lis

para licecat @liswee

thank you.

Long comments can be time-consuming. They can be difficult to write, but you leave them anyway!

Thank you, thank you, thank you, to everyone who comments.

✩ oneshots!

• happy birthday (nanami kento): after your birthday celebration, you share a quiet moment with nanami kento, your best friend.

• rained graves (satosugu): the stitches they share would remain long after their bodies decayed. at least now, in death, they were closer than ever before.

• busy being yours (nanami kento): kento’s a worried boyfriend and you’re late from work.

• redemption in flesh (fushiguro toji): in which toji, a man who has spent a lifetime believing himself undeserving of love, is confronted by the presence of someone who chooses to stay.

✩ series/longfics!

❀ synopsis. in which Ryomen Sukuna, the most notorious rake in London, discovers that being in love is far more terrible than anything he’s previously experienced, as you become the singular object of desire of a man who thought himself incapable of it.

0.5 — “a truth universally acknowledged…”, by the gentlemen.

wc. 3,3k

for this chapter: in which London’s drawing rooms buzz with delicious speculation about the impossible: Ryomen Sukuna, the greatest scoundrel in England, is seeking a wife! ladies, however, are strongly advised to remember that a reformed rake is still a rake... details: regency-typical attitudes about marriage and women, discussion of scandalous behavior, brief mentions of affairs/infidelity, gojo satoru being gojo satoru but make it 1815, sukuna is a complete jerk, one step at a time, lady whistledown-gossipy writing style sometimes. this is the gentlemen version!

• chapter index | previous: prologue, by the ladies | next: first chapter

In a considerably less genteel establishment across the city—a gentleman’s club in St. James where the brandy flowed freely and the conversation was unencumbered by the presence of ladies or the constraints of propriety—the subject of such fervent speculation reclined in a leather chair, regarding his two companions with an expression of profound boredom. 

Well, it is a truth not so universally acknowledged but equally certain that a man’s club reveals more about his character than any drawing room ever could, for it is only among other men that a gentleman truly removes his mask—and, in Sukuna’s case, discovers that there is very little beneath it that he wishes to examine.

Yet for all that mattered, Ryomen Sukuna was not a man given to self-reflection. Indeed, he had spent the better part of his adult life in the active avoidance of any examination of his own character, preferring to move through the world with the unthinking confidence of someone who had never been denied anything he truly wanted. 

Never having been required to consider the cost of his desires, he was consequently guilty of developing an insatiable appetite for acquiring more—more knowledge, more wealth, more influence, more of everything that might be possessed—though he resented with equal vigour every obligation such acquisitions imposed upon him. It was a contradiction he chose not to examine, being far too occupied with the pursuit of further gratifications.

Such an example is this: his estate in Northumberland—vast, lucrative, presently entrusted to stewards who plagued him with interminable letters—required an heir, as the stewards never tired of reminding him. The title itself demanded perpetuation, as did the considerable power it conferred, power which Sukuna prized above nearly all else, even while he despised the tedious social machinery required to sustain it; in fact, the thought alone sent a dull ache radiating through his skull. 

The family name, too, pressed its claims upon him. Carried by generations of men who had distinguished themselves in various ways both honorable and otherwise, it could not in good conscience be allowed to die simply because the current bearer found the prospect of marriage intolerable. 

That such a consideration should weigh upon him at all was remarkable, for this Duke had never previously concerned himself with the expectations of the dead. Yet his uncle—the only family member for whom he felt anything approaching affection—had recently suffered an apoplexy that left him both weakened in body and insistent in spirit upon the matter of his nephew’s marriage, with the particular desperation of a dying man attempting to ensure his legacy would continue beyond his own mortality.  

Sukuna found himself, most unwillingly, unable to dismiss these entreaties as he had dismissed so many others. Mortality, it seemed, possessed a transformative power that even the most dissolute could not entirely resist. A power which had compelled him, against every inclination of his nature, to invite two of his oldest acquaintances to his residence this particular evening, that he might announce a decision which would alter the course of his existence entirely.

“You are certain about this?” Toji Fushiguro enquired, stretching his long legs toward the fire with the casual grace of someone utterly at ease in his own skin. As a man of similar age and spectacularly dissimilar fortune, Fushiguro served no useful purpose in society beyond winning at cards and charming foolish women out of their pin money—skills, or rather dubious talents, that had nevertheless kept him housed and fed for years despite possessing not a shred of what they called respectable income. That Sukuna counted him among his intimates—well. This said much. Or rather, it said everything about his complete disregard for the conventions that governed who might associate with whom. “Marriage seems rather drastic. There are other ways to produce an heir without actually binding yourself legally to some unfortunate female.”

“I am certain of nothing,” Sukuna replied, his attention apparently absorbed by an examination of his fingernails, though his jaw had tightened almost imperceptibly, a minute betrayal his conscious mind immediately dismissed as meaningless. The firelight caught on his unusual pink hair (a family trait which had marked him as different from birth, that his mother had adored and his father had merely tolerated), cast his sharp features in dramatic relief. “Save that my uncle’s physician assures me the old man has perhaps a year remaining, possibly less. He wishes to see me settled before he quits this world. And there is the not inconsiderable matter of his fortune, which he has made quite clear will be divided among distant cousins should I fail to marry and produce an heir.” Here he looked up, meeting Mr. Fushiguro’s gaze. “It seems a small enough price for a man who showed me more genuine affection than my own father managed. Which is to say, any affection at all.”

“A small price?” From the window seat came a bright, mocking laughter, carrying a disgustingly obvious amusement that suggested the entire situation was found deliciously absurd. Lord Satoru Gojo sat with one leg drawn up, the other dangling, his posture utterly at odds with the formal magnificence of his attire—a study in studied carelessness that took considerable effort to achieve. “Marriage, Sukuna? You, who once told me you would rather be drawn and quartered than spend every night for the remainder of your life in the same woman’s bed? You, who has made an art form of avoiding anything resembling emotional attachment? You, who once described marriage as ‘legalized imprisonment with conjugal visitation rights’?”

“I said nothing about spending every night in my wife’s bed,” Sukuna corrected. The voice that obscurely left his throat delivered a note of patient explanation one might use with a particularly slow child, but beneath it ran an unmistakable current of irritation. “Merely that I would acquire a wife. What I do with her—or rather, what I do apart from her—is entirely my own concern.” He shifted in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Marriage need not interfere with the actual conduct of one’s life. Why should it? My father managed to maintain his own life throughout his marriage to my mother, and while I found his hypocrisy tedious, I cannot fault the practical arrangement.”

The words had scarcely left his lips when a faint nausea stirred within him at the comparison. He despised resembling that man in any regard, despised the way such similarities seemed to creep upon him unawares, like some inherited disease of character. Yet he pushed the sensation aside with practiced efficiency, refusing to examine its origins. Some things, Ryomen had learned, were better left unexamined. Some truths were best left undigested.

Gojo, whose fortune was exceeded only by his vanity, and whose vanity was exceeded only by his genuine if well-disguised kindness, shook his head, accompanied by approaching wonder visible in those extraordinary eyes—that unsettling shade of blue that had inspired considerable poetry from susceptible young ladies and at least one embarrassing sonnet that circulated through London’s drawing rooms. “You are a scoundrel of the highest order. Most men at least pretend they will reform upon marriage.”

“Pretense is exhausting and ultimately pointless when everyone knows the truth anyway. I have never claimed to be anything other than what I am.” He furrowed his brows. “Those who choose to deceive themselves about my nature will be disappointed—but that disappointment is entirely of their own making, not mine.”

Honesty about one’s dishonesty, Lord Sukuna had always maintained, was its own peculiar form of integrity, a belief that allowed him to sleep soundly, even when the objects of his attentions could not. It was a comfort, however cold, and he clung to it with the determination of a man who had precious few other comforts to recommend him.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

“And yet you expect some innocent creature to accept your suit, knowing full well your reputation? Knowing that you will almost certainly continue your behavior regardless of any vows spoken in a church?”

A smile followed, although such expression never quite reached his own irises. Indeed, his eyes remained cold, untouched by whatever shallow amusement animated his mouth. “Gojo, I am wealthy, titled, and if I may say so without undue vanity, not entirely unfortunate in appearance.” He paused to examine his hands with affected disinterest. “The lady in question will suffer no illusions. I shall tell her plainly: this is a practical arrangement that benefits us both. I need an heir; she gains a position. If she cannot accept such terms, she is free to reject me. I have no patience for the self-deception most marriages are built upon.” The fire crackled. “Surely there will be any number of ambitious mothers willing to overlook a few indiscretions in exchange for seeing their daughters become a duchess.”

“A few indiscretions,” Toji repeated, and laughter spilled into his brandy. “Is that what we are calling the widow Yuki? Or that affair with the merchant’s wife in Bath? Or the supposed incident with both the Kamo sisters during your supposed diplomatic visit to Venice? The rumors about that particular episode were quite creative. I believe one version involved a gondola, though how that was meant to be physically possible—”

“The past is past,” Sukuna interrupted smoothly, making a dismissive gesture. “I have no interest in relitigating ancient history or entertaining scandalous lies. What matters is that I require a wife, and I shall obtain one. In that aspect at least, you may as well consider me reformed.” 

“Since when?” Fushiguro’s skepticism was evident in every syllable.

“Since this morning, when my uncle’s letter arrived reminding me that he wishes to die knowing the family line is secure.” His discourse carried that peculiar blend of boredom and condescension he reserved for stating the obvious. “Do try to keep pace, Fushiguro. Your intelligence was never your most appealing quality, but I had hoped it was sufficient for following basic conversation.”

This pronouncement had barely been uttered when the viscount rose from his position at the window seat and began to pace, a habit that invariably accompanied his more elaborate schemes: hands clasped behind his back, expression taking on that distant quality that meant some elaborate plan was being constructed, within the labyrinth of his mind. “If you are truly serious about this matter—”

“I am serious. Were you not listening, or—”

“—then you will need to do considerably more than simply appear at a few balls and leer at the wallflowers like some predator selecting prey,” Gojo continued, speaking over him with the ease of long familiarity. “You must actually convince society that you are marriageable, that you have reformed—or are at least capable of reformation. The appearance must be maintained with absolute consistency, because the moment you slip, every past scandal will be resurrected and examined anew.”

“I am marriageable.”

“You are notorious. There is a significant difference.”

Sukuna’s mouth curved into something that might charitably be called a smile. “Surely the two are not mutually exclusive?”

“They are when you have bedded half the married women in London and challenged their husbands to duels when they objected to your appropriation of their wives’ affections.” Satoru paused in his pacing to level a stern look at his friend, though whether he truly expected it to have any effect was doubtful.

“Only two husbands,” the Duke said, holding up two fingers with exaggerated precision. “Let us at least maintain accuracy in our accusations, Gojo. And neither duel actually occurred—much to everyone’s disappointment, I suspect. One of them left town rather precipitously, in fact. I believe he is still in Scotland, actually, something about sheep farming. Quite a step down from his previous position, but I suppose it keeps him occupied.” He paused, appearing to recall the memory with some satisfaction as he scratched his chin. “Though one does wonder whether the sheep are any more satisfied than his wife was.”

The steady pacing which had marked Lord Gojo’s agitation ceased with startling abruptness, and Sukuna found himself fixed with a look of such intensity that even Fushiguro, that gentleman least prone to alarm, set down his glass with uncommon care. 

“I am hosting a ball next week,” the viscount announced, his tone admitting no contradiction. “For Geto’s return, ostensibly, though we both know he would prefer a quiet dinner with people he actually likes rather than a public spectacle. But this serves multiple purposes, as all good plans should.”

“Oh, God.”

“You will attend. You will behave. You will dance with at least three unattached ladies of good reputation, and you will not—I repeat, not—disappear into any private rooms with anyone’s wife, daughter, sister, or any other female relation, regardless of how insufferably dull you find the proceedings.”

“I’m to play the performing monkey for your amusement, then. How tedious.”

“How necessary, if you wish to achieve your goal. Society must see you attempting to reform. The attempt itself matters infinitely more than the sincerity behind it—we are, after all, a civilization built upon the pleasant fiction that appearance and reality are one and the same thing. Surely even you can manage the pretense for an evening or two.”

The Duke regarded his friend with narrowed eyes. For all his frivolity and theatrical displays of vanity, Gojo possessed a shrewd understanding of society’s mechanisms, even if he occasionally did not follow it: the unspoken rules that governed who might be forgiven what transgression, the careful dance of reputation and rumor, the way scandal could be managed through strategic display of proper behavior. 

More valuable still, he commanded connections to every corner of London’s elite, access to information others could only dream of acquiring, knowledge that Sukuna found himself wanting despite his contempt for the social games required to obtain it. Although Gojo’s title ranked decidedly below a Duke’s in the rigid hierarchy that governed their world, his influence far exceeded what his birth alone could command. 

This peculiarity arose, Lord Sukuna acknowledged with some irritation, from his own prolonged absences—years spent traveling the Continent, months vanishing into the country, a general disinclination to appear in society that had rendered him more legend than man in the collective imagination. Satoru, by contrast, was everywhere and always: at every ball, every assembly, every gathering of consequence, weaving his web of connections with the dedication of a spider who understood that power lay not in rank but in knowing precisely which threads to pull.

If anyone could successfully reintroduce a rake into polite circles, it was this man. Gojo possessed an almost preternatural ability to make people forget inconvenient truths when it suited his purposes, to reshape perception through sheer force of charm and careful manipulation.

“And what do you gain from this assistance?” Ryomen asked at length. “You don’t usually do things out of pure altruism, Gojo. I won’t insult your intelligence by pretending to believe otherwise. What is your interest in seeing me married?”

Gojo’s smile was brilliant and entirely untrustworthy, spreading across his face like sunlight breaking through clouds—beautiful, certainly, but offering no warmth whatsoever. “Entertainment, naturally. What else could possibly motivate a man of my disposition? The London season has been dreadfully boring this year. All the usual marriages between families who have been intermarrying for generations, all the usual scandals that surprise no one because everyone knows Lord So-and-So cannot keep his breeches fastened. Your quest for a wife promises to be far more diverting.”

“There is always something else with you.”

“Perhaps I simply enjoy the idea of reforming the irredeemable,” Satoru replied with that airy insouciance which had earned him both admirers and detractors in equal measure. “Think of it as a scientific experiment. Can Ryomen Sukuna, the greatest scoundrel in England, convince some unfortunate lady to bind herself to him in holy matrimony? The suspense is absolutely delicious.”

“You are insufferable.”

“So I have been told. Repeatedly. Often by Miss Iori, in fact. She has this way of looking at me as though I am a particularly disappointing specimen of humanity, and I find it absolutely fascinating. Most women simper and blush when I speak to them. She tells me I am tedious and then walks away. It is quite refreshing, really.”

A snort from Fushiguro earned glares from both men. “You are obsessed with that woman.”

“I am merely interested in why she alone seems immune to my considerable charm. A man enjoys a challenge now and then.”

“Perhaps because she has sense,” the Duke interjected with characteristic bluntness. “A quality so rare among young ladies as to be nearly extinct. She has observed you for more than five minutes and drawn the logical conclusion that you are a peacock in gentleman’s clothing.”

This observation, delivered with such casual disdain, might have offended a man of less secure vanity. Gojo, however, merely laughed. “We are not discussing my romantic prospects, such as they are. We are discussing yours, which are considerably more dire.”

Sukuna rose from his chair with the fluid grace that characterized all his movements, the sort of physical confidence that came from a body that had never failed him, that had always been strong and quick and capable of whatever he demanded of it. After all, he indeed possessed features that might have been handsome had they not been arranged in a perpetual expression of disdain—as though the world and everyone in it existed solely to disappoint him, and had thus far lived up to that expectation with depressing consistency. 

“Very well,” came the bored acquiescence, the words carrying all the enthusiasm of a man agreeing to attend his own execution. “I shall attend your ball. I shall dance with your virtuous maidens. But understand this, Gojo—I seek a wife for practical purposes only. I need what marriage provides. I have no intention of falling in love, of reforming beyond what’s minimally necessary, or of becoming some model husband for future generations to admire.” He clicked his tongue. “I need a duchess to manage my household and produce heirs. Once I have secured one, my obligations end and my life continues exactly as before. The only difference will be a ring on my finger and a woman’s name in the social register.”

“We shall see,” Lord Gojo murmured, his voice so soft that Ryomen almost missed it beneath the crackle of the fire and the distant sounds of the cardplayers in the corner.

“What was that?”

“Nothing at all.” The viscount lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. “Simply that I have observed love often strikes when we are most certain of our immunity to it. The very men who insist they will never fall are inevitably the ones who fall hardest when they finally encounter someone capable of breaching their defenses.”

The Duke raised one brow in sardonic disbelief, his expression suggesting he found such romantic notions both tiresome and faintly absurd.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ And so harsh laughter followed, completely devoid of humor or genuine mirth. “Love is for fools and poets, Gojo. I am neither. It serves no practical purpose whatsoever. It clouds judgment, creates weakness, transforms rational men into pathetic wretches. I have watched it destroy stronger men than myself, and I have no intention of following in their footsteps.”

“No,” Gojo agreed. “You are something far worse—a man who believes himself incapable of feeling anything at all. The fortress you have built around your heart is impressive, certainly, but I wonder what will happen when you finally encounter someone capable of scaling its walls.”

Like something had bitten him, Sukuna turned away entirely then, moving toward the window where the darkness outside provided a welcome mirror of his mood, unwilling to continue a conversation that had ventured too near to territory he steadfastly refused to explore. He straightened his shoulders, adjusted his cuffs: small gestures that reasserted command over himself and his surroundings. The sensation of control—over muscle, breath, presence—soothed him far more effectively than reason ever had. 

It is a curious fact of human nature that we are most blind to our own weaknesses, most certain of our immunity to those very forces that have toppled countless others before us. But fate, as every rake eventually learns, cares very little for the plans of men who believe themselves immune to feeling.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

okay so!! i split the prologue in two, primarily, because didn’t want to info-dump everything at once. i needed space to establish the setting, intro the secondary characters properly, and let both perspectives breathe. but also, i just kinda liked the idea of ​​dividing it between ladies and gentlemen lol.

so… next chapter is gonna be LONGER, i fear, because balls require proper scene-setting blabla and i’m nothing if not dedicated to the chaos!! i’ll post it whenever the hyperfixation demons possess me, honestly. could be tomorrow. could be next week. the muse is fickle and i am but her humble servant.

anyway!! thanks for reading both prologues <3 hope you enjoyed the vibes, the drama, and the absolute certainty that these two are gonna make each other MISERABLE (affectionate). and if you’d like to be tagged, just let me know! kisses💕

❀ synopsis. in which Ryomen Sukuna, the most notorious rake in London, discovers that being in love is far more terrible than anything he’s previously experienced, as you become the singular object of desire of a man who thought himself incapable of it.

0 — “a truth universally acknowledged…”, by the ladies.

wc. 3,5k

for this chapter: in which London’s drawing rooms buzz with delicious speculation about the impossible: Ryomen Sukuna, the greatest scoundrel in England, is seeking a wife! ladies, however, are strongly advised to remember that a reformed rake is still a rake... details: regency-typical attitudes about marriage and women, discussion of scandalous behavior, brief mentions of affairs/infidelity, lady whistledown-gossipy writing style sometimes. this is the ladies version!

• chapter index | previous: dear reader… | next: prologue, by the gentlemen

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a rake of substantial fortune, however infamous his reputation, must eventually be in want of a wife—though he himself may be the last to admit such a necessity, and would likely protest it with considerable vigor if pressed on the matter.

Such philosophical observations were particularly pertinent during the autumn of 1815, which had settled upon London with its customary damp persistence, clinging and creeping and turning the parks into something else, something skeletal, branches like bones, grass like sodden cloth laid over the earth’s body, their previous glory metaphoresized into decay. And one must observe that such inclement weather served society admirably: drove them indoors where they could scheme—though “scheme” was too harsh a word, wasn’t it?—over tea with far greater efficiency than in the distracting splendor of summer promenades.

It was thus no surprise that in the fashionable residence of Lady Shoko Ieiri—a woman whose tongue was matched only by her skill at the pianoforte and whose status as a young widow afforded her certain liberties in conversation that younger, unmarried ladies could not claim—had been established a weekly ritual that had become quite indispensable to those fortunate enough to receive her invitation. 

Five ladies had assembled in her drawing room this particular Thursday afternoon, ostensibly for tea and pleasant conversation, though they themselves called it, with knowing smiles, “intelligence-gathering.” How quaint, how deliberately amateur the term sounded, as if they were merely dabbling! But they understood, oh yes, what the gentlemen in their clubs with their port and their politics did not: for what is a drawing room, after all, but a theater where women perform the delicate art of appearing to know nothing whilst actually knowing everything?

Information, after all, was currency—was power—was survival, of a sort.

The room itself was surely a mere testament to the owner’s refined taste and comfortable circumstances: walls papered in silk of palest blue, furniture upholstered in cream damask that had cost more than most families earned in a year, and perhaps half a dozen paintings, with those frozen aristocratic faces. Bored in their gilt frames, they seemed the judge the living from their eternal canvas prisons, as if they knew what it meant to navigate these rooms, these conversations, these careful performances of femininity that were, paradoxically, the only route to any kind of agency at all.

It was into this atmosphere of genteel comfort and barely suppressed curiosity that the afternoon’s most startling intelligence was introduced.

“I simply cannot credit it,” declared Kugisaki Nobara, setting down her teacup against its saucer with rather more force than strictly necessary. The delicate porcelain produced such a sharp clink that made Miss Utahime wince and caused Lady Shoko to raise one dark eyebrow in mild reproach, an expression she had perfected through years of presiding over similar disturbances. Miss Kugisaki, however, wholly unconcerned by such niceties, had seized upon scandal—and scandal, once properly seized (for it must be seized, must it not, before it dissolves like sugar in tea?), permits no distraction by mere etiquette. Setting her cup aside entirely, she leaned forward with an eagerness that sent her shawl slipping from her shoulders, unnoticed and unheeded. 

“Ryomen Sukuna, seeking a wife?” She pronounced the name as one might announce the discovery of a unicorn in Hyde Park, her voice rising with incredulity.

Without doubt, her entire countenance spoke of barely contained excitement, the sort of animation that propriety dictated should be suppressed but which temperament made impossible to conceal. Her russet hair, dressed in the latest fashion with curls artfully arranged to frame her face, caught the firelight as Nobara leaned yet further forward. 

“Him, of all people?” she continued, glancing at her companions as if to ensure she held their complete attention—which she did, for not one lady had lifted her teacup since Miss Kugisaki had begun speaking. “The man who was discovered last season in the Countess Suda’s private library—with the Countess herself—whilst her husband entertained guests not twenty feet distant in the very same house? That Lord Sukuna seeks matrimony?”

She sat back in her chair with the satisfied air of one who has delivered a masterstroke, her hands folding in her lap with exaggerated primness that was entirely contradicted by the wicked gleam in her eyes.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ A small smile played about her lips as the young lady observed the effect of her words upon her audience.

“The very same,” confirmed Shoko. Here was the truth of widowhood made manifest: it afforded her not only conversational liberties, as mentioned, but also a certain world-weary understanding of masculine behavior—an understanding purchased at considerable personal cost, as the faint shadows beneath her eyes might attest. Ieiri glanced toward the younger ladies assembled before her; they had yet to acquire such knowledge, of course, these fresh-faced girls with their romantic notions intact. Some lessons, she had learned through bitter experience, can only be taught by the passage of time itself, and chief among them: men are fundamentally predictable in their unpredictability. By all means, their constancy lies solely in inconsistency itself, a paradox the world insists on rewarding. 

Setting down the teapot, she then poured another measure of tea into her cup, the amber liquid streaming forth in a steady arc as she proceeded: “Though I believe you have omitted the incident at Vauxhall Gardens, where he was observed in rather absurd circumstances with not one but two—”

“Lady Shoko, please,” interrupted Miss Utahime Iori, though her cheeks flushed with unmistakable interest rather than any true disapproval, betraying the fascination she would never openly admit. She shifted in her seat, leaning imperceptibly forward even as propriety demanded she draw back. Such propriety served as thin veneer over natural curiosity, the sort possessed by women who protested scandal whilst secretly drinking in every detail for later contemplation in the privacy of their own chambers. Only in that solitude would judgment soften into reflection or something else altogether. Her fingers plucked at her skirts. “There are unmarried ladies present—young unmarried ladies.

“We are not children,” came the swift retort from Nobara, who straightened in her chair with all the dignity her nineteen years could muster. Her chin lifted with defiance, and she fixed Miss Iori with a look that would have done credit to a woman twice her age. It is important to emphasize that her voice carried that note of impatience youth reserves (and must reserve, for what else have they?) for those who insist on treating them as beings incapable of rational thought. “And if we are to navigate society with any degree of success, we must know its dangers. Is that not so?”

The question—directed pointedly toward you with an expectant turn of her head—found you gazing at the autumn rain streaking the windows, your thoughts having so pleasantly drifted to that unanchored state which company so often interrupted. You had been watching a particular droplet trace its path down the pane when Nobara’s voice pulled you back, violently, into the present moment. How strange it was, this business of being required to participate rather than merely observe!

A bit embarrassed, you blinked, drawing your gaze reluctantly from the window, and found four pairs of eyes fixed upon you with varying degrees of expectation.

Beyond the warped glass—and reflected, you had no doubt, in your own momentarily unfocused expression—the world appeared delightfully distorted: buildings leaning at impossible angles, carriages elongated into strange shapes, pedestrians transformed into wavering phantoms. Perhaps you had been wool-gathering more than was wise, seeking refuge rather than the sharper demands of repartee. In realization, you immediately shifted, drawing yourself up with what you hoped was an appearance of having been attending all along.

Then again, you had learned over your seasons in town that silence often proved the wisest strategy. At one-and-twenty, you had already navigated three London seasons with what your brother Kiyotaka termed ‘remarkable stubbornness’, and had rejected no fewer than four perfectly respectable marriage proposals. Each refusal had etched itself upon your conscience with varying degrees of discomfort—in other words, each refusal had cost you something—not regret, precisely, but a certain weight of knowing that choice, however right it might feel in the moment, accumulated consequences like debts that would someday demand payment.

Society, proving your fears entirely justified, had begun to whisper. You had heard the words yourself, caught in fragments at assemblies and musical evenings: too particular, too independent, too intelligent for her own good. These criticisms you wore with a private satisfaction that would have shocked those who uttered them, like secret badges of honor pinned beneath your gown where no one could see them, whose weight you nevertheless felt, and which you suspected would be far more admired in a man than ever tolerated in a woman. For it is one of life’s great ironies that the very qualities which make a woman interesting are precisely those which rendered her unmarriageable. 

“I have heard Lord Nanami speak of His Grace,” you said at last, your voice perhaps more thoughtful than the occasion strictly required. And there it was again—that familiar constriction at the throat’s base, the sensation that always accompanied truth when one must shape it carefully, delicately, as one might carry water in cupped palms, knowing all the while that something essential would inevitably slip through. You glanced down at your hands, then back up to meet Lady Shoko’s gaze. “Or rather, I have heard him refuse to speak of the Duke, which I think tells us a great deal more than any direct commentary might provide.”

“Kento Nanami is a man of impeccable judgment,” Shoko observed, with the confidence of one rarely proven wrong. Unlike many others who affected such certainty, she was worthy of such confidence. “If he holds Lord Sukuna in such obvious contempt, we must assume the stories circulating are not merely London gossip spun from idleness, but established fact.” She paused, allowing her words to settle among them like sediment in still water. “Lord Nanami does not form his opinions as other men do—lightly, carelessly, subject to the vagaries of fashion or personal advantage. Nor does he allow mere personal distaste to color his assessment of character. That he refuses to speak of the Duke at all suggests the man is so thoroughly beyond the pale of redemption that even acknowledging his existence feels like a compromise of principle.”

Her elegant hands reached for a biscuit as she concluded this observation, as though condemning a man’s entire character required no more effort than selecting refreshment—a gesture which somehow made her judgment all the more damning.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

“And yet,” added Miss Maki Zenin, the fifth in the assembly, who had maintained herself in silence whilst examining the roses arranged upon the mantelpiece with a focus that suggested she found their petals infinitely more worthy of contemplation than the present conversation, “he seeks a wife.” She turned from the flowers at last, her expression inscrutable. “One might almost pity the unfortunate creature who catches his eye, if, that is, such a man possesses the capacity to see beyond his own reflection long enough to notice anyone else’s existence.”

However, perhaps vanity and desire were not so different after all: both required an object, yes, upon which to fix themselves, and both demanded constant replenishment, like hunger, like thirst, and both were incapable of true satisfaction—condemned to an eternal present tense of wanting, never having had enough.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ And even though you had thought about it, you did not dare articulate any of those things. Instead, you reached for your teacup, finding it had gone cold.

“Oh, he sees beyond it,” Nobara said darkly, her tone cascading to that conspiratorial one, reserved only for a truly delicious scandal. “Into every bedchamber in Mayfair, from what I understand. My cousin’s friend—well, you know Lady Mei Mei, surely—she said that Lord Sukuna has bedded more married women than most men have danced with. There was that incident with the Duke of Takada’s young wife, discovered in a rather compromising position in the—”

“Miss Kugusaki!” Miss Iori’s exclamation cut across the room like a whip-crack. Her face had gone quite pink.

Nobara, wholly unrepentant, merely raised her eyebrows with an air of injured innocence.

“It is true, and you know it! We cannot pretend ignorance of these matters simply because acknowledging them might offend our supposedly delicate sensibilities. Why, just last month, did not Lady Mei Mei herself admit, in this very room no less, that he had proposed a liaison so scandalous she could not repeat it, even to us?”

A knowing smile curved Lady Shoko’s lips as she raised her teacup to conceal it—though not before everyone had marked its appearance. The gesture suggested considerable more knowledge that would ever be shared in present company. “She could not repeat the proposal. The liaison itself, I believe, was quite another matter entirely. Lady Mei Mei has never been one to allow mere propriety to interfere with pleasure, and from what I understand, the encounter was…” she selected her words with visible care, “…comprehensive in its impropriety.”

Scandalized yet thoroughly delighted gasps rippled through the assembled company at this revelation. The delicious moment was interrupted only by the sole entrance of Ieiris’s footman (what was his name? It escaped you always, though his discretion never did), who bore the afternoon post upon a silver salver, and approached with the particular gait servants developed: visible enough to announce their presence, yet sufficiently unobtrusive to avoid actually intruding upon conversation.

From the depths of your chair, you abandoned all pretense of genteel composure and leaned forward with a want of delicacy that would have horrified your governess. You craned your neck in a most unbecoming manner so as to discern, if possible, the name of the correspondent whose letter now rested in your companion’s hands.

“Thank you,” Shoko murmured, accepting the letters with a nod that dismissed him as effectively as any spoken command, uttered in perfect courtesy. Her dark eyes scanned the first envelope as an expression of unmistakable amusement began to animate her features. One corner of her mouth inevitably lifted in response, quite against her usual composure, in a manner most telling. “How extraordinary. It appears we are all invited to a ball at Grosvenor Square, to be hosted by none other than Lord Satoru Gojo.”

“Lord Gojo?” You brightened immediately as relief flooded through you. Here, at last, was a subject that required neither defensiveness nor careful navigation. “Oh, but he is delightful! My brother speaks of him constantly. They were at university together, you know, though I sometimes wonder how Kiyotaka survived the experience. From what I understand, Lord Gojo spent more time orchestrating elaborate pranks than attending lectures, yet somehow still managed to graduate with honors.”

“Everyone knows,” Maki said dryly. “The viscount ensures we know everything about him within five minutes of making his acquaintance. His fortune, his estate in Kent, his blue eyes, his tragic childhood.” She took a sip of her tea. “Though I suspect the tragedy is considerably exaggerated for dramatic effect. The man possesses many virtues, but subtlety is decidedly not among them.”

“He is utterly insufferable,” declared Iori, even as something suggested her feelings were rather more violent than simple dislike—there was a tightness around the corners of her mouth, a particular disgust in her eyes: she hated the man. “All that talk of being the most eligible bachelor in England, as though such a distinction were something to boast about rather than a simple accident of birth and fortune—”

“Which he is,” Nobara interjected matter-of-factly.

“—and those ridiculous blue eyes, and the way he simply assumes everyone wishes to speak with him! The way he interrupts conversations with his own observations as though his thoughts are inherently more valuable than whatever discussion was already in progress—”

“Which they do,” added Miss Zenin, unable to resist. Her lips twitched with that species of diversion reserved for observing others’ self-deception. You adored her. “Wish to speak with him, that is. Women positively swoon when he enters a room—I have witnessed it myself on numerous occasions—and even the men cannot help but gravitate toward him. It is rather like watching moths drawn to flame, except the moths are perfectly aware they will be burned and do not seem to care.”

A glare met them both—hot, indignant—before attention turned back to their hostess, cheeks once again flushed with a color that might have been anger or something else entirely. “But why should Lord Gojo host a ball? He despises such things! He said as much at the Zenin musicale last week, complained at length about the tedium of social obligations and the insufferable predictability of society’s entertainments.” She gestured with visible frustration. “He called balls ‘elaborate mating rituals for people too repressed to simply state their intentions directly.’”

“Perhaps,” Ieiri said, still reading the invitation with evident interest, and as she did, her irises moved across the elegant script with the focused attention of someone extracting maximum meaning from minimal text, “because his dearest friend has requested it. The ball, according to this, is given in honor of Mr. Suguru Geto’s return from Italy. Which, when one considers the nature of their friendship, explains everything rather neatly. Lord Gojo would set fire to Parliament if Geto asked him. Asked with sufficient sincerity, that is.”

“How curious,” Utahime mused, her earlier agitation forgotten in the face of this new intelligence. To no one’s surprise, her mind had already begun constructing elaborate theories, each more improbable than the last. Her brow furrowed in concentration. “And suspicious. Lord Gojo does nothing without purpose, however frivolous he may appear. Every action is calculated, even when it appears spontaneous. Especially when it appears spontaneous.”

Lady Shoko’s voice drew all attention back to her:

“The invitation includes a rather interesting postscript: ‘All of fashionable society shall attend, including certain reformed gentlemen of notable reputation.’ I believe we can guess to whom that refers.” Setting down the letter, she smiled with satisfaction. “There is only one gentleman in London whose reputation requires such delicate phrasing.”

“Sukuna,” Nobara breathed the name; it seemed to immediately expand between them all, as if the man himself had entered, carrying with it the weight of every whispered rumor and half-acknowledged truth. “He means to parade him before every eligible lady in London. To display him like some exotic animal in a menagerie—‘come see the reformed rake, ladies, approach at your own risk.’”

A flutter of excitement rose through your chest—entirely inappropriate and swiftly suppressed, though not swiftly enough to escape your own notice. There was something undeniably thrilling about the prospect of witnessing such carefully orchestrated chaos. You lowered your gaze to your lap, making a great show of smoothing the folds of your gown and hoping the others would not perceive the animation which must surely be visible in your countenance. 

“Or,” Zenin suggested, “to humiliate him. The viscount enjoys his schemes, and what better way to punish a man who has made sport of society’s rules than to force him to submit to society’s judgment?” Her enormous eyes gleamed with something that might have been either admiration or disapproval of such calculated cruelty. “To make him dance attendance on respectable young ladies who will either reject him outright or accept him despite knowing exactly what he is.”

You, whose nature had always inclined toward measured consideration, found yourself shaking your head slowly. The movement drew curious glances, but you pressed on, compelled by some contrary impulse to defend a man you had never met and likely had no business defending. “Perhaps His Grace truly wishes to reform. People can change, can they not? Is that not the entire premise upon which society’s notion of redemption rests, that past sins can be atoned for through future virtue?” 

Though even as you spoke the words, some small, cynical voice within whispered that you believed them considerably less than you wished to.

“Leopards and spots, my dear,” Lady Shoko claimed, not unkindly, as her voice carried that gentle note of worldly wisdom that came from having observed human nature in all its disappointing consistency. She regarded you with something approaching sympathy. “Leopards and spots. Men like the Duke do not change their fundamental nature. They may modify their behavior when circumstances demand it, may learn to disguise their true inclinations beneath a veneer of respectability, but the inclinations themselves remain. I have seen it too many times to believe otherwise.”

For experience, unlike hope, possesses the unfortunate habit of being correct, and memory rarely allows itself to be persuaded to more charitable interpretations.

“Nevertheless,” they heard Utahime announce with sudden resolution, rising from her seat and shaking out her skirts with the decisive gesture of one who had reached a firm conclusion and would not be moved from it, “we shall all attend. If only to bear witness to whatever catastrophe surely awaits. One does not get many opportunities to observe social disaster of this magnitude, and it would be wasteful not to take advantage when the universe offers such entertainment.”

❀ synopsis. in which Ryomen Sukuna, the most notorious rake in London, discovers that being in love is far more terrible than anything he’s previously experienced, as you become the singular object of desire of a man who thought himself incapable of it.

Or: a rake falls first and suffers beautifully about it for many, many chapters.

details. mdni, historical romance, haters to lovers? but not exactly, i wouldn't say they have a specific trope they just argue a lot lol, more like annoyances to lovers, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, future mentions of death and suicide, lots and lots of yearning, perhaps a smut in further chapters, he falls first and harder(!), emotional constipation (especially from him), banter as foreplay, idiots in love (but make it 1800s!), chaperones? what chaperones? more to be added…