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arkaniske · 3 months ago

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Say it like you Mean It

AO3 Link \\\ Chapter Six: Language of Flowers.

4700 words \ SFW \ Jayvik Beta read by @kitcatkim

Summary: Five times Jayce brought flowers for Viktor and one time Viktor brought flowers for Jayce.

The language of flowers was an unnecessary invention. That had been Viktor’s belief for most of his life, a sentiment born out of practicality. Flowers were ephemeral, delicate things, wilting long before their meanings could take root. Why rely on something so transient to convey emotions when words carefully chosen and expertly delivered, could convey so much more?

Chapter One: Daffodils \\\ Chapter Two: SunflowersChapter Three: Bluebells \\\ Chapter Four: GardeniasChapter Five: Camellia \\\ Chapter Six: Red CamelliasChapter Seven: Language of Flowers

That was, of course, until Jayce Talis made his grand appearance. The language of flowers had become unavoidable, inescapable, even. It had wound its way into Viktor’s life with every bloom his partner had left in his wake, like roots taking hold of his heart. Each offering had been a puzzle wrapped in fragrance and colour.

Viktor really loves puzzles.

It was no surprise, then, that when Jayce handed him the first flower Viktor had found himself drawn to the mystery of it all. At first, it had been nothing more than a simple curiosity. The flower had come out of nowhere but as Jayce had rambled on about finished projects and breakthroughs, Viktor had picked up on a carefully slipped-in word. Symbolism. Jayce, the Golden Boy of Piltover, Man of Progress, caring about the symbolism of a flower. Not just that, he cared about what it would mean should it be gifted to Viktor.

This piqued Viktor’s interest.

As more flowers followed, each one layered with intentions, Viktor had realised this was more than just a fleeting whim. It was more than just his partner’s latest obsession bleeding into their everyday life. There was care to it, depth even. Jayce was desperately trying to speak to him and all Viktor had to do was solve the riddle presented to him.

And that is what led him here, to the book now resting in his hands.

It was an old thing, the spine cracked and the pages worn thin, a rare relic of a life he hadn’t brought himself to think of in many years. Among the few possessions he had kept from his mother’s passing, this book had lingered in his collection. She had been sentimental to her core, always finding beauty in small things—pressed flowers between book pages, trinkets collected from the markets, a well-worn book on flora she swore by. He still found comfort in creating space for her memory in his life, to know that she could still guide him even in her absence.

The book stayed. No matter how tall the walls he built around his heart, the softness he had inherited from her still found its way through. The memories of her delicate fingers thumbing through the pages, a faint smile on her lips as she recited the name of the flower, its uses and, at last, its meaning. He remembered her spending hours writing in the margins of the book as she learned the meaning of a new bloom. Back then, he had dismissed it as one of her whims, a charming distraction to occupy her. He realised now it had been one of her ways of connecting with the world—quiet, deliberate, and deeply meaningful.

Now, the book, heavy in his hands and filled with meanings that seemed to whisper gently back at him, was forcing him to reconsider what he thought he knew of flora. Each flower Jayce had given him had nudged open a door he hadn’t realised was locked, and the book had become a guide through the uncharted territory Jayce had created.

His mother would have laughed softly at him, perhaps given him a loving tease about his sudden interest in something he once had no time for. She would have called it fate, or something equally sentimental, always eager to romanticise the quiet threads of connection that wove through life. Viktor didn’t believe much in fate, but as his thumb brushed the entry of a red camellia, he couldn’t deny that perhaps… His mother had seen truths he once had overlooked.

The words were staring back at him. Unyielding love. His mother’s handwriting, looping and intricate, filled in the meaning of the flower in the margins.

A daring flower for a daring heart. The kind of love that can change everything, if you’re brave enough for it.

Perhaps he could find it in his sentimental heart to believe in fate like his mother would have done. His gaze drifted over to the bouquet beside him. Vivid and unapologetic, their message impossible to ignore. Like an invitation to feel more. Even now, Viktor couldn’t help the faint pull at his emotions over Jayce’s boldness. Leaving no room for doubt anymore.

There was only space for Viktor to respond.

\\\

The sound of the lab door creaking announced Jayce’s arrival, his steps hesitant but unmistakable. Viktor didn’t glance up immediately, though the sound tugged faintly at the corner of his thoughts. He was sitting by their shared desk, eyes focused on the book in his hands as if the scribbled words could bring him a last moment of comfort.

“You are late.” Viktor broke the silence without looking up, his tone carrying a deliberate neutrality. His fingers slid down to the edge of the page as if the texture might anchor his scattered thoughts. The shuffling footsteps faltered, a momentary hitch that Viktor caught before he turned the page.

“Yeah, uh, sorry about that…” Jayce answered, his voice softer than usual. “Didn’t sleep great.”

Viktor rose from the chair to face Jayce. He finally allowed himself to glance over to his partner standing on opposite side of the room. It was easy to spot the nervous tension in Jayce’s shoulders, the way his eyes flickered with uncertainty around the room. Viktor followed that flicker, noting the way it returned over and over to the bouquet of camellias resting on the desk. His heart gave a quiet, inexplicable tug at the sight of him. Ah, there it is, Viktor thought, the weight of things unsaid.

“Did the flowers keep you awake?” Viktor asked lightly, a subtle fracture in their charade. It was the first direct acknowledgement of the flowers’ meaning, a quiet revelation that he understood their weight, and now Jayce knew that he knew.

Jayce’s reaction didn’t disappoint. His ears turned a telltale red and he quickly shook his head. “No! No, I—uh, I just…” Viktor watched as Jayce stuttered through his words, trying his very best to come up with an excuse. In the end, he gave up, mouth shutting closed. “Maybe…” Jayce’s voice was so quiet Viktor barely caught it. His partner’s nervous energy filled the space between them like static energy of an overcharged power regulator.

“Hm…” Viktor hummed, a low sound that carried more weight than it should. He held his steady gaze on Jayce, watching the man all but squirm under it. For a moment he expected amusement to grow in his chest but no—instead he found himself overwhelmed with endearment. It was disarming, how someone so bold and unyielding like Jayce could falter so entirely in matters of the heart.

The soft thud of Viktor closing the book was enough to snap Jayce’s attention back to him. His eyes narrowing at the worn cover as if it might explain itself. Viktor studied him silently, watching the realization slowly take hold. Last time he had been subtle like this it had taken a moment. But he could wait.

Viktor waited.

Jayce stared.

Viktor waited some more, allowing himself the faintest of smirks. Jayce all but gasped loudly, breaking the fragile quiet. For a moment, it looked like he had entirely shut down, his thoughts scrambling for purchase as though Viktor had short-circuited him. He watched the realisation dawn on Jayce like the slow bloom of a flower. His partner’s lips parted as if to speak, then closed again and Viktor could see the gears turning, piecing together what was in front of him.

“Is that—?” Jayce trailed off, his words catching in his throat as his mind seemed to race ahead of his mouth. “Is flowers? Book on flowers?” The phrase sounded ridiculous as he said it and Viktor allowed a smile to crack his neutral expression. “It is.” His voice remained calm. “Ah, more specifically symbolic meanings.” His calm delivery only making Jayce’s reaction so much more delightful.

Jayce blinked rapidly, his eyebrows shooting upwards. “And you’ve been reading it?” His voice climbed a pitch, “Like—actually reading it?”

“I have.” Viktor acknowledged with a subtle nod. “It belonged to my mother. She always had her way of finding meanings in the smallest things, an appreciation for connections others might overlook. It has been… Useful in navigating, well, you.” Viktor’s eyes flickered to the flowers once more. Vivid against the muted tones of the lab. He had to remind himself to slow his breath.

Jayce’s gaze darted to the flowers, then to the book and finally to Viktor’s eyes. His throat bobbing as he swallowed. “Does that mean…?” The question died halfway, as if finishing it might make the situation heavier. Viktor’s sharp eyes caught the slight tremble to his partner’s fingers.

“It means,” Viktor began, his voice softening to soothe Jayce’s worry, “that I have been paying attention, Jayce. Perhaps more than you realised.”

Jayce’s nervous laugh was almost a relief in the tense air between them. “A-ah�� That’s… That’s good, right?” He asked with as much confidence he could muster, voice still holding a light tremble to it as if testing the weight of Viktor’s words.

There was something so profoundly endearing in Jayce’s nervous energy, how someone so bold and confident in the public eye could falter so completely here, in the quiet space between them. How out there he could be everyone’s charming Jayce but in here? In the soft silence of their lab, between petals and golden thread? This was a side of Jayce only meant for Viktor’s eyes.

“Good?” Viktor echoed; he felt the amusement linger in his tone. Even now, Jayce was standing with no flowers to hide behind and he wanted to know if he did good. “I would think so, considering the effort you have put in it.”

Jayce blinked, head tilting. Viktor could only imagine the thoughts going through his head, searching for the effort it had taken him to deliver flowers. Gods he’s precious when confused, Viktor tried not to smile at his own thoughts. Jayce shook his head before speaking; “I wouldn’t say it was that much effort-“

With a simple raise of his eyebrow Viktor cut off whatever dismissing statement Jayce was about to say. “Daffodils, sunflowers, bluebells, gardenias…” Viktor continued by subtly gesturing to the red blooms next to him. “You have gifted me quite the collection. Each one with a meaning, each one deliberate. It has not gone unnoticed.”

“Oh…uh- I didn’t think you would…” Jayce answered, shifting in his place as his thumb started rubbing comforting little circles into his own palm. “I-I mean. I wasn’t sure… I thought you might find it dumb or- I don’t know? Too much? Not enough, maybe…”

“Not enough?” Viktor stared at him in disbelief. Did they go to the same event? Did Jayce not see the pride which Viktor carried his patterns? He quite literally walked the halls of the gala like a trademarked Talis just for Jayce. Viktor couldn’t bring himself to say any of that, however. “Jayce, you gave me a Gardenia. That is not subtle. That is, in fact, quite a message.”

Jayce’s lips parted, as though he meant to speak, but nothing came out. Viktor allowed himself a small smirk. He had spent countless hours parsing the meanings Jayce had gifted him, the hidden confessions wrapped in petals and scent. It had been a puzzle, yes, but one layered with tenderness and vulnerability. He preferred to be composed, methodical even, but Jayce always had a way of disarming him. Of making every moment feeling alive.

Viktor allowed the moment of silence between them to stretch, watching the ever-blushing Jayce stare back at him. It pulled at his heart, striking something tender within him. How many times had Jayce worn his heart on his sleeve, unguarded and vulnerable, even when he didn’t realise it? And how often had Viktor sidestepped the invitation to meet him halfway in fear of hoping too much? In desperation to protect his own sentimental heart?

Jayce was already standing halfway waiting. All Viktor had to do was to follow the bond that tethered them together.

“You,” Viktor began, his voice quieter now as he found himself nervously tracing fingers across the spine of his book, “make even the smallest thing feel important. Brighter, warmer—like they matter more because you touched it. It is… eh, infuriating, in a way.”

Jayce opened his mouth, Viktor assumed to apologise. “Infuriating,” he quickly continued before the other man had a chance to speak, “because… It leaves no space to hide. No corner to retreat to. Everything you do, every flower or every look or every touch, it demands attention. Demands feeling.” Viktor paused as he could feel himself getting flustered with the vulnerability of the moment. Exposed. Nervous. Was this how Jayce felt every time he’d brought a flower? Every time he’d let his heart show? He looked at Jayce carefully. His heart stuttered. Jayce was looking at him like he was hanging the moon and stars with every word. More feelings to be demanded. He felt unsteady.

“Even as I told myself I preferred my solitude, you… made it impossible. You, Jayce. Are impossible not to feel. Everything you do. Everything you are. I-“ It was Viktor’s turn to have his sentence trail off. He felt his own breath grow heavy in his chest, and for just a moment, he considered retreating, drawing back to the safety of quiet gestures and unsaid truth. But he knew, no matter where he went, no matter how tall the walls around his heart might grow—He would always seek Jayce out in the end.

“You are extraordinary.”

The words left Viktors lips before he could even think, aching with affection for his partner. Jayce’s breath hitched loudly with the gentle confession, his eyes searching Viktor’s face with an intensity that felt like gravity, pulling Viktor closer even as he fought to keep his composure. He could so easily give in, cross the room and find himself by Jayce’s side but—no. Viktor had a plan, and he was determined not to let Jayce derail him from delivering the confession he intended to give his partner.

Viktor took a deep breath before he turned slightly to the side to comfortably place the book on their desk. The motion revealing something hiding behind his frame. A small bouquet resting on the edge of the table.

Jayce’s attention was immediately locked on the flowers, eyes wide with surprise and something Viktor couldn’t quite read. The arrangement was modest but purposeful. Delicate Lily of the Valley, soft blues of Forget-Me-Not and the bold red of a Chrysanthemum. Viktor looked from Jayce and over to the blooms, his heart beating like a hummingbird in his chest.

“Viktor—I…” Jayce said his name like a plea, voice so thick with emotion Viktor wasn’t sure if the man was about to laugh or cry. His partner’s expression almost twisted into pain from yearning, he couldn’t ignore the light tremble to his frame either. Jayce was just about to crumble.

No more hiding behind walls, petals, or cautious words. No more.

“I have spent some time thinking of how to give back to you.” Viktor said, his voice soft, steadier than he felt. “How…To speak a language you have already mastered.” He carefully picked up the bouquet, holding it as if it was something precious. Viktor’s gaze met Jayce’s as the words hung in the air between them. The warmth in his partner’s eyes made his chest ache with the distance between them.

“I believe it is my turn, now.” Viktor stepped closer.

“Lily of the Valley,” Viktor began. His gaze fell to the white blooms nestled in the bouquet, white bells arching gracefully along slender green stems. “They are for sweetness, for returning to happiness. For the joy you have brought into my life, Jayce.” Although he had never heard his mother speak the words aloud, he could almost hear her voice now, gently reciting the lily’s entry as if she was beside him. A quiet kind of joy, the kind that fills the spaces you didn’t know were empty. A reminder that true happiness often whispers instead of shouts.

He took another step, cane tapping softly against the ground. Drawn to the warmth and presence of the man before him, Viktor continued. “Forget-Me-Not,” His voice felt raw with emotions, “they hold the meaning of always remembering you. Of how even in your absence, your presence lingers with me.”

The tiny blue blossoms seemed impossibly delicate as he turned the bouquet slightly, letting the light catch the soft hues. This one he had heard his mother speak once, her voice soft in his mind as he reminded himself. A flower for the memories that cling to us, for when we are apart but still hold each other. To hold this flower and say, ‘Not for a moment will I forget you, ever.’

He swallowed, his golden eyes meeting Jayce’s fully now. The man stood still; his eyes fixed on Viktor with awe. “Even when you are not here… you are.”

His eyes lowered to the deepest hue of the bouquet, his thumb lightly tracing the bold red petals as if they might lend him the courage to continue. Viktor took his final step, coming to a halt before Jayce, close enough now to feel the warmth radiating from him like the sun itself. He had closed the distance. Now he just needed the words. “And these…” His breath caught, and for the first time, he felt himself break just a little under the weight of the flowers. For a love that demands courage. It does not come subtly, but boldly, asking you to risk everything—but it is worth everything. “Red Chrysanthemums.” The words left him as a little more than a whisper, the name heavy on his tongue. “They mean—” He paused, heat rising unbidden to his face as his chest tightened. He had prepared for this, every word carefully chosen, every thought rehearsed. It should have been simple. The meaning of the red bloom stuck somewhere between his chest and throat, and he couldn’t understand why. He couldn’t have come this far just to go still, could he? He felt the flower bloom in his heart. The meaning burned warmer than any ember could.

I love you.

“I love you.”

Viktor’s eyes widened at the rough tone of Jayce’s voice as he spoke. His attention snapped back to the man in front of him only to have his heart stutter. Jayce was looking at him with a smile so pure, so brilliant, it was almost too much to bear. It was the kind of joy that seemed to overflow, unrestrained, pooling in the corners of his eyes as if a single blink would release the tears clinging on to his lashes. “I love you,” Jayce said again, the words tumbling from his lips like they had been locked away for too long, finally free. His voice cracked, but he didn’t seem to care. “I love you—Viktor— I-” Viktor’s breath caught in his chest, his mind spinning as his body moved before he could think better of it. The flowers in his hands slipped from his grasp, forgotten as they fell to the floor. His cane meeting the same fate as he let it go, his hand suddenly too preoccupied with something far more important. He closed the space between them in a single purposeful step and reached for Jayce. His hand found purchase at the collar of Jayce’s shirt and there was no resistance as he pulled the other man close with desperation. Viktor’s lips crashed against Jayce’s in a kiss unrestrained and unapologetically raw. It was though all the emotions Viktor had kept locked at bay, all the feelings he had neglected to voice, spilled forth in one singular act. Jayce let out a surprised, breathless sound that quickly melted into something deeper. One hand instinctively gripping Viktor’s waist while the other found the back of his head, fingers threading into the soft curls at the base of his neck. Viktor melted. The kiss was everything and nothing like he had imagined—messy, uncoordinated and yet so profoundly grounding it made his head spin. Jayce’s lips were soft and warm, moving against his own with a tenderness that contrasted the intensity of what they both felt. Viktor tilted his head, deepening the kiss. He poured into it everything he had no words for, a silent confession of his heart. The fingers curling in Jayce’s collar became a plea to never leave, his other hand coming to rest at the man’s jaw as a promise to cherish him, the kiss becoming a promise to nurture whatever might grow between them.

Jayce pressed closer, his broad hand splaying over Viktor’s back, pulling him in like they couldn’t possibly be close enough. The heat between their bodies burning bright with the shared affection. Viktor felt ablaze with every touch, every press of lips—It wasn’t just the wall of petals Jayce had burned down but the very walls around Viktor’s sentimental heart. Jayce was keeping him so warm. So at home. Viktor couldn’t imagine a world where he felt cold or alone again.

Viktor had half a mind to chase after Jayce as the man pulled away, instead he was soothed with small butterfly light kisses to his cheekbone and right above his upper lip. Warmth lingering long after his partner’s lips left, and he couldn’t help the soft chuckle of joy.

“Please say it back.”

Jayce’s voice, thick with emotion, broke the quiet. His breath ghosting against Viktor’s lips as he spoke.

Viktor opened his eyes, tilting his head slightly to meet Jayce’s pleading gaze. A flicker of amusement danced in his own as he let a smile curl over his lips. “Eh, flowers not enough for you now?” he teased gently, his voice softer than what usually weaved through his playfulness.

“Please.” Jayce repeated, his trembling, his eyes shining with something vulnerable that Viktor felt his heart twist.

The teasing fell away quickly as Viktor let out a shaky breath, his thumb brushing against Jayce’s cheek, wiping away a tear neither of them acknowledged.

“I love you.” He said simply, but his voice carried all the weight of the moment, all the meaning the flowers and kisses couldn’t convey.

Jayce’s eyes fluttered shut, a laugh slipping through his parted lips, half a sob and half relief. “Viktor—I…” He began, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. His large frame trembling ever so slightly with relief. Viktor surged forward, cutting him off with another kiss. This one was slower, sweeter, an affirmation wrapped in tenderness. His hand slipping from Jayce’s collar and coming to rest over his heart, feeling the steady and strong beat beneath his palm. He could feel his partner soften in his hands, melting into the moment like he’d found the place he belonged. It almost made him weep with how soft it all was. How deeply comforting it was to find the soul that mirrored your own.

The kiss stayed soft and light, every moment deliberate and unhurried. Viktor tilted his head slightly, his nose brushing against Jayce’s cheek as he savoured the closeness. It was as though time had slowed, the world reduced to just them and the quiet, electric hum of their connection.

Between the press of lips, Viktor caught faint murmurs—soft, barely audible whispers that sent a rush of warmth over him.

“I love you—I love y—love,” Jayce muttered, the words slipping free like a mantra, unbidden but true.

Viktor exhaled against Jayce’s mouth, a sound that carried equal parts affection and quiet disbelief. He allowed himself to pause, just briefly, to take in the sight of the man before him. His partner’s eyes were shut, lashes brushing against his cheeks and a flush painted his skin, vibrant and full of life. It was staggering, raw and beautiful in a way Viktor couldn’t put into words.

Jayce’s lips found his again, and Viktor couldn’t stop the quiet laugh that spilled between them. “You are relentless.” Viktor murmured as if sharing a secret meant only for the two of them. Jayce pulled back just enough to meet Viktor’s gaze. The amber of his eyes eaten up by the blacks of his pupils. “I mean it,” his voice was low now, hand brushing against Viktor’s as it rested over his chest, interlocking their fingers. “Every time. I mean it.” It was so honest. “I believe you.” Viktor answered, he had no other choice but to believe Jayce. How could he not? Every action, every glance, every flower had led them here, to this moment. Viktor didn’t just believe Jayce, he felt the love. It was rolling off his partner like waves of water to drown in, to submerge in and never return to the surface. Their foreheads came to a rest, soft breaths sharing the air between them as they simply basked in each other’s orbit. Neither spoke, silence filled with something vibrant, something alive. When their eyes met, the sheer joy reflected in Jayce’s gaze made Viktor’s lips twitch into a smile. Jayce broke into a grin first, wide and unrestrained, and Viktor couldn’t help but mirror it, a quiet laugh escaping him as the weight of the moment gave away to something lighter. Jayce’s shoulder shook with a soft, bubbling laughter, and Viktor let himself lean into the joy. His own chuckles joining the sound. “You are amazing.” Jayce said between breaths, his grin so wide it threatened to split his face. “I mean it, Viktor. The flowers—I—” Viktor’s smile softened, a warm glow settling over his features. “Mm, well, I cannot take full credit. Julianna helped.”

Jayce blinked, pulling back just enough to look at him properly, his expression shifting into surprise. “Wait—you know Julianna?” Viktor’s smirk returned, playful and sharp. “Of course. You think I would entrust something as delicate as your feelings just to anyone?” Jayce sputtered, torn between laughing and looking scandalised. “I—she never said anything! Did you… Did you plan this with her?” Viktor chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Plan? No, not exactly. She was eh… Enthusiastic in the supply of flowers.” He admitted, his voice carrying a faint note of pride as he continued, “but I chose them. Their meanings, their purpose—those were mine.”

He watched as his partner’s eyes shifted from surprise to something softer, almost awestruck in nature. Jayce’s cheeks flushed deeper as his gaze darted between Viktor’s eyes and the playful smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “Gods,” Jayce whispered, “I’m so in love with you.” Before Viktor could respond Jayce leaned forward, capturing his lips in a kiss filled with laughter and warmth. Their smiles growing so wide it broke through the kiss, leaving them both simply basking in the joy of each other. “You are unyielding,” Viktor murmured again, amusement and affection weaving through his words like golden thread on a tailored lapel.

“You’re breathtaking.” Jayce replied with a grin, words light enough to be carried on petals and stems. The language of flowers had once been nothing more than a charming indulgence, fragile, fleeting and impractical. But now, Viktor understood. It wasn’t about the flowers themselves, or the meanings written beside their names in the margins of old books. It was about the hands that chose them, the care that carried them, the courage it took to offer them. The flowers would wilt, their petals falling away, but what they had carried—the weight of emotions, of affection, of love—that would remain. It would take root in the space they had created, growing into something more enduring that either of them could imagine. Viktor smiled as Jayce’s soft chuckle filled the room. Yes, he thought, sometimes even a practical heart could bloom.

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marleysfinest · 2 months ago

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calibernus reader x ryomen sukuna (fem! reader) chapter: 5/? word count: 6698 cw: none explicit

MASTERLIST

also on AO3

MONSTER

Sleep doesn’t find you the first night, nor the second, but by the third you’re so exhausted that you can’t help but fall into a heavy and dreamless slumber.

You wake with an aching body, your back and limbs stiff from not having moved in a full twelve hours as you lay sprawled across your bed, face buried into your pillows that leave crease marks on your cheek. There’s a gentle knock at the door at just before eleven o’clock, and your lady’s maid glides in carrying a tray of water, a pot of tea, and a couple of slices of toast.

“Good morning, my Lady,” she says with a slight curtsey, “how are you feeling?”

You prop yourself up in bed and accept the tray onto your lap, blinking the sleep residue from your eyes and clearing your vision.

“Well, thank you,” you croak in return. The maid looks pleased as you take a sip of water. There isn’t as much concern in her voice or expression as you’d anticipated; perhaps your grandmother hadn’t divulged exactly what was wrong. “Glad to hear it, ma’am. The Dowager has requested to see you, might I send her up?”

Realising how ravenous you are, you take an enormous bite out of one of the slices of toast, offering only a nod so as not to spray crumbs on the bedspread. The maid offers a final curtsey before disappearing to fetch your grandmother.

The salt of the melted butter and weight of the bread in your stomach stirs you towards full consciousness, and you stretch your legs to allow for better blood flow all the way through to your wiggling toes. The weather outside is beautiful, and as you look out of the window overlooking the gardens below, you can just about see Eddie and his father preening the flowerbeds in the sunshine. For a split second you forget the reason why you’ve just spent three whole days in isolation. The memory of what occurred downstairs crashes over you like a wave, and the fear and anxiety rear their ugly heads once more. So much of you hoped it had all been a horrid dream, but it was too tangible. Too real.

You’re lost in your daydream when your maid appears again.

“Forgive me ma’am, I misheard the Dowager,” she admits sheepishly, “she requests your presence in the blue drawing room.”

You can’t help the sigh that escapes your lips.

“Fine. Fetch me a dress, please.”

It takes every ounce of willpower to walk down the stairs knowing what was there just a few nights ago. The entire house feels tainted now you know that something so hideous and evil could exist within its walls, and you don’t relish walking past the spot it had once occupied. You still feel its presence, and a shiver runs down your spine as you skip past.

The telltale signs of your father and brother holding a booming conversation are notably absent, meaning that they must be out enjoying the good weather somewhere. Your brother perhaps promenading with his wife, your father most likely at the club. Not that you would grumble; it’s always a blessing whenever their invasive tones are out of earshot. You head to the blue drawing room to the front of the house and find your grandmother and your mother sitting beside one another, and you linger in the doorway for a moment; you're sure that your grandmother wants to talk about what happened, so why is your mother here too? But as soon as you ask yourself the question, your grandmother’s voice rings in your head.

I suppose it did curse myself and your mother…

With renewed anxiety you proceed, and hover beside the couch opposite the two matriarchs. Your mother looks pained, almost as if she’s about to burst into tears.

“Sit, child,” your grandmother prompts, firmly but gently, and you do as you’re told.

“You would… no doubt like some explanation as to what happened.”

Fresh tears emerge in your mother's eyes, and you feel hesitant to discuss it. In her hands, a china teacup and silver spoon rattle against the saucer as she tries to steady her trembling hands. How much does she know? “I’ve told her everything,” your grandmother interrupts, “everything.”

There’s a twist in your stomach - is it guilt? - as your mother’s lip quivers, thinking that you are to blame for her being so upset. There was no doubt that your grandmother had told her everything without sugarcoating it, and any mother would be emotional at the thought of their child in such distress. If only I’d handled it better. “Alright,” you say, “please, tell me what’s going on. What is it that's wrong with me?”

The room feels oddly still in the moment of silence as your grandmother collects her thoughts, taking a cursory glance at your mother as she does so, the tension of her imminent explanation palpable.

“You are cursed.”

She says it so matter-of-factly, so bluntly that you’re taken aback. Her words hit you like a brick; it's the very last thing you’d expected to hear. Mad? Yes. Hysterical, even. But cursed? Sensing your confusion, she continues.

“What you saw, what you will see, is the result of being cursed. You will see all of this world’s ugliness and there is no guarantee that it won’t see you, too. Had I not been here, that curse on the stairway would’ve consumed you.”

Nothing is making sense. Your grandmother may as well be speaking to you in tongues, and you can't help but feel that this is all an elaborate joke.

“It isn’t something that can be understood immediately,” interjects your mother, her tone far more sympathetic, “but it’s important that you try.”

“Try?” you argue, “what exactly is there to try to understand? You tell me that I’m ‘cursed’ but that I shouldn’t let it bother me?”

“Absolutely not,” your grandmother says firmly, “you must embrace it. However, there is a difference between embracing the curse and letting it consume you. Do that and you will perish.”

The way she speaks so gravely fails to scare you into submission, as was no doubt the intention, but instead you feel increasingly irritated.

“This is ridiculous! Will someone please start speaking some sense?! What's next, I'm to become a shaman?”

“Hush!” your grandmother hisses, “watch your volume, girl!”

Her tone cuts through you, like it always does, making you flinch and pause for thought. With a deep breath you attempt to compose yourself.

“Fine,” you say, your voice lowered, “exactly what am I supposed to do about this? If what you’re saying is true?”

Your grandmother takes a moment to compose herself, too, and sits ever so slightly straighter with the aid of her cane.

“Your mother and I will train you. Teach you to manage the curses around you. Eventually, your technique will reveal itself and - ”

“My ‘technique’?”

“Hush!” she hisses again, frustrated by your questions, “in time! Your skill will develop, at which point we will be able to refine the training to help you further.”

Not a bone in your body is satisfied by her answer, but you realise that the likelihood of her explaining anything more sympathetically is nonexistent, and so you let her continue uninterrupted.

“What remains of the utmost importance is that you do not speak of this to anyone except your mother and I. The number of us curse users here in London dwindles day by day, and we cannot guarantee you’ll be safe if revealed.”

There are others? Where? Who?

“I know this is frightening,” says your mother, attempting to offer some comfort, “it was frightening for me. Grandmama too. This… affliction is something we have both sought to understand for many years now in our isolation. Once we know of your technique we will be able to offer you even more help. We will teach you to… wield it.”

You begin to wonder if this ‘technique’ they speak of will resemble a comical mace or some form of sword. What else can they mean by ‘wielding’ it? You realise then that your mother’s keeping something from you, holding something back as she attempts to explain the situation, but can’t fathom what it could be. You don't understand what they are telling you, let alone what they’re not.

“Fine,” you sigh, “what would you have me do until then?”

“Stay close,” your grandma says immediately, reaching for the teapot that’s been steaming on the small console table, “we must keep a close eye on you until your technique develops.”

Your shoulders fall as you let go of any hopes of seeing Eddie at The Straw Doll again any time soon. The idea of being kept under such scrutiny, especially from your grandmother, for an unknown length of time makes your stomach twist into an anxious knot.

“But enough of this talking,” she says, “go and make yourself presentable and join us back downstairs. We will begin right away. You may have joined our ranks in this wretched way but there is no reason to look quite so dishevelled.”

Snapped back into reality by a critique of your appearance, you seize the chance to leave the room and race upstairs to your bedroom, feeling no more reassured than when you’d left it. Such enormous confusion, not just at what they were saying but by the fact that you feel so unable to accept it. Is it because it’s so ridiculous? So unexpected? You’d joined them in the drawing room and felt ready to listen to any explanation your grandmother was willing to give, so why are you suddenly so ready to rebuke her words? You run a brush through your hair and slip in a simple bandeau before heading back downstairs.

As you approach the drawing room, you pause at the sound of hushed voices.

“Why has it waited until now?” asks your mother.

“I do not know. It’s quite perplexing.”

“Do you think she’ll inherit my - ”

“Let us not dwell on what she might have. We must pray that she doesn’t, else she’ll become that man’s target more than she already is. We have done enough damage by inadvertently putting her in his path, let us take this opportunity to divert him. We may not have another.”

The days are a blur as you’re subjected to your grandmother’s version of teaching. She’s by no means a governess; her favoured methods are barking details and expecting you to remember them without question or clarification, and making no secret of her exhaustion when you do ask her something. One afternoon you sit idly beside your mother as your grandmother attempts to explain the history of this “curse” to you, to no avail. You can’t make head nor tails of what she’s saying; all you can gather is that this ailment is not common in England. Lord Kamo and his constituent are said to have a far better understanding of the affliction than anyone else in London, but you’re forbidden from seeking their advice, the reason for which is not divulged. According to your grandmother, not even the King and Queen are privy to an understanding of curses or those who can control them. Two more curses appear within the house which are dealt with by both your mother and grandmother. They’re still odd shadows but these ones are much smaller and less sinister than whatever you'd encountered on the stairs, not that it makes them any less frightening. They are dismissed swiftly, however, which is one thing you’re grateful for, although you can’t help but admit you’d feel more reassured if you could get rid of them yourself. There will undoubtedly come a day when you’re faced with one of these horrors alone, and you don’t much revel in the thought of learning on the job.

You’ve barely been out in society for almost two weeks, and know that your sudden absence must have woven its way into the gossip of the ton. Both the Wessexes and Portlands have held parties in that time that you’ve missed which has upset your father, although you’re unsure as to why. Neither family offers you much in the way of prospects - or desirable husbands.

Despite a somewhat refreshing break from the pains of society, you’re beginning to feel the isolation set in and decide to try and brave a promenade of Bond Street with your mother. You wake, wash, and dress and make your way downstairs to find the entire family gathered in the blue room; an unusual enough occurrence to give you pause as you arrive. Everyone is seated in quiet conversation save for your father, who’s standing beside the mantelpiece with one elbow resting atop it. As you approach the doorway, the room’s attention turns to you.

“…What?” you ask as you boil beneath their glares.

“A letter for you,” explains your father, holding up a small envelope.

You make no attempt to hide the confusion in your expression and feel as if you’re missing something painfully obvious. If the letter is addressed to me, why are we all waiting around to see what’s inside?

“Alright…”

You awkwardly head to take the letter from him, feeling the scrutiny bore into you as you flip the envelope over. A large, red wax seal has been placed on the back.

“It’s His Majesty’s seal,” your father explains immediately with a voice full of pride. Your hands are suddenly clammy and you feel your stomach drop as you contemplate what the contents of the letter can possibly be; having an inkling but wishing not to dwell on it. With a deep breath you peel back the seal and slip the parchment out of the envelope, opening it to reveal exquisite handwriting curled across the page. As you read on, you feel your blood run cold.

“It’s… an invitation,” you mutter, “L…. Lord Sukuna requests my presence.”

The dread blooms in your stomach as you utter his name, the thought alone of having to face him again triggering your fight-or-flight response, and you wrestle with the realisation of having absolutely no choice in the matter; it makes no difference who your grandmother wishes to marry you off to now. A royal guest showing interest in you is of the utmost importance to your father.

“Well? When?” he presses, and you turn your attention back to the letter.

“Um… tomorrow evening.”

Your father puffs his chest out, beaming with pride. For me or for himself?

“Very good!” he booms, turning his attention to your mother, “make sure that she has all she needs.”

The following evening you remain as still as you can as you’re dressed in an ivory gown, and your maid touches up your complexion at the request of your grandmother. The time spent indoors and the restless nights has taken its toll on you; to arrive for an audience with His Majesty looking so deathly would’ve been an insult, and so you agree that some rouge on your lips and the apple of your cheeks won’t hurt. On your way downstairs you catch a glimpse of your reflection and find that you hardly recognise the woman looking back at you; she seems older, slightly weathered even, with a notable lack of… innocence.

Your father is waiting at the door in his finest suit, and beside him your mother waits diligently trying to mask her nerves. As you approach, you can see she’s gently wringing something in her hands. With a false smile she extends her arms to you, handing over a pair of silk gloves.

“Good luck, my dear,” she mutters, “you’ll be fine.”

Her mouth is curled into a pretty smile but her eyes give away her true turmoil; she’s worried about you. Is it because of him?

The ride to the palace is, regretfully, not a peaceful one, as your father takes it upon himself to warn you of what to expect during a private audience with His Majesty and the appropriate behaviour expected of you, as if you haven’t spent the past ten years of your life subject to gruelling etiquette lessons. You keep one ear open for him while you try to block out the sheer volume of the city outside, a deep groan that you’ve only ever noticed slightly, suddenly overwhelming. As you try to ignore it you can’t help but think about what is actually causing the noise; not a disgruntled population but a sea of curses lingering in shadows and doorways. Your stomach twists at the thought, not least down to the knowledge that they could get inside.

The coach crosses the palace's threshold and there's a dip in the volume of groaning from outside, and you take a second to appreciate the dullness of the carriage wheels along the ground and the horse's hooves clacking against the gravel. Such peaceful sounds you've taken for granted all these years. It's a short-lived moment of respite, however, as the increasingly familiar oppressive darkness begins to weigh on your shoulders as the carriage pulls to a stop. It's presence had always confused you but you were able to brush it off, but with your new (albeit limited) view of the world, you can't help but think - is this down to him?

While it hasn't been explicitly revealed to you, there isn't a doubt in your mind that Lord Sukuna is one of these so-called "curse users". What other explanation could there be? The seismic sensation you'd felt when he'd touched your chin had to be the reason this infliction of yours had awakened. This, coupled with the ominous and foreboding feeling you get whenever he draws near - the very same sensation you feel as you enter London from the country, but amplified - leads you to the conclusion that he must be a curse-user. The events following your rendezvous with Lord Sukuna in the royal gardens had eclipsed much else that had happened that evening, and it's only as a footman approaches to help you from your coach do you recall just what Lord Sukuna had said to you.

So, it is you.

We're a step closer to finding what we came for.

Your heart begins to drum in your chest as the conversation comes flooding back to you, including his remarks on gathering information on your family. For what purpose? What could your family have that a Lord from a far off land would want? And want badly enough to traverse half of the world to get it? As the realisation sinks in that you are walking directly into the jaws of the beast, you consider feigning illness so as to avoid the dinner altogether, but you know it won't get you far. Your father would pull all the strings necessary to make sure that this meeting happens, come hell or high water. You'd only be prolonging the inevitable.

With weak courage, you follow the royal footman inside the palace and are struck by how empty it feels. Without the fanfare of a a string quintet or the distraction of a crowd of guests, the halls are airy and quiet, save for the faint echo of a harpsichord being played in a nearby room. The only times you've visited the palace have been during the height of the season; the quiet makes for a refreshing change. Your father takes the lead as the footman stops at a set of double doors and offers a gentle knock, and a voice from inside bids him to enter. You instinctively hold your breath knowing that the time has come to face him again.

But, as the footman announces the Wellington's arrival, you round the corner into the lavish drawing room to be met with only King George and Queen Charlotte sitting opposite one another by the fire. Lord Sukuna is nowhere to be seen. It's a challenge to hide the confusion on your face, but thankfully the room is soon distracted by the yapping of a small dog which is running towards your father.

"Ah, Sherry!" The king barks at the small animal, a Corgi puppy, as it hops at your father's shins.

"You must forgive this bastard dog," His Majesty continues, scooping Sherry into his arms, "yet to be broken in by the others, you see. Hasn't learned its place quite yet!"

Your father dons his most patient smile.

"It is of no bother, Your Majesty," he says, before quickly changing the subject, "I present my daughter, whom you warmly received the night of your ball."

Immediately you fall into a deep curtsey.

"Yes, yes, the debutante," says George with a blasé tone as he returns to his seat, "come in now, Welly, you make the place look untidy!"

It's an agonising hour of listening to His Majesty discuss Sherry the dog, along with the rest of the latest royal litter, with your father barely able to get in a word edgeways. Occasionally you cast a glance at him, and you know he's desperate to turn the conversation towards your invitation and the whereabouts of Lord Sukuna, but King George doesn't give him the chance. In a way it's pleasing; while the conversation is frightfully dull you're at the very least comfortable enough. Queen Charlotte remains silently at your side, fanning herself and staring blankly across the room as her husband rambles on. Eventually, however, there's a pause in the conversation, and she takes it as her moment to strike.

"My dear, we must allow our guests a chance to converse, also," she says with a smile, turning her attention to your father with an expression that reads draw this conversation away from dogs or I will see you hung.

Your father clears his throat and sits up straight, immediately reading the queen's cue.

"I must say it was a surprise - a pleasant surprise - to receive the invitation. May I ask whether your esteemed guest will be joining us this evening? The invitation was signed by his own hand, you see."

"Esteemed, indeed," Charlotte comments, clearly thrilled that the conversation has swung into the realms of gossip, "he will be joining us for dinner. His routines and behaviours are most unorthodox, I fear to admit, although he has ensured maximum turnout at our parties this season."

Her eagerness to discuss Lord Sukuna piques your interest.

"How so, ma'am, if I may be so bold as to ask?"

Charlotte turns her body toward you and leans in slightly, revelling in the chance to gossip with a hushed voice.

"Well, you saw, I trust, his seating arrangement at my party? It was insisted upon, his aide made sure of it and caused quite a stir in doing so. He walks barefoot - truly! - everywhere he goes, even out on the cobblestones, and smokes the most curious tobacco. He is quite the unusual visitor, I must confess, but my husband insisted upon it…"

George is suddenly waving in her direction as if to bat away a fly.

"Bah, hogwash, woman!" he scoffs, "he is only curious because you make him so! You women and your gossip."

As if on cue there's a knock at the door, and the same footman appears.

"Dinner is ready to be served, your Majesty."

Charlotte looks back at you with one eyebrow raised.

"Best foot forward, child, for you are about to experience our curious guest firsthand."

The dining room is at the end of a long hallway, running alongside the courtyard now lit by dim lanterns as the sun continues to set. The doors are already open wide, but as you draw nearer you feel as if your eyes are playing tricks on you as the room is… empty? Stepping inside, instead of the long dining table you expect, you see only a small, square table barely a foot from the ground and five cushions on the floor surrounding it. You glance at your father who is moments way from a medical episode, but doing his ample best to hide it to avoid causing any offence. Charlotte offers you a knowing look as the doors are pulled closed behind you before her attention is diverted, and you realise that you'd failed to notice the person standing beside the table, at the far side of the room.

"Good evening," they say in a soft tone, "please."

They're wearing a similar style of dress you see on the Kamo noblewomen often, with their hands tucked into opposing sleeves before unfurling one arm to direct you towards the table. You try your best not to stare; their hair is a shade of white you've never seen before on someone so young, and you know it must be a trick of the light when you think you see a flash of red at the back of their head. This must be Lord Sukuna's aide - is it the same one who had been with him in the garden? Uraume? The King and Queen head towards the table as you linger behind with your father, unsure how to approach the unusual situation without causing offence, and watch in awe as the two of them lower themselves to the ground atop a cushion each.

"Please," Uraume bids, "be seated."

With less confidence than you'd entered the room with, you make your way towards the table and are about to sit down when you're stopped.

"Please remove your footwear first," asks Uraume gently, and you realise that they only seem to be addressing you directly, "it is not custom to wear shoes at mealtimes in Japan. You may then kneel on your cushion, here."

They gesture to a particular spot that has apparently been reserved especially for you, and you just about manage to tuck your dress beneath you comfortably as you kneel on the floor. Your father is about to take his place beside you, when Uraume steps in again.

"Lord Sukuna has requested you sit here," they say, directing him to a cushion on the opposite side of the table. Your father pauses, looking perturbed, not least as their tone seems colder when directed towards him.

"I beg your pardon?" he asks, feathers ruffled at not being seated beside his daughter.

"Please," Uraume, "it is Lord Sukuna's request."

The way your father is so blatantly furious makes you wince, but you know he'd sooner die than cause a scene in front of King George, and watch in awe as he takes a seat opposite you. Uraume neatly re-folds their arm within their sleeve, and stands to address you all.

"Welcome," they begin, "tonight we will serve you a traditional meal from Lord Sukuna's home country, to show our gratitude to our gracious hosts. In front of you are ohashi which are used in place of knives and forks in Japan; please, do not worry about causing offence, should you struggle to use them. Lord Sukuna asks only that you try. You will also notice that our chabudai is far lower than the usual English dining table. It may intrigue you to know that we do not usually dine on one table in this way, however Lord Sukuna does not wish to remove all of your comforts and so has graciously accommodated this alteration. I hope you enjoy your evening. I will now go and see to the meal."

With a quick bow Uraume shuffles across the room towards the double-doors and swings them open wide before standing to the side in a deep bow, as Lord Sukuna enters the dining room unannounced. Your breath catches in your throat as you lay eyes on him again; he's donning his usual pristine white haori and pads over to you barefoot, and despite being unable to peel your eyes away, you know that your father is caught off guard. Seeing Lord Sukuna in motion - even simply standing - is a stark difference to when you had both met him at the ball, separated by several feet as he scrutinised you from his throne. Whatever protest your father may have had for Uraume at the evening's arrangements is swallowed with haste. Sukuna offers your royal hosts a courteous nod of the head - to your surprise - before taking a seat next to you. The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end at being so close to him, and the heat that radiates off of the surface of his skin is as if he himself is on fire. Fingernails dig into palms around the table at his very presence; why does he feel so dangerous?

"Good evening," chimes the King, and you notice that his tone is less jovial, "you remember, do you not, the Duke of Wellington and his daughter?"

You hide a wince at the attention being directed to you straight away, as does your father. With unyielding scrutiny, Lord Sukuna turns to you, peering down through his one good eye while the other remains hidden by his eye-patch.

"How could I forget?" The familiar rumble of his voice rattles your chest, and you feign a polite smile as you try to ignore the fact that all of his attention is on you.

"Indeed, I was mentioning to His Majesty just now our surprise over your kind invitation. We were most grateful to receive it."

While your father's tone is polite as he injects himself into the conversation, it's as clear as day that he's attempting to hide some other conflicting emotion. Frustration? Incredulity? Confusion? It all battled within him at once as he attempted to wrestle with Lord Sukuna's different manners, all the while no doubt feeling enormously intimidated by the man who had positioned himself beside his only daughter. Lord Sukuna is perturbed by the interruption, and turns to address your father for the first time.

"'We'?"

Taken aback by the challenge, your father flounders beneath Sukuna's glare. If you weren't so on edge already, you might have even enjoyed the sight.

"I do not remember writing your name," Sukuna continues, "and yet here you are, offering your voice in her stead and acting like you're not an univited guest here."

You feel your eyes widen to the size of dinner plates at Lord Sukuna's harshness, his rudeness, in the face of not only your father, but the royal family also. Who does he think he is? The room falls so silent that you could've heard a pin drop on the carpet, and you steal a glance at Queen Charlotte who meets your eye with one brow raised, apparently enojying the charged exchange.

"I… my Lord, I mean no offence when.."

"Hm."

His grunt cuts your father off mid-sentence, in a roundabout way ending the conversation. Just how he hasn't been thrown out yet, you have no idea; while Lord Sukuna had indeed extended the invitation, the meeting itself is happening beneath the King's roof, and good etiquette dictates that you are as much the King's guest as you are Lord Sukuna's. For him to treat the palace as his own home and to scald the guests within it is unheard of. Clearly, you think, he thinks a lot of himself.

Before your father can offer a rebuttal, Uraume appears in the dining room once again carrying a tray stacked high with crockery which they begin to neatly lay out in front of you all. Ornate porcelain bowls decorate the table filled with steaming white rice, vibrant grilled vegetables, clear soup, and rich pink salmon, and loose leaf tea is poured into small cups to accompany your meal. Lord Sukuna immediately picks up his ohashi and the bowl of rice to effortlessly scoop up a mouthful, completely unbothered by the atmosphere in the room. Nobody knows whether to move or even breathe, least of all your father, who looks down at the table sheepishly as he inspects the food in front of him, second-guessing whether he is, in fact, permitted to eat any of it. The King and Queen immediately grab the sets of cutlerly that Uraume has set in front of them - this is clearly not the first time they've been presented with ohasi to work their way around unsuccessfuly - and timidly begin to eat. Your eyes flicker down to your own place setting and feel a strike of panic.

Lord Sukuna asks only that you try.

With embarrassing incompetence you attempt - and fail - to handle the ohashi, and reach only for your cutlery when it's nudged your way by Sukuna's little finger. You finish the rest of your meal in silence, maintaining your composure and chiming in to the small-talk when prompted. Despite your previous encounters, Lord Sukuna is reserved in his conversation with you, a stark contrast to how he'd addressed your father. Is it because he honestly didn't expect your father to accompany you? Did he somehow think he would get you alone? You're grateful for the waning attention but grow ever more perplexed at just why he's invited you here in the first place.

Uraume clears the table with military efficiency, permitting the dinner guests to stand and move to the parlour to relax. There's a symphony of groans as you take to your feet.

"Welly, join me for a cigar and sherry," prompts George. Your father looks relieved, although chooses to persist with your host.

"Lord Sukuna, will you join us?" he asks. Sukuna does not even meet your father's eye.

"Goodnight."

With the most curt excusal you've ever seen, Sukuna dismisses himself without so much as a second glance back. Along with your father you stare as he leaves without so much as a glance back, followed keenly by Uraume who closes the door behind them. The King and Queen are far more used to this behaviour.

"Be grateful; that's the longest he's sat for dinner since he's been here," utters Charlotte with a hint of distaste, clearly put off by Lord Sukuna's abruptness despite how it fuels her gossip. You look across to your father whose gaze lingers on the door with a troubled expression; he'd clearly been hoping to sweet-talk his host after the sought-after invitation. Indeed, it's one of the only times you can recall your father not getting what he wants. A large part of you had been keen for information, also, but after being frozen into submission at Lord Sukuna's mere presence, you're just glad that it's over.

"Of course," stutters your father, "it was… an honour to make his acquaintance."

Queen Charlotte catches your eye.

"Come, child; whilst the men put the world to rights, accompany me to my chambers. I wish to show you my latest silks from the modiste."

You diligently bow your head.

"Of course, ma'am."

You follow her through the dimly lit halls of the palace, weaving this way and that, far from the dining room and parlour. The palace is almost a city in itself; the halls its roads and rooms big enough to be entire estates by London standards. It's always pleasant visiting because it reminds you of your mother's country home, albeit on a much larger scale, where you spend most of the year during the off-season. It offers breathing space in the cramped confines of London living, especially when it's not filled to the brim with guests. You reach the far side of the palace, and in the near distance you see a set of double doors. Charlotte slows her pace as you draw nearer, and waves a hand down another small hallway.

"You drank far too much tea at dinner; go, relieve yourself quickly and join me. I will call for sherry and I don't want your attention to be diverted."

The heat rises in your cheeks at her forwardness, and despite not needing to visit the privy, you do as she asks and turn down the hall.

"Yes, ma'am."

Once you find yourself alone in the hallway, you allow your pace to slow ever so slightly and take a deep breath. The evening has been… interesting. While it hasn't been the informative nor challenging night you'd imagined, you feel increasingly convinced that Lord Sukuna has something to do with what's happened to you since your encounter in the palace gardens. There is no other explanation for it. But why invite you here to barely utter a word, and disappear as soon as dinner is over? Was he really so deterred by the mere presence of your father? Knowing you'd be heading home with more questions than answers irks you, but there is also a swell of resolve in your stomach to take the situation by the horns and find some answers. It might be time to rope Eddie in for some help.

Realising that you're strolling on with no real idea of where the water closet is, you stop and try to re-orient yourself. Should you go in search for it, or just turn back and pretend you've done your business, and hope that the urge doesn't arise for the remainder of the evening? As you contemplate, you begin to feel a residual heat warm your cheeks and a darkness fill your vision, and the now familiar sensation prompts you to realise that you must be near Lord Sukuna's quarters. For a second you're frozen; if he or Uraume emerges then they'll think that you've come looking for him. Alone. Your mind is made up for you suddenly, and you turn on your heels to make your way back to the queen's chambers, making sure to treat lightly so as not to rouse suspicion.

Damn these winding halls!

You turn a corner and see a set of doors cracked open, and breathe a sigh of relief at having found your way back, thinking that Charlotte has left the door open in anticipation of your return. But as you approach you realise that you're mistaken. Your stomach drops both at being lost and the idea of accidentally appearing outside of Lord Sukuna's room so late in the evening and knowing that you'll need to pass the open door, as you recognise a painting at the end of the hallway and realise that Queen Charlotte's room is nearby. There's a warm, orange light emanating from the open door, and as your pace slows so that you are practically tip-toeing past, you risk a glance inside. The section of the room you can see is immaculate, almost as if there isn't anyone staying there at all. Were it not for the fact you recognised the same haori that he'd worn to dinner hanging on the dresser, you'd convince yourself that this couldn't be Lord Sukuna's room. With curiosity getting the better of you, you peer in further as you pass, until regret and disbelief hits you all at once.

At first, you think you've found another curse, and that your time to exercise one on your own has come at the most inopportune moment, but with grim realisation you see that this is no ordinary curse. He's standing at the far side of the room, overlooking the gardens below through the open balcony doors, taking deep and slow breaths with shoulders that rise and fall gently. There's something serene about the way he's so still in the moment, basking in the moonlight that streams in alongside the breeze of a warm summer night. A serenity short-lived as you register his tattoos travelling from his neck all the way down his back, from his shoulders and again on his wrists… his wrists…

As he runs to hands through the unruly pink hair you're sure that you're dreaming as you realise he also has two hands resting on either hip at the waistline of his trousers

Four arms.

You step back in sheer horror at what's before you; a beast. A monster. A curse so terrifying that you find yourself unable to move or scream. You're utterly frozen in place, with all of your senses failing you despite hearing a voice at the back of your mind hysterically urging you to run. But to where? To the queen's room? And tell her what? If you could just make it to your carriage…

"Did nobody teach you that it's rude to stare?"

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#here u go its a lil early mwah mwah #I promise its gonna start getting juicier from now on I'm gonna hammer chapter 6 #thank u for the love so far <333 #ryomen sukuna #sukuna x reader #sukuna x y/n #sukuna x female reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #regency au #sukuna x you #calibernus

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