yandere prince! who you forgot could be as terrifying as he was right now.
"open the door [Name].." he whispered from the other side, and you nearly did.
god he was soo sweet right now, so ever lovingly gentle. and you knew. you knew that if you opened the door he would be nothing short of beautiful and sweet and everything you'd ever want him to be.
"i can hear you seeetheart, don't be scared, this isnt my blood anyway."
what a sickening thing to say. his blood or not you wouldn't be able to unsee the choked gurgling from the man your prince decided to partially decapitate.
"[Name], baby..don't fight with me please? I love you so fucking much, I would never hurt you and you know that.."
"I...you promise?"
Hook, line amd sinker.
"Just open the door i'll show you..."
You creaked the wooden board open by a sliver, Anoul immediately pulled you into his arms, uncaring that the blood from his clothes was melded into your chest now.
He didn't waste another second, pulling up your face into his lips and covering you in kisses. Rather bloody ones.
"My prince I–"
"My princess? Come." He cut you off by lifting you up and into the room you were just hiding in.
"[Name], you know you can never leave me, not even in death right?" His face was nose to nose with yours.
You didn't answer. Maybe because you didn't want to believe it, or maybe because you did.
♡ TW: implied noncon/dubcon, yandere, harassment/bullying, arranged marriage, infertility, 7-year age gap
♡ FEM reader
♡ P2: INMATE LABOR
There was much talk of you in the nine months before you were born.
With both your parents as dominant figures in the jujutsu world, it was prophesied that you were likely to inherit one of the most prominent curse techniques in all existence, one valued on the same scale as six eyes and limitless.
Satoru was seven years old when he was told you were to be his wife.
You weren’t even born yet, but he met with you through your mother's belly. He hadn’t said much to you then. After all, what was there to be said? He didn’t really want to marry a baby, nor did he have any idea what you’d grow into. But that wouldn’t have been proper to say, and he’d been schooled very thoroughly on what consequences might occur if he were to misbehave.
Your union would be one for the ages. To compromise it in any way would be unwise. After all, there’s no telling what would happen to the dynamic between clans when yet another special grade, such as himself, were to enter it. In many ways, your union would be a peace treaty. And even he, young and full of himself as he was, still understood the importance of that.
And so, he kept his mouth mostly shut, sipping his bitter black tea despite not really liking such things, watching you through the red wall of your mother’s womb, wondering if you might grow to overpower him one day—unsure whether he found the thought unpleasant or not.
People from every clan showed up to welcome you into the world when the time finally arrived, showing you the respect someone of your caliber deserves.
The moment you were born, the whole world fell silent. People held their breath, maids put their work on hold, the cicadas ceased their chirping as if in reverence of your coming, all ready to perceive the miracle. Even he, seven years old and already deemed the most powerful sorcerer of the century, stopped to watch you with all six eyes wide open.
Only for you to turn out normal.
A dud.
Despite the disappointment of your birth, your marriage to the six-eyes wasn’t annulled. Still, it would take ten years before you met your husband-to-be.
You’d hear about him often, of his prowess—how, even being just a teenager, he was considered the greatest sorcerer in existence. Most revered him, the elders were smart enough to fear him, and you? Why, you couldn’t help but be a little bashful over the entire thing.
To think, your life, which, by all accounts, should have been doomed from your very first breath—curseless as you are, only fit to be a maid—had been saved before you were even born. Destined to be the great Gojo Satoru’s wife—a well-respected lady.
In your childish girlhood, lonely as you were often left, a protected outcast, you’d dream of him almost every night—your knight in shining armor, your prince charming, your soulmate. You were positively gushing from the thrill on the day of your first meeting.
He was handsome—the most beautiful boy, only a year shy of becoming a man, you’d ever seen—sitting there, next to the old Gojo clanhead, dressed in traditional robes, opposite you and your own clan’s respective leader. Snow-white hair, alabaster skin, dazzling blue eyes with a jaded look in them that would have you squealing and kicking your feet, if you weren’t expected to sit still and pretty like a doll.
Your elders spoke of many matters—political nothings. Neither of you was asked to join in. Still, Satoru would sigh every now and again, sometimes even utter a scoff—visibly irked. You could never dare yourself, but you found yourself agreeing with him. Sitting like that for so long, listening to higher-ups speak of highs and lows, is about as fun as watching paint dry. However, you could manage without letting it show on your face. It seemed Satoru, despite being older, still didn’t share your grace—rolling his eyes every other minute, scowling where he sat, back hunched and arms crossed, knee jerking, making his entire body shake with annoyance. You had to suppress a giggle at the sight.
You’d been wrong, though. Very wrong.
It wasn’t the higher-ups’ talk that bored him.
It was you.
“Maybe you’re just a late-bloomer.”
The clanhead had tasked Satoru with showing you the gardens, leaving the two of you alone together.
You’d thought it romantic—dreamy like a fairy tale—picturing him as he would pluck your favorite flower for you and his absolute softness treading it behind your ear, calling you beautiful in the sweetest voice known between heaven and earth, just like in your fantasies.
“Maybe if I hurt you enough, that famous technique of yours will pop right out.”
You’d read too many books and watched too many movies. No one had warned you about reality. “What?” is the only thing you’re able to splutter out—the only question in your head, pitiful as it was fatal to every idea of your future that you’d had so far. Where’s the happily-ever-after you’d been looking forward to all this time?
“I’m not marrying some loser without any cursed energy.”
His grip on your arm was just shy of breaking the bone. He no longer looked anything like a prince, but rather some horrid creature taken from nightmares you’d never have the guts to think up on your own, eyes iridescent like a stove-top, and burning you just so.
“So, I guess I’ll just have to force it out of you.”
He’d barely given you a scratch before you’d started screaming and bawling. Your heart, broken into too many pieces, like splinters in your throat, as you lie curled up on the dusty ground beneath your fiancé.
Your wailing had both clanheads return before he could do much. Even so, he didn’t feel the need to anymore. It was plain as day, nothing he would have done could bring out something that clearly didn’t exist.
You were just a plain ol’ stupid girl. Unworthy of him.
He sighed again, like he’d done throughout the meeting, like it was all beneath him, before turning on his shoe and shuffling away in disappointment, though not before spitting out a final utterance of pure disgust,
“What a joke…”
And still, despite the clear rejection, news of an annulment never came.
Satoru became a man, and rumors of his bedroom activities would spread from the maids of the Gojo estate to the maids of yours, and ultimately into your ears. And seven years later, you were introduced to adulthood and finally allowed your own voice.
And with the wedding only half a year away, you find yourself back by your own volition and without your clan’s knowledge, bowing before the Gojo clanhead, making the brazen decision when putting in the request for an annulment yourself.
You speak clearly and matter-of-factly while laying forth the arguments. The only reason the two of you were supposed to marry in the first place was to keep each other in check, which wasn’t a requirement given the circumstances of you being without cursed energy.
“It would be in the Gojo clan's best interest to marry into another more prominent clan.”
And yet, “You’ll remain fiancés,” is the decisive answer given by the old Gojo clanhead after you’ve finished pleading your case.
“You might not have inherited your clan’s cursed technique, but it’s still in your blood, and any child you bear will have a strong chance of being granted the gift you weren’t. As such, the reason for your marriage is still relevant.”
You won’t say you aren’t miffed, especially after having come all this way and worded your arguments so well. Still, you know better than to argue with elders, and so you thank him for his time with a polite bow, then dismiss yourself without any further complaint—fists balled silently at your sides, worried for the drastic decisions you’re going to have to make if the marriage still stands come time.
Wracking your brain for an answer, it’s just before you’re fully about to leave the grounds, you’re stopped in your tracks by a familiar mean grip wrapped tightly around your upper arm—and maybe, with it, the unlikely answer to your problem.
“Try’na divorce me before we’re even wed?” his voice cuts through the silent temple, shattering against the barren marble walls. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
It’s been eight years, in which time he’s become a man of twenty-five. He’s a Jujutsu High graduate now, certified in the field, rich—or so you’ve heard—but above all else, he’s a handsome rake, and maybe not one who’s all that eager to give up the title.
You scoff, smiling with a tiny laugh that takes him aback. “Figured you couldn’t be asked to make the trip, so I did it for you,” you drawl, cocking your head backwards and giving him a lazy sneer. “You should be happy.”
He looks at you, still with his hand digging into your arm as confusion rumples the space between his eyes.
“Oh, come on, Satoru, what’s with the look?” You cock a brow. “This union was never our choice. And from what I’ve heard you’ve done your fair share of protesting to it in your own unsightly ways, parading around like the common manwhore.”
Snickering, you can’t help but find some sick pleasure in the chagrinned blush breaking out across the top of his cheeks.
“No need to be embarrassed,” you scoff then. “I’m glad we’re on the same side.”
It’s not really the right words for the situation, but still, despite everything, the two of you joining forces would be the path of least resistance. You just needed to hand him the baton, and then you could sit back and watch him do all the dirty work.
“But really? You’re the strongest sorcerer of the century—what are you still doing acting like a rebellious teenager? You’re a man now, time to wage war.” You poke his chest with your finger, punctuating your words. “Challenge your senile clanhead, and kick the geezer back in line where he belongs already.”
Then you smile wryly, lifting your hand and stroking his cheek with mock tenderness—manipulating your voice in the same fashion. “Shouldn’t be too hard for you. Just flash ‘em those baby-blues, and he’ll probably croak on the spot.”
He looks nonplussed both before and after you give the cheek a soft slap, looking at you, still with a deep furrow between his brows. And then he speaks, now with a tone you’d never think to hear from him—calmly saying, “I don’t remember you being so…”
He trails off, never finishing it. But you don’t have much interest in hearing it anyway. Instead, you move on with a sigh, “Well, a lot happens when you grow up. You should try it.”
The grip he’d kept on your arm loosens, and you seize the opportunity to pull it to yourself as you extend your hand in truce, waiting for him to shake it.
“So then, can I trust that you’ll clean this mess up once and for all?”
It hangs there—poised in the air under his gaze as he deliberates with himself.
It’s unclear—maybe he makes the choice right then or there. Maybe it was something in the way you’d presented yourself, talking to him in that haphazard way no one had ever done before. Maybe that was all it took. Or maybe it was something completely different.
“Nah…” He leaves your hand to hang. “Think I’ll go along with the old fools after all.”
It surprises you at first, face blanking before your brows draw together, assessing him with slim eyes, trying to gauge whether he’s pulling your leg or not. But by the looks of him, you think he’s serious.
“Why?” you demand, then, voice a little frazzled.
“You heard the geezer. Even without a technique of your own, our children are sure to inherit one or the other,” he answers plainly, to which you scoff.
“As though you’ve ever been one to care about clan politics. Don’t make me laugh.”
He grins then, chuckling, “You got me there. But, you see, I’ve been thinking lately… And you’re right.”
Leaning down to your level, he slips a cold hand under your chin, digits brushing along your cheek.
“Being a bachelor’s become boring, it’s time to settle down.”
His eyes, blue like a comet’s tail, give you chills as they sweep over you with an unpleasant pause on your lips as he brushes a thumb over them.
“And what do you know? Right when I need her, I find a feisty little wife to amuse me.”
You swallow dryly, repeating the word, “Feisty?”
He chuckles, adding to it, “It doesn’t hurt that you’ve gotten prettier, too.”
The young you would have blushed, but the you today slaps him—this time hard. So hard there’s a red and perfectly hand-shaped print blooming on his cheek the next second.
And still, he keeps the grin, tasting his own blood on his tongue, watching you rush off whilst hollering, “I can’t wait for the honeymoon!”
The next months you’re forced to spend your days getting fitted into your wedding dress. It’s a beautiful thing, like something taken from your wildest girlhood dreams back when you wanted such things. Now, you can barely stomach looking at yourself. Instead, you focus on stuffing yourself full of pastries in the hopes you might choke on one.
It’s only a week before the wedding, now. You’ve tried plan A through Z of escape attempts, but with the amount of security posted on every corner of the estate, running away just isn’t in the cards.
Out of time and out of options, you find some sort of acceptance in knowing you at least tried, which is more than anyone could say when up against the strongest sorcerer of the century. And who knows, maybe another opportunity would present itself—it might not happen now, but sooner or later—and when it does, you’ll be on guard to seize it.
All preparations are completed—the dress, the vows, the flower arrangements, and the wedding rehearsal. All that’s left is one last little thing. It’s the day before the wedding, and with it, the Gojo clan's final requirement. A ritual, they call it, for all those who marry into the fold. They treat it like something holy, even though all it is is just a visit with the clanhead and their highest-ranking doctor, all so that they can test your childbearing qualities.
It’s funny… turns out, you weren’t just born wrong in one way. You were born wrong in full.
You laugh when you’re told—loudly, vehemently, with tears getting squeezed out of your eyes, sprinkling down your cheeks like popped confetti.
You’re barren.
And with the discovery, the Gojo clanhead calls off the wedding on the spot, granting you your annulment without granting your elders a single word of protest. And you breathe easy through a throat full of cackles, knowing you'll never have to be under the leer of those awful six eyes ever again, flooded with relief thinking about how close you came to being a trapped broodmare—saved by none other than your own shitty constitution like a warped punchline to some godawful joke.
In your room you’d come to think of as a prison cell over the years, you pack your bags happily. Thinking to yourself how you might be cursed, might be disowned by your clan, might be worthless, but at least, and at long last, you’re finally free. And nothing but that matters.
Or well…
If only he cared about any of that…
“Thing is…” the blue-eyed monster says through gritted teeth with you pinned beneath him in your own bed. “You’ve been mine since before you were born. Eighteen fucking years, I’ve waited for this–”
Still in disheveled marriage robes from the rehearsal, he laughs a laugh even fouler than yours.
“I’m not ‘bout to let it all go to waste on account of a fucking technicality.”
