𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

What if your salvation was your destruction?

❤︎ Synopsis. In a world where music can unravel souls, a boy band known only as Seven Psalms rises like a whispered curse. Their leader, Hymn, crafts melodies soaked in sacred desecration, weaving truths too raw for daylight. Each song bleeds trauma, desire, and sin—inviting worship and horror in equal measure. What begins as obsession blurs into possession, and salvation becomes the ultimate torment.

♡ Book. Forbidden Fruits: Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Entertainment AU! Multi-fandom x Fem. Reader ~ feat. Isagi Yoichi

♡ Novella. Seven Psalms – Part 1

♡ Word Count. 7,531

You open your eyes. The light is holy.

Not pure. Holy. That is to say: violently divine, corrupted by worship, eaten alive by praise. Seven silhouettes stand inside it—one of them, you. Seven gods, but none clean.

You step forward first, hips slow, low and teasing, like you are dragging sin across the stage by its hair.

The first note bleeds. A dissonant hum, made of minor thirds and anguish. Sub-bass rises like a curse from below the bones of the earth. The lights do not blink—they sear. This is not a song. It is possession.

Your mouth is close to the mic. The mask of androgyny paints your lips in wine, your voice neither boy nor girl, something far more dangerous than either.

You sing the opening.

“Father, forgive me. I touched Your altar with blood on my tongue.”

“The choir moaned, and I kissed them all one by one.”

“They sang in keys I wrote with sin-stained fingers,”

“And I came like a serpent to take what was never mine.”

The crowd is a cathedral. Every scream is a prayer. And the gods they pray to are standing on stage, devouring them with every beat.

Behind you, six voices join. Not harmony. Heresy. The choreography is violent worship—a pelvis grind to mimic crucifixion, a tongue swipe across the mic like anointing oil.

The one called Crownless is first to follow you. His blindfold gleams. His smile is too wide. His hips roll like the fall of Babylon. He sings:

“My name was not written in the book, so I wrote it in flesh.”

“They wept for me. I danced. I called it love.”

Seraph steps in next. White hair like desecrated tombs. He claps once—metal on bone—and the lights flash like exorcism seizures. The audience howls.

“I broke the veil, shattered the temple.”

“They crowned me, not knowing I was the thief.”

“And I smiled, for the crown fit perfectly.”

Every lyric pierces through something in the crowd they didn’t know was there. Not excitement. Shame. Not desire. Need.

Scripture, the one who bleeds through his palms each show, drips down to his knees, shirt torn open. He sings:

“Their guilt tastes sweeter than their love ever could.”

“They kneel because I remind them of the death they crave.”

There is blood on his fingers. It smears down his chest like lipstick.

You step forward again, center. A whisper behind your teeth. The bassline sinks. The drums mimic a heartbeat growing too fast. Your voice—silk coiled around a knife:

“Do you remember Eden? Neither do I.”

“But I remember the sound of exile,”

“The rhythm of shame, how it slides between thighs.”

“I wrote that hymn on the inside of my ribs.”

The screams spike. But you hear the silence beneath them. The way hearts seize, the way stomachs knot. They don’t know if they want to worship you or weep.

Judgment joins. Gold chains, eyes dead. Voice sharp enough to peel back the psyche:

“Sin is memory.”

“Touch it long enough and it sings back.”

“My body is a church that begs to burn.”

He drops his mic to his chest, grinds slow. The camera catches his smirk, and you hear it: moans. From the audience. Real, desperate.

You dance between them all, guiding them. Your gloved fingers trail up Seraph’s chest. His head jerks back like a man possessed. You whisper into his ear—not a lyric, just breath. The crowd imagines what you said. Their own perversions fill in the blanks.

The Unknown one has not moved. Not yet. He stands still at the far left. Hooded. Masked. Silent.

Until the last verses.

The music stops. One beat. Two. Three.

He lifts his head.

“I am the sin they made me swallow.”

“The voice they buried beneath scripture.”

“I never prayed. I listened.”

“And what I heard was God begging to be undone.”

The crowd erupts.

The lights explode in crimson. The stage splits open. Fire. Real or not, you don’t know anymore.

You drop to your knees in the center, legs spread, head tilted back like offering. Your shirt half unbuttoned, skin glistening with sweat, and you sing:

“Take me. Not to heaven. I’m already there.”

“On your tongue, in your eyes, between your thighs.”

“Worship is a moan dressed in scripture.”

“And I’m the hymn you’ll never stop humming.”

Sinner—one of the cursed—spins his body mid-air and lands like a devil broken free. The others join, choreography like a mass possession. Arms twisting, hands on each other’s bodies, mouths close but never kissing, taunting every eye that dares watch.

This isn’t music. It’s a liturgy of lust.

And you—your voice—your stare through the camera, directly into the soul of the nation watching, whispers:

“You called it evil. But still, you came.”

“You stayed. You cried.”

“And now… you sing it too.”

The chorus hits like judgment.

“Glory, glory—”

“In the fire I was made.”

“Glory, glory—”

“With your sins I was praised.”

“Glory, glory—”

“Make me kneel, make me choke.”

“Glory, glory—”

“Isn’t this your holy ghost?”

One last beat. The lights die.

The silence is the loudest part.

You stand, chest heaving. Sweat glimmers down your spine like oil. You meet the lens again.

You lick your lips. Slow. Dragging. Erotic. Intentional.

Then smile.

Seven of you. Seven sins. Seven sanctuaries for every broken soul.

✦✧✦✧

The lights return with blood.

A single beam. Red. Like the first drop after the knife slips, like the pupil when lust and revelation merge. It carves your cheekbone into the shape of something obscene. You stand in the center, alone, hips stilled, chest rising with the weight of prophecy unspoken.

The others circle. Each step is clockwork apocalypse. Precision meant to mock the idea of chaos. Boots click. Necks snap. Bodies fall to kneel. Not submission. Ritual. Your arms lift—graceful, slow, like resurrection. Fingers uncurl. You don’t dance. You command gravity.

The bridge begins.

No lyrics.

Just you.

A moan, barely audible. It trembles through the sound system like a breath against glass. A note held on the edge of destruction. The crowd leans forward like they might fall through the moment, jaws parted, tears streaking faces painted pretty.

And then your body begins to move.

Not dance. It is too holy to be called that.

Your spine curves like scripture set aflame. Hips melt forward in increments, each grind of your waist a syllable torn from a book never meant to be read aloud. The others rise.

One slides behind you, gloved fingers ghosting just above your ribs, never touching. He mirrors your hips, but he doesn’t own the rhythm. You do. You are the storm. They are the debris.

The music grows.

A heartbeat distorted.

A synth tuned to the frequency of madness.

Your chest heaves. You arch. You pull your jacket lower, just enough to reveal the curve of your collarbone, the tattoo scrawled there in ink the color of bruises.

It reads like scripture.

But it sings like sin.

Your hand trails down your stomach. Pauses. Lingers. The beat drops again and you drop with it. Knees to floor. Head tilted. Eyes blank.

But your mouth smiles.

And that smile shatters the front row.

You rise again, slowly, the others falling to their knees around you. They become your apostles, your limbs, your halo. One behind you lifts your chin with two fingers and mouths your line along with you. It isn’t a lyric. It’s an invocation.

“Let me be what you beg to crucify.”

The beat stops.

Your voice bleeds through alone. A whisper. Velvet across a knife’s edge.

“Will you follow?”

The silence is total.

Not even breath.

Then the bass slams back in.

Violent. Crude. Divine.

You snap.

Your body convulses into motion. Head thrown back. Spine a whip. Arms slicing the air like wings broken by glory.

The chorus returns, but now it is unrecognizable.

It is not music. It is prophecy in collapse.

Your hips grind into the floor as you crawl forward, your gaze locked on no one and everyone. The others scatter, stagger, fall in and out of synchronicity like demons tasting freedom for the first time.

You rise again in time with the climax.

Lights blind. White. Red. Strobe.

Your body is silhouette again, but this time you are moving too fast to be touched. A blur of tension and release, a sacrificial rite of muscle and sweat. The crowd screams like they are dying.

You want them to.

One of them reaches for you from the pit. You look down.

You don’t take their hand.

You press your foot against the edge, heel digging in, slow, cruel. And you sing.

The last verse comes like a confession:

“Take me in pieces. You’ll never get whole.”

“Drink me like scripture. I rot in your soul.”

“Choke on my gospel. There’s no second birth.”

“Love me, forsake me—I’ll show you your worth.”

The others freeze.

You alone move.

Your hands slide behind your neck, pulling the mic cord like a noose. The choreography was designed to mimic something filthy. You made it worse.

Every motion says, You want me.

Every glance says, You’ll never deserve me.

You drop to one knee. Bow your head.

Silence.

Then you scream.

Not voice.

Sound.

It tears through the stadium, wordless and raw, cracked and holy. It is desire stripped of language.

And the crowd answers.

They scream with you.

Not for you.

With you.

✦✧✦✧

The final note hasn’t faded.

But the lights stay off.

Silence thickens like fog—so complete it warps the concept of time. You are alone in the dark, breathing through the pulse still roaring in your blood. And somewhere beyond the black, they are waiting. Hungering. Weeping. Trembling.

The final chorus begins without warning.

No transition. No cue. It rises like an exorcism gone wrong.

The air ignites in thunder—screams, synth, a choir of ruined angels twisted through distortion, pitched high and low like a soul being dragged in opposite directions. You’re on your knees again, but not from weakness. It’s a gesture of damnation.

The others lie flat on their backs in a cruciform arrangement, their chests heaving in sync. Not dancers now. Corpses. Saints dismembered.

You rise alone.

And the fire comes with you.

Pillars of red light burst upward from the floor, encircling you in a cage of wrath. You walk through it like it’s water. Like it’s yours. Your body moves with intent not designed for mortal eyes—something borrowed from the oldest sins, where lust and grief were still indistinguishable.

You grab the mic again, both hands white-knuckled around it like you’re trying to throttle it.

And you moan.

Not a note. Not even pleasure.

It’s the sound of original hunger.

Of mouths that only ever opened to consume.

The last chorus hits like knives through silk. Your voice cracks, not from strain but design. You want it ugly. You want it painful. You want it to bleed.

“I will crawl inside you, gospel-wrapped in spit and ash.”

“Worship what breaks you. There’s no god here, just the lash.”

“Touch me like blasphemy, pray with your tongue.”

“I am the song that ruins the young.”

Your eyes roll back.

You dance like you’re being devoured from the inside. Each movement threatens collapse. Each limb flung like sacrifice. The others rise slowly, unnaturally—joints askew, heads tilted, crawling toward you like reanimated hunger.

They encircle you.

Not to support.

To worship.

They fall again, and this time, they tear their own shirts open—symbols etched on their chests. Not tattoos. Not art. Wounds. Runes that shine when the light hits. Scripture written in blood.

You don’t look at them.

You look at the crowd.

You remove your jacket.

Not for seduction.

For revelation.

Your chest glows under the heat, sweat glistening like oil over carved muscle and deception. The mark over your heart pulses—an ancient sigil of abandonment. You touch it. Slowly. The way lovers touch gravestones.

And the final verse begins.

There’s no melody.

Just your voice. Raw. Spoken like a curse whispered at the edge of death:

“You were made to fall for me.”

“You were made to beg.”

“Your hands were not meant to hold—only to break.”

“This is the cost of knowing the divine.”

“This is what it means to love the lie.”

You close your eyes.

You raise your arms.

The music cuts out.

No outro.

No applause.

Just breath.

You step forward.

And fall.

Backwards.

A perfect drop into shadow. No wires. No mat. No visible safety.

You fall.

And they scream like the world is ending.

You vanish through the stage floor, swallowed whole, and the fire above explodes in your shape—a burning effigy, arms outstretched, head thrown back.

Then darkness.

Then silence.

Then nothing.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

She scrolled through the feed like she was looking for religion. Maybe she was.

“Oh my god, look at them—look at Hymn, just look—he’s not even human, he’s like, divine. They’re all insane, but him? He’s… something else.”

Isagi didn’t respond. He sipped his lukewarm coffee, resting one arm lazily against the back of the bench while she leaned against him, vibrating with manic affection for people she’d never met. He didn’t need to ask who they were. The new idol group. Seven members. No real names. All aliases, all masks, all sin. They’d torn through the charts like a plague.

She shoved her phone in his face.

“Just look at this performance. Please. They don’t even move like idols. It’s like they’re possessed or something—I mean, I love it. They’re too perfect. Too raw. Like they don’t even care if you die watching them. Isn’t that hot?”

He blinked slowly. Her lip gloss shimmered pink.

“They’ve only been around for what, two months? Already at the top. All the old groups are scrambling. Hymn’s solo part last night trended worldwide—the part where he slides the mic cord down his neck? Like a noose? I swear, I nearly fainted. I don’t even like that edgy stuff but like, he’s different. You know?”

He did. He knew. He’d watched it.

Only once.

And not because he wanted to.

But because something about the buzz kept turning up—online, on the streets, even in the locker room. One of the Blue Lock guys couldn’t stop humming the chorus. Isagi didn’t care for idols. Not into celebrity. Not really into anyone, unless it was numbers, systems, vision.

But he’d watched it. Alone. Earbuds in. Screen bright against the dark.

And he hadn’t been able to move.

Not for the entire four minutes and thirty-eight seconds.

He couldn’t describe it properly. The performance was exact. Immaculate. Filthy. Sacred. It made his chest tight. Like watching a funeral from inside the casket. Like being kissed with a knife. His stomach had flipped when Hymn whispered the bridge. He didn’t remember breathing. He didn’t remember blinking.

But he remembered the smile.

It didn’t belong on anyone human.

There was something ancient in it. Something wrong.

He thought about that smile sometimes when his room got too quiet. Not because he liked it. Not even because he was curious.

Because it didn’t leave.

“I’d let Hymn destroy me,” she whispered into her drink, practically moaning. “Like, if he told me to jump, I’d say how high, and then fall harder just so he noticed me. There’s just something about him—he’s not trying to be sexy. He just is. You get what I mean?”

He nodded once. Neutral. Measured.

“Yeah.”

That was all he said. But she lit up anyway.

“You do get it! Right? Like you totally feel it. The first time you see them? It’s like it changes something in you. God, it’s embarrassing but I actually cried last night. During the part where he sings, you know, that line—what was it again?”

“Take me in pieces, you’ll never get whole.”

That was the line. But he didn’t say it. He let her fish.

She mimicked the motion, dragging her hand slowly down her chest in a mock performance. Laughing.

“Like, who writes lyrics like that? It’s poetry. I swear, I felt like I was being dragged straight to hell and I didn’t even care.”

He watched her. Really watched her.

Her pupils were wide. Her mouth parted. She looked intoxicated.

He didn’t like that.

Not because he cared for her. He didn’t. She was pretty. She was loud. She gave him something to touch when he was bored, and then disappear when he wasn’t. But something in her expression now made him think of offerings laid bare on altars. Open. Helpless.

He thought about what it meant to be devoured.

Not in body. In soul.

And his jaw tightened.

He spoke calmly. Always calculated. Never more than necessary.

“Didn’t feel natural.”

She blinked at him.

“What?”

He glanced out at the sidewalk. People passed like ghosts in summer skin.

“The performance,” he said. “Didn’t feel… natural. Like it wasn’t just music. It felt like something else.”

She laughed.

“Well yeah, that’s what makes it amazing. It’s more than just a concert—it’s like, religious. Like, spiritual almost. Like you’re not watching them. You’re being watched. Isn’t that crazy?”

He didn’t answer.

She kept scrolling. Kept gushing. But his thoughts had left the table.

He wasn’t a believer. Not in gods. Not in heaven or hell. But there were rules. Certain things felt right. Real. Balanced. And what he’d felt watching that performance…

It wasn’t awe.

It was interference.

Like watching a mirror reflect something that wasn’t him.

Like hearing a voice from inside his own thoughts that hadn’t grown there.

He didn’t like things he couldn’t understand.

And Hymn? He didn’t make sense.

There was no weakness in his movements. No tells. Not even hunger in his eyes. He moved like he knew—not just the choreography. Everything. As if he were made to be seen. But not touched. Not spoken to. Just consumed.

It reminded Isagi of something else. Something deeper. Older.

The way he sang… the way he danced…

He wasn’t trying to entertain.

He was summoning something.

And every idiot in the crowd begged to be taken.

Isagi looked at his girlfriend again. At her dilated eyes and her flushed cheeks and her shaky breath.

She looked like she’d been marked.

He didn’t say anything. He just nodded when she babbled. Let her kiss his cheek. Let her keep talking.

But later, when she was gone and the city hummed like a dying god, he watched the video again.

Alone.

And this time, when Hymn turned his gaze toward the screen—

Isagi felt it. Real and sharp.

Like judgment.

Like something that saw him.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

“Yo, Isagi. Even you’ve heard of The Seven by now, right?”

He didn’t look up. Dumbbells in each hand, focus locked on the slow contraction of muscle, rep, breath, rep. Precision. Purpose. Control.

“Of course he has,” Bachira grinned, spinning a towel around his neck. “Everyone’s heard of them. Even Barou.”

Barou scoffed from the bench press. “Tch. I’m not deaf. Their shit’s everywhere. Billboard, TikTok, commercials. You breathe and it plays.”

“They’re good,” Chigiri said, stretching beside the mirrored wall. “No use pretending they’re not. I used to think idols were cringe but then Hymn happened. Now even my sister’s wallpaper is his torso.”

The name caught in the air. Hymn.

Isagi put down the weights. Wiped his hands. “He’s the leader.”

Reo nodded. “And the writer. Producer too, I think. Most of the group’s stuff rotates genres, but his are always… different.”

“That last release?” Nagi murmured, leaning against a wall like he’d barely survived it. “Didn’t feel like a song. Felt like something else.”

They all went quiet for a moment.

Outside the gym, life carried on—normal, dry, human. But in that space, between sweat and steel and breath, there was an unspoken truth.

Everyone had heard it.

Everyone had felt it.

“He writes the lyrics too,” Isagi said. It wasn’t a question. “Doesn’t use ghostwriters.”

Barou grunted. “No one else could write like that. You hear ‘Paradise Hung by Thorns’ yet? The one with the church bells in reverse?”

“Yeah,” Chigiri said quietly. “Twice.”

Bachira laughed. “Only twice? I played it on loop and saw God. She was crying.”

Reo pulled out his phone. “It’s still trending. Every verse is a quote now. Listen to this—” He scrolled, then read aloud:

“Let me bloom in your ruin, / I’ll crawl where grace won’t go. / Strip me holy, bleed me slow— / I am the altar you never chose.”

The gym went still.

“Yeah,” Nagi murmured, eyes glazed. “That one.”

Bachira snorted. “That’s not even the worst of it. The one before that? Body of the Betrayer. That had actual gospel chants in the background. He sang the whole chorus like a funeral mass but made it sound like moaning.”

Reo raised a brow. “Kinda genius, not gonna lie.”

“It’s fucked up genius,” Barou muttered. “Why’s that shit allowed to air? Some of those visuals—”

“Because it’s art,” Isagi said simply.

Everyone looked at him.

He met none of their eyes.

“It’s art that gets inside you,” he continued, more to the mirror than them. “Doesn’t matter if it makes sense. It infects. You play one track and it doesn’t leave. Not in your head. Not in your chest.”

Bachira grinned. “Isagi’s been hit.”

Chigiri smirked. “He’s infected.”

Barou snorted. “You lot are obsessed.”

“Everyone is,” Reo said, stretching his arms. “Even the critics. One guy wrote an essay comparing Hymn’s discography to Old Testament prophecy.”

“Not surprising,” Isagi said, voice quiet. “It sounds like it.”

They all paused.

And someone—maybe Bachira—hummed the beginning of the most recent release.

Soft. Like breath against skin.

A looped line, whispered in a cadence not quite human:

“I’ll make you kneel where angels bled, / I’ll teach your mouth to pray for death.”

Goosebumps lifted across forearms. Not from cold. Not even fear.

Something deeper.

Something that clung.

“He writes like he’s been somewhere we haven’t,” Nagi said suddenly. “Like he’s seen it. The other side.”

“What side?” Barou growled, annoyed now. “You’re all acting like it’s some cult.”

“Isn’t it?” Bachira giggled. “Come on, we’re athletes. Logic. Physics. But you listen to that guy sing and suddenly you’re thirteen again, sobbing in your bed for no reason.”

Reo nodded. “He knows how to strip a person raw. Doesn’t even need a beat. Half of one track was acapella with a heartbeat in the background.”

Isagi remembered.

He remembered that heartbeat.

It didn’t sync with anything normal. It pulsed wrong. Dragged.

And when Hymn sang—his voice barely a breath, like a confession in a sealed room—it felt like being watched through a keyhole from the inside.

The lyrics hadn’t been complicated.

But they’d stayed.

“Bite the apple from my chest, / Sin was never meant to rest. / Tell me you don’t want to kneel, / While I show you how to feel.”

He hadn’t slept after hearing it.

Not from disturbance. Not even discomfort.

From curiosity.

“New genre too,” Chigiri said. “They call it ‘Erotic Gospel’ now. Fully recognized. Charts treat it like any other. There’s a whole playlist called ‘Hymn’s Devotions.’ Millions of hits.”

“Can’t lie,” Reo said, tapping through the screen. “It’s the first time music felt like… more than sound. Like it’s saying something ancient.”

Barou rolled his eyes. “You guys need therapy.”

But even he didn’t deny it.

Isagi’s jaw worked.

He said nothing for a long moment. Then—

“It’s engineered,” he said softly. “Not like pop songs. The structure’s irregular. Lyrics don’t follow standard rhyme. Key changes where they shouldn’t work. But they do.”

They waited.

“He knows how to break things.”

The group shifted.

“You like him?” Reo asked.

“I don’t know,” Isagi replied.

He didn’t. That was the problem.

Because liking something was emotional.

And what Hymn did wasn’t emotional.

It was surgical.

Music that opened you up, not to comfort—but to be entered.

You didn’t choose it.

It chose you.

He turned toward the weights again. Picked them up. Focused.

But in the back of his mind, the line repeated.

Not a lyric.

A sentence.

Whispered too clearly in the middle of a song.

“I don’t want your love. I want your damnation. Give it to me smiling.”

✦✧✦✧

The door opened.

Itoshi Rin walked in like always—cold, sharp, a winter breeze wrapped in scorn. He glanced once at the group huddled around a phone speaker. They didn’t notice him at first. The sound that played was too immersive. Sultry, slow, crawling with that same low pulse of whispered temptation. That familiar voice. The kind that didn’t sing so much as confess in tune.

Hymn.

Rin’s lip curled. “Again?”

Isagi looked up, but didn’t answer. No one did. Not right away. It was hard to speak while the chorus played. It looped with the weight of something carved in flesh:

“Bow when you beg me, I won’t grant prayer. / Kiss the blade—I live in despair. / Don’t repent. Just stay. / I only like sins that beg to stay.”

Reo turned the speaker down.

Too late.

Rin dropped his bag with a thunk.

“Can’t go five minutes without hearing that freak’s voice,” he muttered.

Bachira grinned. “Aw, Rin-chan hates Hymn? What a shame. You’ve got the ‘tormented love interest’ look down already.”

“I hate bullshit that pretends it’s deep.” Rin didn’t look at him. He was pulling off his jacket. “Especially when it’s just a sex addict with a theology fetish.”

“Hey,” Reo offered, half-joking. “The music’s good.”

Rin’s hands stilled. “I never said it wasn’t.”

Isagi watched him.

Rin’s tone was too still.

Barou leaned back. “He’s right. The guy’s a maniac, but it’s not about the vocals or the stage presence. It’s the structure. No weak spots. Every track builds like he’s writing scripture with his breath.”

“I don’t care how he writes it,” Rin snapped. “He could compose a damn miracle and it wouldn’t change the fact that everything he touches stinks of rot. The lyrics, the themes, the fucking imagery—he’s not trying to entertain. He’s trying to indoctrinate.”

There was silence.

Then Chigiri exhaled. “Kinda the point, though.”

Rin shot him a look.

“I’m not saying I like it,” Chigiri clarified. “I’m saying he knows what he’s doing. He wants that reaction. He wants you angry. Confused. Guilty.”

Rin scoffed. “And that’s music now?”

“It’s worship,” Isagi said quietly.

Rin turned to him. “You don’t even believe in that crap.”

“I don’t,” Isagi replied. “But something about it… makes you feel like you should.”

There was a tension to his voice. Not admiration. Not even respect.

More like… caution.

Rin’s jaw ticked.

Isagi continued, “It’s not about belief. It’s about surrender. Hymn writes for that. For the moment you stop resisting. And that’s what’s disturbing.”

“More like manipulative,” Rin said. “Theatrics, symbolism, moaning into the mic—he’s not original. Just louder than the rest.”

“But it works,” Reo said.

Rin’s eyes narrowed. “Because people are stupid. They eat up controversy like it’s genius. You say something taboo and suddenly you’re ‘brave.’ No. You’re just louder about your trauma.”

Bachira snorted. “Someone sounds jealous.”

Rin’s silence wasn’t denial. It was rage gone still.

Isagi didn’t laugh. He didn’t smile. He just studied Rin. Noticed the way his hands clenched, the slight tremor in his breath. He knew that look. It wasn’t just hatred. It was something deeper. Something personal.

“He got to you,” Isagi said softly.

Rin looked at him.

“You watched one of the solos.”

Rin’s glare answered for him.

Isagi didn’t press. He didn’t need to.

The truth always clung like blood.

Rin sat down. Shoulders stiff. He picked up a towel, as if to distract himself. But his voice returned, low and venomous.

“I don’t care what people say. I don’t care how good the vocals are. I watched that performance and it felt like I was being dissected. Not moved. Not enlightened. Just… peeled. Like he was waiting for me to look too long so he could step inside and rot whatever was left.”

Chigiri winced. “Damn, man.”

“It’s not art,” Rin continued. “It’s weaponized vulnerability. He doesn’t make music. He builds cults.”

The room fell silent again.

Reo tapped on his phone. Quietly.

“I mean. Not gonna lie. He did post a new verse teaser today. It already has two million likes.”

Rin rolled his eyes. “Let me guess. More pseudo-religious masochism?”

Reo read aloud:

“Breathe me through your spine / Let doubt be divine / Strip me of truth / I taste better as a lie.”

Rin shut his eyes like it gave him a headache.

“See?”

Even Barou muttered, “What the hell’s wrong with that guy.”

No one answered.

They didn’t have an answer.

Because the truth was—

It wasn’t just Hymn.

It was what he did.

To thought. To silence. To the private places of your head no one had touched until he whispered the right word.

He sang to guilt.

He danced like he’d bled prophecy.

He smiled like he knew how everyone would die.

And no one could stop watching.

Because there were only two responses to Hymn.

You adored him.

Or you feared him.

There was no in-between.

✦✧✦✧

The store lights buzzed above their heads. The air smelled like plastic wrap and cold fruit. Isagi pushed the cart with one hand, the wheel crooked, veering left every few meters. Barou had insisted they stock up themselves. “No trustin’ idiots to buy protein,” he’d grunted. Which meant now they were walking through aisles like civilians, pretending this was normal.

A song played overhead.

Slower. Dreamy. Not one of the viral ones. A B-side maybe, but the vocals still hit hard. Breath heavy. Instrumental stripped bare like ribs showing through skin.

Isagi didn’t say anything, but he knew the voice instantly.

Hymn.

The melody moved like fog. Gentle, but full of the kind of quiet that made people confess things. The lyrics didn’t rhyme. They never did. But the words crawled:

“Bury me with no name / Salt my skin with blame / You called it healing— / I called it hell.”

Chigiri scrolled through his phone.

“New scandal again,” he muttered.

“Let me guess,” Bachira said, chucking bananas into the cart. “Hymn ate a baby on stage?”

“No,” Chigiri sighed, but didn’t smile. “It’s about the track that dropped last week. Mother Tongue Torn Out. You know, the one with the lullaby looped backwards?”

“Oh, that one.” Bachira whistled low. “Yeah, that was nasty.”

Barou glared at a price tag. “What’s it about this time?”

Chigiri shrugged. “Depends who you ask. Some say it’s about childhood trauma, others think it’s about language policing. One guy thinks it’s about colonial genocide.”

Bachira hummed. “Knowing Hymn? It’s probably all three.”

Isagi grabbed a bottle of water and said nothing. The cart kept veering left.

“It’s wild though,” Chigiri continued. “The entire group blew up in less than a year. All of them can sing, dance, produce, and act. No labels backing them. No ads. Just appeared one day. And now they’re the biggest name in the industry.”

“People don’t like that,” Barou said. “Too fast. Too clean. Makes ‘em suspicious.”

“They’re jealous,” Bachira added. “Jealous and scared. ‘Cause it’s not just fame. It’s… pull. People act different after listening. They look different. Like something crawled behind their eyes and started whispering.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Chigiri said, but his voice didn’t sound sure.

Isagi said nothing.

He remembered the first track he’d heard. Body of the Betrayer. The lyrics came back unbidden, like bruises remembered after waking.

“Touch me like guilt / Pray through my teeth / Every scar I wear / Is yours underneath.”

He hadn’t spoken to anyone that day.

“Everyone’s got their own conspiracy,” Chigiri muttered. “Some say the band’s just a front for experimental psychological warfare. Others say it’s AI-generated propaganda. One guy thinks they’re demons.”

Bachira laughed. “If they are, they’ve got rhythm.”

Barou threw a slab of raw meat into the cart. “What’s that one track people are losing their minds over? The one with the breathing?”

Chigiri didn’t look up. “Repentance In Reverse. Trigger warning all over it. Heavy on the gore metaphors.”

“They made it sound like a religious chant,” Bachira said. “But it’s just this loop of screaming played over organs. Literal organs. Like you can hear dripping.”

Barou grunted. “What the hell.”

“People are mad,” Chigiri added. “It’s been reported for glorifying abuse, self-harm, necrophilia, religious trauma, everything. But it never gets taken down.”

“Because the music’s good,” Bachira grinned. “You can’t cancel a song that sticks in your bones.”

Isagi pushed the cart toward the next aisle.

They passed the cereal section. A kid was singing along under his breath. Hymn’s voice, in a child’s mouth.

“Break me open / Stain me red / Nothing holy / In this bed.”

“Seriously, how does he get away with it?” Chigiri asked. “Every theme he picks is worse than the last. He’s written about every taboo imaginable.”

“Because he doesn’t care,” Isagi said quietly.

The others turned.

He continued, eyes on the aisle.

“He writes it because he wants to. Not for fans. Not for hate. Not even to provoke. Just because he can.”

“Sounds like an asshole,” Barou said.

“He is,” Isagi replied. “But the music…”

He didn’t finish.

He didn’t need to.

They walked a little further.

A new song came on.

No lyrics this time. Just violins straining over synths, slow and trembling, like a symphony bleeding out in an alley. It built so carefully you didn’t notice the tension until your skin prickled.

Chigiri glanced at his screen. “This one’s called Throne of Worms.”

Barou scoffed. “What the actual fuck.”

Bachira laughed softly. “That’s so gross it loops back to genius.”

They turned the corner into frozen goods. Rows of packaged cold stared back at them.

“You hear the one with the distorted child’s voice?” Bachira asked. “Amen After Midnight. The chorus is just—what was it?”

Isagi answered without thinking.

“Amen, Father / I said no / But I bled for you / That made it so.”

The silence was thick after that.

Chigiri frowned. “He’s not afraid of anything, huh?”

Isagi shook his head. “No.”

“Not even getting canceled.”

“He thrives on it.”

“And the rest of the group?” Barou asked. “They just go along with it?”

“They don’t stop him,” Isagi said.

“They never do.”

They picked up frozen chicken. Protein bars. Rice. Pasta. Bachira grabbed a handful of candy and didn’t ask permission.

The music shifted to another track. Softer. More melodic. Almost normal. But the moment Hymn’s voice began, the illusion shattered.

“Swallow the thorn / Kiss the ghost / Sin tastes better / When you know it’s yours.”

They stood still.

Even Barou didn’t move.

Bachira smiled.

Isagi looked at the floor.

The world outside kept moving. Transactions beeped. Kids cried. Cashiers scanned. Time passed.

But the song played.

And it didn’t sound like a song.

It sounded like something ancient remembering itself.

✦✧✦✧

The room was dark except for the glow of his phone screen. Isagi lay still, one arm behind his head, the other scrolling through an endless stream of curated chaos. Highlights. Training routines. Tactical breakdowns. A dog trying to open a fridge. Click. Scroll. Tap. Repeat.

Then—

The shift.

The soft, unmistakable prelude.

Minor key. Low hum. A breath caught in its own throat.

A video. Five seconds long.

The comments were already explosive.

“He’s actually insane for this.”

“This is SICK. Like morally.”

“Tell me why I replayed this thirty times.”

“Who approved this release???”

No caption. Just the title of the track and a timestamp.

“Cherub’s Disgrace (Live Solo) – Hymn | 0:36”

Isagi hit play.

The camera angle was shaky, caught from an upper balcony in a stadium. Everything was shadow and smoke—stage soaked in crimson light like someone had bled out over the tech crew. The audio was raw, unfiltered, the kind that caught your pulse and tuned it to a dying heartbeat.

Hymn’s silhouette moved slowly. Shoulders bare. Hair damp. Sweat or something else. The mic didn’t pick up the crowd. Just him.

Just—

“I pulled the wings off angels ‘cause they looked like mine.

Felt jealous when they flew, so I broke the sky.

Now heaven’s quiet and hell won’t take me.

So I fuck myself holy, hoping sin remakes me.”

The video ended.

Isagi blinked. The room felt colder. His hand stayed frozen on the screen.

He played it again.

The breath.

The silence.

The scream disguised as a melody.

The fucking lyrics.

Who writes that?

Worse—who performs it?

He checked the account. Not official. A repost. The clip was already at three million views, banned twice, mirrored thrice, and still circulating like blood under a door. The original was titled “joke solo” in the setlist. A one-off. No studio version. No announcement. No promo.

Just dropped in the middle of a performance. Like a thrown blade.

And it hit.

Because of course it did.

Of course Hymn would take something sacred, gut it, stitch it with sex, and sing it like it was the most intimate thing he’d ever felt.

Isagi’s chest felt tight. Not panic. Not disgust.

Something worse.

Curiosity.

He knew what people were saying. Always the same reactions:

“It’s art.”

“It’s exploitation.”

“It’s too far.”

“It’s not far enough.”

“This man needs help.”

“This man is help.”

But no one turned away. Not really.

Not when the voice wrapped around the words like silk drawn over a blade. Not when the metaphors hit too close to private shame. Not when he made desecration sound like longing.

It was sick.

But true.

And that was the part that made Isagi restless. Not the vulgarity. Not the theology. Not the desecration.

The truth.

Because buried under every obscene lyric, every breathy note, every twisted gospel line, was something horribly recognizable.

Loneliness.

Desire.

Need so sharp it bordered on holy.

Isagi closed his eyes, phone still resting against his chest. But the verse wouldn’t leave.

He’d only heard it once—twice, now—but it had already carved itself into him like a scar that whispered.

I pulled the wings off angels ‘cause they looked like mine.

What the hell did that even mean?

And why did it make sense?

He sighed.

People said Hymn didn’t care.

But that wasn’t true.

You don’t write like that if you don’t care. You don’t twist metaphors into flesh, or rhythm into agony, unless something inside you wants to be exposed.

Hymn didn’t protect himself.

He offered himself.

Ugly. Violent. Unforgivable.

But honest.

And that’s what made him dangerous.

Not the themes. Not the scandals. Not the violence or sex or religious sacrilege.

It was the honesty.

Because the more grotesque it got, the more people saw themselves in it.

And that meant no one could claim innocence.

Not really.

Isagi put the phone aside.

He turned onto his side and stared into the dark. No light. No sound.

But the voice remained.

So I fuck myself holy, hoping sin remakes me.

He’d thought it was a joke.

But maybe it was a prayer.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

He first noticed the lyrics.

Not the choreography. Not the beat drops, nor the seductive silhouettes lined in blue flame and false grace. Just the words. Buried under all the noise, clean as a scalpel. It sliced through him like something long-forgotten. Something too precise to be born of mere industry.

A boy band. Seven Psalms. That name alone was already arrogant. But it wasn’t the name. It wasn’t even the performance, or the godlike sway of their lead, Hymn, as fans called him. It was the writing.

He remembered you.

Not because it resembled you—no, in truth, it didn’t. You had never written like this. Never crafted music that pressed its lips to the listener’s ear and whispered so shamelessly it bled into prayer. You never touched the language of bodies. Your pages never tasted of sweat and desire. You didn’t even speak.

But it was something else. A thing impossible to replicate: the density of thought. Psychological acuity masked beneath metaphor. Heavy rooms of meaning, locked behind casual syllables. A structure that knew itself too well. This band, this Hymn, this—whatever they were—had a ghost haunting them. Something intelligent. Something almost familiar.

His brain wouldn’t let it go. It scratched, like a blade stuck in the bark of memory.

You never had friends. Never wanted any. That much was obvious. You moved like dust in sunlight—present only to those who stared hard enough. And you never spoke, not once. The school rumor was your vocal cords were damaged. One classmate said you bit your own tongue off in middle school. Another said you were possessed. Gojo, the golden-boy upperclassman, liked to toss coins at your head like you were a fountain.

Sukuna was worse.

He remembered it clearly. How Sukuna laughed that day in the stairwell. The way your body curled inward as the older boy gripped your jaw. Fingers digging. Cruel jokes. You never cried. Never screamed. You just waited it out. Like always.

And he did nothing.

Isagi hated that part of the memory most.

But what made him feel even sicker now, was how familiar the rhythm of a particular song from Seven Psalms was. The lyrics. The words. It wasn’t your style—not really—but the mind that made them felt just as merciless. Just as tired. Just as clinically precise.

Back then, you didn’t write songs. You wrote essays. Poems. Dissections of society dressed as literature. Handwritten submissions that always made the literature professor stop the entire class and read them out loud. Your writing never praised. It never pitied. It stared at the world like a wound, and named it with surgical indifference.

You weren’t pretty. People liked to say it, cruelly, and often.

Your body was a ragged scarecrow of malnourishment. Your uniform always hung wrong. Your skin was ash-colored. Acne scarring your cheeks. Eyes like cloudy water. You didn’t have the kind of ugliness that invited sympathy—just the kind that repulsed.

But when you wrote?

It was as if your bones were made of obsidian. Each word was volcanic, dense, unyielding. You once wrote a thesis arguing the state should make art a moral crime punishable by silence. Your final project was a twenty-page prose-poem titled I Want the World to End Like a Lullaby. It contained a line that made the professor weep:

“The hands of time were not meant to hold us, only to crush. I smile when they do.”

Your writing was unholy. Even your footnotes were terrifying. You never cited for authority. Only to disagree. To dismantle.

Your essay on human relationships referred to romantic love as “spiritual parasitism in a society that fetishizes shared delusion.”

You once critiqued the educational system by turning in a blank notebook, except for a single page that read:

“A child starves not from hunger, but from being taught that the cage is noble.”

He remembers that.

He remembers standing over your corpse.

He remembers how quiet it was. Like even your death refused to make a sound. The blood had soaked through your skirt. Your arms had cuts. Some looked new. Others ancient. There was no note. Of course not. You didn’t speak. Not even then.

He buried that memory. Forced it down with grit and logic. He told himself you were just a strange girl. Smart, sure. Lonely, fine. A tragedy. But not special. Definitely not one-of-a-kind.

And yet.

Here he was.

Tracking a boy band.

Rereading lyrics like a madman.

Trying to disprove the impossible. Because something about it itched too close to the part of his brain that remembered you.

One of Seven Psalms’ most viral performances had lyrics that made his skin crawl:

“And if I touch the throat of God, will I taste blood or silence?”

Another:

“The angel grins with teeth of glass. I ask for light, and she gives me fire.”

Not like you. Not even close. You would never write something so dramatic. So erotic. But that line of thinking? The psychological haunt? The desperate probing of metaphysical rot?

Too close.

Too intelligent.

Too clean.

Still, he knew the truth. You were gone. He saw you dead. Saw the blood. Saw your notebook fall from your hands like something ashamed to be caught alive.

He picked it up that day.

Never told anyone.

He still had it.

The last thing you ever wrote:

“Do not immortalize me. If my death is beautiful, destroy it.”

And now?

Now Seven Psalms danced on stage, half-naked and glistening, preaching verses drenched in sex and sanctity, while fans screamed like sinners for salvation.

And yet, in the shadows between verses, in the silences between songs, he swore he could hear your voice.

Your silence was louder than all their noise.

Maybe Hymn found your work. Maybe someone dug up the old campus archives. Maybe you infected someone before you left. Logical. Explainable. Statistical possibility.

But deep down, he wondered:

What if ghosts didn’t need bodies to write?

What if silence could still sing?

───────── ♛ ─────────

♡ A/N #1 (June 21). Heavily inspired by Kpop Demon Hunters. When THAT SONG came out, it bops so hard and so YANDERE. LIKE FUDGE. COOOOKEEEEDDDDD. Also, honestly, it’s really fun writing religious and poetic writing when I feel like it.

♡ A/N #2 (June 21). I’ve been planning on making a K-pop inspired story since last year but I’ve been postponing it, well it’s here now. See, I don’t abandon ideas, I just write whenever I feel like it. Quality is better when I genuinely have fun.

♡ A/N #3 (June 21). No. I’m not a K-pop fan. But there are songs that I enjoy, like “Your Idol” being a new one. Soooo good.

♡ A/N #4 (June 21). Movie started off weak and generic, really bad at first but songs as well as the mid to late game carried. Very good.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “Forbidden Fruits”: @uniquecutie-puffs , @belovedoftheanemoarchon , @mokingbrd78k , @mimitk , @xileonaaaa , @purple-obsidian , @waterfal-ling , @jjune-07 , @jsprien213 , @crimson-kisses , @songbirdgardensworld , @tnsophiaayaonly , @starxvs , @iris-arcadia , @misscaller06 , @neuvilletteswife4ever , @takeyomikamakura , @alisteraille , @deanswifeyy

❤︎ Fang Dokja’s Books.

♡ 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.

♡ Notice #2. This masterlist is strictly for non-con smut and serves as an exercise in refining erotic horror writing. Comments that reduce my work to mere sexual gratification, thirst, or casual simping will not be tolerated. If your response is primarily thirst-driven, keep it to yourself—repeated violations may result in blocking. Read the RULES before engaging. The tag list is reserved for followers I trust to respect my boundaries; being included is a privilege, not a right. You may request to be added, but I will decide based on trust and adherence to my guidelines. I also reserve the right to remove anyone at any time if their engagement becomes inappropriate.

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

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