࣪₊ 𐙚 SOMETHING EXTRAORDINARY ✩ pairing. ryomen sukuna x f!reader
❀ 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💕
✩ taglist for this chapter: @puttyly @methiart @mm4st3r
