Whats Your Type?

i have an idea… y’all wanna see ice skater!reader x hockey player!geto..?

Plausible deniability | Poly! Marauders; A. Dolohov:

Warnings: jealousy; the boys are kind of dicks in this one; reader is a certified smartass; my dialogue is pretencious as hell; Dolohov is a desperate flirt.

Your lads leave you alone at a party you took them to, so they won't care if you happen to dance with someone else. Right?

You had always been a good girlfriend.

Scratch that, you always were a great girlfriend.

And you knew that for a fact.

There wasn't one thing in this world you wouldn't do for your boyfriends. Your love for them was beyond any type of rational comprehension, to the point you had made yourself look stupid in front of others just because you adored them so much.

All those days you stayed back to reason with a teacher, or a prefect or with Filch and talk them out of murdering your beloved boys while those same lads were out running to save their own skin; All those times you went out of your way to fix expulsion-worthy mistakes they commited during a prank; All those nights you lost sleep so you could help them study for the incoming exams you knew they had been ignoring in favor of perfecting yet another grandious plan to humiliate the Slytherins.

That was how you told them you loved them.

And you did.

Not only did you simply love them, you showed them you loved them.

So why was it that everytime you looked at one of them from the small green and silver couch you were sitting on, they seemed to have one or ten other girls in their arms?

You took them to this party. You were the sole reason they had gotten in here in the first place.

Would it kill them to spend five minutes with you before going off to do Godric knows what with other girls?

No.

It wouldn't.

You weren't jealous. That wasn't the point. If that was the case you would have walked up to them, muttered some half-polite excuse to whichever person was flirting with them and pulled the boy to dance with you.

But that wasn't the problem.

The problem was that you always bended over backwards for them, to meet their desires, to make sure they were healthy, make sure they were comfortable, make sure they were always feeling their best. If something of theirs broke, you were there to fix it. If they couldn't understand something, you figured it out and explained it to them. If they needed help with anything, you were always there, at their corner, ready to help with whatever you could.

You had always been a show instead of tell kind of person.

Your problem was, they were tell but never show kind of people.

Not one of your boys ever hesitated to tell you that they loved you and that they couldn't live without you and that they'd do anything for you, but they never seemed to come through in any of those things.

And for most that you tried to brush it off as them simply being from a world different than yours, it bothered you to hell and back.

There was nothing you could do, and you knew it.

It would be no good to cause a scene and forever be branded as the crazy girlfriend, specially since you knew they made a habit of downplaying your discomfort when it came to the subject of them being overly affectionate with people who clearly had less than innocent intentions.

So you stood up as calmly as you could manage and slowly made your way to the little bar Zabini had set up.

Whiskey, beer, liquour and rum. One next to the other, all painfully dry. Perhaps if you could squeeze out a drip or two from each bottle you'd end up with a 1/16 of a full cup. But that wasn't enough for you. So you pulled back your hand, and just as you were trying your best to recall that fancy little spell that turned water into rum, the soft glow of light over glass caught your eye.

A bottle of vodka. The people in this party were visibly much more prudent than you could wish to be, for the bottle wasn't only untouched, but fully sealed and nearly glimmering under the dim reddish lighting that bathed the room, like a singing siren, lulling in the occasional unsuspecting sailor, the kind who was desperate enough to fall for her games.

Well, yo-ho, motherfucker.

Taking you newfound treasure into your hands, you poured the liquid into a whiskey glass, an inch and a half full over the bottom. And with no hesitation whatsoever, you took a long and patient sip, without even making a face.

- You know, dear, I have been standing next to this bar for half an hour. I've seen all those bottles be drained to the last drop, but not a single person was mad enough to consider touching my vodka. - The smell of the cologne that surrounded you as whoever that was leaned in to speak into your ear might as well have carried the stench of blood with it, because never in your life had you heard someone so painfully obvious in their villany speak in such a shamelessly ill-willed way. - I must commend you for your taste, красивая.

Antonin Dolohov.

Of course.

When did he ever miss a single chance to shark you?

Rhetoric question, the answer was never.

- I do enjoy the taste of nothingness and incoming hangovers quite a bit, thanks for the commendment. - Still staring into your glass, you pretended not to feel the way he very glaringly leaned into the spot you had pressed your perfume into just an hour ago. - Cheers, Dolohov. Good health to you.

He smiled wolfishly as he watched you empty that glass in one breath, walking around the table to stand as close to humanly possible to you. - As much as seeing you drink like this gives me hope that you will toss those three western boys and get with the one that could actually be your drinking partner, we should really get a dance in so I can tell you what is happening.

- Remind me again of why would I ever consider dancing with you...

- Because I know things that evolve not only you, bu you future in this lovely establishment you call home.

You scoffed: - Okay, Mr. Bond.

- I prefer Stierlitz, but Bond will do for now. - He gently took the empty glass from your hand, setting it on the table and slowly placing his massive hands on your waist, making sure to rub down the silk dress with his thumbs as he grinned at you. - Shall we, my dear?

- You better not be playing tricks on me, Antonin.

He immediately perked up at the slight softened tone you had emplyed, taking advantage of the opportunity to pull you closer as the both of you swayed to the upbeat madness of Siouxie and the Banshees. - Wow, first name basis again. Have you finally forgiven me, zaychik? Should I put your silk sheets back onto our bed?

- We were never in an empty room alone for more than two minutes, Dolohov. Let alone sleep together.

- You and I are meant to be, zaychik. You'll realize that sooner or later.

- You know I adore listening to your ravenous delusions, but cut to the chase, will you?

- Your wish is my command, my sweet. - You could feel James' eyes starting to search the area around you, and you couln't deny it hurt that he hadn't even noticed you weren't away being a wallflower anyomore. - A friend of mine has been fulfilling duty at Filch's office. He says that McGonagal and Slughorn have been going in and out of his office all day long, whispering secret messages, handing him suspecious papers with the ministry of magic seal, all sorts of things like that. So I told him to look into it.

- How wise of you.

- I knew you'd think so too, zaychik. - He had this strange habit of running the tip of his index finger up your spine and down your arms, and the fact that he was getting closer and closer didn't make you any less uncomfortable. - So anyhow, after Filch left, he found a paper near the burner and in this paper were your name and mine together, along with the names of all your ungrateful little lovers and the names of my friends.

- What the fuck?

- That's what I said. - He seemed genuinely amused by the fact you two held the same line of thinking, and it would've been actually a bit sweet to see him like that if your eyes didn't meet Sirius' for a split second. He did not seem happy. - What kind of paper would have the name of a two model students like you and I above a list of the most trouble-making and irresponsible people in the school?

- A paper that lists people who are either involved or facilitate riotous behaviour. The ministry wants to cut the tree by it's roots. You an I are fixers, casualties. They fuck up, we go there an make sure they're not expelled...

- Only so they can go and do it again as soon as the coast is clear. - He mumbled in an irritated tone just as the music shifted, and you had never felt so seen. - Cunts.

- You too?

- If you think trying to convince teachers that their favorite troublemakers shouldn't be thrown out of school, try arguing that same case for the students they despise the most.

- I can't fucking believe them.

- You and I are more similar than you would like to admit, my darling. That's why I'm warning you. That's why we should be together.

- You lost me at 'more similar than you'd like to admit'.

- Not even you can deny that we should join forces if we want those we care about not to be publicly humiliated. If we work together, and we find a way to invalidate whatever claims the ministry is trying to make, then we can save their arses and go along our lives knowing that we did the right thing while they were out being debils. - His eyes glimmered in hope as he watched you consider the offer, his hands pulling you flush into his body, so close that he could barely stand the warmth of your skin seeping through the layers of clothes that separated you. - What do you say, zaychik?

- You're right. I hate to admit it, but credit where credit is due. - Antonin could feel hilself swell up with pride, and he immediately took a step back, cordially raising a hand towards you like a proper gentleman.

- Pleasure doing business with you, little bunny. - Your hand met his as the both of you smiled, pretending you didn't hear Dolohov's heart beating out of his chest. - You have a plan?

- I have the begining of one.

- We could draw this plan out back in my dorm, perhaps I'll allow you some of my tsarskaya vodka.

- I'm not a whore.

- I wouldn't pay. - He grinned, seizing to sway for the first time and squeezing your hips in his hands.

- That's charming. Which Gangster did you steal that line from?

- It disappoints me that you don't know. It'll be my life's mission to educate you in soviet culture before we eventually get married. - You couldn't help but laugh. He was quite charming, and it felt nice to be noticed for once. But you were so invested in Antonin's back and forth jokes that you didn't notice Sirius calling for Rem and James. You didn't notice how mad they looked. And you definetly didn't notice that for the first time since they had gotten here, they were excusing himself off from the girls they had surrounded himself with. And they probably didn't notice that it was the first time in the night they had worried the slightest bit about you. - Oh, I love this song. You'll dance with me won't you? To celebrate our alliance.

- I should really get to to mapping out that plan. - You excused, drawing yourself back from him only for Dolohov to pull you right back.

- Oh, rumba. Sorry, you cannot escape a Frank Sinatra song.

- Is that so?

- You'll have to dance with me until another singer comes along. And I fear they just put on one of his longest records. - You laughed as he pulled you into him, guiding you through a performance of 'mind if I make love to you'. Your dress swirled around you, the iridescent fabric glowing under the light as he spun you around, and you felt glad you were here for the first time in the night. The same could not be said about the lads that watched as the two of you entretained yourselves.

You were in for it tonight.

Me,when it comes out:

I was there the day the strength of tumblr staff failed.

He dropped his breakfast 😔

Motherfuckin masterpiece 🤌✨✨

sincerely not | season one

↳ gojou satoru x f!reader

— series masterlist

summary. with an arranged marriage set in place, the sacred bond is doomed with a wife who wants to make the relationship work and a husband who’s ready to ruin it all. unbeknown to him, a tragic fate already lies within the pages of his romance book.

genre. heavy angst, arranged marriage, modern au, 18+

word count. 200k

fic warnings. mean!gojo, ooc, adultery/infidelity, profanity, explicit smut, violence, emotional trauma/physical abuse from past experiences, neglect, heavy family drama, illnesses, classism, pregnancy, undertones of masochism, undertones of manipulation, abandonment issues, overall toxic relationships, graphic depictions of self-harm, suicide/murder (and attempts thereof), minor character death, plot loosely based on twotm & tre. please read with proper discretion.

enjoyed the series? tip me on kofi <3

general masterlist + fic art + playlist + gallery + faqs

one + two + three + four + five + six + seven + eight + nine + ten + eleven + twelve + thirteen + fourteen + fifteen + sixteen + seventeen + eighteen + nineteen + twenty (final) + sequel

status: completed

all rights reserved © 2021 saintobio. please do not copy, repost, translate, or modify my works in any platform.

Conversation that Tumblr is not ready for:

A Vampire's fangs are also it's reproductive organs

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.