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marleysfinest · 2 months ago

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you return to london for the third excruciating season of being touted on the marriage market. you're exhausted. bored. unsatiated. it's set to be more of the same, until word spreads of a prestigious visitor bound to shake up the ton.

calibernus reader x ryomen sukuna (fem! reader) chapter: 1/? word count: 5520 cw: none explicit. set in regency era london so undertones of misogyny and arranged marriages. also available on AO3

please enjoy this first chapter of something I hope evolves into something bigger!!!! also I need you to take this at face value I'm not a historian.

ARRIVAL

London, 1815.

You shift uncomfortably in your seat as the carriage bounces left to right, navigating where the dirt road joins the solid stone pathways of the city outskirts. You roll your shoulders to a symphony of cracks and clicks, and wince at the ache.

“Hardly a becoming expression...”

Your grandmother chastises you from her seat opposite. Instead of challenging the elderly woman, you purse your lips and arrange yourself into a more composed demeanour to please her - and hush her criticisms.

As you roll through the cramped streets of Notting Hill and Portobello, you feel the oppression of the city weigh on your shoulders. You pass fishmongers and greengrocers, store-fronts and beggars all attempting to earn a day’s coin for a loaf of bread and glass of ale in the evening. There’s a weight to them, too, almost as if a dark cloud of smog lingers around the city folk, waiting to be dispelled by a gust of wind that never comes. There’s just so much noise in London; there’s a near-constant underlying groan, as if the city’s lungs are clogged by the smoke and the very people themselves, coupled by the visual chaos of building upon building, person upon person, shadow upon shadow. Each year you become so acclimated to the space and freshness of the country that the return to London is harsh. Jarring.

Owing to yours and your family’s status, you return to London during the summer months to once again participate in the social season, leaving the spacious and freeing Wiltshire estate of your mother’s in favour of a Mayfair townhouse with neighbours squashed on either side. You’ve never relished in the functions of high society; the balls and the parties are beautiful, yes, but it’s the falseness of it all that bothers you the most. From an early age, all you remember wanting is to find a love match and escape with them to the country for good, perhaps taking up travelling and seeing some of the world that you often feel like is being kept from you. Alas, since your debut three years ago, your luck in finding a husband is apparently being withheld, too, alongside your family’s preference that you marry for money. Your elder brother’s recent nuptials have only solidified one simple fact: you remain alone.

As you roll into the wealthy district of Mayfair, your grandmother emerges from her shell to begin her analysis of the ton. She knows everyone, along with every ounce of their business. Her review of every passing couple, stranger, or household is a masterclass in gossip; every affair is accounted for, every engagement, every argument, every scandal. She has eyes and ears everywhere, and you don’t doubt her being in the pockets of several - if not all - of the households you pass by way of a talkative butler or scullery maid.

You block out her rattling as she refocuses her attention on you and the lack of a ring on your finger. She’s determined, vehemently so, that this will be the year she sees you leave the family home, especially given that your brother has just brought someone in. She’s listing the year’s eligible bachelors when the townhouse creeps into view and your muscles begin to relax at the thought of some solitude finally being within reach after such a long journey. Before the carriage rolls to a stop, you steal a glance towards your mother, who is looking at you with a complex expression which silently says I have dealt with this and worse for twenty-five years since marrying your father. You can manage a further twenty-five days.

The family townhouse is expansive and lavish, all the riches that come with your father being the Duke of Wellington evident in the staff lining the pathway to greet you, and the decor with no expense spared throughout the house. On the walls are portraits of Wellington’s past hanging alongside landscapes of the English countryside (your father frequently boasts about the Constable hanging above the mantelpiece in the drawing room). Throughout the house are large windows allowing the sunlight to stream in and on almost every table is a vase of fresh flowers; should you close your eyes, you can almost imagine being back in the countryside.

You hurry out of the carriage and cordially greet the household staff in the foyer, lingering a little longer in front of a certain one - the gardener’s son, Edward, who stands alongside his father. The two of you have been friends since childhood, ever since Eddie was old enough to start shadowing his father in the gardens of Mayfair. They have always been good to your family, and in turn, yours has been good to them - not that your grandmother approves of the friendship. But, you’re lucky enough that your mother and father turn something of a blind eye to it. After silently vowing to catch up with one another later, you disappear up the stairs to your bedroom, doing your best to ignore the familiar groans of the house as you navigate each step.

In the warmth of the June sun, the garden is flourishing with colour. The lawn is a vibrant green, and the bordering flower beds are alive with lavender and foxgloves feeding fat, hungry bees. It’s almost as if you aren’t in the middle of a city at all.

“That’s my handy work, I’ll have you know.”

A voice calls from behind you, snapping you from your contemplation as you bask in the sunlight. You turn and see Eddie, typically bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, his blonde head of hair reflecting the sun like a mirror. He’s changed into his gardening uniform of an old shirt and well-worn dungarees, speckled with mud and pollen, and is leaning on a rusty shovel as he gloats.

“Of course, I’d expect nothing less,” you reply, relaxing into a smile, “can’t have you following your father like a lost puppy without learning anything.” Eddie feigns being shot, clutching his chest and stumbling backwards. “You wound me!”

“As if someone with such impenetrable pride as yours could be wounded,” you retort, feeling smug. Eddie regains his footing as a moment of silence falls between you and he rests the shovel against the wall of the house.

“3…2…1…Hands!”

You both then shoot your hands up in faux-surrender. Your eyes dart to his left hand, and his to yours.

“I knew it,” comments Eddie, lowering his arms, “still holding out for love? Another year being touted on the marriage market must surely be worth a drink or five to quell the stress.”

“And for you,” you argue, feeling a warmth in your cheeks and averting your gaze.

“Ah, but I don’t have a grandmother ready to ship me off with the next man who can rub two coins together.”

You scowl at your friend. “Well, thank goodness you still only have the one, otherwise she might’ve seen me shipped off with you.”

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “Touche, madame. A worthy first spar! I shall limber up and be sure not to fail our next.”

One week later

The days fly by in the slowest possible fashion.

Just one week in London feels simultaneously like a blur and a drag. The immediate chaos of the streets as you step out of the front door speeds up time such that you blink and half your day has gone by; but at the same time, sitting and listening to every shred of gossip makes every minute feel like an hour. Your mother and grandmother have dragged you out to all of Mayfair’s tea rooms and you’ve been subject to daily appointments with the modiste for your dress for the King’s party, along with updating your wardrobe in an attempt to revive it for the new season.

You take a seat at the dining table alongside your brother and sister-in-law, grateful that the cooler evening has rolled around at last, and rapidly fan yourself to combat any lingering heat. Eventually your father appears and takes a seat at the head of the table, and only then is a small bowl of soup set down in front of you by one of the butlers. After saying grace and sipping the warm broth, your father commands your attention.

“We are to throw the first party of the season,” he announces, addressing the room as a whole. There’s a beat of quiet, although you sense that your mother has been in charge of the arrangements since before your arrival; the announcement is not news to her.

“The first?” asks your brother, “such a statement is usually reserved for His Majesty, is it not?”

Your father nods as he chews on a piece of bread.

“Correct,” he answers, mouth semi-full, “however, I have it on good authority that His Majesty is hosting a guest this season. A royal guest, at that.”

You feel the energy in the room heighten as your grandmother digests the revelation. Even from across the table you can see the glimmer in her eyes.

“And said guest is supposedly delayed in his travels from overseas, and so will not make it in time for the King’s original schedule. We have been granted the first party of the season with the royal’s to follow. His Majesty sees no reason to delay the season and so has granted us the honour.”

The buzz at the table is tangible, and you almost feel compelled to join in were it not for the realisation that your grandmother is, quite predictably, about to take charge of the conversation.

“Foreign royalty!” she gasps, “is he…arriving alone?”

She casts a not-so-sly glance in your direction at her implication of the guest being a bachelor. Your father nervously wrings his handkerchief in his hands as he, too, steals a glance towards you.

“That, I do not know,” he concedes, “I certainly haven’t heard much of anything at the club. I’ve yet to even hear a name.”

The cogs in your grandmother’s head turn feverishly; if this foreign king was arriving with a wife, the word would be that His Majesty is hosting two dignitaries this season, not one. She turns to your mother.

“Hmm, word travels quickly amongst the ton. We will know soon enough. We will return to the modiste tomorrow; this one will need a far more elegant gown if she is to stand above the other, younger debutantes this year.”

“Grandmama, I -”

“You will hold your tongue, young lady!” she snaps, “if you cannot find a man to marry in London, you shall have to settle for a foreign party! I shouldn’t imagine that this opportunity will come to pass again.”

You do as you’re told and swallow your words; words that want to argue against being touted before a man nobody in your family - nobody in the city - appears to know, words that want to ask, what is the true horror of not marrying this year? What do they have that I don’t? Questions begging answers, what if I don’t want to marry this stranger from a strange land? The table falls quiet at her outburst, but you’re struck by an odd courage, and don’t drop the matter immediately.

“Grandmama…” you begin calmly, taking a deep breath, “perhaps we should wait to find out just who this person is first? If not even father has heard anything about him, who’s to say he’s a compatible match?”

Your grandmother scoffs. “Compatible? My dear, you are entering your third year on the marriage market. I am a hair's breadth away from marrying you off to that gardener’s boy you are so fond of. At least then you will finally realise the importance of a worthwhile match, never mind whether it is compatible.The squalor of the city’s outskirts, I’m sure, will offer you all the perspective you’d need. You will certainly no longer have the funds to be so picky then. A love match is a child’s conquest, and you will do well to remember it.”

Her words sting, not only you but the others at the table, and yet nobody comes to your defence. The matriarch continues with her meal as if the venom she spits doesn’t colour the taste of her food, and your parents avoid your gaze. For all your father’s grandeur and influence, you have never seen him stand up to his own mother, especially not when she aired her intentions and opinions on his children’s futures. It’s a stark reminder that your grandmother held a title and influence long before anyone else in the room, and built her foundations on a match based on everything other than love. With the sting of both her words and the reluctance of the other members of your family to come to your aid, you bite your tongue and finish your meal in silence before excusing yourself.

Silently cursing the lateness of the hour and knowing that Eddie had long since gone home with his father, you retire to your bedroom and stew on the evening’s events alone. Why does it bother you so much? There is something easy about accepting your fate, knowing that your parents and grandmother would do their utmost best to get you in front of the King and his guest in the hopes of securing an engagement. There’s something almost tempting about going along with it just to be free of your grandmother’s scrutiny. Nothing is certain; this mystery man making such a journey might not wish to take a wife three years past her debut and will instead look for a more youthful bride with more childbearing years on her side. But it’s the principle of having everything decided for you, the assumption that you will go quietly to the arms of not only a stranger, but a stranger who doesn’t even call England home. That you would abandon everything you know and love simply because your grandmother wills it so. What is so evilabout wanting to find love?

As soon as your brother announced his engagement, you knew that your chances of any match, love or otherwise, would slim down to none. What with him being the eldest sibling, eldest son, it had been some time since you’d accepted that his prospects were far more revered than your own. The future Duke of Wellington mattered far, far more than his little sister. You were thrust into the spotlight upon your debut while he was still a single man, and you’d received ample attention as the sister of the ton’s most eligible bachelor, but his engagement and marriage in the past year were sure to see that attention dwindle to naught. How is it fair that he was able to live so freely and marry only when it suited him while you’d spent almost three years being pressured to marry every man who looked in your direction?

A sigh slips from your lips, stale but just as heavy as ever.

While wallowing in self-pity is an attractive thought, you roll your shoulders and sit up straight in the bay window seat you’ve been gazing out of, looking over the well-manicured gardens. Despite the near-blinding pressure, you resolve to stick to your convictions and look for a love match. You have seen far too many young women wed men that saw them as no more than vessels for their heirs, and you were determined not to meet the same fate. If you were to live in the shadow of your brother, then you were going to do so on your own terms.

As you climb into bed the first step of a makeshift plan enters your mind; find out just who this mystery visitor is and attempt to put yourself one step ahead.

The front door has been unlocked since early morning to allow the stream of vendors easy access in and out of the house. The modest ballroom to the house’s rear has been aired and heavily decorated, with the three sets of double-doors open wide to allow the impending guests to spill into the garden. Enormous silver vases rest on pedestals, bursting at the seams with baby blue hydrangeas and delicate violet sweet peas, alongside a plethora of tapered beeswax candles. The string quintet has set up their stools and sheet stands along one wall to play for the guests long into the night. Outside, simple lanterns adorn the trees and bushes to bring light to the garden as the moon slowly appeared.

You head downstairs to join your mother after spending hours getting ready with your lady’s maid. Your grandmother has ordered you to wear a shimmering baby blue dress - in keeping with the party’s celestial theme - and a crystal bandeau keeping your hair in place. You cannot deny that the house looks beautiful; you just wish that you didn’t find these parties so tedious.

Alongside your mother, you greet your guests with a warm smile, and in a lull you turn to her.

“Will the King and Queen be attending?” you ask. She keeps a keen eye on the ballroom.

“They have been invited, of course, but whether they will appear is anybody’s guess.”

You nod gently, thinking as much. Often the monarchs don't unveil their plans to attend an event until the very night itself. A place has been reserved for them at the far end of the room, but you doubt that it’ll be used. If the King delayed his own party owing to a late guest of honour then it was highly unlikely that he’d attend someone else’s party instead. Nevertheless, there’s a gentle sink in your stomach at the realisation that you won’t be meeting the rumoured guest tonight.

Before long the ball is well underway, with the strings reverberating through the room alongside the footsteps of keen dancers, and laughter of already tipsy guests. You don’t deny that your mother throws an impressive party, but after a couple of hours drowning in the sea of dancers, you need some fresh air. There are clusters of people throughout the garden making the most of the cooler evening, and you recognise almost all of them. London’s elite are never ones to turn down a party, certainly not one thrown by the Wellingtons. You wander to the small fountain at the garden’s centre and are relieved to find it empty; you take a seat at its edge and let your shoulders relax, feeling lighter already.

“Bit rude of the host to duck out of the party early, isn’t it?”

You almost leap out of your skin as Eddie’s voice pierces the quiet. You whip your head around to see him peering out from one of the bushes wearing a smug grin.

“Will you stop sneaking up on me!” You scold him, but there’s no genuine anger. If anything you’re relieved that he’s here. Wait - why is he here?

“Sorry,” he says, holding his hands up in surrender, “your brother slipped me an invitation, but I daren’t go inside. I don’t want to be on the receiving end of dear Grandmama’s less than approving gaze.”

You smirk, understanding his reasoning. You’re grateful for your brother’s consideration, nonetheless, and make a note to thank him later.

“That’s fair,” you reply as Eddie takes a seat beside you, “probably for the best. Although, I am glad you’re here.”

“Surely you’re not being nice to me for the mere sake of it?”

You attempt to swat him with your dance card that hangs from your wrist.

“No, actually! I need you to do some digging for me.”

“You… do realise that I already dig for you? As my job. For your family. In this very garden. In fact, I was digging up that flowerbed over there just last week…”

“Eddie!” You scold him once again. Amusing he may be, but he was never the best at realising when you were genuinely asking for his help. “I’m being serious.”

Your friend pauses his default persona, and his expression shifts into one more serious as his eyebrows gently knit together.

“Well, now I’m interested.”

“Good, you should be,” you begin, and instinctively check for any potential eavesdroppers. “Word has spread of the King hosting foreign royalty this season; surely you’ve heard?”

Eddie looks up momentarily, as if searching his brain for the information.

“Maybe someone mentioned it at some point. It doesn’t ring many bells but yeah, I’ve heard something along those lines. What about it?”

You glance once more around you.

“I need you to find out who it is. The guest. Find out anything you can and report back to me.”

The man looks back at you with a perplexed expression, no doubt silently wondering what you want the information for. You’d never asked him for such a thing; information of this kind was never a priority for you, gossip even less so.

“Alright,” he agrees, “I’ll see what I can find out; no doubt one of the staff is letting something slip at the pub. Why do you need to know, anyway?”

You swallow nervously. “Gut instinct, I suppose.”

Eddie doesn’t buy your reasoning, but doesn’t push you any further. He makes the connection that, if the rumour was true, that your father and grandmother would be lining you up in the hopes of securing an engagement, but he pushes the thought to the back of his mind.

“I’ll see to it. The pints are on you, then. One for every sliver of information. Deal?”

You smirk, and hold out a gloved hand.

“Deal.”

Your father arrives buoyantly at the breakfast table, wafting an envelope high above his head.

“The invitation is in!” he declares, eliciting a groan from your brother who is hunched over a plate of untouched toast and jam, repulsed in his hungover state.

“Hush, darling, your father is speaking!” Your sister-in-law swats his arm so quickly you almost miss it, and you can’t help but grin.

“Invitation?” askes your grandmother, interest piqued as she reaches for her teacup.

“To His Majesty’s ball,” your father clarifies, in three days’ time.”

“Three days?!” your mother gasps. From beside her, your grandmother’s eyes are wide.

“Such short notice! We shall have to deliver a hefty bribe to the modiste if the girls are to look their best in time, this is least appropriate!”

Despite being already married to your brother, it is still of the utmost importance that your new sister-in-law fit in with the family, which means looking her best in eye-wateringly expensive finery. You feel your palms begin to sweat at the mere thought.

“Then so be it,” your father concedes, “do what you must. Just ensure that everyone is putting their very best foot forward.”

Your father glances at you and you do your best not to roll your eyes at his failed attempt at subtlety.

“Is there at least a theme we may cater to?” asks your grandmother, her voice thick with outrage. You look back at your father who is inspecting the invitation thoroughly.

“Not that I can see,” he says, “no doubt it will be a spectacle; His Majesty does have a taste for the extravagant...”

There’s a symphony of sighs and muted discussion across the table as your mother and grandmother launch into damage-control, laying out a plan for you and your sister-in-law. Your mother calls on a butler, instructing him to cancel tea with the Wessex’s and dinner at the Portland’s, freeing up the calendar as much as possible. Is this really going to take three days’ preparation?

“You must go and get dressed at once,” orders your mother, neatly folding her napkin on the table, “the modiste opens in under an hour, we mustn’t dilly-dally.”

With a stifled groan you excuse yourself from the breakfast table and make your way back to your bedroom at a deliberate snail’s pace. The arrival of the invitation, while not wholly unexpected, was a kick, and if nothing else, put a stop to what you had hoped to be a marginally calm day.

Credit where credit is due, your mother and grandmother were right to head to the modiste early.

You were the first to be seen, but soon the shop was packed to the brim with debutantes and other ladies on the hunt for a husband, their invitations seemingly also having arrived in the morning’s post. If you’d have arrived any later, there was a genuine risk of losing your grandmother to an aneurism. There was an almost panicked buzz in the air as they poured over fabric and ribbon samples, placing orders to values that almost made your eyes water. The King’s ball is always the most coveted invitation of the season, but this year’s fascination feels decidedly different. You leave the modiste, having hammered your father’s bank account. It feels entirely excessive, but by now you’re familiar with the rigmarole of what it meant to be invited to the King’s ball, let alone to be attending it.

By the time you get back to the house it’s dusk, and you’re exhausted from being pulled left and right, and there’s a sore patch on your hip where the modiste had nicked you with a pin. There’s nothing you want more than to disappear to your bedroom and exist in silence for the remainder of the night, but you have other plans.

Dinner is a speedy affair as you barely fill up on partridge and potatoes before pardoning yourself, citing needing your “beauty sleep” as the reason for your early departure. There’s a hint of a grin on your grandmother’s face as you go, and you feel smug that your ploy has worked. No doubt she’s imagining that you’re finally starting to take things seriously, paying a little extra attention to your appearance to please the good King’s prestigious visitor.

Your lady’s maid dutifully follows you to your bedroom where she begins helping you dress for bed; untying your bodice and slipping the silky fabric off of your shoulders before replacing it with the looser nightgown. After removing the pins from your hair and brushing through any tangles, she bids you a goodnight before leaving you to your own devices. You waste no time in removing the nightdress entirely and throwing on a plain white shirt in its stead, and dig out a pair of deep brown britches which you keep hidden in a chest at the foot of the bed. You stuff your feet into a pair of old leather boots and glance in the mirror, remarking on your appearance; perhaps a little unkempt, but ridding yourself of your material riches is paramount on nights like these. It’s only a short while until the sun has dipped far enough beneath the horizon for you to see Eddie’s lantern glinting at the far end of the garden. You gently swing your window open fully and carefully lift yourself over the threshold, using the slightly protruding windowsill and wisteria lattice to slowly climb down until you reach the garden patio. Beside you is the window to one of the drawing rooms where you hear your grandmother and mother gossiping about the Hatton’s daughter and her “sickly” appearance at the modiste, and feel content that they’re too immersed in conversation to notice anything untoward outside. You tiptoe around the garden’s edge, careful not to trip or draw attention to yourself as you make for the back gate where Eddie waits with his trusted lantern.

“Another expert escape,” he comments when you reach him, “you should consider being a smuggler for a living.”

The streets of London at night are so very different than during the day. As you walk the familiar road away from Mayfair with Eddie, you can’t help but bask in feeling lighter, as if the weight of expectation is lifted from your very shoulders. Your parents, especially your grandmother, have always talked about how dangerous it is for young ladies after dark in London, but you seldom feel safer than when Eddie is by your side as you head towards Shaftesbury Avenue under a blanket of stars. There’s an air of risk that you cannot deny, but it is this risk that makes you feel all the more… free.

The well polished streets of Mayfair are left behind as you enter Soho. While Mayfair is owned and dominated by the elite, Soho is almost a world away. At the district’s very edge, tucked down an inconspicuous alleyway off the main thoroughfare sits The Straw Doll public house. Owned by Eddie’s uncle Roger, the pub is a hidden haven away from the bustle of society and city life, not to mention cleaner than most others in the area. The two of you have been sneaking away here since you were fifteen years old, when your grandmother began her tirade of preparing you for the marriage market and Eddie’s uncle took pity on you and offered your first sip of ale to dull the stress. It is always a deeply welcome escape.

As you walk in, the darkness of the evening left behind in favour of a warmly lit bar and flickering candles, you greet the familiar regulars and Roger behind the bar before placing your orders. Two glasses of liquid gold are slid across the mahogany bar, and the first sip leaves you with a foam moustache as you delight in the bitterness. As you pull up a seat alongside Eddie, Roger leans an elbow down on the bar as he polishes a pint glass.

“How are we tonight, darlin’?” he asks. You rest down your glass with a sigh.

“The King’s ball is in two days’ time,” you reply, and immediately Roger’s eyebrows shoot up in understanding.

“Ah,” he chimes, “my condolences.”

You can’t help but smile at his cheek.

“Actually, Rog, that reminds me,” Eddie interrupts, “any more about this foreigner? You heard anything from Purse yet?”

Percy, a butler at the palace, frequented the pub, and was often a reliable source of information if needed - usually at a price, which contributed to his affectionate nickname.

“Purse ain’t worth his weight in shit, however…” Roger slings the towel he’s been using to dry the glass over his shoulder, “he has come through with a tidbit, I’ll give him that.”

The juxtaposition of Roger slating Percy in one breath and praising him the next amuses you, but your interest is piqued too much to dwell on it. You're ready to lap up any information you can get on this godforsaken visitor that’s stirred the ton into a frenzy that will undoubtedly go down in the history books. You instinctively lean in so that your face is barely two feet from Roger’s, keen to keep his information from spreading.

“So, according to Purse,” he begins, lowering his voice so that only you and Eddie can hear, “this fella’s been delayed on his way here which is why His Majesty had to bow out of his ‘do.”

I know that, you think, tell me something new. “He’s come a decent way, I think. Far East, Purse reckons.”

You feel your eyebrows raise. The Far East? It seems unusual that an eastern diplomat would make such an exceptional journey; you don’t recall the King ever having a visit from a dignitary based so far afield.

“Bloody ‘ell,” Eddie comments, “must be important.”

“That, he is,” says Roger, “Purse says that His Maj’ didn’t even invite him; he just had word that he was coming over and Maj’ has been bending over backwards to accommodate him ever since. Ain’t got a clue who it is, but he’s causing a lot of bother.”

There’s a sudden sinking feeling in your stomach as you regret ever having asked about the visitor in the first instance. Whilst you’d known that the King only ever entertained noteworthy guests, you hadn’t anticipated this one to be quite so significant; not to the tune of inviting himself regardless of whether he was welcome or not. If your grandmother knew exactly how important this man supposedly was, you were sure you’d be under lock and key until the ball. You swallow nervously, and Eddie registers your sudden discomfort. Roger heads to the other end of the bar to scold a patron for spilling yet another pint on his polished bar top, leaving you and Eddie alone.

“Ah, come on,” he says, gently elbowing you as he reaches for his glass again, “he ain’t the second coming. He’ll be exactly the same as the rest of ‘em, I guarantee it. Besides, this is all coming from Purse, remember. Take it with a pinch of salt.”

Not feeling reassured but appreciating the sentiment, you offer him an uneasy smile and sip at your own ale in silence. Perhaps he’s right, perhaps this nobleman is of the same ilk as every other one you’d met; boorish, arrogant, sure of himself to a fault. Nothing you haven't dealt with before. Still, the uneasiness in your stomach plants itself firmly, and you know that until your curiosity is satisfied, it will fester whether you like it or not.

CHAPTER 2

Masterlist

#i'll post chapter 2 in a bit pls be kind LMAO #ryomen sukuna #sukuna x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #regency au #sukuna x y/n #sukuna x female reader #header image is a bridgerton screenshot!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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