings in rivulets down your legs. Sukuna watches, enthroned on your spine, two clawed hands gripping the ruined meat of your hips, two more pressing your skull into the altar.

He is everything monstrous, a god rendered in brutality. And you—little thing, fragile thing—were never meant to withstand this.

Your body isn’t built for him. That much is evident. Your limbs quake, muscles seizing under the force of every thrust, his twin cocks splitting you apart in ways no mortal should endure. Flesh yields like wet paper, splitting raw around his size, blood slicking the obscene, rhythmic drive of his hips.

His laugh, that awful, mocking baritone, rumbles through your bones.

“Pathetic,” he drawls, rolling his hips so deep your spine bows. “You break too easily.”

He doesn’t slow. Doesn’t falter. He revels in it—your destruction, the ruinous wreck of your body, the helpless wails that tear from your throat only to be muffled by the stone beneath you. Every squelch, every wet slap of skin on skin, is a hymn of worship to the self-proclaimed king.

His temple is built in blood. Yours, now.

He tightens his grip. Clawed fingers sink into the delicate column of your throat, into the meat of your waist, lifting you just enough to admire the mess. Your stomach bulges, grotesque, from the sheer stretch of him inside, a sight that pleases him immensely. His grin stretches too wide, too full of teeth.

“Feel that?” He presses a heavy palm to the bulge, delighting in your whimper, in the way your cunt clenches, raw and weeping. “That’s me, brat. Every inch, carving my mark into you.”

Your body quivers violently beneath him, nerves overloaded, battered beyond recognition. He’s wrecking you. Ripping you apart, inside and out, and you can feel it—the hot spill of blood, the fevered ache, the way your body fights to endure.

His cocks twitch, pulse, throbbing heat locked deep inside you. The rhythm falters, shifts, becomes something brutal. Mean. Desperate. You recognize it instantly—the telltale build, the vicious hunger sharpening his thrusts, dragging your battered body into the crescendo of his pleasure.

“Don’t pass out yet.” He fists your hair, yanking your head up, forcing you to see your own reflection in the bloodied altar stone. A mangled, teary-eyed ruin of yourself stares back. “I want you awake for this part.”

The final thrust slams your body forward, bones jolting, and then—fire. Hot, molten, suffocating. His seed floods you, an impossible amount, stuffing you to the brink, spilling in thick, white streaks between your trembling thighs.

You black out with his laughter ringing in your ears.

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