Mappa’s Fanservice Is Crazy!!!!

MARRY THE TRAITOR ; gojo satoru

⟡ the day you met your demise is the same day you met gojo satoru, your betrothed from a world so different from yours—a cruel prince who is undoubtedly in love with someone else. as the stakes rise and you race against the clock to beat your brutal fate, can you make the ultimate choice between your heart or your happily ever after?

includes: arranged marriage, enemies to lovers, unrequited love, slow burn, yandere!gojo, prince!gojo, princess!reader, reader is referred to as 'cerena', princess cerena has pink hair and feminine features, reader has transferred into cerena's body, isekai-ed reader, mentions of death, language, suggestive, explicit smut (not between reader and gojo though lmaosgfj), themes of classism

⟡ masterlist

ACT 1, SCENE 2: THE TUNNELS

“Do not touch me,” your deathly warning stills the entire room. “Do not speak to me like this and if you wish to protect her reputation—”

Your eyes fall on the maid still cowering on the floor, her eyes turned to the ground, but a shadow of a smirk on her face belies her true intentions. 

She was attempting to frame me… or, Cerena. She is trying to get us in trouble with this powerful, spiteful man. 

“Next time, choose someone else who doesn’t make it obvious that this is all a ploy to smear my name.”

Such words falling from your lips take you aback because they don’t belong in your day-to-day vocabulary, but in this instant, it feels right to throw them in his face.

You turn your back on his gaping, surprised expression, picking up the hem of your gown to make your graceful departure. But, as you sweep your gaze over the sweeping stone pillars touching the ceiling and the scaglia flooring which looks so out of place with your perception of what reality is, you find yourself faltering, looking at one of the maids for help.

“Where is my room?” you stammer, drawing more of their confusion and adding to the disarray of this already convoluted scene. 

The man glares at you, looking you up and down as if he is trying to piece together your odd behavior. 

“What do you mean you don’t know where your room is?” 

Chagrin and embarrassment well up inside your chest, staining your cheeks, and you clear your throat. 

“I… seem to have misplaced my bearings today. I do not feel well. Could someone please lead me to my chambers?”

A second of agonizing silence engulfs the entire room. Then, a mousy, brown-haired maid steps forward, bowing graciously. 

“Let me take you to your chambers, milady.”

You breathe a quiet sigh of relief. Preparing to follow her, your path is once more blocked by this infuriating man who will not relent in drawing out your humiliation.

Darkness settles in those clear, azure eyes, and his jaw is clenched, though he doesn’t put his hands on you again.

“We are not done speaking about this yet, Cerena. I will make you own up to your mistake… whether you like it or not.”

Paralyzed to one spot, you watch as he departs from your side to kneel down and gently gather the maid in his arms, guiding her to her feet as he speaks to her in low tones, a look of endearment and tenderness softening the harsh edges of his azure eyes. 

It hits you then like a lightning bolt.

He is obviously and irrevocably head over heels in love with that simple maid.

The jarring change of his temperament from blatant vengefulness to tender consideration shocks you to the core, numbing your entire body with the prejudice and injustice of it all, freezing you to the spot. 

“Milady?” The maid who volunteered to lead you back to your chambers approaches you carefully, interrupting you from your ruminations. “Shall we?” 

You nod after a moment, dazed, and turn your back on the vile memories of the spectacle you were forced to endure, following behind her silently.

The sound of your heels on the red limestone floor echo in the solitary quiet, and you fidget with your hands. Eventually, your curiosity wins and you clear your throat, getting her attention.

“I apologize that you had to see that.”

To your surprise, the maid chokes back a gasp, quickly darting her eyes to the ground when you turn your gaze to her. 

“It is fine, milady,” she stammered, lacing her fingers together in a tight grip; you notice she is trembling slightly, and unable to look you in the eye for longer than a few seconds. 

“You seem afraid of me.” 

You meant it as an observation, but to her, it was a reprimand. She bows her head a few times, shoulders tight and tense with fear.

“I apologize, milady. I will do better next time. I will not—”

“Hey, hey,” you reach out to grab her arms, your voice low and soothing; trying to earn her trust. “Calm down. I am not going to scold you. I am just… stating a fact. Why are you so afraid of me?” 

Her lower lip trembles and her brown eyes shift from you again, onto the red stone floor.

“Milady… you’re… not well known for being the most patient princess in the realm. And you love to berate and belittle the people who work for you. We are all trying our best to accommodate you, Your Highness, so please, cut us some slack and we will show you how devoted we are to the crown and to your wellbeing.”

It’s a trained answer, one she recites from the top of her head like a prayer of mercy. 

You drop your hands, aware that your bizarre attitude may be scaring her. 

“I am… sorry. Please. Accept my apologies. I did not sense I was being unreasonable.”

Her surprise is a palpable emotion that sweeps across her face, and she actually gasps, taken aback by your heartfelt apology.

“Milady, it’s… please, do not apologize to me! I am but a lowly servant and you should—you should not demean yourself like that—”

“It’s alright,” you stop her refusal with a sheepish wave of your hands, attempting to soothe her misgivings. “I have done you wrong and I wish to take accountability over it. I truly am apologetic for… my behavior.”

The young woman looks at you like she’s never seen you before, her eyes wide and unflinching. 

“What is your name?” You inquire politely, and the look of surprise in those coffee brown eyes deepen. Somewhere, shimmering in its depths, you see a hint of respect and reverence.

“Elara, milady.” 

You nod, forcing a kind smile so as not to petrify her further with your raging confusion and stuttering awkwardness. 

“Elara. A beautiful name. Could I ask you a few questions—and please, be as truthful as you can when you answer them.”

She doesn’t hesitate to nod, the fear guarding her heart easing slightly, allowing her defenses to weaken. 

Your inquisitiveness is at an undeniable peak, and you need to whet your suspicions or else you would go insane.

“Who was that man from earlier? The one who claims we are engaged?”

The young woman fails to temper her look of obvious confoundment, slowing her pace so she can tilt her head to the side and regard you.

“Milady, are you feeling unwell?” 

Her concern ticks you towards an internal panic. Your laughter sounds strained even to your own ears, and you shake your head, struggling to come up with a viable excuse. 

“I suppose… The chill of today is making me foggy.”

Elara purses her lips, noting your look of disarray, but doesn’t keep the information you seek from you.

“That man is your betrothed, milady. The Crowned Prince of the Northern Haleway—Prince Gojo Satoru. You both have been engaged for a very long time, since the tender age of nine, and are set to be married this following year.”

Immediately, your stomach sinks to your toes, and you release a shaky breath you didn’t know you were holding. 

A crowned prince? 

Betrothed and married by this year?

You? 

The questions swirled in your mind like a raging tempest, and you must’ve worried her with your stunned silence for she stopped in mid-stride, reaching out to tap your shoulder.

“Milady?” 

You shake your head, trying to tame the panic down before it could consume you and you would fall to your knees, shaking and sobbing from the uncontrollable fear.

“Wh… who am I?” 

This time, she gasps, unable to hold back her dread when she hears your question, her brown eyes wavering with fear. 

“Milady, shall I fetch for the physician?” 

Her tone rises up a decibel, and you shush her, shaking your head vehemently. Spotting a relatively hidden alcove, you grab her arm and tug her into the secluded spot, her bright, brown eyes shining with confusion even in the dim lighting of this dark nook.

“Please. Trust me when I say this—I have no idea who I am, where I am or who everyone else is around here. I’m not from this world. I am not from this land. My name is Y/N, and I am not this Princess Cerena or person you think I am.”

Elara gapes, unable to believe her ears. She gives you a probing look, as if to determine if you were trying to pull her leg.

But, when your gaze doesn’t falter for a single second, she takes one step back, a look of horror bleeding across her features.

“Impossible. This is… how can you… what do you mean you are not from this world?” 

You take a deep breath and try your best to explain your side of this confusion.

“The last thing I remember before waking up in the middle of the prince’s tantrum was a man hitting me over my head to steal my purse. He was a thief and he—” your voice shakes, all the tension and confusion coalescing into a tight ball underneath your throat, triggering your desperate tears which you try so hard to fight off. 

“—he left me to die in an alleyway. I thought I was dead… that my life was over, but then, I opened my eyes and the first thing I saw was… Satoru, you said? Yes. The first thing I saw was him. Satoru. I’ve never met him before in my life.”

Elara is dumbfounded, that much you can expect. But, she doesn’t refute your words. 

Believing you without a single shred of doubt.

Was Cerena such an awful person that even a bit of kindness can sway her to my side?

Your thoughts are loud, ricocheting around the recesses of your mind and you wait for her to believe you. 

Elara eventually dips her head forward, absorbing your words. 

“I… have faith in your words, milady.” Her gaze is scrutinizing. “You are different, there is no doubt about that. Your words, your expressions, certain phrases you use. You are not Lady Cerena, and for that, I believe it is a blessing.”

She clasped her hands in front of her body, having relieved herself of the burdensome thoughts shrouding her mind.

Without preamble or a word in from you, she gestures towards the end of the hallway, showering you with some much needed kindness you didn’t know you were desperate for until she gives you a wry smile. Your heart squeezes longingly in your chest. 

“Come. You must be tired from your… journey. I will prepare your room and then, you may rest.” 

For an hour after that, you sit around in your room, bored to death.

There wasn’t much to do in a world like this besides wearing pretty dresses, lounge around and being alert for any strange sounds coming from outside the hardwood doors.

Your bed is lavishly decorated with the best wool these lands could offer, warm yet cool under your touch to insulate you from the mountainous chill. A peek inside Cerena’s closet confirms that most of the treasury money her parents must’ve sent down to Northern Haleway went to these carefully crafted pieces of organza, lace and encrusted jewels upon mountains of sheer and gossamer dresses. Even her cloaks were of the highest quality—mink and lambskin leather, tailored to fit her body perfectly. 

Like a diabetic in a candy store, you excitedly shift through the elaborate pieces, feeling their fine workmanship. Many of them were low cut and sleeveless, intended to show off her petite shoulders and defined collarbones. It was obvious she had an eye for such aesthetic advantages. 

Having seen yourself in the mirror, you conclude that Cerena is one of, if not, the most beautiful woman you have ever seen in your life.

With her cascading, naturally-tinted strawberry blonde curls and fine nose, her visage could easily strike admiration in hearts around the world, no matter where her dainty feet took her.

In contrast, you were less feminine and refined than her, a paltry shadow in the face of such regal beauty that you flinched and eventually stepped away from the mirror, as if looking at another woman’s reflection for too long may scorch you. 

Choosing to lay listlessly on the bed, you weren’t used to such free time on your hands.

Back in your home world, you would be using this ample stretch of relaxation to clean up your apartment, cook, or perhaps, even get started on another bouquet arrangement you often did for your friends at no cost.

Your eyes slip close, though sleep struggles to find you.

Eventually, you’re driven to your feet, tired of this fatiguing ennui weighing heavily on your shoulders. 

Slipping your feet into a pair of fine satin slippers, you ditch the loud heels for whispery footsteps on the stone floor, taking this opportunity to explore the castle. 

You touch the cool stones, feeling the heat from the sconces above bathe your skin with a warm glow. The castle is structured in such a way that the winding hallways and open windows brought in as much natural sunlight as possible. Stopping shy of a larger balcony, you step outside and feel the cool air grazing your cheeks. 

Northern Haleway’s stronghold was located up a steep foothill. Below, as far as the eye could see, lay craggily rocks and sharp jagged cliffs which would kill anyone upon impact.

You shudder at such natural magnificence, and force your feet to take you down the hallway, every step echoing softly behind you.

For such a big castle, there weren’t many around, and you supposed this wing where Cerena lived was explicitly ordered to be emptied for the sake of the princess’ unstable mood swings.

I wonder… where can I find the throne room…

You had only ever seen such regalia in picture books and movies. A part of you wanted to witness it in real time; to see if the sheer splendor matches your imagination. 

However, as you cross the threshold into an elaborate sitting room, you hear whispers and movement from the other end of a closed door. 

Curious and hesitant at the same time, you let your inquisitiveness get the best of you, taking one step closer to the elaborate doorway, pressing your ear to the wainscoted surface.

“... mhm… oh… Satoru…”

Your ears burn and you smother a gasp with your open palm. 

Muffled grunts could be heard from the other end of the door, and a sinking feeling rests heavily in your gut.

The lewd sounds were unmistakable. You could easily picture the ghastly, horrid man from before, with his towering height and broad shoulders, ramming the entirety of his cock inside the maid’s smaller, but willing body. 

Her cries echo feebly, laced with ecstasy and pleasure.

Without warning, you feel someone touching your elbow and nearly squeak, if it weren’t for Elara’s wide brown eyes dominating your vision. Catching your composure in time, you bite your lower lip hard enough to taste blood, hoping to every god above that the prince and his lover did not catch your slip up.

“Milady—” 

You shush her with a finger to your lips, shaking your head frantically. Elara takes your cue and quietens, those coffee hues widening when she picks up on the same sounds you were eavesdropping on.

Her mouth falls open wider, a scandalized look taking over her features. 

Satoru and Miri find respite in reaching their peak at the same time, their desperate gasps and moans twining as one. You hear them kiss passionately, and it makes your gut turn to think that the same man Cerena is engaged to is so blatantly flaunting his affair right in the very same castle she lived in.

Anger rises inside of you, dark and tarry like a bubbling vat of acid.

No matter how horrible a woman was painted to be, she did not deserve this treatment from someone claiming to be her fiancé. 

You were upset on Cerena’s behalf, especially when the heir himself chuckled, a low and disturbing sound. 

“I cannot believe she stalked away from you with such boldness,” Miri muttered huskily, obviously trying to further seed this divide between Satoru and Cerena.

The man in question hummed, as if the idea of insulting and sullying the name of his future wife and queen barely ruffled his composure.

“She will pay for what she has done. I will not tolerate such rudeness and discourtesy, especially since she knows you mean a lot more to me than she does.”

You shiver at the conviction and contempt in his tone. Glancing at Elara, you note that she too seems engrossed in the conversation, unable to peel her ear off the hardwood. 

Miri laughs, light and breezy, though what she says next chills you right to the bone.

“She seemed even more agitated today. I suppose she really is coming to her senses and is close to realizing that she has lost you, Your Highness. And as we all know, Princess Cerena can never lose.”

Her words drip with sarcasm and resentment, feeding the flames of Satoru’s vengefulness. 

“That idiotic woman. I despise her very being,” he mutters haughtily. “Every time she opens her mouth, I wish to never hear her voice again. To wipe her from my memories and remove her from my presence. It is not enough that I am to be wedded to her, but my father seems adamant on pushing Cerena onto me like an unwanted gift.” 

Miri hums. “And her attitude must not be very pleasant as well, isn’t it, my love?”

Satoru barks a laugh, like she’s just uttered the funniest thing his twisted mind could conjure.

“Pleasant? Cerena? Those two words can never exist in a singular sentence. No, she is not pleasant. In fact, she is the opposite of pleasant. She is an insolent, vicious and repulsive creature. If only I could, I will teach her a lesson so she will understand that this world is only tolerable to her because she is a princess. I wish to hurt her in ways she can never fathom and destroy her until no man would ever want her again.” 

Horror steals the last of your thoughts. A warm hand clasps around your fingers and you realize Elara is lending you her strength. 

You are suddenly aware of how badly your hands are shaking. 

Miri giggles, as if her lover’s words are music to her ears. 

“Have you given thought to the suggestion I raised before? To kill the princess?” 

Your breathing stops, and Elara flickers her gaze to you, eyes wide and wavering.

Kill… Cerena? 

He wouldn’t do that, would he? 

Your trembles become harder to control. You have no idea what this man is capable of, and for the first time in your life, you are terrified of the power he wields, indomitable compared to yours. 

The horrifying reminder comes to you in a flash. 

This was a different world, one where men ruled and women obeyed. 

You knew enough from the movies and books to understand that if a man wanted you dead in this era, it would be by his law and his alone. 

Satoru echoes her sentiments with a chuckle. 

“You really are hellbent on me getting rid of her, aren’t you?” 

You can almost imagine Miri’s pout. 

“She is the only thing standing in between the two of us from being together. Don’t you want to get rid of that?” 

You gape, astounded by her boldness. This… this bitch! 

You can’t believe the treason you’re hearing—for surely, it is treason to want a princess dead, especially for a commoner to speak such words. 

Elara seems to be of the same opinion, her quivering lips weighing into a downturn grimace. 

Satoru’s lazy laughter grates your ears, and you listen in for what he has to say next.

Please, you beg internally; hoping for someone to hear your desperate plea and prayer for this man to see reason and be merciful. Please, have a heart for this woman whose body I am inhabiting and do not harm her. 

Your flimsy hopes break upon impact, like a sandcastle succumbing to a wave in one fell swoop.

“I promise I will get rid of her,” Satoru’s conviction punches you right in the gut, leaving you breathless and in despair. “I promise that once she is dead, I will wed you and we will be together, my love. Forever. You have my word.” 

You stagger backwards, unable to listen anymore.

Tearing out of the room as quietly as your footsteps can take you, you hear Elara’s faint footfalls following behind. Her grip on your arm is steady, supporting your shaking knees.

“Milady—”

Out of earshot from the vile man and his wicked maid, you finally reveal the true fear corrupting your soul.

“Elara, please. You have to get me out of this castle.”

Her face pales, throwing her freckles into stark view. 

“Milady, I-I can’t. To hide a princess is considered high treason—”

“Please,” you choked, grasping her arms, your eyes wild with fright. “You heard what the prince said. You heard what he promised. If he fulfills it, I will die here. Please. You have to help me.”

You weren’t above getting on your knees to clutch at her skirt, begging and pleading for your life. Luckily, Elara would never make you commit such an atrocity.

Her thin hands grasp yours, her mousy face filled with a fiery determination you’ve never seen a woman possess.

“I may know a place to hide you. Follow me, princess.”

She leads you straight to the other end of the castle, pushing open a heavy wooden door. It’s the maids quarters and there, she fetches a plain cloak, throwing it on your shoulders and fastening it around your throat. 

“Make sure your hood is always pulled up,” she warned, beckoning you to follow her.

You pass rows upon rows of straw beds with crumpled linen sheets, aghast at the state of the help’s sleeping area. The squalor fills you with anger, especially when you compare it to the lavish beddings of Princess Cerena’s room.

Is this what the royal family allows? You seethe internally. Such pitiable states of living were reserved for animals, not humans who devoted their entire lives to serving the crown. 

But, you don’t have much time to ruminate on the anger bubbling inside of you, following Elara’s silhouette through another door. She brings you into a labyrinth-like hallway barely illuminated by greasy old sconces, gesturing for you to follow her. 

There is nothing you can do than to put your faith in this young, kind maid as she leads you from one winding path to another, her footsteps light and sure. 

A rat scampered somewhere to your left and you shriek, earning a timely glare from Elara who shushes you. 

Contrite, you swallow your unease and trail behind her like a ghostly woman of the night.

Eventually, the winding paths turn straighter, and there is another door in the distance.

This one is heavier than the last, as if meant to guard the inhabitants from something outside; or to keep them confined within.

It takes the both of you to push it wide, and when the door finally creaks open, you’re hit with a face full of cold, biting air.

Elara doesn’t waste any time, grabbing your wrist and tugging you forward. 

“Come on. I know a woman who will help you. She lives in a nearby forest.”

You huff, trying to keep up with her. 

All around you, standing like stalwart giants, towering pine trees press close, shrouding the behemothian castle from view, their sharp scent stinging your nostrils. Elara’s pulse is thudding against your fingers, a rapid fire rate that fills you with both determination and dread. 

“What was that?” You call above the rushing of your fleeing, sensing it was safe to speak now.

She glanced back at you, lips in a thin line.

“The castle tunnels. It’s barely functional, but we use it sometimes to receive bulkier goods without being seen on the main floors.” 

She guides you further into the forest, and you sense this isn’t the right time for questions. Elara makes you jump over a tiny, bubbling brook, and you were glad for swapping out your heels for these manageable slippers. 

Finally, after what feels like hours dashing through the thickening forest with nothing but foliage and the cold air whipping your hair into a disarray, Elara stops you shy of a clearing.

Inside the circle is a tiny hut, smoke spewing out of its brick red chimney.

She doesn’t hesitate to walk to the door, knocking on it. When there is no reply, she does it again, firmly this time, and you wait with bated breath for whoever is on the other side to reveal themselves.

The lock clicks and your heart constricts. 

An elderly woman with unruly, white hair, pries the door open, her crinkled face frowning when she sees Elara.

“Dear? Whatever are you doing here?”

Her wizened, rheumy eyes move to you, and her gaze becomes sharper.

“Who is this?” 

“Nana, this is a friend,” Elara muttered, grasping my elbow and tugging me forward. “Her name is—”

“Y/N,” you supply immediately, giving her a subtle shake of your head. You would rather the older woman did not know your true identity. “It is a pleasure to meet you…”

You trail off, waiting for her to introduce herself.

Elara’s grandmother purses her thin lips, and shifts her gaze from her granddaughter to this suspiciously noble looking woman.

“Aeva,” she finally answered. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Y/N.”

Once reassured that her grandmother would not react badly, Elara gives her a rundown of your situation. The older woman listens carefully, never once interrupting her granddaughter. 

After gathering her thoughts, she makes a swift decision, nodding and gesturing to you to come closer.

For a split second, she skims her gaze up and down your body, noting your pink curls, the clean look of your skin and nails. 

“If you are to stay here with me, no one can know your true identity… Princess.” 

Elara flinched, like a child caught in the middle of a lie. In reaction to her granddaughter’s flimsy attempt to hide the truth, Aeva shoots her a smug smile.

“Trying to fool an old woman who has tasted more salt of the earth than you—not a wise move, young lady.” 

But, she doesn’t prod or scold her any further. 

Her attention lands on you again, and her thin lips quirk downward into a heavy frown.

“If you want to stay here, you need to work, my dear. No slacking off, and definitely no people to attend to you at your beck and call. Can you bear that?” 

Bless her heart. She doesn’t sense the difference in you, thinking you’re nothing more than a spoiled, childish princess.

Eagerly and without a second thought, you nod. 

“Yes. I understand. I will help you with any chores you need. I am good at cooking and taking care of a hearth. You need not worry about my reliability.”

Aeva's expression wavers and she shoots Elara an amused look.

“Alright then, Princess. We shall see if your words ring true.”

Elara gives you a tight smile, one which you return. Recognizing the confidence and reassurance she was trying to instill in you.

“Take heart, Princess,” her words soothe you. 

“You will be safe here.”

Days had passed since Satoru had last seen you in the annex hallway, the memory of his confrontation with you still fresh in his mind. 

As hard as he tries to ignore the chiming in his head to check up on you, to seek you out and ensure you're not sulking or throwing another nasty fit, he's grateful for the quiet your absence gives him. 

Miri visits his chambers almost every day, giving her body to him and warming his sheets till the morning sun illuminates the red stone floors. As he watches the rays touch her face, he traces her features softly, wishing for nothing more in the world than to do this for the rest of his life.

His love for Miri came as an anchor, providing him a lifeline when he thought he had lost everything his heart had to offer.

Though he feels it unfair to indulge in her fantasies of some day getting rid of you, Satoru can’t deny that there’s a certain appeal to that idea.

Removing his brash and volatile fiancé, and replacing her with a woman far gentler, graceful and courteous—Satoru thinks it’s Miri who should bear his ring upon her finger. Be the woman he wakes up to every morning despite her lowly status and economic standing.

Some people were more suited for the life of a royalty, and he is of the opinion that compared to you, Miri far exceeds the idea of what it means to be a Princess while you, in all your snobbishness and arrogance, deserved to be at the bottom of the barrel. 

Encompassing his mindset as a whole, Satoru feels a certain fragile peace he hasn't encountered in a long while, though it all shatters one morning when his father, King Satoshi, calls him into the throne room.

Magnificent and intimidating in one breath, the great King Gojo Satoshi sits regally on his throne, the seat beside him stingingly empty. 

Satoru doesn’t let his gaze linger on where his mother used to sit, instead, bowing deeply when he catches his father’s eye, awaiting his next words. 

“Arise, son.”

The heir apparent to Northern Haleway straightens his back, azure eyes flinty and guarded.

“Father. You requested for me.”

Satoshi nods, his expression unreadable. 

“Son, I need to ask you a question.”

Satoru steels himself for an unexpected request or a test of his allegiance; both options having been given before by his rigid and non-permissive father.

But, what his father asks next renders him stupefied and breathless, thrown completely off kilter.

“Satoru… where is your Princess?”

The young man feels his palms dampening with sweat. In response, he scoffs, shaking his head.

“Cerena? I have not seen her, Father. Why do you inquire?” 

His affectionless response does not sit well with the older Gojo, who bristles and deepens his glare.

“You mean to tell me you do not care that your fiancé—who, by the way, hasn’t been seen for the past two days—has disappeared, and you’re questioning why I'm asking you about it?”

Anger drips from his accusing question, and Satoru schools his expression into neutrality, unwilling to give away his true emotions of mirth and relief. 

Cerena is missing… she hasn’t been seen for two whole days… is this the Gods answering my prayers? 

Satoshi, clearly angered and insulted by his son’s lack of haste and concern, sits back against his throne, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

“Satoru, I am putting you in charge of the search party for the princess. If the kingdom of Kraith—Cerena’s parents—were to know that she is lost, there will be tragic repercussions for our country. You have to find her and bring her back. Am I making myself clear?” 

Satoru stiffened at the implications of what would happen should the neighboring country uncover this slight. 

Trade contracts will be affected, livelihoods will be destroyed and the monetary resources Kraith offered through their bountiful grain industry would be in jeopardy. 

But, that’s not all at stake.

“If you fail to find her before this week’s end,” Satoshi continues, his turquoise eyes boring deeply into his son’s ones. “I will revoke your ascension to the throne and give it to your cousin, Yuuta. Is that what you desire?” 

Stiffly, Satoru shakes his head, shame and anger burning inside him like a brewing storm.

“No, Your Majesty.”

Apparently satisfied that his threats have hit their mark, Satoshi reclines into the oversized chair, his large hands curling around the bejeweled lion’s head knobs adorning the end of the throne’s arms.

“Good. I expect to hear news from you by this week’s end, Satoru.”

Taking that as his cue for dismissal, the young heir bows stiffly to his father before stepping out of the throne room. As he rounds the corner, he’s caught off guard by his lover, who darts from an alcove to block his path.

“What did he want?” Miri asks breathlessly.

Satoru frowns but doesn’t push her away, his broad shoulders sagging under the weight of the gleaming regalia and military awards pinned to his lapels. The heavy burden of his princely duties leaves him feeling hopeless and worn down.

“He wants me to find her—Cerena—and bring her back or else he will give my cousin, Yuuta, the rites of ascension.”

Miri gasps, her face blanching. 

“He cannot do that!” 

“He can,” Satoru runs a hand down his face, expelling a tired sigh. “He is the King and he can do whatever he wants. I have to search for her. Cerena. I need to find her or else everything I’ve worked for will be in vain.”

Miri glances over her shoulder before she wraps her arms around him. 

Satoru takes comfort in her embrace, inhaling the soft scent of musk and jasmine floating from her hair. 

They stay like this for a while, two lovers holding onto each other as the differences in their standing and burdens remain determined to keep them apart. 

“It’s the perfect timing,” Miri suddenly gushes, pulling back just far enough so he can see the opportunity twinkling in her eyes. 

Satoru’s confusion only makes her laugh and she leans in closer, as if to impart a juicy secret.

“I have received word of a woman in the village that nobody has ever seen before. She walks around town always clad in a robe and with a hood pulled over her head. She barely speaks to anyone and when asked where she is from, she claims she is not from here. Doesn’t that spark your curiosity?”

A woman who insists on being cloaked and hidden… now that is intriguing indeed. 

The young prince feels a grin growing across his face, one tainted with a dawning realization.

Could it be…?

“And you suggest I follow your lead to meet this woman?” Satoru rests his broad palm on her waist, his thumb gently stroking her hip. Miri grins smugly and, unconcerned with any onlookers, leans in to whisper in his ear. Her warm breath sends a shiver down his spine.

“If that woman happens to be our princess, it would be the best chance we have of ending her without arousing any suspicion.”

Satoru’s expression wavers with something akin to regret, though he hides it the second her sparkling green eyes meet his own hooded blue ones. 

“Are you sure? You want me to end Cerena’s life?” 

Miri is firm in her ambitions, giving him a curt nod.

“Is it not what you desire, too? Cerena’s demise? With her gone, we can finally be together, my love.” 

She intertwines her fingers together with his, squeezing his hands fondly. “We can be free to love, to show each other affection, to openly court and to meet each other in broad daylight. Wouldn’t that be a delight to experience?” 

The images she paints in his mind are irresistible, and Satoru quickly forgets his earlier hesitation, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close against his body.

“Oh, Miri,” he growls, desire lacing his tone as she responds with an adorable giggle. “My beautiful mastermind—you are right. We need to strike while the opportunity is ripe.”

Satoru’s hand glides down her body, gently caressing her backside.

“The moment I see Cerena, I will keep my word and end her life.”

mtt fun fact: satoru is partial to dressing in darker colors to bring out the contrast of his white hair. it's done partially for vain aesthetics but also because he loves how the stark visual contrast tends to strike fear in his enemies hearts

dawn says: dun dun DUN .... anyone wanna bet that yn will beat his ass if he tries her 😏

!! reblogs and feedback and asks about this series are so beloved and appreciated and will motivate me to update and write faster <3

©️ all rights reserve to lalunanymph. do not copy elements of my story, repost or claim as your own.

It is a chronic illness 🥺

❀ In which husband!Nanami makes a big decision after your labour Tw: hard labour, difficult pregnancy, allusions to death, angst, not proofread

“Are you sure about this?” The doctor asks again.

Kento leans back in his chair, staring straight ahead at the older man before him. He notes, with a little humour, how concerned his doctor looks at the prospect of a younger, more virile man like him undergoing such an operation. There seems to be some stigma surrounding the quick and low-risk operation, almost as if the idea of any man willingly sacrificing an essential part of their identity, their manhood, is so abhorrent one must check again and again if they are certain this is what they want. 

And he is. 

If asked, and he’s sure when he discloses his decision to friends and family, they will ask, he’ll tell them it is the easiest choice he has ever made — second only, of course, to his decision to marry you. 

No matter how many times the doctor reminds him that contraceptives are satisfactory, that abortion is available up to twenty-two weeks gestation, and he might come to regret this later when the pain settles in, Nanami Kento will not change his mind. Not even when you, his beautiful wife, argued, pleaded, with him. 

You resented the thought of not being able to give him the big family he’s always dreamed of, but how could he possibly tell you, through your tears and the quiet suckling of the nursing baby in your arms, that you’ve already given him everything he could ever want?

That it isn’t a big family he wants but rather, simply, a family with you. 

Years of giving you everything you’ve ever wanted makes this one act extremely uncomfortable; defying you goes against his nature, after all. But he sees no other way to go about this. Perhaps it's just better to ask for forgiveness than approval on select occasions.

The pregnancy had been hard. The labour even harder. Lasting longer than twenty hours, the nurses and doctors rushed around, beelining in and out of your room with all sorts of expressions on their faces, ranging from professional sternness to mild worry to pure panic, all reflecting the emotions he wore on his own face as he waited outside. 

At first, things went smoothly — the overnight bag was ready by the door, your contractions were consistent and you were both able to get ahead of your water breakage. He was by your side throughout it all, holding your hand, brushing your hair back, going through breathing exercises, and giving you encouragements. 

You were anxious but excited, rattling off baby names as back-up plans in case the baby was 'giving off a different vibe,' worrying about the crib you both picked out, the colour of her room, and trying to remember every single advice you heard from your experienced friends. “What was it babies can’t have until much later? Ugh, I can’t remember now. It was something I really like and was super bummed I can’t let her taste until like centuries later. “

“Honey?”

“Yes, dear?” You grinned at him.

His lips twitched.

“That’s all I get? I thought that was hilarious.”

He wiped the sweat off your forehead. “It was very funny, my love. I hope our baby gets your sense of humour. She’ll make for a successful clown.”

The eye roll you gave him, for one happy moment, convinced him that this labour was going to be just as they said.

There was nothing to be concerned about. Your tests were clean, there’s no history of complications, you followed the recommended diet and have been diligent with the vitamins. It was just going to be your standard birth and they have years of experience.

You’re in safe hands.

So why were you straining for so long?

Why were you screaming through gritted teeth, threatening to break every bone in his hand?

Why was he growing dizzy at the sight of your shaking body?

“Just breathe, sweetheart, alright? Breathe for me.”

You tried. You tried so hard. “Yes, y-yes, I am. Oh, fuck, Kento, it hurts. It really hurts.”

“I know, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.” Mouth dry, face flushed, and voice broken, he could only mutter empty promises. A true failure of a husband, unable to do a single thing to alleviate your pain. “Hang in there, please. They’ll sort it out. It’s all going to be fine.”

The nurses began whispering among themselves, too hushed and hurried for him to understand. "Is everything alright? What's happening?"

More people came in, crowding the bed and pushing him away. He tried to tell them you needed him by your side, that you needed something to hold, someone to keep your hair out of your face. He was being escorted out, wordlessly.

"Ken? Wait, don't leave. I'm scared." Your hand was outstretched and he fought, against better judgement, to hold it just for a second to soothe your worries. They didn't let him.

"It's okay, sweetheart. T-they're going to take care of you."

Hours flew by. He paced the floor, and answered all the messages and calls he received from worried loved ones with responses he didn’t really believe in but knew he had to: ‘she’ll be fine,’ ‘she’s in good hands,’ and ‘it’s probably nothing.’

Sitting on a cold, hard bench, in a large waiting room with people he could only hope weren't in the same position as him, Kento couldn't sleep. Instead, he listened to the incessant ticking of the clock, the dull thrumming of the TV in the corner, and the monotone voices of nurses talking among themselves.

He wasn’t in the room when your baby was finally out, missing out on her first cry, on watching that instant connection you talk about form, on being able to thank you.

They only beckoned him in with relieved smiles some time later. Finally, he could see you, could hold you, tell you how amazing you are. And he did. He held the baby too, small, beautiful, unable to even open her eyes, but had a great set of lungs on her, just like her mother. 

“Oh, sweetheart. She looks just like you,” he breathed out. 

You didn’t reply, couldn’t look at him, couldn’t smile. You simply held his hand and gave him a reassuring squeeze. The feeling of your cold, clammy hand weak and quivering like you were holding onto a thin rope just so you could say goodbye will forever haunt him.

"Sweetheart? What's wrong, love?" He turned to the nurses, tried to meet their eyes. "What's happening to my wife?"

The events after that were hectic and Kento, try as he might, couldn’t piece together what happened. Rapid beating and beeping, sudden shouts, baby taken away, and he was pushed out of the room. The last glimpse he had of his wife, the last glimpse he thought he would have forever, was of her spasming on the bed, surrounded by strangers in masks and stained robes. 

Alone.

Terrified.

Failed by her husband. 

Never again, Kento swore. Never again will he put you through that, the pain, the suffering, the fear. He’ll never drive you to the edge of life and allow you to teeter on your own. If it’ll be anyone, it’ll be him. It has to be.

You survived this time and he’ll do everything in his power to make sure there isn’t a next time — he’s not sure he could step up and be the father your baby needs without you.

His hand still shakes.

In his sleep, at his absolute worst, he hears your screams, holds your limp body, and grieves your presence. He's ashamed to admit he couldn't pick his baby up for days after, that he had let dark circles grow, allowed darker thoughts to permeate his mind, consuming him.

How could he possibly look in his little girl's eyes and know she almost lost her mother? That in a split second, everything you two built together could have burned down in front of him? That when it mattered most, he was powerless as a man, as a husband, and as a father?

"You've been washing the same plate for five minutes, Ken. I think you need more sleep," you said, hugging him from behind.

He had wandered into his mind again, running on autopilot as he washed the dishes. Clearing his throat, he forced a smoothness into his voice. "Yes, you're probably right."

"Are you still thinking about going to the doctors?"

"Yes."

You sighed. "I'll be okay, Kento. You don't need to do that. We're going to be fine. Let's just live as we always did and let the universe take us where we need to."

Wet hands clutched your dry ones. There was a firmness to them, unyielding and tight. When he spoke, his tone commanded attention, rendering you as silent as the baby sleeping in her crib. He didn't turn around, likely couldn't, for he knew if he did, his resolve might just crumble.

"I won't leave your life in the hands of anyone else. I refuse. Your life holds more value to me than my own and I will not spend it so carelessly, leaving it in the hands of the universe or God or whomever else. I can't see you go through...that again. I can't. I w-wouldn't survive it. And I know you want more children because you think that's what I want, but sweetheart, I need you. I need you. You may never understand what I mean and that's alright. The life we have is good. It's perfect. I can't risk it. I won't. So, I'm sorry but I don't think there's anything you can say to change my mind."

Pressing a kiss in between his shoulder blades, you said, "I know."

Unending, your patience is commendable — you don't grouch when he wakes you up in the middle of the night just to make sure you’re still breathing or get irritated when he insists on carrying the heavy lifting around the house.

He took off more time out of work, desiring nothing more than staying at home so he can keep you fed, can take care of the baby whilst you catch up on sleep, and help you shower on unsteady legs.

Every moment, every kiss on his knuckles, every brush of your hand on his cheek, every admission of love bears a thousand times more weight now. The persistent crying in the middle of the night, the mess, the diaper-changes, the vomit on his clothes don't frustrate him; they're a mark of what you and him had fought so hard for.

This is the family he’s always wanted. The family he must protect. 

And damn it all if he lets it, you, slip away. 

So, he says, calmly and with the most certainty anyone can muster, “Yes, I’m sure.”

Jello! Had some time to make this since my exam was pushed later. Sorry for yet another angsty piece, I just couldn't get the idea out of my head. It's very rushed, as I'm sure you can tell. I think I'm a little out of practice cause it's been almost a week since I last wrote something

Well anyways, this is just a snack to keep you guys fed whilst you wait for me on the other side

Blessing and good tidings y'all

LONG LIVE THE VILLAINESS !

amidst the tale of sweetest love and bitterest revenge, the fallen empress is cast back ten years into the past to correct her sins and avoid eternal damnation, even at the price of betraying her once husband, the very cause of her downfall.

♱ pairings. gojo satoru, fem!reader

♱ genre. enemies-to-lovers, period piece, medieval au

♱ tags. ooc, regression, crown prince!gojo, noble lady!reader, politics, classism, clan wars, religion (catholicism), misogyny, violence, war, rebellion, suggestive, smut, gore, double life, explicit language, more to be added

♱ notes. this fic draws heavy inspirations from the webnovel ‘sister, i am the queen in this life’ and manhwa of the same name. it’s basically a fanfic of that series bc i am obsessed with it :’D

♱ status. on-going (slow updates)

♱ SECOND TIMELINE TO AS YOU LIKE IT ♱

PROLOGUE.

ACT I. THE LADY

ACT II. THE CROWN PRINCE

ACT III. THE KNIGHT

ACT IV. THE STAR CROSSED LOVERS

ACT V. THE BLESSED

ACT VI. THE SIN

ACT VII. THE REVELATION

ACT VIII. THE ENEMY

ACT IX. THE LOVER

ACT X. THE EMPRESS

EPILOGUE.

PROLOGUE 

Like plunging beneath the surface of water and then, abruptly, breaking through to the air above—your body jolted as if awakening in a new world altogether. You drew in a long breath, your eyes fluttering open to reveal the ceiling, both familiar yet unfamiliar in its greeting. Swiftly, you surveyed your surroundings, noting with growing recognition the confines of your old room within the De Roma estate. The estate! 

You were not in the palace of Caelum, but in the estate of House De Roma. A surge of realization flooded through you as you dashed towards the nearest mirror, confronting your reflection with wide, startled eyes. 

No... could it be... that you have returned to your body, ten years prior?!

In the mirror, the reflection staring back at you was not that of the notorious wife of the tyrant Emperor Satoru, but of a 20-year-old maiden, the eldest daughter of Duke de Roma, with fuller cheeks and a more youthful appearance. You could not shake the feeling of disbelief, wondering if this was all just a dream, so you reached out to touch your arms and felt the flesh beneath your fingers, trying to convince yourself that this was an unexpected reality.

Oh, you were back. You found yourself returned to your former self, a decade younger, but now armed with the knowledge of your past life's actions and their consequences. Alongside this newfound understanding, the gift of clairvoyance had also been bestowed upon you.

And for what? Why had the heavens above returned you to your body? Was it for revenge, a second chance, or perhaps punishment?

Suddenly, a loud, deafening sound pierced your ears, and a blinding white light enveloped your vision. Your body became as still as a statue, and it felt as though your soul was transported to a fourth dimension where divine intervention seemed a lot more plausible to exist.

As your soul hovered in the liminal space between life and death, you found yourself standing before a figure cloaked in billowing robes, her presence commanding and her gaze piercing. This figure was Fortuna, the ancient Caelan goddess of fortune and fate, her visage austere and unforgiving.

“Are you aware of the sins that stain your soul?” 

“Have you felt the weight of your transgressions, the consequences of your actions that have wrought suffering upon your people and brought ruin to your empire?”

Her voice echoed through the realm with the divine judgment that weighed upon your conscience, while her gaze penetrated to the core of your being and demanded honesty and accountability in the face of your past misdeeds.

“Will you atone for your sins?” 

“Will you seize this opportunity for redemption, or will you squander it in self-pity and remorse?”

As you stood in the presence of the ancient goddess, grappling with the heaviness of your sins and the daunting task ahead, a brilliant light had all of a sudden illuminated the space around you. From the heart of this radiant glow emerged the figure of Archangel Raphael, his presence heralded by a chorus of angelical voices and the stirring of celestial winds.

Clad in robes that seemed to shimmer with the intensity of celestial light, Archangel Raphael's presence commanded attention, his wings unfurled behind him in a display of resolute authority. If Goddess Fortuna was intimidating, the archangel was fearsome all the more. His gaze, intense and penetrating, swept over you with a gravity that left no room for evasion or deceit.

“Empress of Caelum,” he spoke, his tone firm and unyielding, and his voice carrying a billion years of heavenly existence, “You stand accused of grievous sins, crimes that have shaken the very foundations of your empire and brought suffering upon your people.”

There was no trace of softness in Archangel Raphael's demeanor, no room for mercy in the face of wrongdoing. His presence was a testament to the uncompromising nature of divine justice, his strictness a reflection of the solemn duty entrusted to him as an Archangel of the Almighty. This, no doubt, was the face of a true and formidable executor of justice.

And you, the subject, had angered the divine beings that guarded the Caelan Empire, so much so that God himself sent the goddess of the land and one of his archangels to mitigate your rightful punishment.

“By the decree of the Almighty, you are granted a second chance to amend your sins and redeem your soul. You shall return to the mortal realm, to live your life anew and correct the sins that have stained your soul.”

“Should you fail to rectify your past transgressions, should you stray from the path of righteousness and succumb once more to the temptations of darkness, know that the consequences shall be severe and eternal.”

“For those who squander the gift of divine mercy shall be cast into the deepest depths of hell, where they shall endure a punishment of unending torment and suffering.”

In the presence of Archangel Raphael and Goddess Fortuna’s equally stern gazes, you were keenly aware of the magnitude of your transgressions and the severity of the judgment that awaited you. But even as you trembled beneath the weight of their scrutiny, you knew that their presence also offered you the opportunity for redemption, with your only task to prove yourself worthy of divine mercy.

Indeed, it was by your very hands that hundreds and thousands of Christian souls shed their blood. Innocent lives, both young and old, were cruelly taken at your command. The citizens of Caelum who fell sick from the spread of the plague. The esteemed Caelan advisors of your husband’s primogenitors, skinned alive and speared in pikes by the Tiber River. The wrongly accused maid who suffered the indignity of serving your husband, paraded unclothed through the streets and subjected to the brutality of the pear of anguish. The gallant and dignified knight, tortured mentally and physically in the atrocious dungeon. Now, you find yourself thrust back into the horrors of your former life ten years hence. A life of a noble lady who ought not to be blinded by her destructive love for the empire’s crown prince. 

Yet, could you truly navigate this life without ascending to the position as his empress?

As you tried to commune with the divine beings afore you, a haze in your vision transported you away from the heavenly space, realizing that you were already drawn back into the reality of your chamber, inhabiting the youthful frame of a twenty-year-old daughter of a duke. You found yourself too astonished to move, too shaken to speak, and too afraid to take any action in this new lease of life blessed upon you. At that very moment, your state of reverie was disrupted at the arrival of your maid, who entered your chamber in a humble servant garb.

Milena. The maid whose life was cut short by your hand in your past existence due to petty thievery. “My lady,” she spoke with a hint of respect and urgency, unaware of the ill-fate you had given her in your past life, “A visitor has arrived at the gates and requests an audience with you. Shall I show them in?” 

Too soon? Need it truly be so soon to engage with the people from your past life immediately after awakening to your old, yet younger body? Gazing upon your maid through the mirror, you asked, “Who is that intruder you speak of?” 

She bowed her head, her stance shifting into one of apologetic deference. The way she firmly stood by your door was a message to you that the intruder was not someone you could easily reject the presence of.

“The visitor is His Highness, Crown Prince Satoru.” 

⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊶⊶⊶⊶⊶♱⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷

finally I got them all

OF FLESH SIN

vampire priest x reader | 18+ | 2.6k

a ghastly sight!

one of the monastery's beloved priests has been found brutally murdered and disfigured in his chambers. father shaw, a newer addition to the monastery, claims to have answers to sate your reaching curiosity—but he wishes for you to come to his chambers at night.

warnings; dark content; yandere/obsessive behavior; manipulation; murder; body horror; graphic descriptions of gore towards the end; briefly mentioned animal death; obvious religious overtones; prose & detail heav; historically inaccurate depictions of monastery life—i am aware; roughly proofread

reposted from my deleted blog @/shehungers

if this is something you enjoyed, it would totally mean the world to hear your thoughts and have a lil' reblog 🥺💖

Father Marius died in quite some awful way last night, as reported to you by the nuns hanging fresh washed garments on the clothesline in the waning, purpling daylight.

“A look of horror! Utter terror! So frightened that his jaw had become dislocated in forever a scream,” shivered one young nun, Lucy; recently a convert from the slums. “I, well, I didn't see it myself. Neither did the rest of us, actually. They say it was that new Father Shaw who found him at dawn.”

You had been raking gravel out of the yard, tiny stones kicked off of the path into the kempt lawn by prancing horses and wagon wheels, when Lucy and the other nun, Esme, had caught your attention with their dense gossip.

They regarded your approach with less caution than they would have had with their other Sisters, as gossip was deemed inappropriate, a violation, a flickering serpent’s tongue carrying covert temptations leading to luscious sins and debauchery.

They saw you—poor, morose, the groundskeeper's only child and reminder of loveless trysts—and thought nothing of snaking you into their prattle. You were not the sort to divulge anyone's secrets without gain, without reward, and you knew that the nuns kept nothing to their names once they took their vows and donned their habits.

“Father Shaw,” you continued the discussion with some intrigue, mostly from the fact that he was very new, very young, and modestly handsome, “why was he awake so early? Why was he in Father Marius’ chambers? Curious to me.”

Neither of them gave much caution to your questions, shrugging as if to dismiss your ambivalence and accusatory tone. You were bold in the way that the faithless and lost always tended to be: asking senseless things, always concerned with the wrongdoings of others, always suspicious, always inquiring—forever inquiring.

“Oh, my, you're so defensive,” Esme fanned a yellow bedspread out with an oncoming breeze, catching the wind beneath the fabric so it billowed and rippled midair. “If that’s how you're going to be, then: why does your father stumble around the yard at night with a lantern, swinging around a pistol like a madman? Won't he hurt someone?”

Because he's a godless, superstitious drunk. Perhaps, even, a bit disturbed in his mind, but you couldn't bear to think that way, that he might be the type to need his head locked in a metal cage, gagged, arms bound, and padlocked in some damp, distant corner of an asylum.

“He's a good man,” you relented, taking your hands from the top of the smoothed out, worn handle of the rake and resumed your task. The gravel made an awful, coarse sound as the teeth of the rake collected pieces of stone and led it back to the rest. “He's served this monastery well. I don't mean offense about Father Shaw, I'm simply curious about what transpired is all.”

“No offense taken,” came a voice from behind, startling both the twittering nuns and yourself at the same time. They saw it to be Father Shaw standing there, hands cuffed behind his back with a particularly demure disposition, hiked their skirts and whisked themselves away back inside. “Ah, am I really such a frightful figure? I couldn't really find an opening during your conversation to invite myself in. I apologize.”

You were of a similar fretful nature, quickening your clawing and the reach of the rake. “Nay, Father. I think it's simply because you're a strange man to them still. A handsome face, a warm voice—mysterious. Give them time. They'll come around.”

“Have you?” Father Shaw asked, taking measured strides in a half-circle around to your front. He concentrated on where the teeth of your instrument struck next, tips temporarily wedged into the soft dirt before being ripped up with chunks of earth and gray gravel. “It wouldn't do for me if you… were still ill at ease with me as well. I consider you my one, true friend in this place.”

Your father held a certain destestation towards Father Shaw that you'd never witnessed before, saying nothing else than that something was terribly wrong with him and not to place yourself in a position to be alone with him. This you attributed to his unsoundness, but it was always the sudden flicker of a sharp breath against candlelight—a jarring shift in his demeanor when he spoke about the Father. He'd grow neurotic and throw things about the cottage interior, convincing you to pay some mind to what he was saying.

“And, you're a great friend of mine as well.” You’d hoped you sounded coherent and paced your words evenly enough. “I'm sorry if you thought I was accusing you of something, sir. I really meant nothing to it.”

Father Shaw’s lips sprawled tight and pale into a fond smile, never showing his teeth, though the imprint of them seemed massive and the skin of his lips startlingly thin across them. “I know. You have nothing to fear. My feelings were not affected. If you'd like, come to my chambers later, we may pray together first, and I'll tell you everything you wish to know about what I saw to sate your curiosity.”

“That seems improper, sir.” you said.

“How so?”

“Inviting someone to your chambers at night seems an unbecoming venture for a pious man of status, such as yourself,” you continued, now standing upright beside your rake, “if any of the sisters were to witness it, worse another priest, aren't you afraid you'd be horribly chastised? Even worse, excommunicated altogether?”

Although Father Shaw’s dark eyes reflected no light, holding such demanding depth to them that it was hard to keep your bearings whenever you realized you'd been staring, his entire face was alight in amusement.

“Wherever did you learn to speak like that?” he asked candidly, still glowing despite his pallor. “Forgive me when I say, but your father is not an educated man. I mean no offense, please don't look at me in such a way. You are so well spoken, I only wish to know more about you.”

“I've lived here my entire life,” you told him. “The nuns taught me how to read.”

He looked impressed. “You can read?”

“I can!” From a near distance, you could make out your father’s haddard form, bent sideways on a walking cane and limping towards the pair of you. You looked up at the priest’s smooth face. “It'd be best for you to leave before my father can speak to you. He isn't the kindest soul after a long day.

Father Shaw didn't react with any semblance of worry, but agreed that there were other things needing to be done and began away. Just as he passed you on his way towards the monastery, he let his hand rest atop of your shoulder and leaned you towards him to whisper in your ear: “come to me tonight. I'll be waiting for you.”

There was something so luxurious and cooling about his voice, like fine silks sitting in the shade during autumn gliding across your bare skin, wrapping your neck, your chest, your nether parts. His voice was a fine, chilly mist after the first rains in spring which felt refreshing and new after a glacial winter, yet still had capacity to soak you to the bone. It was a nighttime breeze caressing your cheek, sweeping through the hairs of your scalp, making your skin burst all over with bumps.

“I don't like the way he looks at you,” said your father with a mouthful of porridge you'd seasoned with proper herbs. It was wonderfully fragrant and warm during nights that were still a bit too uncomfortable to sip anything cold. “He looks at you like you're a slab of meat! Some prize after a hunt. I don't like him, love. Not one bit. You'd do well to stay to mind yourself and do your chores and nothing else, y’hear?”

After dinner, you cleaned up, swept the floors with hard bristles, and snuffed all the lights except for the fireplace where your father sat in his old chair, fiddling with his favorite pistol.

“It's time for bed, old man.” You watched him fit a couple of small bullets into the loading chamber. They glinted against the orange flames. “Goodness. What have you gotten this time? Something new?”

“Aye!” he grinned, nearly toothless and in a sickly sort of way. “Went to market the other day while the nuns bullied you and picked out some fine bullets from the silversmith.” He cracked the two halves of the pistol shut. “Better to be prepared.”

You waited until sometime later once he was finally asleep, possibly after midnight, before leaving the humble cottage sitting on the fringes of the massive monastery yard and rushing across the grounds to get inside.

Once, they'd kept a guard dog on the property, one of those meaner breeds that were used for gambling, but the poor thing wound up shot dead in the middle of the night by a traveling friar who'd come to seek refuge at the monastery. The Sisters, and yourself, were horribly distraught by the entire ordeal and all vetoed the consideration of bringing another dog here.

Since then, it was no task for you (or anyone else) to get inside the building and shuffle along the shadows through the corridors. At night, the place stirred with patient insects, feral rodents large and small in the pantry, and hungry owls tamely whining from the rafters when something startled them away from their hunt of vermin.

Your feet were a light sound on the masonry below, padded by thin leather soles which alerted you to your enthusiasm as the thwap thwap thwap became louder, aggressive as you closed in on a wall and turned down another hallway for a sturdy wood door at the end of it.

As your knuckles rapped, hoping the sound wouldn't disturb the animals’ nighttime caroling, a swift darkness moved across the floor from behind the door, briefly blocking out the soft light seeping out from underneath.

The next moment, you were being pulled inside and sat at a small table tucked to the side of Father Shaw’s rather generous room. It was a simple space sparsely furnished for the barest of comforts—only for what was needed to live—but what had been made for him was of exquisite craftsmanship, some made of teakwood, which Shaw assured you was remarkably durable and highly resistant to rotting.

“It's wonderful for boats,” he said, pouring a light amber colored brew from a metal kettle he'd heated a short while ago. “It’s good for all elements, really. Exceptional longevity. I've heard it has become a popular option in the city for burying the deceased.”

“Will Father Marius be buried in a teakwood coffin, then?” you asked, sipping politely from the cup even though you had no appetite for it. You already felt ill at ease enough having disobeyed your father by sneaking into a priest's personal chambers at night. The things the Sisters would say about you—

“He will be entombed underneath the monastery with the rest who have served here and passed. I believe that is all stone down there, my dear.” Father Shaw smiled tepidly, kettle aside, no tea of his own. “But, I know that your curiosity led you here to me with questions, yes? About the state I found Father Marius in, yes?”

You tried to disguise your intrigue by drinking more of the tea, of whatever it was he had given you, and listened to the sounds of your fingertips sticking to the porcelain from sweat and steam.

“If you wouldn't mind sharing…”

“I wouldn't!” he leaned on his arms on the table, closer towards you as though with a secret. “As I've said, you are truly the only soul here who I can confide in. You are not a sheep. And you do not fear sin as the rest do. So, you can ask me anything and I'll tell you everything.”

“Tell me about Father Marius, then.”

Father Shaw reached across the table for one of your hands; his far larger, fingers much longer and colder than your own and held it as he recounted the event.

“Dreadful sight, it was. It was, oh, perhaps sometime after three o'clock when I heard a massive racket. A struggle. When I knocked, all of the noise subsided at once and there was complete stillness. Silence, my dear, silence so deep, dark, and damning that I knew something awful had happened.

“I didn't knock again, I was too afraid to! But, Father Marius was getting on in age, so I couldn't just stand by, either. I kicked the door in—just once was all it took—and I rushed inside to see the room was a complete mess. A fight had clearly taken place, and the walls—oh, the walls—”

His remorse was carefully placed, stiff, and uncertain and he couldn't be seen in the vastness of his black gaze. You were moved by the vulnerability he was trying to show you, going as far to abandon your drink to place your warm hand on top of his.

“The walls, my dear, were a mess of blood. Something vicious and awful had happened in that room. But, then, I found Father Marius lying there on the ground next to a broken window. I think he'd tried to throw himself through it. His face was shredded to pieces, his eyes gouged. When I got closer, I noticed that his tongue had been severed from his head!”

You were holding Father Shaw’s hands in a bloodless grip, face ashen, teeth chattering behind your lips. “What on earth! That is not only horror, but cruelty!”

“Oh, my love, it gets worse!” Father Shaw held you mesmerized in his gaze, the conviction and anguish with which he told his story. “Closer still, Father Marius’ face was locked in one of pure terror, I've—I’ve never seen a human react in quite a way such as that before, to fear. The man unhinged his own jaw in a hideous scream, and it seemed to me he was skeletal. By that, it's like he was, well, quite dry.

“So, I crouched down so much lower and inspected him all over. Do you want to know what I found?”

“Yes.” You spoke breathlessly.

Father Shaw had moved out of his seat and was on one knee in front of you, both of his frigid hands on your face to smooth across your cheeks, pushing away pieces of hair obscuring some part of you he'd wanted to see.

“My love, I saw marks in his neck. Two, beautifully, wonderfully symmetrical marks that were far too clean to be of any animal that we know of. The bite was clean, it was patient and cunning. And the fangs that had sunk into his tender flesh had drained him of blood, of the very essence that kept his heart beating until the very last.”

“Sir—” your stomach plummeted, falling forever, when he smiled, teeth longer than any humans should be shown through to you. He wouldn't let you go when you went to move out of his hands, away from him. “Father Shaw, please—”

“I wish you could have seen it, my love. It was a breathtaking sight and I long for someone else to admire the beauty of my work alongside me.”

It was unthinkable that a vampire could walk on these holy grounds and in the bright of day, yet Father Shaw had for countless days. Evil held you sweetly by the cheek and in your hair, kissed you with a corpse’s cold lips, and laved the skin of your skin with a long, serpentine tongue.

“O’, my merciful lord…”

Father Shaw bent your head back with a fistful of hair and spoke from your throat:

“There is no God, only me. Come into the endless night with me, my love.”

i. PROLOGUE

as an arranged marriage to a woman he doesn’t want looms over him, gojo satoru resolves to seize control of his destiny by marrying the very first woman he sees—a disgraced aristocrat from an enemy family who happens to be mute. as political ties unravel, will this ruse succeed or ultimately cost him his life? 

warnings: mentions of injuries, war, captives, mentions of alcohol, o/ral s/ex, mentions of death, misogyny, forced marriage, p/rostitution, MDNI

masterlist 🧵 playlist

Gojo Satoru was a Lord not in need of a wife.

Arrogant and hubristic, he led life as a fool—simple, filled with pleasure and lacking no responsibility.

As such, brothels, handmaids and ruining aristocratic ladies were all his favorite pastimes. 

In this very moment, his vices were no different. 

The scion to the Gojo clan, a man with white hair and cerulean blue eyes the exact hue of the sea from which his family’s sustenance derives from, flickered them onto the woman poised between his thighs. 

She was a whore or some other, hired for pleasure and a respite from the thoughts whirling in his mind. He barely paid her lewd suckling and theatric moans any mind, sensing that it was done with the intent to gleam a bigger tip by the end of the night.

Rather, he sank back into the paltry futon, gaze towards the ceiling while she tongued his balls.

A question bubbled in the back of his mind, tiptoeing to the edge of his tongue where he exhales it with little fanfare. 

“Do you believe in true love?”

The woman paused, and he almost laughed at the glimmer of uncertainty coruscating in her gaze. “I beg your pardon, my Lord?”

He recognized that barely-there look on her face, that one sliver of determination mingling with the throes of forced lust she made herself believe she carried for him, if not to ease her suffering for one night.

“I asked if you believed in true love?”

A beat of silence that was louder than the schlicking of her mouth bobbing up and down his length. He discovers a second too late that she wasn’t as pretty as the lighting made her out to be and waves her away. Recognizing that she was being dismissed, the whore stands and tightens her obi, bowing low to him.

“Shall I anticipate you for next week as well, Master Gojo?”

Reverent and demure. He senses it was not due to his status but the clanking of coins in his pouch which caught her attention like the darting of silverfish in a foggy lake. He removes a golden piece and tosses it to her, narrowly missing her eye as she scrambles to catch it clumsily with both hands.

“Same time,” he drawls and stands up, making himself decent once more. The whore bows low and he pulls back the den’s curtain, making his way to the front. He does not have to wander far to encounter the stench of disapproval that mingles with the heady curls of opium smoke in the air.

Right at the door, wearing a frown that gleamed as brightly as his ebony robes, was his right-hand man.

Geto Suguru eyes him with open disdain and Satoru grins, raising his hands in mock surrender. “You found me, Sugu.” Not appreciating his tone or the abbreviation of his name, Suguru snorted and motioned towards the front door.

“This is the last time I am saving you behind from your councilmen, Satoru,” he starts on his churlish tirade, one that the young lord had heard many, many times. “The gathering is in full swing. What will people say when their great Lord is missing?”

Satoru’s snort pierced through a drizzle that clung to the tips of his brilliant white locks. “Now you sound exactly like General Nanami, Sugu.” At the mention of the stoic, aloof, and often unsmiling samurai who had retired from his life of serving the Gojo clan to live safely in the hills, Suguru physically bristled.

“At least Nanami was paid to handle your foolish ass.” Geto sighs, pinching his brow with his thumb and forefinger. “Come on. Let us go or else we will be late.”

Satoru strides to his great white steed, hauling himself over the stallion’s back. 

“Now, Sugu. You are being quite the downer tonight.”

Suguru sighs. “I cannot help it. Tonight is when the great Lord Kozume will sign over his district to be under the Gojo rule, is it not?” 

Despite his reckless approach to life, Satoru remains aware of his fief’s happenings, and this is an unprecedented event which marks a new chapter into his rule.

Kicking Mumu into a trot, Satoru sighs.

“Yes. And uncle will be there, too. No doubt trying to force my hand into taking a wife tonight.” 

At the mention of the great, stoic Michizane Gojo with his blustering white beard and piercing blue eyes trying to force his nephew to marry, Suguru chuckles.

“If there’s one thing your uncle is, it is consistent.”

“And annoying,” Satoru quips, already wishing he had not stopped that whore from making him cum. Maybe he would feel more relaxed by now. 

His mind drifts, and he recalls everything that has happened to make today one for the history annals.

A messenger stumbles in, covered head to toe in blood. 

He’s unannounced, and Gojo has his katana out, ready for the first sign of danger and betrayal from any man. 

But, the grisly older warrior does not flourish his sword; he sinks to his knees, holding his bleeding abdomen and a crumpled piece of paper in his trembling hand. 

“My Lord,” he gasps and flourishes the scroll for his liege to take it. 

Gojo immediately stands, any trace of his defensiveness melting off like frost when he unravels the scroll with shaky hands. His eyes widened. The enemy camps from beyond his threshold suddenly become like toys in his hands; easy to grasp and smash. 

“They have surrendered,” he breathes out. The messenger curls his forehead to the floor, nearly sobbing. 

“Long live your rule, Gojo-sama,” he tolls, loudly enough for his generals to come rushing into his war camp. Suguru is the first to grab the scroll from Satoru’s hand, and he too, is rendered silent from the sudden shift in their fates.

“Unbelievable,” the dark-haired general swears. 

His second peers over the Lord’s great shoulders and gasps. 

“Nagamachi has fallen,” Satoru announces through trembling lips. He turns to his men, his most loyal followers and who never once doubted his ability to expand the Gojo empire.

“We can all go home.”

Puddles of liquor and puke scatter on the tatami floors, and Satoru wrinkles his nose in disgust when he approaches the dais.

The men of his army could celebrate as well as they held a fight; brazenly crying out his name in exuberance and clinking their sake glasses together. 

To Satoru! They cried. May his reign be ever long and prosperous! 

Gojo takes his position on the dais, and reclines, accepting a cup of sake from one of his generals. 

The man wears a smile so big, Gojo wonders how it doesn’t split his face.

“Your uncle is not yet here,” Suguru informs, taking a seat next to him and picking up a cup of the sweet, fermented alcohol to sip on. The fumes burn his nose and he frowns, not liking the taste. 

Suguru has always been the more uptight between the two of them; where Satoru indulges, his friend restrains. Satoru reacts, Suguru observes. 

Tonight, Suguru is his eyes and ears, peeling his attention around the room. Though merry men were no threat, the danger has not yet subsided. 

These Nagamachi warriors could turn on them anytime; the frail peace treaty ending in blood. 

Satoru leans back, and pretends to look interested in this turn of events. However, the second he hears the drums announcing his uncle’s arrival, he straightens.

Michizane Gojo is a man with a love for theatrics. His torture methods insane, his court a fester of troublemakers and violent men. Though he disagrees with his uncle’s rule, he cannot overturn it—Michizane holds an army of men three times his own and could destroy his part of the fief with a flick of his finger.

Tall, and with an imposing air that would make the harshest samurai tremble, Michizane strides into the drawing room.  And he is not alone. 

Head down, hand in cuffs and trudging behind him, the leader of the Nagamachi warriors wears a blackened eye and bruised cheeks. The gathering is free of women and children, so the men could indulge in cruelty till the morning sun rose. However, a slighter figure behind the man catches his eye, and Gojo feels a curdling disgust rising inside of his chest.

Gojo understands that in this world of wars and conquering, one has to respect whoever is at the top. But, if it were not for the fact that this man was his uncle, Satoru would have ordered his men to drag him out, respect for the elderly be damned.

Because there is nothing respectable about what he sees right in front of him now. 

A young lady with her wrists bound follows behind the man, and unlike the other captive, her head is high, features turned obstinately to the light so every man could witness her disdain. She’s the sole woman here in this room, and the sight of her rouses every man—bloodhounds seeking to tear an injured bird apart.

Satoru stands and feels Geto stiffening beside him.

“Monster,” his friend whispers under his breath. Gojo has to agree.

The woman is shoved to her knees while the men remain standing. Her yukata, once a sign of her wealth and prosperity, is torn and with mud at the hem. If he looks closer, he can see her clenching her trembling hands, turning them to fists in front of her.

“Nephew,” Michizane stretches out his arms and Gojo reluctantly steps forward, receiving his uncle with a tight hug. “You are alive and have conquered the mountains. How proud I am of you.”

Gojo grits his teeth, finding the smell of opium and sake wafting off his uncle repulsive. 

Masking on a smile, he nods. “Thank you, uncle. Your support means everything to me under these circumstances.”

Standing at close to six feet, the old, wizened man was no different from his whorehound of a brother—Satoru’s father. Women of all ages were not exempted from his list of atrocious taste, lending to his fearsome reputation. 

Michizane bellows a laugh and gestures to the captives. “Why, I had a great time speaking to Lord Kozume. Or, shall I call him Kozume from now on.” Laughing at his own joke, the rest of the room chuckles, taking a leaf from his exuberance. Following suit, Gojo exhales a small laugh. 

“It seems you have done so, uncle.”

The great lord slaps a hand to his fat belly, chuckling to himself. “Well, what shall it be tonight? An execution? A wedding? A fight?” 

Always prepared for the worst, Gojo tries to steer the situation back into safer waters. There will be no more bloodshed for the foreseeable future; he was done smelling like the rusted tang for days on end. 

“Perhaps, a discussion,” he entreats. His uncle snorts, but indulges in his nephew’s whims, signalling for his men to cut through the ropes binding Lord Kozume and the woman. She curls into a ball the second her hands are free, forehead pressed to the floor, begging for mercy.

Kozume is far more prouder than her, and sits rigid, shaking his head when a cup is offered to him.

“No. I wish to be level-headed.” His voice is deep and low; commanding yet kind. The voice of a leader. 

Gojo blinks and remembers Suguru is beside him. He gestures to the girl and his general needs no more cues. Going to her side, Geto snaps his fingers for a cup of water and receives it from a servant; pushes it into her quivering hands. She straightens, and it disturbs him how red-rimmed her eyes are, and yet, she sheds no tears. 

Kozume does not wait for his cue. He continues. “The Nagamachi lands are yours. The fiefs are now part of the great Gojo house and I humbly ask you to spare the lives of my daughter and mine.” 

Satoru slides his gaze to the girl again. 

The old man winces, as if he’s in pain, and reaches for his daughter, grabbing her by the shoulders. This close, Gojo can see the fear in her eyes, how the corners of her lips tremble. 

By no means was he a naive man to the horrors of war, but he never had to witness an innocent’s expression up close. Satoru almost feels like the walls are closing in on him, and he tries to look away. But, something about her draws his attention back and back again—like a red splash of paint on a white cloth he cannot possibly ignore.

“Fine,” Michizane seats himself on the dais, looking down on the father and daughter. “Let us resume our discussion now with the eyes of every Gojo ancestor looking down upon us.”

At his words, the girl glances up, gazing upon the tapestries depicting the heroes of his boyhood, splashing across the ceiling as they continue on their bloody conquest to raise the emperor’s mark across the southern lands. She sees the blood, the mangled bodies, and drops her gaze; too close to the truth for comfort.

“My nephew, Satoru, as you know, is the head of the Gojo clan after his father’s death two years ago. He is in need of a wife and I have picked one out for him. The great Lady Ayako from a noble family under our flag.” Michizane glances at the girl. “Though you promised me your daughter is fair of face and from great blood, that blood now comes at a cost and I will not be at peace if she is under our roof. Hence, I have decided to wed her off to Lieutenant Luaya, who is one of the most fiercely loyal men I know.”

Gojo has to stop himself from physically recoiling. Luaya is a brute and a devil. He catches sight of the mentioned man puffing his chest out, looking pleased to be bestowed a blessing by the great Lord Michizane. She will never survive a night with him, Satoru thinks. In fact, none of his wives had ever survived for long.

His uncle was sending her right to her early grave. 

As if sensing the change in the room, the young woman raises her head, and sees Luaya who’s smiling at her; the glint of his canine teeth bouncing off the light from the sconces overhead reminds him of a wolf scenting fresh meat.

Satoru does not know what overcomes him—he is barely a kind or empathetic man. But, the punishment for Lord Kozume’s rebellion is far too much. 

He would have to watch by the sidelines as his daughter gets murdered in cold blood and that is no fair compensation for a man who readily surrendered to their forces. This inhumane treatment of their subjects had to come to a stop—Gojo would no longer stand for such cruelty his father and uncle perpetuated.

“Luaya will do no such thing.” Every eye in the room is on him as Satoru stands, crossing his arms right in front of him. The cup of sake hovering close to his uncle’s lips stops in mid-motion.

Whatever trick Michizane expects his nephew to pull, it was not this. 

“I shall wed her—Lord Kozume’s daughter.”

Those piercing blue eyes land right on your shocked face, unwavering and resolute. 

“We will be wed tonight.”

a/n: 👀 i hope u guys loved this new revamp of entangled !! it came to me as inspo from my recent trip to kyoto and i had to continue the bewitched universe for my sanity's sake lol

also if u didn't know, this series was previously discontinued due to low interaction and feedback, so if u want to see how gojo and y/n's story play out, please do consider dropping some feedback or a reblog to help keep the inspo going <3

©️lalunanymph. do not copy, repost or claim as your own. do not take elements from my story without prior permission.

gust & flame - masterlist

Eris Vanserra has been a prisoner in his own home since the day he was born. He has done what he had to in order to survive and protect the few he loves. And he is playing the long game. Waiting, waiting, and waiting for the right time to make his move, to usurp his wicked father and become High Lord of Autumn Court. But things become even more complicated when a human girl drops into his life. Perhaps Eris can wait no longer to take his throne.

--- takes place after the events in A Court of Silver Flames

🍁 Eris Vanserra x Reader

Chapter I || Chapter II || Chapter III || Chapter IV || Chapter V || Chapter VI || Chapter VII || Chapter VIII || Chapter IX || Chapter X || Chapter XI || Chapter XII || Chapter XIII || Chapter XIV || Chapter XV || Chapter XVI || Chapter XVII || Chapter XVIII || Chapter XIX ||

— pairing; fushiguro toji x reader ( with megumi fushiguro )

— summary; a sad, beautiful, tragic love affair.

— manga spoilers

Don’t say goodbye, you’d told your husband. Please.

And, perhaps understanding it was the last thing he could do for you, he’d kept silent.

You know that you’ll always replay the scene countless times in the years to come, each time thinking of different things you should have said and done.

But all you did was walk away without looking back.

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