#Iron Blossom Festival

[thejoyofviolentmovement]

News/Announcements: Richmond, VA's Iron Blossom Festival Announces Inaugural Lineup

News/Announcements: Richmond, VA's Iron Blossom Festival Announces Inaugural Lineup @VisitRichmond @CityRichmondVA @StarrHillPrsnts @IMGoingEvents @ironblossomrva @grandstandhq

Festival season is right around the corner. And you know what that means — more festival announcements. So let’s get to it. Yesterday Starr Hill Presents, Haymaker Productions, IMGoing Events, and Lovely Day Presents announced the inaugural Iron Blossom Music Festival. The inaugural edition of the festival will take place August 26, 2023 – August 27, 2023 in Richmond, VA‘s Monroe Park. Located…

[ladyantiheroine]

I just saw Hozier live at Iron Blossom Festival and HE BROUGHT NOAH KAHAN ON STAGE!!!!

[devonsaurusrex]

Being able to get tickets to see Noah Kahan this summer in my hometown has me more exited than I’ve been in quite a while

[lovesosweeet]

new tradition: turn all my shows from the previous year into a tour poster 🫶🏻 whenever i move into a new place i’ll get these printed and framed but for now they live digital lives.

also RIP to my rainbow kitten surprise tickets bc the concerts were all cancelled </3

[desertpups]

Looking forward to playing @ironblossomrva this August 27th in Monroe Park, Richmond!

For tickets visit ironblossom.frontgatetickets.com

[heathrly]

Hozier at the Iron Blossom Festival, Richmond VA, 8/27/23

[gnocchibabie]

Desire and Blood (Chapter 3)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Targaryen/Strong OC (Jaenara Velaryon)

Tags: AU - canon divergence, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, Targcest (uncle/niece)

Wordcount: 4.7k

Summary:

Against all odds, the love between childhood friends prevails and the Dance of Dragons is avoided.

However, peace comes at a cost. With the unexpected proposal of marriage between Alicent Hightower's son and Rhaenyra Targaryen's only daughter, can love truly blossom between sworn enemies? Or will Jaenara Velaryon be reduced to a mere pawn?

Love may yet arise where enmity once thrived, but Aemond's relentless pursuit of power threatens to shatter everything they hold dear, including each other.

A/N: You can find the previous chapters on my masterlist!

If you are liking this series, please consider showing some love on my AO3 posting of this fic :) thank you x

!!! This chapter contains dialogue in High Valyrian, which will be designated by bold and italics...enjoy :)

A week had slipped away since Jaenara and her family had settled into King’s Landing. She found herself passing time by discussing plans for the upcoming coronation with her mother or entertaining little Aegon and Viserys. Occasionally, she rode out on dragonback with Baela and Rhaena, savoring the freedom of the skies above. When she was up amongst the clouds, the princess forgot all about what her life had become down below. Sitting atop Aetherion, it was as if nothing else mattered.

Yet above all, Jaenara found herself occupied with a careful dance of avoidance whenever Aemond Targaryen crossed her path. She had escaped several close calls, ducking into unoccupied rooms whenever she saw the prince at the other side of a hallway. Jaenara had often wondered to herself if she could continue to keep up this game of cat and mouse well into their marriage, but the prospect of having to constantly hide from the man who was to be her husband did sadden her. Ever so slightly. 

Currently, the princess found herself in the castle gardens walking shoulder to shoulder with Helaena. Jaenara had not had as much alone time with her aunt as she would have liked, and was eager to reconnect with the one member of the Targaryen-Hightowers she could actually stand to be around. Helaena seemed to be pleased with the company, though it was difficult for Jaenara to tell at times. Her aunt had always been a somewhat emotionally distant person, even when they were children.

“My mother tells me that the planning for Rhaenyra’s coronation is almost finished?” Helaena inquires.

Jaenara and Jacaerys had both been closely involved with the planning of their mother’s name day ceremony. The preparations had proven to be stressful, even now plaguing the princess’ mind. Temporary discomfort is a small price to pay for mother to sit the Iron Throne - Jaenara had told herself. Though, she could not say she felt the same way about the looming, permanent discomfort she would soon find herself in…

Rhaenyra had even tried to include Aegon in the ceremony planning as well. An offering for the position he had given up for his older sister. Though he had seemed less than interested, opting to disappear for hours at a time instead. Even now, Jaenara wondered where her uncle often took off to, leaving her sweet aunt and their children alone. She questioned if she would be condemned to such a fate as well - Aemond fluttering about doing gods know what while she was left to care for their babes alone. The princess decides it is best not to mull over such depressing possibilities that she may soon enough find herself in.

“Yes, her name day will be here before we know it - just a short week away. Though I find myself anxious about the festivities.” Jaenara finally responds. 

“I understand,” Helena breathes, “I am not one for crowds either.”

“Well then we must stick together until the whole ordeal is over.” Jaenara reassures her aunt. And herself.

“I would gladly,” Helaena giggles, “Though when your wedding day arrives, my brother will stand at your side, not I."

Jaenara sighed - another formality she had been dreading heavily. She’d venture to guess that the moment her mother’s name day passes, planning for the wedding will begin immediately. The princess knew that her scarcity of interactions with Aemond would not last for much longer. Not if either of their mothers could help it. 

Jaenara felt she had little to discuss with her betrothed. What else was there to say?

Helaena came to a halt, bending down to pick up a large, green beetle. Jaenara winced - she had never been one for bugs, save for the pretty butterflies she had often chased with her aunt in their youth. She watched as the beetle began to travel up Helaena’s arm. Jaenara found that Helaena looked serene, her blonde-white hair picked up by the breeze and a content smile on her lips. The princess decides to take advantage of the peaceful moment to ask her aunt a troubled question.

“What is it like? Being married, that is.” Jaenara’s face grows serious.

Helaena removes the beetle from her forearm with a gentle touch and places it on a leaf below.

“It doesn’t really feel like anything,” She says, though her aunt does not sound particularly bothered by the dreary thought, “Aegon does not pay me much mind. Save for the times we have…done our duty.”

Jaenara clears her throat awkwardly.

“So, I suppose it is not so bad. I am free to do as I please. As he is. Though I think Aemond will make a better lover.” Helaena finishes. Jaenara looks at her aunt as if she has three heads and scoffs. She looks back at the princess with a coy look on her face.

“What a terrifying thought.” Jaenara sounds defeated as the two women resume their walk. A calm silence passes over them once again, as does the gentle breeze.  

Helaena looks as though someone is speaking to her and finds herself gazing up at the sky for a moment - and then to her niece.

She smiles, as if the clouds have told her a secret.

— — —

On the far side of the Red Keep, The One Eyed Prince begins to lay the groundwork of his plan to put his soon-to-be wife on the Iron Throne. Aemond has decided he must get in the good graces of his family - especially Jacaerys - if he is to carry out familicide without raising any suspicion that he had a hand in it. Something easier said than done, Aemond knows. Any amount of decency he could afford the heir and his brother would be met with scrutiny. A few kind words will not undo years of victimization dealt on both sides. 

Aemond clenches his jaw as he searches for his nephews throughout the grounds of the Red Keep. Locating them had proven to be challenging, though not as much as finding their sister. Aemond knew that Jaenara had been purposefully avoiding him. One evening, he had even caught sight of her ducking into her mother’s chambers when he had turned a corner, entering the same hallway as her. Her elusion frustrated the prince. If he could not speak to the princess and build up a rapport with her, then she would assuredly be the first to point her finger at him when news of Jace’s murder came about.  

Just when Aemond is about to give up entirely, he spots Jacaerys and Lucerys in the training yard, wooden swords in hand. Aemond lurks back for a moment, watching them practice their drills. Their moves are quick and calculated, proving that his nephews had become even more skilled fighters during their time away from the Red Keep. Though their moves had a certain unrefined quality to them. Aemond finally moves from his spot, drawing nearer to the princes. Lucerys spots him first and mumbles a curse under his breath, as hid older brother turns to meet Aemond’s eyes. Aemond smirks at the boys, and he can tell it takes all of Jace’s strength not to throw down his play sword and saunter off. 

The prince stands tall over his nephews, to hide the uneasiness he feels about approaching them. He’s pulled his long, sleek hair into a bun. His own sword, a practice blade worn smooth from countless hours of swinging, hung loose at his side

The air is tense around the group and a short silence hangs over them. Clanking of wood and metal and grunts fills the yard as the princes all stare at each other.

Aemond finally clears his throat and breaks the quiet.

"You're both too cautious," he remarks in a voice that carries authority but also a hint of patience. "Don't overthink your strikes. Let them flow naturally. It's about instinct as much as it is about technique."

Jacaerys narrowed his eyes skeptically. "You must think of us as fools, uncle. Why would we listen to you? You do not practice the habit of fighting honorably - Luke and I’ve both seen that.”

And what would you know about fighting honorably? Aemond remarks to himself.

Where is the honor in gouging out a boy’s eye? 

He inhales a deep breath to calm his rising frustration.

Lucerys, ever the more reserved of the two, held his ground but watched Aemond with a cautious curiosity.

Aemond knows he should not make the jest, but before he can stop himself, the words fall from his smug mouth.

“Fools? No - I only see two Strong boys before me.” 

Both of the brother’s harden their gaze. This time, Jacaerys does take off, with Luke trailing behind.

Fuck.

“But!” Aemond is quick to add to his lecture, desperate to keep the boys where they are, “Honor in battle is not always as straightforward as the songs would have it. There are times when survival demands unconventional measures.”

“And how,” Jace has stopped and turned to face his uncle once more, “would you know anything of a real battle?”

“You forget I train with Ser Criston Cole.” “You forget we trained with Daemon Targaryen.”

Aemond chooses to bite back another remark about how - despite training with one of the realm’s most formidable soldiers, the brother’s still lacked the necessary knowledge and skills.

Instead, he walks back towards their place in the yard and motions for the Velaryons to follow him. Jace stares at him a moment, lets out an exaggerated huff and mutters, “Come on, Luke.”

At their return, Aemond demonstrates a quick feint, his movements precise. “You’re signaling your intent with your movements, Jacaerys. And Lucerys, you hesitate before every strike. Be bold, but calculated. Like this," he continued, demonstrating a fluid series of strikes and blocks. Luke, with a touch of reservation, takes up a fighting stance in front of his older brother.

Aemond nodded approvingly. "Let's try it again. And this time, don't hold back."

For the remainder of the afternoon, Aemond guided them through drills and techniques, offering pointers in between bouts. Slowly, the initial wariness between the boys and the Targaryen prince faded, replaced by a grudging respect for his skill and knowledge.

When the sun had begun to dip into the horizon, the three young heirs sheathed their swords. Aemond found a rare smile breaking through his usually stoic demeanor. He did not find any joy in the times he sparred with Aegon, which had been few and far between lately. His brother had no real interest in learning and bettering his skills. And Criston Cole was becoming predictable - through no fault of his own. Aemond simply had no one else to spar with that was anywhere near his level. He found unexpected fulfillment in teaching his nephews.

Jace finally deposits his wooden sword with the others in the training yard, Luke following suit. 

With a huff and an expression that makes the prince seem physically pained he tells his uncle, “Well. That was rather…I did not think I’d ever see the day where you would give us any kind of genuine advice. Nevertheless, I am…grateful for your counsel uncle.” 

“Yes. Thank you, Aemond.” Lucerys adds curtly.

Aemond gives them a nod as acknowledgment.

Naive fools.

With that, Jace and Luke begin their journey back into the Red Keep. Aemond watches the boys stride away side by side. He almost resigns himself to turning in for the day, when a thought suddenly enters his mind. 

“Do you know where I might find your sister?” He calls after them. 

Jace remains silent continuing his walk. Aemond rolls his eyes.

She has sworn them to secrecy.

Lucerys seems to take some sort of pity on his uncle after their shared afternoon - much to the dismay of Jace, “I think she spoke of spending time in the gardens…” the younger brother’s sentence trails off when he sees the look Jacaerys gives him. 

Aemond nods gratefully, though no one sees it, and sets off towards the gardens, his mind already racing. He knew spending time with Jaenara was another crucial part of his plan he needed to begin sowing the seeds for. As much as she may detest it.

The believed that if he could convincingly pretend to be infatuated with his niece, to the extent that she truly believed his feelings were genuine, it might help divert suspicion away from him regarding her brother’s eventual murder. She may even come to defend him, when the time comes. Though this would prove to be a challenge.

“You can expect a union that does not harbor any illusions of love” Aemond’s own words from her first evening back at King’s Landing echoed in his mind.

Aemond lets out a frustrated groan and picks up his pace.

When he reaches the gardens, Aemond finds Jaenara and his sister seated on a weathered stone bench in deep discourse, while their ladies-in-waiting linger nearby, amusing themselves.

The distant laughter of the two maidens surprises Aemond and stirs a hint of a smile on his face. He couldn’t remember the last time his sister had laughed so freely. It was then, he realized, he had never heard Jaenara genuinely laugh. Everything she let out in his presence was nothing more that a scoff or dry laugh. This, he thought, was a nice change of pace. Happiness suited her.

I should leave them. Aemond’s resolve falters for a moment, and he pivots for a swift and silent retreat. Yet, his sister catches sight of him before he can vanish.

"Aemond!" Helaena's voice rings out, compelling him to sigh and reluctantly turn back to face them.

Helaena's eyes glint with mischief as she waves a hand, beckoning him over. Meanwhile, the fleeting smile on Jaenara's face vanishes, replaced by an indifferent gaze.

"Aemond," his sister greets again, her tone laced with curiosity. "Where have you been?"

"Just sparring with your brothers," Aemond replies, his gaze drifting towards Jaenara.

The surprise in Jaenara's eyes is evident and impossible to conceal.

"With Jace and Luke?" she questions, her voice tinged with disbelief. "You seem…unscathed. I trust the same can be said for my brothers?"

"It was just a training session - nothing if not civil. I only meant to give them a bit of advice," Aemond responds, a smirk playing upon his lips.

Helaena suddenly springs to her feet. "I don’t believe you two have had many opportunities to speak as of late. I will leave you to catch up" she suggests, a faraway look on her face. "I must attend to the children." Her lady-in-waiting follows closely behind as she departs.

Jaenara starts to rise, offering to assist, but Helaena insists she stay. Aemond can't help but conceal his amusement at Jaenara’s desperate state.

The princess exhales sharply and resumes her promenade through the gardens, without so much as a glance over her shoulder at Aemond. With a huff, he follows behind her, as her lady-in-waiting mirrors.

The prince wishes he could dismiss the attendant, wishing for a moment alone with Jaenara to speak without restraint. 

He thinks of another solution.

Aemond peers down at his niece and lets High Valyrian fall freely from his lips.

“You have been avoiding me.” 

Jaenara does not remove her eyes from the path in front of her.

“You have not sought me out.” She retorts, her tone cool and collected. Aemond lights up. He had not expected his niece to be fluent in their mother tongue, and hearing her voice enunciate the ancient words caused something unknown inside of him to stir. 

“I am now,” he replies evenly, “ And I have to say, I had not expected you to be so fluent in Valyrian. Not even my brother speaks it so well. That idiot can barely piece together a single sentence.” 

Jaenara laughs, “I am a Targaryen. Every Targaryen should speak their language. Understand their history.”

Aemond nods, “Something we can agree on, niece. Though I have to say, you speak it better than I thought a-”

“Then a bastard would?” Her words are laced with a bittersweet acknowledgment that catches Aemond off guard. His niece had never spoken the truth of her parentage in front of him - or anyone for that matter. In truth, Aemond found him unsettled from her acquiescence. Though he understood the only reason she dared to acknowledge the truth now, is because no one around them had a clue what she was saying. 

“You’re not laughing, uncle. Very unlike you - you who never passes up an opportunity to remind me of my blood.” Jaenara still seemed unfazed, her attention drifting to a cluster of blue irises at their feet. She bends gracefully to touch the silky petals, and Aemond finds himself captivated by the way her dark hair spills like a cascade of black silk over the blossoms. He clears his throat.

“You are to be my…ābrazȳrys (wife). I no longer wish to humiliate you over things out of your control, such as your parentage.” Aemond’s voice is steady and controlled, betraying his inner turmoil over making such remarks.

Jaenara lets out a laugh, though it sounds hollow. Much unlike the laughter she had shared with his sister. Her lady-in-waiting shifts uncomfortably behind them. “Actions speak louder than words, Aemond.” The princess rises from her spot amongst the flowers, turning to face her betrothed.

Aemond is filled with a stubborn determination at hearing her challenge, and takes a few steps towards her - until he can feel his niece’s breath fan over him. He stares down at her, and finds that he enjoys how she does not shrink under his gaze.

“Pār nyke jāhor gaomagon.” - Then I will act.

Jaenara laughs again, but it is quickly put to an end.

“I do not know why you laugh, Jaenara. I am being sincere.” His gaze is hard. 

She considers his words for a moment, and turns back to the garden path. The princess returns to the common tongue. 

"Come along, it is growing darker," Jaenara says, her voice carrying a hint of finality as she resumes their journey along the garden path. Aemond follows silently, his mind still processing the weight of their conversation. The sun dips lower, casting long shadows across the estate grounds, while a cool evening breeze stirs the leaves of ancient trees. When the couple finally reach the stone archways and paths of the Red Keep, Aemond speaks up once more. 

“You will have breakfast with me. Tomorrow” It is not a question, though his tone remains soft..

“I will?” Jaenara asks, an eyebrow raised in defiance.

“This is me taking action.” He offers her a wry smile.

Jaenara exhales and looks to her handmaiden, who skillfully avoids her gaze. “Fine. I will see you in the morning” She stomps off to her chambers, lady-in-waiting trailing behind. The princess does not get to see the small, honest smile that settles on Aemond’s lips. 

— — —

Early the next morning, Jaenara awakes to a polite knock on her chamber door. Alora, her lady-in-waiting, entered cautiously, offering a sheepish greeting. "Good morning, Your Grace."

The princess rubbed her eyes wearily and yawned. "Good morning, Alora. And please, call me Jaenara when it is just us. No need for formality in the privacy of these chambers." she replied with a tired attempt at a smile.

"Oh! Yes, my lady—I mean, Jaenara," Alora stumbled over her words, feeling conflicted over addressing a princess so casually. "Um... Aemond - the prince - sent me to assist you with dressing. He wishes to have breakfast with you?" She sounds uncertain.

Jaenara sighed lightly and pushed herself to her feet. "Very well. Let's not keep him waiting," she said, giving Alora a reassuring glance.

Alora deftly combs out Jaenara's long, ebony hair, swiftly braiding half of it and letting the rest fall down her back. As the princess gradually awakened, she engaged in light conversation with the younger girl, easing her nerves. 

With gentle assistance, Alora helped Jaenara into a splendid dress—its upper half a deep shade of black, its lower half a rich crimson. The sleeves were wrought with golden embroidery. Once satisfied with her handiwork, Alora guided Jaenara to the dining room, where Aemond awaited their arrival.

“Thank you, Alora. I think that will be all for now.” The princess smiles at her lady, dismissing her. Jaenara hesitantly pulls out a chair across from Aemond.

“Good morning.” She offers. An honest attempt at niceties. 

Aemond hums, sounding pleased. “Good morning.”

It remains quiet for a while, as the two begin to serve themselves and take a few bites of the breakfast that has been prepared. The prince steals glances at his niece, observing how her dark curls frame her face. Watching her spoon her food gracefully. Noting how her dress clings to her.

At last, Aemond ventured to break the quiet. “That dress suits you well.”

The princess pauses her cutting of a sausage. Jaenara had not expected to hear that kind of comment so early in the morning. And no less from Aemond of all people. She narrows her eyes at him.

“What?” She asks, as if offended.

Aemond pauses, mid-bite. “I only meant it as a compliment. The Targaryen colors agree with you.” 

Jaenara continues with her meal, deciding that pretending as though she had not heard her uncle was the best course of action.

Why did he say that? Does he mean to mock me?

The prince breaks the silence once more, wanting to change the subject. "I hear your mother's name day preparations have been finalized."

Jaenara swallows a mouthful of food and clears her throat. “Um…yes. I believe so. Everything should be in place by now. The ceremony will be in…five days? I believe.”

"My mother seems unusually eager for the occasion," Aemond remarked. "She and Rhaenyra have been quite chatty lately."

“You’ve noticed too?”

“It is hard not to.” Aemond admitted.

Jaenara shrugs, “True enough. Well, they seem happier anyway.”

Aemond only hums in agreement. “My mother, although…she seems to be even more excited about the wedding than the coronation ceremony.”

Jaenara sputtered on the ale served alongside their meal.

A smug grin spread across the prince's face.

“Oh? Is that so?” She asks as nonchalantly as she can. 

“Oh yes,” Aemond sounds amused, “I hear her and Rhaenyra have taken to planning a few things.”

"What!?" Now Jaenara could not hide her surprise. Her outburst drew the attention of nearby servants, and Aemond grinned at her fluttering.

“Um - I only meant. I had not known they were already planning the ceremony.” She finished, dabbing a napkin to the corners of her mouth.

“Well someone has to. We certainly have not spoken about it.” Aemond remarks.

Jaenara almost feels guilty. She searches Aemond’s eyes for any indication of regret or sadness over their lack of time together. 

“Well then…what would you like to discuss about it?” The princess makes an attempt to turn to the matter.

Aemond considers the question. “What kind of cake would you like?”

Jaenara lets out a true laugh at that, catching Aemond off guard.

“If I must tell you,” She says while catching her breath, “I am fond of lemon pastries.”

Aemond makes a noise of agreement. He recalls that her mother favors the sweets as well. “Then we shall have them.”

Jaenara looks up from her meal and the couple lock eyes. She stares intently into his, trying to decipher his unreadable expression. 

What are you doing, uncle? She is left to wonder. Jaenara feels a crack begin to form in the walls she had put up to keep Aemond out. But the fracture is filled as quickly as it appears when she considers that Aemond is simply playing his part. Putting up a charade. The princess looks at the man before her, and can only seem to remember the cruelties that he has dealt. Her heart hardens.

"Why do you care?" she questioned, her tone accusatory. Despite their heartfelt conversation in the garden the day before, Jaenara only continued in her struggle to believe in her uncle's sincerity.

“Because I want to care.” Aemond is taken aback, though he makes an effort to sound earnest.

The princess scoffs and takes a swig of ale. She rises to her feet.

“I am full.” she declares, signaling an end to the meal and perhaps to their conversation. Jaenara stands and walks the length of the table, drawing near to the door but coming close to Aemond.

That strikes a chord within the prince, “You are about as stubborn as a damn mule,” he mutters under his breath.

The retort is not lost upon the princess’ ears. Jaenara spun around abruptly, facing her uncle where he was currently still seated. "Excuse me?" she exclaimed incredulously.

"Damn it," Aemond whispered to himself, closing his eyes briefly. 

“And here I thought you were being truthful yesterday when you said you no longer meant to belittle me.” She bites.

Some unseen force compelled Aemond onward. He reached out and gently but firmly grasped his niece's wrist.

"I only meant..." He struggled to find the right words. "Gods, you're infuriating."

Jaenara felt a stirring within her at his touch, but she pushed the sensation aside, focusing instead on his words. "I’m infuriating?" 

Now, Aemond raises his voice. “Yes! Infuriating. I am making a sincere effort to get to know you, and I am met with nothing but resistance. There is nothing we can do to change the marriage we will soon find ourselves in,” He rises from his chair, hand still gripped around Jaenara, “but I am making a sincere attempt to make it more bearable. For you.”

A part of Aemond understood that his words were primarily to uphold a facade, to maintain the illusion of feigned interest in his niece. Yet another part of him recognized sincerity in his sentiments. He couldn't help but feel pity for Jaenara. This thought had crossed his mind repeatedly—in the quiet of his chambers, in the stillness of the night, and even yesterday as he watched her depart from the estate gardens. She had undoubtedly drawn the short straw amidst their betrothal.

Jaenara Velaryon was being forced to marry Aemond, a scarred and flawed second son by his own reckoning. While Aemond had initially perceived the proposal of marriage to his own bastard niece as an insult, he couldn't deny the faint attraction he harbored towards her— a sentiment he was certain she did not reciprocate. 

The princess regarded her uncle with a peculiar mix of curiosity and contemplation, allowing his words to sink in. Jaenara's relationship with her uncle had always been incredibly strained — tense. Yet, as she observed the furrow in his brow and the genuine anguish in his eyes, she sensed a truth in his earnest plea. She reflected on her initial hopes—that they might spend their lives avoiding each other, barely exchanging words. Yet, standing before him now, she reconsidered. If Aemond—of all people—could muster some semblance of kindness, however feigned, Jaenara resolved she could reciprocate. Even if it was nothing but a lie. 

For in the convoluted dance of courtly alliances and familial expectations, sometimes even the semblance of civility could hold more weight than honesty in securing fragile peace.

With hesitant resolve, she reached out, gently clasping his hand in hers. Aemond feels goosebumps form on his skin from the additional contact. 

"Aemond," she began quietly, meeting his gaze squarely. He makes an effort to memorize how his name sounds on her lips.

Gods be damned, he thought. 

"I apologize. I hadn't fully appreciated your efforts. You are right. For this marriage to have any chance of contentment and peace, we must find common ground. We must make an effort to get to know each other."

The princess finished her apology, her words hanging in the air between them. All Aemond could manage in response was a silent nod, fearing that his mouth would betray him if he were to open it.

Jaenara withdrew her hand from his with a slight hesitation. "Well…I should be going. I intend to meet with my mother to discuss our impending wedding. There is much to plan," she added, her voice faltering slightly as she hurried out of the room.

Aemond stood there, taking a deep breath to calm his racing heart. He glanced down at the hand that had briefly held his niece's, flexing his fingers thoughtfully, a mixture of uncertainty and determination swirling within him.

A/N: As you may have noticed, this chapter is structured a little differently! I decided to make these changes for narrative purposes/so everything flows better. Because of this, I will be revising the previous two chapters, so the next chapter may take a little longer to come out (I also have a job interview coming up, so I will be doing a lot more than just brainstorming and writing now T-T) Anyways! As always, thank you for reading :)

Tags: @toodlesxcuddles

[on-wine-dark-seas]

The Invitation

Dedicated to the little Black girl who wanted to be all things when the world told her she was nothing. You are everything. 🍯

🪧 Summary: Heian Era. One full moon, Sukuna meets a dancing storyteller at the Hida Harvest Festival. But after a tragically violent evening robs her of everything, she winds up in a strange alliance with the King of Curses as his guest. 📚 Series: Sonder ⛩️ AO3: The Invitation 🔞 Rating: Explicit ⚠️️ Warning[s]: Rape/Non-Con [not from Sukuna don't worry], blood, gore, description of wounds and dead bodies, cannibalism, recreational drug use [ganja, psilocybin, opium], slow-ish burn, hurt/comfort, PTSD, revenge, catharsis, eventual romance, eventual smut, Ryōmen Sukuna is his own warning. 💋 Pairing[s]: Sukuna x The Writer [⛩️��] 🎧 Playlist: [ the invitation ] ⛩️ AO3 𑁍 Parallax OCs 𑁍 Sonder OCs ⛩️ Word count for this chapter is 13k. Settle in.

🍯 VIII. 花の陰 The Shadow of Blossoms

     In the early hours of dawn, a spring breeze threads through the thick forest surrounding the shrine. Winter’s chill clings on, but Šetû hardly notices it. She and Sukuna have been sparring since before dawn began to wipe away the darkness. In the weeks since her demand that he teach her jujutsu, Sukuna has opted to teach her to fight. She has learned to control her breathing during their spars, an essential skill for channeling her cursed energy through her body.

     Sukuna finds that she has the potential to be a clever sorcerer. Once he explained that cursed energy is a lot like the ingredients for cooking, and the sorcerer must decide what they want those ingredients to become, Šetû took to the task of exploring her cursed energy with enviable relish.

     Right now, she is pushing it around her body, reinforcing the most vulnerable parts of herself. Not nearly as strong as Uraume, but she is climbing in her progression. Sukuna holds back enough that he doesn’t kill her in one blow, but he needs her to feel the punishment of failing to defend herself.

     To that end, Šetû can say she’s never been thrashed so hard in her entire life.

     It’s motivation to push, to be sure. Every blow she absorbs from Sukuna feels earth-shattering. All four of his hands are as big as her head, and his fists like meteors even when she reinforces herself with cursed energy. She endeavors to strike him just as hard, and while she cannot land her blows, when he catches her fists and blocks her kicks, he can feel her power growing. Like a mountain under a persistent miner’s hammer. Every blow increases, and her fighting is far more fluid than it has been in weeks.

     Sukuna catches her fist again, pulling her close and sending her off-balance.

     “That’s it!” Sukuna growls at her, grinning fiercely in the verdant dawn of the forest surrounding the shrine. “More!”

     For a moment, she stumbles into his immediate sphere, close enough that she can feel the breath of the maw on his belly, smell his sweat, like gleaming hot iron. She looks up, trying in vain to pull away. Four crimson eyes flare brightly, and a grin spreads across Sukuna’s face that tells her this next part will hurt.

     The strike across her face sends her flying, and for a moment the world tumbles around her, chaotic and disorienting.

     “Zagi!” She manages to eke out when she lands, scrambling to get her feet back under her. One of the things she’s learned is that even when taking a blow like that, when it comes to dealing with Sukuna, one does not have time to recover as they like. She has to keep moving or he will strike her again.

     Sure enough, even as her sight orients and she’s back in her fighting position, Sukuna has already closed the distance, looming over her with cursed energy flaring around his hands. She doesn’t hesitate, she dives between his spread legs, tucking herself into a roll just as his fist comes down, cratering the earth beneath it.

     Fuck.

     She is on her feet again, and now she understands why Japan fears this man. And he’s holding back with her.

     God, how can she ever hope to close such a gap?

     It doesn’t matter, so long as she can keep up. She’s certain Takeshi Zenin is nowhere near the same level as Sukuna, and if she can keep up with the legendary King of Curses, then Zenin’s head is as good as hers.

     The fight ends in minutes, when he sends her tumbling again, and this time she’s not up in time, and he pins her down with a foot on her chest. For a moment, he simply looks down at her, watches her pant and wriggle like a trapped fish beneath him.

     He can end her life right here, can tear this burgeoning infection out at the root, and return to guarding the most sacrosanct parts of himself jealously.

     Šetû stares up at him, dark eyes fierce and determined. If he kills her, it is the end of her journey—her story. But if he lets her go, she will attack again. They both know this.

     She reaches up slowly, taps his foot on her chest, a sign that she concedes.

     Sukuna doesn’t move immediately, but as he holds her stare, he slowly lifts his foot and watches as she climbs to her feet. He doesn’t speak as she dusts herself off, picking dead leaves from her braids. He stands there, waiting for her to collect herself, another eye on the sky, which is clear, and the morning bright.

     It’s time for breakfast.

     The two of them head back to the shrine in what can almost be described as companionable silence. Šetû is quietly proud of herself. For all the struggle she has faced, she knows she has improved, and Sukuna would not have bothered to continue training her had she not. As the shrine comes into view, she allows herself a smile. Sukuna looks down at her with his lower eyes, focusing on the curve of her smile, the way she seems to be inwardly celebrating despite losing to him. He understands her greater goal, and he understands her hunger for vengeance.

     It’s the way she looks at him sometimes that confuses him. As if he is good.

     “I am going to take Sarki out to stretch his legs today,” she says. “If you are not busy doing whatever it is you do, would you like to come?”

     Sukuna snorts. “Are you asking me to come for a ride with you, mayoi-hana?”

     He takes undue pleasure when he sees her smile turn bashful, her cheeks flushed dark with heat. Then, she regains her composure and clears her throat.

     “Yes,” she says firmly. “I’m asking that we ride together. But if you’re busy, I am content to explore on my own. I’d just feel…” She trails off when Sukuna gives her a shrewd look, averting her gaze and biting her lip.

     “I will ride with you,” he says, watching as she looks up, expression brightening. He shrugs.

     “Akechi will only grow fat and bored if I’m not riding him every day, the lazy bastard. And I’m curious as to what your new mount can do. It is my understanding that you are a capable rider.”

     Šetû grins. “I am.”

     Sukuna smirks. “Then we shall see how you fare, mayoi-hana.”

     They take breakfast together in the main dining room, sitting across from one another at a low table. Šetû is clad in a simple linen tunic and soft, woolen leggings, seated comfortably on a floor cushion as she sips her tea. Like most times, their meal is silent, but hardly the silence of two strangers. There is something warming between them. Sukuna watches her as she eats with a prodigious appetite, humming happily as she does. One thing Sukuna has learned is that Asiri loves to eat just as much as he does, and that pleases him.

     After, Sukuna attends to himself, combing through missives which begin to pile up as couriers move freely throughout the country once more during the spring thaw. Most are offers beneath his notice or scope of interest. Normally, he would have Uraume do this for him, but it’s quicker when he does it. It makes it easier to make decisions.

     He leaves off making any decisions right away, opting instead to rejoin Asiri, who is already dressed and speaking with Ren who has saddled and readied both Akechi and Sarki in the main courtyard. Sukuna’s cursed energy precedes him as it always does, but while Ren folds into a deep bow, Asiri turns and grins at him. Bold of her, but Sukuna finds himself smirking. He does not mind her forgetting decorum here in the sanctity of his home. His eyes rove over her form appraisingly. She’s clad in a pair of linen hosen and a pair of jika-tabi as well as a linen top resembling a shitagi. Sukuna squints. It isn’t. The embroidery on the collar and sleeves is foreign.

     Asiri swings into the saddle with practiced ease and grace. Sarki snorts, but she keeps control of the reins. It’s her first time riding him since Sukuna brought him home, and she’s handling him well. Sukuna’s lower eyes track her movements. She squeezes her thighs and Sarki slides into an easy walk. Sukuna watches as she takes Sarki for a walk around the massive courtyard, clucking her tongue and cooing to him. He watches her reach to scratch lovingly between the beast’s ears. A subtle pressure from her thighs, and Sarki lopes into a faster walk, then a trot. Sukuna watches Asiri’s subtle shift of her hips, rocking in time to the sway of her mount.

     Oh.

     Oh.

Asiri returns and gives a subtle tug of the reins to halt Sarki, patting the side of his neck. Sukuna notes that the mount is much calmer. He had planned to eat it if it didn’t take to Asiri’s command and proved to be a useless, frightened beast. He’s only slightly sorry that isn’t the case. Asiri eyes him.

     “Coming?” She asks, hooking a brow at him. Sukuna moves with careless grace, and swings into the saddle. Akechi snorts, stamps a hoof, eager to be back on the road.

     “Follow,” he tells Asiri, and before she can question it, he’s off. Asiri clucks to Sarki once and she follows after him. Ren watches them go, wide-eyed and wondering.

     Sukuna and Asiri pass through the torii gate and Asiri looks up, spotting the hitodama.

     “Sukuna-sama,” she ventures. He doesn’t answer, but she sees him glance at her with his lower eyes. “What are those pretty lanterns on the gate? Some sort of magic?”

     Sukuna snorts, but there’s no derision in it.

     “No,” he says. “Those are hitodama, said to be souls of the lost dead. Sometimes, they can be bound to a place of great spiritual power. You usually only see them at night in places where old death lingers, but sorcerers can see them all the time.”

     Asiri nods, understanding. Spirits, then, bound to this place for one reason or another. Not unlike her homeland.

     Along their journey, Asiri takes in spring. Sukuna watches from his lower eyes as she passes her hand through verdant shafts of sunlight through the canopy of the forest, grinning as they ride. Eventually, however, the forest thins out, opening up into the rolling hills of Hida proper.

     Asiri sucks in a breath, eyes wide.

     “Yewá…” She breathes with a smile. It’s like a picture from a story. Sukuna sits still in the saddle, taking in the sight. All through the hills, green beats back the remnants of winter’s chill, and a steady breeze threads through the land, carrying with it the scent of life and new beginnings. On such small, natural phenomena, Sukuna can let go of his hardened cynicism. If anything, seeing Asiri crack a genuine smile just being in the sun is enough to make this little excursion worth it.

     “In the beginning,” Šetû says, her voice drawing him from his thoughts. He keeps his lower eyes on her. “You told me I could leave come spring.”

     “Yes,” he agrees, not liking where this is going. “And you told me you had no intention of leaving this land until you destroyed your enemies.”

     Asiri looks up at him. Sarki whickers gently, his flanks twitching, tail lashing at a fly.

     “Yes,” she says. “But to do that I need to find them. I think…I think Yusuf knows something.”

     Sukuna is silent. The mention of her cowardly brother is of no concern to him. Were it up to him, he’d have gutted the man for his cowardice. Perhaps he still can.

     “You have not told me the names of your enemies, Asiri,” Sukuna reminds her. He watches as she tenses, her hands tightening on the reins, her jaw hardening, her gaze shuttering as she looks out over the hills. She squeezes her thighs around Sarki with purpose and Sukuna’s brows go up as she lets her horse spill into a gallop. He catches the glance she shoots him over her shoulder, a mischievous glint in her eye. Sukuna sighs, but the corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk as he signals to Akechi with a cluck of his tongue, slacking the reins and letting the massive warhorse heave forward.

     He catches up to her, but the distance is wide enough that he can see just how skilled she is. He remembers her excited chattering with Oboro while doing laundry; some sort of horse festival in her homeland, and her father and brothers teaching her to ride.

     He sees the measure of those teachings in the ease with which she leans in, she and Sarki becoming one unit. Sarki is swift, surefooted, and graceful, but Akechi thunders up behind them, long legs closing the gap as Sukuna pulls up alongside her. He sees her surprised glance as Hida speeds by them both in a blur. Then, she grins at him and laughs, urging Sarki to push harder. No path, no destination, just galloping full-tilt, hell-for-leather, toward anywhere.

     A brief, tempting illusion of true freedom.

     Sukuna is surprised when Asiri lets out a ululating cry, arms outspread, face tipped toward the sky. She is the quintessential picture of pure, unalloyed joy. Sukuna wants to roll his eyes, but he understands it. He understands the power of galloping under the open sky. And to her credit, she spent a great deal of time with the Mongols before crossing the sea to come here. He imagines this is not the first time the joy of being on horseback has overtaken her.

     In the end, Asiri leads them on a merry chase into the steeper hills, finding a knoll seemingly waiting, complete with a welcoming breeze. As she reins Sarki to a halt, she lets out another joyous laugh, leaning down to pat her horse’s neck in gratitude, cooing to him in her native tongue while Sukuna watches, the weight of his gaze felt on every part of her. She leans up, catches his gaze, and the world goes quiet for a moment. Her smile turns from mischief to something else, something that tangles up in Sukuna’s chest like snagged threads. He turns his gaze to the sprawl of the valley. From here, they can see the town, nestled like a little jewel in the breast of the foothills. The river, the lake, the trees on the verge of blooming.

     Home.

     “It’s so beautiful here,” Asiri says with a dreamy sigh. “I don’t see how you’d ever want to leave.”

     Sukuna chuckles. “I don’t. I have no interest in whatever lies beyond my home.”

     Asiri glances at him sidelong. “None? Have you never been curious about other cultures? Food, perhaps? I know you’re fond of food.”

     Sukuna makes a grumbling sound and shrugs. “Of course I’m curious. I just don’t have any interest. And the foreigners I’ve met tend to be…”

     Asiri smirks. Sukuna shakes his head, ridding himself of the uncharitable thought. She’s like no other foreigner he’s met, but he’s met very few, and most of them found themselves cut down by his hand. Ugly, pale-faced, flaxen-haired creatures weighed down in unwieldy armor, brandishing weapons that can never harm him.

     “Foreigners came to our homeland too,” Asiri says quietly, her brows drawn down in a frown. “Pale and cold-eyed as crocodiles. Greedy for gold and glory. Slavers.”

     The last word is spat with contempt.

     “Is that why you left?” Sukuna asks, glancing down at her with both sets of eyes. Asiri’s hands flex around the reins.

     “Partially, yes,” she admits. “The King did not heed the warnings of dissenters in his court and welcomed the foreigners with open arms. Slowly, they began to erode our way of life…and people who dissented began to go missing. We were told they were seen being loaded onto ships. They were never seen again.”

     Sukuna thinks on that, and knows the implications. Slavery is considered a barbaric practice here, but that does not mean there are factions who do not try to find loopholes. He cannot imagine this prideful, resilient woman beside him letting anyone chain her down. There is too much power inside of her to ever fall prey to such barbarism.

     Still, he understands a little of what galvanized her and her family into becoming traveling entertainers. Not a choice, but a necessity for survival. And she walked the world until she arrived here. He thinks about the night he first saw her, her curves illuminated by the bonfire, dark eyes glimmering, and joy in every complex step she executed.

     He thinks about her private performance, and the stories painted on her skin. Ferocity in every step and turn, reverence in every bend and undulation.

     “Where did you learn to ride like that?” Sukuna asks. Asiri grins.

     “I think you already know, my lord,” she says slyly. Sukuna frowns, then his eyes go wide. Had she seen him eavesdropping? Not that he cares but…

     “Your cursed energy,” she explains. “It feels different when you are near. Like getting nearer to a furnace’s heart.”

     Sukuna grins. She has no idea. “So, you’ve been taking to my lessons after all, then. And here I thought you were daydreaming.”

     Asiri scoffs. “I’ll have you know I am a good pupil. I did manage to hit you, after all. Uraume says that’s no mean feat.”

     Sukuna laughs. “Yes, but could you do it again?”

     The challenge hangs in the air between them. Asiri glances at him sharply, her expression caught between amusement and apprehension. Sukuna’s gaze doesn’t waver, his grin ravenous, eyes flaring. Asiri chews her lush lower lip.

     “Maybe,” she says with a smile. Sukuna narrows his eyes, watches her a moment longer, and then looks back at the sunlit hills. Fluffy, cotton-like clouds push across the sky, creating visible shafts of sunlight across the land.

     Something soft and velvety strikes his cheek and he frowns, glaring at Asiri, who is grinning. In her hands are several wildflowers. Sukuna narrows his eyes and looks down. She’d thrown one at his face. His gaze drags back up to hers. The mirth fades from her face and is replaced by wide-eyed fear. Sukuna grins.

     “It counts!” She cries.

     “I’ll give you a five second head start, mayoi-hana,” Sukuna growls. “And then it’s my turn.”

     Asiri opens her mouth. “It was just a flower!” She protests but when Sukuna doesn’t answer, she realizes her timer is about to start. She urges Sarki into a loping canter, squeezing her thighs to push him into a gallop.

     And then Sukuna takes off after her. It might have been a little longer than five seconds, but he knows where she’s going.

     Asiri has sparred Sukuna every other morning since he agreed to train her. She has seen his speed—frightening and overwhelming—has felt the power of his strikes [and forehead flicks] and has learned to fear him less in the months since she became his semi-permanent guest, ward, and pupil.

     Getting chased by him on horseback is a new kind of terror and exhilaration.

     When she makes for the tree line, she doesn’t look back, concerned only with staying low and small.

     And then she hears the thundering of hooves, a counter-rhythm to Sarki’s own smooth and languid gait.

     Fuck.

     Asiri decides to veer into the forest, but off of the path leading to the shrine. She can hear Sukuna’s growling laughter closing in behind her as she guides Sarki over bramble and root, tucking as she executes a smooth jump over the trunk of a fallen tree. Her fear gives way to hysterical laughter as she and Sarki wind around the trees, Sukuna on their heels.

     “Come on,” Asiri grits out in her mount’s ear. “Almost there!”

     They burst into a clearing, and almost immediately Sarki rears up. Asiri presses her heels down, shifting her weight as Sarki begins to prance nervously, eyes rolling until she can see the whites. She knows the mount isn’t used to cursed energy but having been at the shrine all these weeks she wonders what could possibly have him spooked, now.

     She looks around, and her face goes ashen as her heart drops.

     In the clearing there is nothing, save the structure of a burned-out wagon, and all at once her memories come flooding back. Moonlight, the smell of sake on the breath of a man heaving on top of her; pain, and the sight of her family dead in the dirt. Something in this place lingers, some horrible entity birthed from the tragedy that befell them. She can feel it, crawling all along her skin like a brutal ant march, or unwanted tongues, slimy and invasive. She squints at the heavy darkness of the forest around the clearing, sees something move in the shadows.

     She remembers training with Uraume, most of which consisted of teaching her the core lessons of jujutsu. While Sukuna’s methods tended to be more…hands-on, Uraume had been far more patient. It was Uraume who taught her about cursed spirits and how they manifest. She had never heard of such a thing before coming to Japan, but it made sense. A manifestation of humanity’s fear, loathing, and negativity congealing into a living, writhing creature that could do serious harm.

     Something is wrong, however, and she glances around. The forest is different somehow, the clearing too. The wagon itself appears to be pristine again. She tries to recall her lessons with Uraume about cursed spirits. Something about domains? She can’t seem to remember. She glances behind her.

     The way she came through is shut, and Sarki is useless here. She dismounts.

     “Zagi…” She whispers, then looks up.

     No sky either.

     In the instance of true danger, Asiri wants to panic, but she clings to the hope that her lessons with Sukuna and Uraume will see her through. If this is indeed a domain, then that means the cursed spirit is nearby. She tries to recall what Uraume told her about domains. They are a strong form of jujutsu, called a barrier technique.

     “You know,” she mutters, “it would be nice if you showed yourself.”

     She immediately regrets the words as she hears the distinct sound of growling in the nearby undergrowth. She keeps her eyes on the source of the sound, then begins to focus on her breathing, reaching inside of herself, seeking the core of her power. Within, it feels electrical, makes the tips of her fingers buzz and hum like just before lightning strikes. There’s a smell like loam and burnt ozone in the air. She blinks to clear her sight, focusing on the domain around her. Sarki is quiet, but he lingers by her side. A warhorse, then. He’s at least been trained to calm alongside his master.

     Come on, Asiri thinks with a sneer, taking a step forward. She’s holding onto the core of her cursed energy, and it crackles, leashed inside of her aching to uncoil throughout her body. She can feel herself on the precipice of something, like the heaving surge of a great wave, bound to break.

     “Amadou…” comes a distorted, helpless whimper.

     All at once, Asiri loses her grip on her energy, and it returns to the part of herself that is suddenly unreachable. The voice…that voice. It hooks inside of her, dredges the river of her thoughts, now polluted with the filth and debris of that awful memory.

     The voice is hers.

     No, not hers. No, it is the voice she remembers using that night. Calling out for her brother, sobbing…whimpering.

     “A-Amadou…” The voice scrapes against the oily scar tissue of her soul’s wound, rips the stitched seam of the cleave to her heart, tearing it all open.

     Her breathing stutters, her concentration breaking, and then the domain is plunged into a darkness so absolute it suffocates her, driving her to her knees.

     All around her, slits of light appear, something oily slithering around within them. The air feels like poison, and Asiri crumbles to her knees. The memory of that night is all there is, over and over again, unending. She has never longed for the certainty of an opium haze in her life.

     The slits narrow, crinkle, and she realizes they are eyes. So many eyes, all of different horrifying shapes—some of which defy anything she’s ever seen—smirking in abject cruelty, the cursed sight crawling and slithering all over her skin like invasive hands. Cupping her breasts, squeezing her waist, seeking touch in ways she reviles, laughing at her own self-disgust. The memory continues to beat against the curves of her skull, digs its claws into the tender gray matter of her brain, ripping and tearing.

     And then, deep down, it finds what it’s looking for: the tender, delicate flesh of her guilt.

     None of this would have happened had she not invited Sukuna to their camp. Amadou, Ajani, and Ajamu would be alive, had she done what everyone else had done and shunned the King of Curses. He is a monster and inviting him to share her cookfire had painted the markings of death on all of them. To be near him is to know the erosion of humanity, to lose pieces of your soul. Had she not let him in, the Zenins might not have—

     He raped you. A voice says fiercely from within her. He raped you for showing kindness to the one you have been told to hate.

     This cruel truth is what undoes her defenses entirely, and she lets out a choked sob, moves to hug her arms around herself when she feels a sudden absence, and a searing pain below her shoulder.

     Dripdripdripdrip.

     Blood pours from a wound she wasn’t even aware was ever made. She looks down, sees the silhouette of an arm on the ground in the inky darkness. Her other hand reaches, feels the blood drip over her trembling fingers in the dark, splattering onto the earth. Already she is dizzy from the loss, but she remembers Sukuna’s words: that fight is over.

     It’s spring. She tells herself this over and over.

     It’s spring.

     What happened was months ago. That fight is over.

     She breathes deep, finds the core of her cursed energy again, pushes it around her body, clumsy—she can already hear Sukuna’s chiding—but she pushes it toward the pain, toward the injury. All of it, folding it over and over and over, pressing it against itself until she cries out. There’s a sound like bone cracking, wet flesh tearing, and then cool air on the skin of her new arm, covered in blood like some grisly take on afterbirth and amniotic fluid.

     She pants, her eyes no longer straining in the dark, fingers flexing experimentally. This is reversed cursed technique, then. She’ll need to practice with this more. She wishes Sukuna could see her right now. Thus far she’s only been able to heal scrapes and bruises. An entire limb has taken more effort, but she reaches deep within herself again, following her breath.

     Always with the fucking breathing.

     It’s spring.

     That fight is over.

     Her hands grasp her own energy, the very essence of her soul, and she can make out the borders of her own body so clearly. Is this what jujutsu is, then? She can feel the surge coming again, and her muscles and bones seem to harden and swell with power. It floods her mouth; it dances in her dark eyes.

     The perfect clarity of fury.

     She is on her feet without thinking, and her new hand makes a gesture, the shape of a knife. A wind follows, shearing one of the eyes in half. The distorted voices around her, mere echoes of the memory she carries within herself, within her nightmares—they turn to screams.

     Asiri feels the dark tongue of satisfaction lick at the borders of her soul for the first time since she first touched these cursed shores. She makes the gesture again, swipeswipeswipe. It feels good.

     The screeching turns into a shattering sound as the darkness lifts. Asiri blinks against the harshness of the domain’s light unnatural light, sees the culprit for what it is.

     Were anyone to ask Asiri—and she is certain Sukuna will—she would say that there is no description befitting the monstrosity writhing before her. The eyes are bulbous and wide, lidless and unblinking, the irises roving like spilled ink in water, or oil on film. Never still, always looking around wildly.

     Like prey. Asiri thinks with contempt. She had been nothing but prey to Takeshi Zenin, and he had taken his pound of flesh from her, alongside his companions. Oboro and Okoi have only recently been able to convince her she is clean after a bath. Only recently has she been able to scrub herself without wanting to tear her own skin off in disgust. She can still remember the pain of it, of her body being violated, of her broken sobs; prayers and pleas falling on deaf ears. The gods did not care, and neither did her assailants. She has had to do everything alone, including dig herself out of her own grave.

     When does it stop hurting? Why won’t it stop hurting?

     Her fury rekindles, hands flaring with cursed energy. There is a sound like thunder, muffled as if it is far away.

     “You are an echo,” she spits at the cursed spirit, and the eyes roil in the writhing mass of flesh, garbled whimpering and moaning coming from somewhere within it, attempting to trick her into hearing her own voice again. Attempting to make her relive that night as it has grown fat over the months doing just that.

     Asiri decides she will never be prey again.

     “A figment,” she sneers. “A mere shadow of what happened here. I alone carry the scars and the memory. You are an abomination.”

     The thunder rumbles closer, and again Asiri does not think, the slipstream of her thoughts turning to silver in her mind. She moves, closing the distance as her fists come down. Sukuna has taught her to fight in the only way he knows how, and she echoes that brutality in every blow. Her rage powers her strikes; her hatred fuels her when her body cries out for rest and respite.

     Inhale. She grasps the core of her cursed energy.

     It’s spring.

Exhale. She pushes it all into her fists.

     You dare to linger here and it’s fucking spring.

     Strike. Make it hurt. Make it regret its own abominable existence.

     Like Sukuna, make every blow earth-shattering. End the fight decisively.

     Give her back the fucking sky.

Asiri ignores the viscera and slime weltering up to her shoulders, splattering on her face. All she knows is skin, blood, fury, hate, and rage. All she is is movement and sensation in the most base and violent sense. She is an animal, snarling through bloodied teeth and fever-bright eyes, and the core of her energy swells, pushing against the borders of her body.

     And then it blooms, the thing that has been quivering on the precipice of release since that night. It unfurls as thunder claps above her head.

     And lightning strikes.

     The domain shatters like glass as her fists come down until they crater the earth. The cursed spirit is a puddle of chunks and bubbling, aubergine blood. And yet, she is still angry, still striking. Sarki dances in uncertainty, snorting and tossing his head with worry. He whinnies with alarm as her fist crunch earth, the cursed spirit bubbling and smoking from her blows. Perhaps it is that which draws her out of her blood-blind rage. She’s on her knees, panting, muscles quivering in the aftermath.

     And then the energy drains out of her, and she falls onto her unsteady, scraped, and raw hands, arms quivering. Blood drips from her nose, and there’s a blinding pain behind her right eye, throbbing like the aftermath of too much palm wine.

     “What…” Her voice comes out hoarse and croaked from disuse. Had she been screaming? She feels like she’s been screaming.

     “Well, well, well,” A familiar voice slips through the weakened defenses of her mind. Asiri looks up to see Sukuna standing over her, a bloodthirsty grin on his face.

     “Perhaps my lost little flower is a daughter of the storm god in disguise.”

     The world tilts in her vision, and she realizes belatedly that she’s falling over as the ache of her ordeal follows her down to the abyssal state of exhaustion. Her final sight is of four red eyes and a knowing smirk on Sukuna’s handsome face. She is out before she can speak his name.

     Wakefulness comes in spurts, accompanied by worried whispers, and Asiri forces herself into consciousness with a start and a gasp. She sits upright, glancing around.

     She’s in her room. Back at the shrine.

     “Oh, thank goodness you’re alright!” Oboro breathes with abject relief, and Asiri stares at her, still bewildered.

     “What happened?” She asks, then holds up a forestalling hand. “Wait, I remember. How long has it been?”

     Oboro doesn’t answer right away but Asiri glances at her lattice window, sees that it’s dark. Same day? Different? She’s not sure. She feels like she’s been asleep for a thousand years.

     “It’s been a few hours since your ordeal,” Oboro says softly. “Lord Sukuna brought you back.”

     “Sukuna…” Asiri murmurs. “Oh no! My horse! Is he—”

     “He’s a stubborn bastard, is what he is, but he’s alive, surprisingly.” Sukuna’s voice. Oboro and Okoi automatically fold into obeisant kneels, foreheads pressed to the floor as Sukuna darkens the doorway, clad only in his loose-fitting hakama. Asiri takes a deep breath as she takes him in, still sitting in her bed. Sukuna doesn’t look at the two priestesses at his feet.

     “Leave,” he says curtly and the two sisters ghost from the room with naught but a rustle of their silk and linen to mark their passing. Even so, Asiri looks around as the door slides shut behind them.

     “I feel like we’ve done this already,” she says evenly. Sukuna smirks, looking at her at her, she looks up at him and frowns.

     “Will you sit?” She asks, though there’s an edge in her voice that almost dares to be a demand. Sukuna raises his slitted brow at her.

     “Is that a command I hear?” He asks, his tone dangerous. Asiri meets his gaze fearlessly.

     “I’m not going to stare up at you while you berate me or ridicule me, Sukuna,” Asiri grumbles. “Sit. Please.”

     Sukuna smirks and arrays himself in a seated position before her, one leg folded under him, one of his upper arms propped up by his knee. A king, even in this tiny room she has come to call her own. He studies her with that same, unnerving stare, unblinking and calculating. Inscrutable.

     It’s almost like the first time, but it’s nothing like the first time.

     “Was that a cursed spirit out there?” She asks. Sukuna says nothing for a moment, tilting his head. It’s answer enough.

     “I thought…” Asiri frowns, brows drawing inward as she thinks. “I thought your cursed energy kept the curses at bay. That’s why I never see them around. What was that out there?”

     Sukuna turns out his hands. “That was your curse, Asiri,” he tells her. “Whatever happened to you that night, whatever awakened you as a sorcerer, that was the result. Cursed spirits are more active in the warmer months when there are more people to devour.”

     Asiri thinks again. Uraume failed to mention that part, perhaps it slipped their mind. She picks at the bedding, willing her mind to focus. Everything feels like some sort of horrid dream state.

     “Curses, born from…negative emotions. That thing was an amalgamation of my fear.”

     “And your rage.”

     “My guilt.”

     “Your grief.”

     The words hang there between them, suspended in the gossamer of whatever is burgeoning between them. She winces as if he’s touched a bruise. Sukuna’s lower eyes flick to her arm and she follows his gaze, sucking in a surprised breath. Around her bicep is a tender, oily band of scar tissue. She remembers the pain, bright and then tearing; the blood dripping through her fingers in copious amounts that made her dizzy. She remembers her cursed energy folding in on itself, making her feel empty and setting the wound ablaze with positive energy.

     Her arm practically being born from her ruined flesh.

     Only the scar remains to tell the gruesome tale of her victory.

     “I destroyed it,” she says, meeting his gaze. “The curse. I destroyed it. How?”

     Sukuna’s grin spreads across both his mouths like a blood stain and Asiri suppresses a shudder. She remembers telling her cousins she found him beautiful. She still does, but there are times she thinks he seeks to be grotesque and off-putting on purpose. She does not look away nor does she flinch.

     “Your technique manifested,” Sukuna says simply. “And you used it to overpower the curse. Personally, I found it to be glorious although Uraume thinks it was overkill on your part.”

     Asiri mouths the words to herself, and Sukuna watches as she blinks rapidly, committing the words to memory, translating them into her mother tongue. She tries to remember how it happened. She remembers the wind conforming to her cursed energy, becoming as strong and sharp as blades. Cutting into those awful eyes.

     She remembers the call of thunder, and the lightning strike.

     Her fists, pounding until her knuckles scraped and split against the forest floor.

     Sukuna sees the memory surfacing in her expression and chuckles.

     “A magnificent, bloodthirsty creature, you are,” he says with his own twisted sense of commendation. “I can’t imagine the one you’re after surviving the encounter. Though I suppose that is still your goal.”

     Asiri’s gaze sharpens, dark eyes flashing. Thunder does not rumble, Sukuna notes, but there’s a charge to the air like burnt ozone. Ah, she smells like a summer storm.

     “Absolutely,” she says through gritted teeth. “That has not changed. I’ll have Zenin’s head or—”

     She gasps, realizing her mistake too late. Sukuna seizes upon it like a tiger’s jaws clamping on the back of its prey’s skull. Asiri’s face goes ashen as the look on Sukuna’s face strikes true fear into her for the first time.

     “Which one?” His voice is so deep and primordial, like some ancient thing from the belly of the earth. A thing one does not want to attract the attention of by any means. And yet Asiri wants to do just that. But not for this. Never for this.

     “Sukuna—”

     “Which. One.”

     “I don’t see how that’s—”

     “Šetû.”

     It’s the first time he’s used her first name since they’ve met. She’s never heard it from him before, and even in that deadly tone that brooks no room for protest nor argument, it sends a rippling series of shivers down her spine.

     And not all of them are unpleasant.

     She swallows, tearing her gaze away from his but even that doesn’t help because in her peripheral she can still see him staring at her with that weighted, unblinking glare that has doubtless made many piss themselves in abject terror.

     Her hands are trembling. She squeezes them into the bedding to stop it.

     “Takeshi Zenin,” she whispers, and the bile rises in her throat. It hasn’t been this way since autumn. She forces it down, sweat beading on her temples from the effort. Her entire world swims in her vision and she blinks it away. Her heart is hammering in her chest erratically, and breathing feels difficult. What’s happening to her.

     “Breathe,” Sukuna orders but he makes no move to help her. “Slowly. Just like I showed you.”

     Asiri takes comfort in his words. If he’s not yelling at her, then he’s not upset with her for withholding this name. She breathes. She breathes deeply, screwing her eyes shut against the dizziness.

     “Takeshi Zenin,” Sukuna says the name with scarce-concealed disgust. “A weak little worm of a man and third-rate sorcerer in his own clan. Why am I not surprised? They treat all their women like chattel.”

     Asiri watches him, surprised. He seems to be thinking aloud more so than having a conversation. He exhales sharply through his nose.

     “You cannot kill him.” He says.

     “What?!” Asiri practically screeches, so loud the entire shrine must hear it. Sukuna’s pupils shrink slightly, the only indication that the screech surprised him. She’s seething, but she’s still drained, and her technique is burned out. He witnessed her incomplete domain earlier; knows she’d be so easy to kill but it seems her rage has no target currently.

     “What the fuck do you mean I can’t kill him?!” She demands, her voice cracking, her throat still raw. She still needs work on her reversed curse technique, it seems.

     “Not like some common pauper in the street, at any rate,” Sukuna says in a nonchalant tone. “He is protected by his family name. To kill him would draw the ire of forces far greater than your power, mayoi-hana.”

     “Then how do I…” Asiri knifes her hands through her hair. “You’re telling me I was violated—my family murdered—by some pampered, noble brat?!”

     Sukuna grins. “That is the long and the short of it, yes. Listen, as much as I would love to see you tear him apart in the streets like some rabid creature…there are formalities in jujutsu we must abide by.”

     Asiri gets out of bed, wobbles unsteadily, but finds her balance. She begins to pace, restless with her anger.

     “What fucking formalities? Why did no one tell me this?”

     “I asked who did this to you, and you refused to give me a name,” Sukuna tells her. “Had you explained who the culprits were, I could have advised you differently and Takeshi Zenin would have been dead before the first thaw. As it stands, there is a way to get the revenge you seek.”

     Asiri stops pacing and fixes him with her own stare. Sukuna leans back easily, scratching at one of his ears.

     “You can issue a formal challenge for a jujutsu kaisen,” he says. “It sounds silly—and it is, I would simply kill him—but for someone like you—”

     “Someone like me?” She demands. Sukuna gives her one of his shrewd looks.

     “A foreign sorcerer with no protections save her own skills,” he explains. “Challenging him to a formal duel will force him to conform to the rules, rules I’ve already taught you to bend to your whims. All of those noble sorcerer families are very…predictable in their tactics. Just be glad it’s not the clan head you’ll be facing.”

     Asiri rubs her temples.

     “So, I challenge this worthless sorcerer to a duel and then what? What if he declines?”

     Sukuna grins. “He won’t decline.”

     Asiri snorts. “Fine, I’ll challenge him. What else do I need to know?”

     Sukuna climbs to his feet and stretches. The mouth on his belly yawns in tandem with the one on his face. Asiri tries not to look unsettled at the sight. She’s not sure that maw will ever be something can get used to.

     “The spring matsuri is tomorrow,” he says in lieu of a straight answer. Typical. “You’ll accompany me. And on our way there, I’ll teach you about binding vows.”

     The next morning dawns clear and bright, and Asiri admits that a good night’s sleep has done her wonders. Not only that, but since exorcizing her first cursed spirit—a curse born from her, no less—she feels lighter. The heavy melancholy that dragged at her spirit all winter feels like an almost vague malaise of the soul. The memory lingers, of course, it will always linger, but the weight of it no longer feels as crushing and hopeless as it once was.

     And despite her mistake in revealing her rapist’s name, having Sukuna know about it has made her feel lighter too. Her heart feels purged of some of the poison that has been rotting it these long months.

     But her fury remains. Even more so when she learns just how untouchable Zenin is.

     She asks Oboro and Okoi about it as they dress her in her kimono. It’s not as if everyone in the shrine didn’t hear her bickering with Sukuna. Oboro and Okoi love gossip, but only amongst themselves, and Uraume is Sukuna’s confidante. Asiri is certain Ren is probably the only human being in the shrine who is oblivious.

     Still, the way Oboro refuses to meet her eyes is irritating. The way she and Okoi’s fingers hesitate when touching her, treating her like finespun glass on the verge of breaking at the slightest caress—insulting.

     “What do you know about Takeshi Zenin?” Asiri asks bluntly, and frowns when Okoi drops her sewing kit in surprise. She glares at the two sisters in the mirror.

     “He’s not a nice person,” Oboro says quietly. “He has visited the shrine with his father once or twice, and on both occasions, he was decidedly most unpleasant.”

     Asiri is not surprised to hear it.

     “Why has Lord Sukuna not killed him for it, then?” She asks. Oboro hesitates, checks the folds and ties of the obi around her waist and Asiri sighs.

     “Oboro-san, I need to know,” she says. “If I am to challenge him as an enemy, I need to learn all I can about him. I know he is unpleasant. I probably know that better than any of you. What I need to know is your assessment of him.”

     Oboro and Okoi exchange glances, and Okoi gives a subtle nod.

     “Takeshi Zenin is known for his harshness with women, my lady,” Oboro says, contempt creeping into her voice. “But as a sorcerer, it is said he is quite skilled. The Zenin clans takes the training of its warriors seriously. His technique is…he’s very fast.”

     Asiri recalls that terrible night, how quick he’d closed the distance between himself and her cousins, slitting their throats before they even realized what was happening, and coming to torment her while she watched them die twitching in the loamy dirt.

     Her hands ball into fists, and the shrine shudders with the call of thunder in the distance.

     “My lady…” Oboro whispers, a warning and a tug for her to rein in her fury.

     The thunder fades away, the sunlight shifts and brightens. Somewhere, village children marvel at the phenomena of storm clouds dissipating without a breeze to push them away.

     “Then I must be faster,” she says quietly; fiercely.

     Oboro and Okoi agree in silence, and they finish their preparations. Asiri observes herself in the mirror one last time, marveling at the garment she wears. The way the collar of the kimono dips below her nape, a touch of scandalous according to Oboro, who’d given her a sly smile when she arranged it. The starred array of her tattoo is visible. Her braids, still bound up with gold clasps, are swept up in an elegant coif. Oboro herself brought an enameled box containing a jeweled hair pin with a fall of cowrie shells dripping from the coiled coif of her hair. It was clearly a gift, and tears spring to Asiri’s eyes when Oboro shows it to her before sliding it carefully into her hair. They’d collected the stray shells from one of Asiri’s old pieces, fashioning it into something befitting the kimono’s complete ensemble.

     For her face, Asiri uses minimal cosmetics, sifting through her grooming tools to pluck her brows, and line her eyes with kohl. She turns, mindful of the tabi on her feet. Oboro and Okoi have spent the last few weeks teaching her to walk in the kimono, and none too few spills were taken before Asiri figured out a rhythm and style that worked. Awkward, but she squealed with glee to see the kimono’s trail flutter as she shuffled across the wooden floors, Oboro and Okoi clapping as she mastered the art.

     Stepping out into the main hall, she shuffles down the hall to the front door, passing by Sukuna’s bedchamber in the process. She can hear the quiet timbre of his voice on the other side of the shoji door, and Uraume’s quiet responses. Without another pause, she heads to the front, slipping on the zori Oboro and Okoi provide for her before she steps out into the warmth of the morning sun.

     Ren is there immediately, bowing to her. She is amused at his reverence, wondering if she looks as noble as she hopes.

     “Shall I have Sarki saddled for you, Lady Asiri?” He asks, looking hopeful. He has taken a liking to her horse, she realizes, and she opens her mouth to reply when Sukuna speaks instead.

     “No,” he says with such finality that Asiri closes her mouth and turns to face him, prepared to protest.

     All the words in her throat tumble into the acid pit of her stomach at the sight of him.

     For the last several months, Asiri has seen Sukuna in various states: his signature black haori and hakama and naked.

     She’s never seen him dressed formally.

     While she is in the softest white and blue, he is in the deepest black, swathed in the night sky of a new moon. His haori is layered over his kimono, but she sees all four of his arms moving freely. A woman’s cut, then, but it suits him. His tabi and zori are also black, and the corner of her mouth lifts. So, someone was willing to make him proper footwear. She’s glad.

     Sukuna, in the meanwhile, eyes Asiri with scarce-concealed appraisal. He knows those two scheming sisters had made off with one of his kimonos, but he’d had no idea they’d planned to do this with it. He assumed they were mending it as usual. His main eyes stay on her face, watching her dark, velvety brown eyes; his lowers eyes rove her form from the hairpin of cowrie shells to the tips of her sandaled feet. He has never seen her in a kimono. Only a loose-fitting yukata when she uses the hot spring.

     She is stunning. As he knew she would be, of course. And he already imagines how she’ll look amongst the spring blooms, standing apart from all others with her beautiful, umber skin, her ebullient smile, and those arresting eyes. In his gods-bedamned kimono of all things. The thought of her in his clothes; the sight of her! He could just grab her up this instant and—

     He spies the cowrie shell choker at her throat, the cowrie shell earrings dripping from her lobes. He smirks. A subtle blending of cultures, then. He can appreciate her message.

     “Ren,” he says, and the boy snaps out of his amazement to bow before him. “See Akechi saddled and brought ‘round. We’ll be riding together today.”

     Asiri’s eyes go wide but she says nothing before she quickly averts her gaze, heat searing her face. Ren does not bother to question—he would never dare—and scampers off to do his lord’s bidding. Sukuna never takes his eyes off Asiri, and were the mouth on his belly not gagged by this ridiculous garment he’d—

     Enough.

     “I hope this is sufficient,” Asiri breathes. “I didn’t have anything appropriate for the festival so Oboro and Okoi…that is…I would have asked your permission had I known, my lord.”

     Sukuna smirks, amused by her nervousness.

     “I have had my fingers and tongue inside of you, mayoi-hana,” he says with a rough edge in his voice, and a touch of that ravenous hunger she felt that same night. “Are you suddenly overcome with modesty and begging?”

     Asiri clamps her teeth on a sound of betrayal before she turns away from him, her face burning. She doesn’t want to think about that night. Not because it was unpleasant—far from it—but because she is about to share a saddle with this man and he’s reminding her of a time he had her pliant and aching and shivering at his touch.

     Damn him.

     Sukuna laughs. “You are full of contradictions, little one.”

     Ren brings Akechi around, the massive horse calm and a little eager as Sukuna approaches him. Ren transfers the reins with a bow and stands aside as Sukuna swings into the saddle. Asiri looks up at him as he reaches for her with his lower hand. She clasps it and he pulls her with no effort into the saddle and she feels something heady and dizzying spiraling up from her chest into her head.

     So high up! She settles in front of him comfortably, shifting her hips and leaning against him. They have not been this close since that night in front of his mirror, and she bites her lips and swallows hard when Sukuna secures one of his lower arms around her waist, leashing her to him more securely. With a gentle nudge, Akechi lopes forward and Asiri gasps, grasping for the pommel of the saddle and realizing it’s safer to cling to Sukuna’s arm than the saddle itself. Sukuna eyes her briefly from his lower set of eyes when she grabs his arm but says nothing.

     The ride toward the village is mostly quiet. Asiri breathes as Akechi moves, trying to ignore the searing presence of the King of Curses at her back, his arm wrapped around her to keep her safe.

     She resists the urge to giggle.

     “So,” she says as they trot through the forest path leading into the gentle hills cupping the village. “Binding vows?”

     Sukuna doesn’t answer for a moment, but he looks down, finds his nose in her hair. He smells rose water, and night-blooming jasmine, a flower not native to these lands. A flower from the place her dancing feet came from.

     “They are their own form of jujutsu, and the basis of most of it, honestly,” Sukuna explains. “A pact made either with oneself or other sorcerers, the conditions to be set by the one initiating the pact. But the key thing that everyone misses is that there is always a third party involved in binding vows.”

     Asiri tilts her face up to look at him, her gaze questioning, if only to distract from hos his voice vibrates against her nape every time he speaks. Sukuna meets her gaze with his lower eyes.

     “Every pact made is one made with the divine authorities that give us our gifts as sorcerers,” Sukuna says, his tone stern. “That is something a lot of sorcerers forget, because they do not pay heed to the chains placed on their soul. To break a pact is to incite punishment from Heaven itself. Sometimes the punishments are trivial: you lose whatever you gained from the pact. Other times, they are more severe.”

     Asiri gulps. “You die.”

     “You die,” Sukuna affirms. “It’s not advisable to make pacts with other sorcerers without setting strict conditions, but if you can master it, you can gain quite a bit of knowledge and power from the deal.”

     Asiri considers Sukuna’s words, feels him shift behind her, one of his powerful thighs nudging Akechi to veer back onto the path.

     “So, could I make a binding vow to increase my strength?” She ventures. Sukuna snorts.

     “Of course, but you must give something up in turn. Increasing the output of your cursed energy, for example. You would need to enact a vow that reduces its range or duration or set conditions that would warrant an increase of strength. Binding vows are chains on the soul, and I wouldn’t recommend you tinker with them until you familiarize yourself with your technique a bit more intimately.”

     Asiri nods. “Then why bring it up at all?” She asks.

     “Because you are about to challenge a son of one of the noble sorcerer families, and a binding vow will be enacted to ensure both the challenger and the challenged act in accordance with the regulations of jujutsu society. Should either of you violate the vow, the duel will be voided and consequences doled out accordingly.”

     Asiri is quiet in the wake of his words, as the gravity of her situation once again begins to settle in. A binding vow sounds complicated on the surface, but it’s just a series of pulleys and levers that allow sorcerers to compensate or manipulate the situation and others around them.

     Chains on the soul. She wonders if she has any. Maybe she made a binding vow that horrible night and that’s why her brain can only spit out the solution of vengeance. Would that she had told Sukuna sooner. Perhaps he would have killed Takeshi, saving her the trouble of seeking vengeance through ‘proper channels.’

     Silence lulls between them again, and the town grows closer.

     Asiri shifts in the saddle, trying to ease from pressure from her lower back. Sukuna’s arm shifts around her, arranging her comfortably but keeping her unnerving close. Her hands rest on the corded muscle of his forearm, and she resists the urge to trace the band of black ink around his wrist. She wants to know where he got these markings, and if such markings are viewed as taboo here. She knows that tattoos are the mark of a criminal in other lands, while tattoos are a sign of art, elegance, and reverence in her own culture.

     But neither one of them breaks the silence, and they pass through the village gates, the crowds parting easily for the God of Hida. Asiri looks at the peasants who prostrate themselves before him and bow with little grace but every shred of reverence within them. She resists the urge to wrinkle her nose. It is fear that drives them. Sukuna cares little for these people, and it is only his whim and the fact that he resides in these lands that the Fujiwara’s mess of a war has not laid waste to this place.

     Some of the peasants dare to look up, but not at the King of Curses, but at the woman who rides with him, held closely like a bride.

     A bride. Asiri wants to leap off Akechi when she realizes, but Sukuna’s arm is still around her waist. They must think her some prize he won in conquest, or some offering made by a frightened petitioner in hopes of appeasing him. She sees traces of disgust in the faces of the crowd, and traces of pity too. It is as if she alone thinks Sukuna is more than his reputation paints him as, and it makes the skin on the back of her neck prickle.

     Any one of these people could have done what Takeshi Zenin had done, she realizes. These people begrudgingly tolerate Sukuna because they lack the strength and skill to challenge him, but she sees hatred and disgust in their faces when they bow; a poisonous resentment that has only festered over the years. Would they treat her differently now that she has been see on the arm of their most hated protector?

     Akechi comes to a halt just within the gates. Sukuna dismounts, lifts Asiri up and sets her on her feet before tying off the reins to a post. Horses aren’t allowed further in the village, and none would dare bring harm to Sukuna’s warhorse. The stable hand bows low, promising to see to Akechi’s care while Sukuna and his consort—Asiri blanches at the words—enjoy the festival.

     They walk side by side, further shocking the crowd. Asiri realizes that she’s supposed to walk three steps behind him, but she is neither bride nor consort.

     She’s not even sure she’s a guest at this point.

     So, she walks beside Sukuna, delicate in her kimono, a contrast of white against the deep black of his own ensemble. The crowds part easily around Sukuna, and by extension, her as well. Chatter dies down to a frightened hush when he passes by, eliciting bows and prostrations from all who dare be in his presence. Sukuna sucks his teeth in annoyance, clearly uninterested.

     “Do you want to go somewhere quiet, my lord?” Asiri asks, sensing his mounting irritation. “The crowd is a bit much, isn’t it?”

     Sukuna looks down at her in surprise, and then frowns, looking away.

     “Come,” is all he says, and she follows him closely. They cross the massive soribashi over the winding river that cuts the village in half, and Asiri can’t figure out what to marvel on first, from the elaborately dressed nobility and their glossy palanquins, to the processional floats, decorated in gold gilt, displaying various gods and forest spirits. There’s even one bearing Sukuna’s likeness, brandishing Kamutoke and Hiten, looking grotesque and menacing.

     They leave the bridge behind, further to where the sakura grove is. Already nobles are promenading about, and a gentle wind stirs the petals on the ground. Sukuna brings her to one of the trees and then tells her to wait. He steps back, and she watches him, puzzled.

     Perfect, he thinks. She looks as beautiful as he imagined she would. A wind picks up, and blossom petals fall from the tree branches above her, showering her in velvet-soft sakura. She breaks into a wide grin and a please laugh shivers out of her. More breeze, more petals. Some get caught in her hair, and she catches Sukuna’s gaze momentarily. She beckons him closer. Sukuna frowns, but he finds himself going to her, petals stirring around them in a stately dance through the winds threading down from the mountains.

     “A festival for viewing flowers,” Asiri breathes. “I bet the poetry here could make a demon weep from its beauty.”

     Sukuna’s mouth lifts in a smirk. “Doubtful, but there is good poetry circling around in the royal court.”

     Asiri’s eyes light up. “Any chance you have a copy? I would love to read.”

     Sukuna snorts, but a smirk lifts the corner of his mouth when he says, “My library is off limits to you, little flower.”

     Asiri is about to protest when she hears her first name. She turns her head, sees Yusuf making his way toward them. He’s dressed in a yukata, and Asiri can tell it’s a hand-me-down. Like as not his mysterious benefactor does not see the need to clothe him properly. She wants to sneer but she can only feel a trace of pity for him.

     Yusuf stops short when he sees Sukuna, who grins at him, all malicious intent.

     “Šetû,” Yusuf says nervously as he bows to both of them. “I’m glad to see you are safe in Lord Sukuna’s care.”

     If he could have bitten the words in half as he said them, Asiri is sure he would have. As it stands, she merely smiles.

     “Lord Sukuna has been a most gracious host, yes,” she says. “And you? Has your…benefactor been gracious?”

     Yusuf shifts uneasily from foot to foot, Sukuna smirks like he’s just found something supremely amusing, and Asiri frowns.

     “Y-yes,” Yusuf answers in a tremulous voice. “I would speak with you alone, Šetû…there is much we must discuss.”

     Asiri glances up at Sukuna, her gaze questioning. He snorts, waving a dismissive hand. She doesn’t know why, but she wants to hug him and regards the thought with subtle horror. He doesn’t seem like the type, and he’s heard stories of people who get too close to him without his permission. They tended not to survive the encounter.

     She sets off with her brother, glancing back at Sukuna who regards her pensively.

     “Yusuf, you’re beginning to worry me,” Asiri hisses, switching to Hausa. “Why all this anxious secrecy? What is it you do not want Lord Sukuna to hear?”

     Yusuf chews his lip.

     “Before I tell you anything, I need you to answer me true: has Lord Sukuna…has he…had you?”

     The question is like a shock of ice water to her senses. There’s a high, keening buzzing in her ears, and her memory lapses into that night in front of the mirror: her eyes soft and blurred with pleasure she’d never felt before, Sukuna’s voice murmuring into her ear, soothing her nerves like a frightened colt. His fingers—

     “No,” she says. “He is not a monster, Yusuf, despite everyone trying to convince me he is.”

     Yusuf nods. “Good, good. Then there may yet be hope. I have received an offer for your hand.”

     Another shock of ice water, this time tingling in her scalp.

     “What?!” Her voice raises somewhat, startling a few passersby but she regains her composure. She lowers her voice. “What?” It comes out as a vicious hiss. Yusuf frowns, drawing himself up to his full height.

     “This is the best I could negotiate, Šetû, and he has promised to take care of you, even though you lack a dowry, and there is no bride price to be paid because…”

     “Because I was raped.” Asiri says coldly. “Because Takeshi Zenin saw me be kind of Lord Sukuna and decided to put me in my place. Yusuf, he’s your benefactor, isn’t he?”

     When her brother doesn’t answer, she feels her heart drop into her stomach. There is no crueler knife to the heart than betrayal. She wishes she had gone on believing Yusuf to be dead, perhaps then she might have had a clearer path to her goal. Now, her own brother stands before her, proselytizing about a marriage to cover up a shame that was never hers to begin with.

     To say that she is livid is an understatement.

     Thunder rumbles, dangerous and near, and she feels her cursed energy unfurl. Much easier this time since her fight with the cursed spirit. Yusuf, who is no sorcerer, gets a chill and knows not why.

     “You have grandfather’s gift,” he whispers in disbelief. “That’s impossible. That gift was only supposed to pass to male heirs of his line. How did you…?”

     Asiri steps forward, and everyone in the groove freezes.

     “Where is he?” She grinds out, her voice rumbling with power. A short distance away, Sukuna watches, eyes narrowed. He rolls one eye up toward the sky. The sunlight becomes muted, and thick, gray clouds begin to roll in.

     Yusuf is wide-eyed with fear and disbelief.

     “He’s—”

     “Hey, hey, hey,” a familiar voice says, one she hasn’t heard outside of her nightmares in months. “Let’s not get too serious with my future brother-in-law, here! He’s starting to grow on me!”

     Asiri takes a deep, withering breath. Sukuna watches her closely, waiting.

     Takeshi Zenin steps into her field of vision, placing a companionable arm around Yusuf’s shoulders. Somehow Takeshi has managed to make her brother shrink despite being shorter. He leers at her, looking her up and down.

     “Mm, look at you,” he says. “You could almost pass for a proper lady in that ensemble. I didn’t think living with Sukuna of all people would lend itself to civilizing you, savage thing. Last time I saw you, you were…” He sniffs the air, his expression fond. “Less dressed, I suppose. Still, very beautiful for a sullied flower.”

     Asiri doesn’t know what to say, so she stares at him, breathing in and out, fingers flexing and unflexing.

     “I guess Yusuf-dono’s told you all about my offer,” Takeshi says but Asiri can’t seem to hear him. That keening noise. The thunder. A flash of lightning in cloud cover.

     “I felt a little bad about how things went between the two of us, and I wanted to make amends.” Takeshi’s green eyes are cruel as he smiles at her, tilting his head. “I don’t think my father will approve of me taking you as a wife, but there’s plenty of room for a new concubine. I think you’d be very comfortable there.”

     That’s it. Asiri’s eyes flash once and she moves to lunge at both of them, wanting to scream and tear his insolent eyes from his skull, but Sukuna is there, and his cursed energy douses the courage of several in the area. None will dare speak against the God of Hida.

     “A pitiful offer from an even more pitiful sorcerer,” he sneers. “You insult the girl. Aside, she is already spoken for.”

     Asiri lets go of her rage immediately at the words. What?!

Takeshi’s eyes go wide, as does Yusuf’s. The words hang in the charged air like a guillotine. Then, Takeshi grins.

     “Lord Sukuna, I had no idea you were in the market for a wife. Though I suppose a plum can still be good even when someone else has already taken a bite.”

     Sukuna looks down his nose at the insolent brat, debating cutting him to pieces alongside Asiri’s cowardly brother. But no. He’ll find no joy in it. These kills belong to her.

     “Speak ill of my wife-to-be again, and I will turn your skull into a chamber pot, Zenin,” Sukuna warns and even Takeshi knows that the King of Curses does not make idle threats. Would that he knew that the only reason he has not had his spine torn out is because Sukuna wants that honor to be Asiri’s. Asiri who is staring at him in abject shock.

     “Then I suppose congratulations are in or—”

     “Takeshi Zenin,” Asiri says, regaining her composure, her tone harsh with fury. “I formally challenge you to a jujutsu kaisen in accordance with jujutsu law.”

     Silence.

     Sukuna’s jaw tenses. Yusuf, who knows nothing of jujutsu, looks bewildered.

     Takeshi laughs.

     He laughs cruelly, and he laughs for a good, long while. He doubles over, trying to get the words out but whatever it is he finds so funny has occupied his energy. When he finally catches his breath, tears of mirth are in his eyes. He wipes them away with his kimono sleeve.

     “Oh, that’s rich! You’ve been a sorcerer for five minutes and you think you can challenge the likes of me?” Takeshi demands, his laughter still coloring his voice. Asiri stares at him coldly.

     “I don’t think you’re much of a challenge at all, Zenin,” she says. “I think you are a coward who can’t get his dick wet without forcing someone to do it or paying them to do it begrudgingly. I think you are a lonely, inadequate excuse for a man, and…”

     She steps forward, closing the distance between herself and her nightmare-in-flesh.

     “I cannot wait to hear you die screaming for mercy as you piss yourself in terror. Accept my challenge or don’t, because I will not leave Japan until I have your head in a fucking bag.”

     Fear flashes in his green eyes momentarily, then disbelief. He glances around but there’s no aid coming. A challenge has been issued, and it is on him to accept or deny. To accept is to risk his life, but he is a seasoned warrior and sorcerer, confident in his abilities. To deny is to bring shame upon his family name. It is the choice of a coward. Still, nothing could be more insulting than being challenged by a mere woman—and a foreign one at that.

     Yet, he’d felt her cursed energy. Like a storm on the horizon. Like the storm that hovers over their heads, waiting.

     “You think you can threaten me, savage thing?” Takeshi challenges, his usual bravado muted in the presence of Sukuna. “Very well, I accept. Shall I send a courier to the shrine with the terms and date? Or will your husband here just eat the poor man?”

     Asiri’s eyes flash dangerously.

     “Lord Sukuna will not interfere with the protocols. I’ll give you three days to formally respond in writing with your answer.”

     “Or what?” Takeshi sneers.

     Asiri says nothing. She doesn’t have to. This challenge is a formality—a courtesy he does not deserve—but whether he accepts or not, she is not leaving until she kills him, by hook or by crook. His life was forfeit when he murdered her family in front of her, raped her, and left her for dead months ago. She’d end it right here if she didn’t think it’d bring the wrong kind of attention, such as a much more powerful sorcerer.

     “Yusuf-dono,” Takeshi snaps. “Let’s go. I’ve seen enough fucking cherry blossoms for the season. And the ones back on the home estate are much prettier than this provincial frippery.”

     Asiri frowns. “He is not your servant, you insolent brat.” She snaps. Takeshi glares at her.

     “He is not even a sorcerer,” he shoots back, contempt limning his every word for her and her brother both. “As worthless as they come, but he carries my things well enough. A waste, that that gift was passed to a worthless woman like you. Come along, Yusuf!”

     Asiri watches in disgust as Yusuf shoots her a reluctant glance, shame carved into his sallow features as he trudges after Takeshi. When they are gone, Asiri resumes breathing normally, willing her heart to calm. Sukuna chuckles.

     “I thought you were going to tear the brat’s throat out for a second,” he remarks with a wry chuckle. “Not that I’m complaining, that would have been a sight to see, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so pissed.”

     Asiri is still watching Takeshi and Yusuf, her gaze tracking them until they vanish behind a building.

     “Yusuf has always been such a coward,” she says through gritted teeth, not quite ready to be done with her fury. “And now he throws his lot in with the very ones responsible for our situation. Amadou would spit on his face if he knew.” Sukuna notes that there’s somewhat different about her anger. It feels more controlled. He thinks about what he saw when she exorcised her curse, how she’d cupped the very source of her rage and channeled it into one, devastating strike.

     He watches her inhale, shutting her eyes.

     Exhale. Her dark eyes open, the shadows of the cherry blossom trees moving across her face, casting her eyes in a deeper darkness.

     “Thank you,” she murmurs, turning to face Sukuna who looks at her with a raised brow. “Had you not claimed me I might not have been able to—”

     “I wouldn’t have let him take you.”

     The words slip out before either of them realizes it and it startles both of them into meeting one another’s gazes. Crimson and bistre, studying one another in hopes of gleaning more than just the surface. The storm clouds recede as her breathing evens out, and the sun roves across the sky and sakura petals dance on the breeze.

     The clash of cymbals disrupts their stare as the processional begins threading its way through the village. They turn their attention to the parade of effigies and floats, and Asiri finds herself smiling at the pageantry of it all. Sukuna watches her through his slitted lower eyes, watches as she claps along to the music, swaying in time to the rhythm of the drums. Not even her culture and yet she will always find time to dance.

     And when the sun begins to set, Sukuna tells Asiri to follow him again. This time to the soribashi. Others are gathering as well, but they give Sukuna a wide berth, and Asiri finds herself standing close enough that her hand brushes his haori.

     Fireworks.

     Asiri looks up with a gasp, the night sky suddenly ablaze with sparks of varying colors and shapes. The crowd gasps, and for a moment—a very brief moment—nothing else matters.

     For a moment, Asiri feels her heart swell with something she hasn’t felt in months.

     Hope.

     Something brushes her fingertips, and she realizes it’s Sukuna’s lower hand.

     “Your wife, hm?” She asks slyly. “Not your guest, then?”

     Sukuna glares down at her.

     “It was a strategic move,” Sukuna says. “They are more likely to recognize your challenge as legitimate if you are married to a sorcerer they revere.”

     “But we’re not married,” Asiri says, brows drawing into a frown.

     More fireworks. She sees them reflected in the larger eye on the left side of his face as he faces her.

     “No,” Sukuna says with a chuckle. “We are not. But they don’t need to know that, do they?”

     Asiri’s mouth twists. “Isn’t marriage its own kind of binding vow? Wouldn’t…if this is tied to my challenge…could they—”

     “We can do a ceremony if that would quiet you,” Sukuna growls. “It would not make any difference to me.”

     Asiri scoffs, turning to face away from him, wondering why his words sting her so. Sukuna says nothing, and she doesn’t know why she wants him to.

     Fireworks. Green, then blue, then red.

     She turns to look at him, catches him watching her.

     “Why not give truth to the lie, Lord Sukuna?” She asks him and he reanimates in that strange, unsettling way, with a breath heaving his massive shoulders.

     Fireworks. Yellow, blue, red.

     “And what lie is that mayoi-hana?” He asks, and in one step, devours the little distance between them, towering over her.

     Asiri stares up at him, defiant.

     “That I’m yours.”

     Fireworks. Green.

     Four eyes go wide, and then a grin spreads across his face. A tiger with blood on its muzzle, dripping from its fangs. And tender prey before him, baring its throat for his decisive bite.

     “Do you know what you’re asking?” He demands, his eyes unblinking.

     Fireworks. Red.

     “No,” Asiri whispers. “But I know that I want this. And that I want it with no one else. I can’t…I can’t see it with anyone else.”

     Fireworks. Green.

     One of his hands reaches out, brushes a knuckle across her face. She’s not his, not yet, but she can be. Sukuna has never wanted anyone before, but he’s wanted her since that night he saw her dancing around the harvest fire, her dark, bistre eyes drawing him inward.

     He leans down, whispers in her ear.

     “I’m going to take you,” he says. “Again, and again. And then I’m going to bind you to me. Is this acceptable?”

     Fireworks. Red.

     “Yes,” comes her whisper, and the shiver that chases itself down the sinuous length of her spine is pleasant, and Sukuna knows it.

     “Good,” his voice rumbles, and he teases the shell of her ear with the barest brush of his lips. “Very good.”

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© 2025 Hajara Asiri. Do NOT copy, translate, plagiarize, repost anywhere without permission [reblogging my original posts is okay]. This includes feeding any of my writing to an AI as well as copying my masterlist format, fanfic format, or stealing my graphics and/or writing. I only upload on Tumblr and AO3. Headers, footer, and dividers by me.

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[greenwitchcrafts]

October 2023 witch guide

Full moon: October 28th

New moon: October 14th

Sabbats: Samhain

October Hunter's Moon

Known as: Blood moon, drying rice moon, falling leaf moon, freezing moon, migrating moon, moon of the changing seasons, shedding moon, ten colds moon, winterfelleth & windermanoth

Element: Air

Zodiac: Libra & Scorpio

Nature spirits: Frost faeries & Plant faeries

Deities: Apollo, Astarte, Belili, Cernunnos, Demeter, Hathor, Herne, Horned God, Ishtar, Kore, Lakshmi & Mercury

Animals: Elephant, jackal, ram, scorpion & stag

Birds: Crow, heron & robin

Trees: Acacia, apple, cypress & yew

Herbs/Plants: Angelica, apple blossom, burdock, catnip, pennyroyal, sweet Annie, thyme & Uva ursi

Flowers: Calendula, cosmos & marigold

Scents: Apple blossom, cherry & strawberry

Stones: Amethyst, beryl, obsidian, opal, tourmaline & turquoise

Colors: Black, dark blue, Dark greens & purples

Energy: Artistic works, balance, creativity, harmony, inner cleansing, justice, karma, legal matters, mental stimulation, partnerships, reincarnation & uncovering mysteries or secrets

It is believed that this name originates from the fact that it was a signal for hunters to prepare for the upcoming cold winter by going hunting. This is because animals were beginning to fatten up in preparation for the winter season. Moreover, since fields had recently been cleared out under the Harvest Moon, hunters could easily spot deer and other animals that had come out to search for remaining scraps. Additionally, foxes and wolves would also come out to prey on these animals.

The earliest use of the term “Hunter’s Moon,” cited in the Oxford English Dictionary, is from 1710. Some sources suggest that other names for the Hunter’s Moon are the Sanguine or Blood Moon, either associated with the blood from hunting or the color of the changing autumn leaves. 

Samhain

Also known as: All Hallow's Eve,  Ancestor Night, Feast of Apples, Feast of Sam-fuim, Feast of Souls, Feast of the Dead, Geimhreadh, Hallowmass, Martinmass, Old Hallowmas, Pagan New Year, Samana, Samhuinn, Samonios, Shadowfest & Third Harvest

Season: Fall

Symbols: Apples, bats, besom(brooms), black cats, cauldrons, ghosts, gourds, jack-o-lanterns, pumpkins, scarecrows & witches

Colors: Black, gold, orange, silver & white

Oils/incense: Basil, cloves, copal, frankincense, gum mastic, heather, heliotrope, mint, myrrh & nutmeg

Animals: Bat, boar, cat cattle & dogs

Stones: Amber, anatase, black calcite, black obsidian, black tourmaline, brass, carnelian, clear quartz diamond, garnet, gold, granite, hematite, iron, jet, marble, pearl, pyrite, ruby, sandstone, sardonyx, smokey quartz, steel & tektite

Foods: Apples, ale, beef, cider, corm, fruits, garlic, gourds, grains, hazelnuts, herbal teas, mushroom, nettle, nuts, pears, pomegranates, pork, poultry, pumpkin pie, sunflower seeds, thistle, turnips & wine (mulled)

Herbs/plants: Acorn, Allspice, catnip, corn, dittany of Crete, hazel, mandrake, mugwort, mullien, oak leaves, pine, rosemary, sage, straw, tarragon, thistle, wormwood & yellow cedar

Flowers: Calendula, chrysanthemum, deadly nightshade, rue & fumitory

Goddesses: Al-lat, Baba Yaga, Badb, Banba, Bast, Bebhionn, Bronach, Brunhilde, Cailleach, Carlin, Cassandra, Cerridwen, Copper Woman, Crobh Dearg, Devanyani, Dolya, Edda, Elli, Eris, Erishkigal, Fortuna, Frau Holde, Hecate, Hel, Ishtar, Kali, Macha Mania, Morrigan, Nemesis, Nephthys, Nicneven & Rhiannon

Gods: Arawan, Baron Samede, Belenus, Coyote, Cronus, Dagda, Dis, Hades, Loki, Nefertum, Odin, Osiris, Pluto, Woden & Xocatl

Issues Intentions & Powers: Crossroads, darkness, death, divination, honoring ancestors, introspection, the otherworld/underworld, release, visions & wisdom (of the crone)

Spellwork: Divination, fire magick, night magick, shape-shifting, spirit calling & water magick

Related festivals:

• Day of the Dead- (Spanish: Día de Muertos or Día de los Muertos) is a holiday traditionally celebrated on November 1st and 2nd, though other days, such as October 31 or November 6, may be included depending on the locality. It is widely observed in Mexico, where it largely developed & is also observed in other places, especially by people of Mexican heritage. Although related to the simultaneous Christian remembrances for Hallowtide, it has a much less solemn tone and is portrayed as a holiday of joyful celebration rather than mourning. The multi-day holiday involves family and friends gathering to pay respects and to remember friends and family members who have died. These celebrations can take a humorous tone, as celebrants remember funny events and anecdotes about the departed.

• All Saints Day- is a Christian solemnity celebrated in honor of all the saints & martyrs of the Church, whether they are known or unknown

Activities:

• Dedicate an altar to loved ones who have passed

• Boil a simmer pot to cleanse your space

• Have a silent dinner

• Light a candle for your loved ones & yourself

• Decorate your house and/or altar

• Release negative energy & cleanse your with a ritual bath

• Pull tarot cards to see what may be in store for you ahead

• Cleanse, clean & de-clutter your space

• Leave offerings to the Fae

• Journal & reflect on your accomplishments, challenges & everything you did this year

•Go on a nature walk

• Learn a new form of divination

• Have a bonfire with your friends and/or family

• Carve pumpkins

• Express yourself creatively through art, music, ect

• Visit a cemetery & help clean off areas that need it or to visit a family member/ ancestor & leave an offering

• Hold a seance

• Bake spooky treats & bread as offerings

• Refresh your protection magicks, sigils & rituals

Samhain is a Gaelic festival on 1 November marking the end of the harvest season and beginning of winter or "darker half" of the year. Celebrations begin on the evening of 31 October, since the Celtic day began and ended at sunset.

This fire festival is celebrated on October 31st & is considered the Pagan New Year. It is the first Sabbat on the Wheel of the Year, a cross-quarter festival & the third (final) harvest festival of the mundane year. This is the time when the veil between the worlds of the living & those who have passed is the thinnest, which allows greater communication between the two

Some believe this is the time of the Goddess's mourning of the death of the God until his rebirth at Yule. The Goddess's sadness can be seen in the shortening, darkening days & the arrival of cold weather

Sources:

Farmersalmanac .com

Llewellyn's 2023 magical almanac: practical magic for everyday living

Wikipedia

Llewellyn's Complete Book of Correspondences by Sandra Kines

A Witch's Book of Correspondences by Viktorija Briggs

[nardo-headcanons]

National Holidays in the Ninja Villages + Bonus

I've had this idea in mind for a while, and now I finally got to write it down. Feel free to use these for your own works. Please tag me so I can read em all! <33

Iwagakure: The Lunar Lights of Gratitude The moon has a special place in the heart of every Iwa citizen. To them, it is a part of the earth, now observing its mother body from space. So naturally, the spectacle of a blue/super moon is a special occasion in Iwagakure. To honor and greet the moon, which is actually called "daughter" in the earth country's language, large fireworks are organized every new moon after a blue moon. As previously established, the earth country's firework industry is the largest, which Iwa shinobi are very proud of. Lighting the sky on fire and turning night into daytime is the Iwa way of giving back some of the light that the moon gives us at night.

Kirigakure: The Moonshine Sea Festival Despite the rivalry between the land of earth and the land of water, there is one thing they have in common, which is their spiritual connection to the moon and space. To water country citizens, especially the fishermen, the moon is a protector and guardian of the night, along with the stars. They strengthen the their connection to their biggest source of both faith and fear: the sea. The special climate in the water country, combined with its great biodiversity give a great habitat for biolumescent plankton, turning the sea itself into a starry night sky. It is one of the only pieces of culture that has been preserved, since the celebration itself was founded by the water country's union of fishermen, who don't belong to a particular clan with a kekkei genkai; most of the kekkei genkai wielders in Kiri have been wiped out, along with their culture, traditions and religions.

Sunagakure: Winter's Return The wind country is often ravaged by agonozingly hot summers, sand storms and heat waves are not a rarity in this country. While foreigners might groan and roll their eyes at the thought of the return to cold, foggy winter days, in Sunagakure it is a day for celebration. On the day where the sun stays for the longest, in the middle of the year, a large celebration is held across the nation. The way it is celebrated is different from family to family, and every Suna family is convinced that their way is the right one. Typically, markets are closed the whole day, and any missions rank B or below are halted for the day.

Kumogakure: Whale Festival of Generosity During winter, whales can be found emigrating along the lightning country's coast line, towards the land of iron. This holiday once came to be to celebrate the whales emigration towards a more prosperous habitat to mate and provide enough food for their young - a truly generous gesture. Over the years, many kumo shinobi have forgotten the old tale behind this festival, and it has turned into more of a mere gift giving occasion. And yet, it is widely popular and celebrated throughout the whole country.

Konoha: Cherry and Plum Blossom Viewing In Konoha, Hanami is annually celebrated. It is a custom celebrating the transitionary nature of cherry and plum blossoms blooming in spring.

BONUS: Uchiha Clan Honoring one's ancestors and traditions is of high importance to the Uchiha. Every year, on a clear fall night, the whole clan gathers together to light up little candles using their katon. The tealights are arranged in the Uchiha crest and left to light up the night and the clan share the evening together eating dinner, drinking hot tea and praying at the nakano shrine.

That's all, folks!

[thejoyofviolentmovement]

News/Announcements: Iron Blossom Festival Announces 2025 Lineup

News/Announcements: Iron Blossom Festival Announces 2025 Lineup @ironblossomrva @VisitRichmond @grandstandhq @StarrHillPrsnts @IMGoingEvents

News/Announcements: Iron Blossom Festival Announces 2025Lineup Richmond, VA‘s Iron Blossom Festival is a collaboration between four different organizations: Starr Hill Presents, an independently owned and operated concert promoter based in Charlottesville, VA that promotes over 300 events every year, ranging from small club shows to multi-day festivals. The company operates multiple local…

[ladyantiheroine]

Petition for Hozier, Lord Huron and Noah Kahan to form their own band trio à la Boygenius.

[slutterhaus]

.peace

AN: I love this trigger-happy bastard man, I love angst, I have no excuse. CWs: Character death, heavily implied suicide, mentions of blood, mentions of human sacrifice, mentions of Caligura, angst (no comfort) Other: Second Person POV, you and Pav kinda have a blossoming romance that's cut short. милый means darling in this context. Under read more because it's more than 100 words. Word Count: 805

Your fingertips were slick and slimy, the blood on your hands feeling sticky as it started to dry all the while the patches that stained your wrists and bits of your forearm were long forgotten. It was quiet on the train, save for Pav’s breathing, which came out in small, ragged puffs as the bandages that covered the large wound along his chest and abdomen slowly stopped needing to be changed as often. He was in pain, you knew this, and no amount of painkillers given to him by your shaking hands could help his body, much less his mind.

“And you call yourself that old one’s follower.” An airy chuckle escaped him. “Didn’t you eat people for rituals? Now you can’t handle a little blood on your hands?” 

“Sacrificed. Never ate.” You bit back. “And it’s…”

“Different?” He interjected.

“Complicated.” You corrected, taking the damp cloth you had brought back from one of the passenger carriages’ washrooms storage and wiping the sweat from his forehead. “Those people had brought me pain, I just returned the favor.” 

Silence overtook the two of you once again, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. It was like he sensed your worry, and in his bastardly ways, he tried to comfort you. “You know… maybe you and I aren’t so different after all.” This earned him a glare of daggers his way from you. “We are nothing alike, Lieutenant. You let your need for revenge corrupt you. You–”

“Turned into the exact same thing I wanted to destroy. I know.” He cut you off again, though his tone seemed somewhat distant, as if he was just voicing his thoughts and not just directly answering you. “And for what? Now look at me; bleeding out on a damn couch. It’s ironic how fitting this end is for me, left to die like a dog without mercy, just like the lack of it I showed others.” 

“Pav…” You didn’t know how to make things better for his passing, the only thing coming to mind was not leaving him alone. Nothing excused his actions, the crimes he committed against innocent lives being monstrous and vile, yet maybe he was right. Maybe revenge also clouded your judgment. 

And maybe… just maybe… this festival, even though you weren’t a contestant, was also your punishment. Perhaps he was also keeping you company during your final moments. That mobster didn’t seem too pleased when you pushed him down a flight of stairs back in the city. And between two creeps, you would take Pav any day, but he wasn’t in any condition to come to your rescue if your club slipped from your bloodied hands. 

“My mom would’ve liked you.”

His words made your attention snap back towards him. “What?”

Pav chuckled, this time hard enough for him to wince and hiss from the pain. “You heard me.” He began. “This whole dying thing… life flashing before your eyes��� Thought back to when I wasn’t such a complete fucking bastard, before He took my actual life away… мама would’ve like you.”

A sad smile tugged at your lips as you reached to wipe his forehead again, the now dark red stained cloth bringing as much comfort as a priest coming to a patient’s deathbed. “Going soft on me, Lieute–”

“Pav… Pavel, please.” He corrected. “My family wouldn’t like that to be how I go to meet them. I’ve always been snarky and got under people’s skin… so consider yourself lucky to see this side of me.” His breathing seemed to get slower, and every once in a while his words slurred. He was tired, you both knew it. “Maybe if it was any of the others, I’d be snappier… Guess I like ‘ya a little too much.” His face held a pained snicker, but you knew he was being at least somewhat genuine. “I’m tired, милый.”

You nodded, scooting closer from your place on the floor, tongue swirling the capsule underneath it. “Do you think I’ll get to meet them?” You asked, receiving a shake of the head as an answer. “As much as I’d like to believe we’ll see them… we’re not going to a place with pearly white gates. Not us.” He added, bringing a bloody, nearly limp hand to brush against your back. 

“Anything is better than here.” You argued, earning one last chuckle from Pav. “I suppose it is.” He agreed.

True to those words, the train door opened, the bone-saw wielding festival contestant finding the two of you peacefully asleep, away from the horrors that awaited you had you chosen to stay. And whether or not the two of you escaped the Gods or ended up in a void, nobody knew. Maybe you and Pav were somewhere much worse, but for now… so was everyone in Prehevil. 

[recklessfiction]

What to Do when you Travel to the City

There's a great nightlife. Long stretches of city blocks radiating blinding neon, frenzied beats thrumming up from the asphalt, humming along to the violent slaughter taking place around you. Let your cheek and lips be painted red by another, fall into feverish affections, rhapsodize.

Prior to 5:30 AM weekdays, all Skytrains will be making scheduled detours into the throat of the God of Deep Anguish. Customers traveling between West Broadway Station and 5th should plan for at least 20 minutes of extra travel time and prepare for some crowding on trains and platforms.

The Gardens of Excess will be having their annual Summer Flower Festival this July. Please remember to keep emotionally malleable individuals out of reach of the fruit trees. Employees of The Gardens will not be held responsible for any marriage or germination that may occur between guests and the Unrelenting Abundances.

The beaches that surround the City are great to visit with the entire family. The sand burns the soles of your feet and pierces your skin when kicked up by the wind. The only escape is the ocean and it has been reaching for you all the while. You did not notice the rising tide but now it has reached well past your waist and it pulls. You feel the ground disappear beneath your feet and then...nothing but the sea. You fight to keep your head above the water but it tugs at your ankles, impatient and eager to embrace you in full, to show you its depths. This is a struggle you will not win.

The Night Market is open once again! From April to November come by and sample strange, fermented corruptions, experience Death In Perpetuity, and stock up on gifts for Christmas like featureless iron masks, the gift of prophecy, or a seat on the throne of a kingdom in dreams. Whatever your wishes are, the Night Market is a great place to strike an unpleasant bargain, win or lose yourself in hand to hand combat, or just people watch.

Be sure to visit the dungeons while you're here. Our Wizards have made sure that every moment you spend within these vile halls is both foul and incredibly distressing. You will encounter incredible creatures not from this plane of existence and many have even carved out their own eyes when faced with the horrors. Hundreds enter the gates every year and none have ever emerged but you could be the first!

As host to many cosmically traumatic events such as the divine nascence of The Stairs and the cataclysmic joining of Man To His Beloved and Wretched, the City boasts a number of unique and exciting tourist destinations. Witness first hand the crater left in the wake of Her Movement or the forest that blossomed forth at the climax of the Great Pestilence. Keep up to date on weather reports and the movement of the beings by downloading our city's informational app or visiting our website.

[ikeprinces-stuff]

Event : Leon Dompteur sequel route release

Host : @aquagirl1978

Characters : Leon x Reader

Words : 1723

A/N : already on my way to day 4's prompt LEZGOO!!! ✨✨❣️

Previous prompts : Love, Dreams

Day 3 - Royalty : What does Leon's life look like as King?

Of course, being king came with a weighty crown of responsibilities and precious little free time. Yet, Leon, even prior to his coronation, had been well-versed in the burdens of leadership, having served as the esteemed head of the Domestic Faction. The expectations and hopes of an entire kingdom rested heavily upon his shoulders like a cloak sewn from the finest silks yet bearing the weight of iron. Now, it was his solemn duty to transform those lofty dreams into tangible reality.

As the grand ball in his honor unfolded, a sea of nobles and aristocrats swarmed around him, vying for his favor and seeking the warmth of his friendship. Leon, however, was no naive king; he possessed a discerning eye. He could easily see through the layers of pretense and flattery, knowing instinctively whom to embrace and whose smiles concealed ulterior motives. Various suggestions flew at him like confetti, each accompanied by a symphony of praise and whispers, an incessant hum that he had learned to navigate with practiced grace.

“Warm congratulations on your accession to the throne, Your Majesty,” a nobleman exclaimed, his voice dripping with obsequiousness as he bowed slightly.

Leon offered an easy smile in response. “Hey, thank you.”

“We are confident you will lead Rhodolite to a bright future,” another added, raising his glass in a grand toast, his eyes reflecting ambition.

As conversation ebbed and flowed around him, Leon strained to engage with the gathered lords and ladies, yet his thoughts lingered elsewhere. His gaze frequently darted toward you, radiant and animated as you engaged in spirited conversation with one of the noblewomen who had caught your attention. A genuine, unguarded smile blossomed on Leon's face at the sight. Normally, these extravagant gatherings felt like drudgery, a parade of empty pleasantries, yet witnessing your joy transformed the mundane into a vivid spectacle, filling the evening with an unexpected vitality.

In that moment, the weight of his responsibilities lightened ever so slightly. Here, amidst the lavish festivities and the hollow praises of the nobility, was a flicker of warmth—your laughter, your spark—bringing a glimmer of hope that amid the grandeur and protocol, he could still find moments of pure, unadulterated joy.

“Your Majesty, forgive me for my rudeness,” one of the guests ventured, breaking the delicate atmosphere of the gathering. All eyes turned to Leon, who arched an eyebrow in surprise. “I couldn’t help but notice that your smile has become… more genuine,” the man continued, the words hanging in the air like a sweet melody.

Leon maintained his composure, though curiosity flickered in his eyes. “Really?” he replied, feigning ignorance, yet the glimmer of understanding shone through. The noble guests surrounding him nodded in eager agreement, a chorus of affirmation swirling in the lavish hall.

With a casual shrug, Leon felt his smile widen, radiating warmth, “Well, there’s a good reason for this newfound smile of mine. A very good reason indeed.” He paused, savoring the moment, though a part of him hesitated. Revealing the truth felt unnecessary; the guests were savvy enough to know the source of his joy.

In the depths of his mind, he recalled how his past smiles had belonged to ‘Leon Dompteur’, but this smile—the one that now graced his lips—was profoundly different. It belonged to him, the real him, untethered and free. Just the thought filled him with a swell of happiness and optimism, the kind that no royal mask could ever genuinely replicate.

“Ah, His Majesty, King Leon.” The voice cut through the tranquil moment like a dagger, pulling the king from his reverie. Leon turned to face the intruder, a smile that once danced on his lips now wilting under the heavy gaze of the man before him.

The duke approached with an unhurried grace, the kind that came naturally to someone of his stature. Known throughout the realm not only as a nobleman but as a master painter, he was the proud owner of Rhodolite’s largest art gallery. It was, after all, his brush that breathed life into many of the illustrious paintings that adorned the most famous noble estates' walls. Yet, it was not his artistic prowess that extinguished the light of joy from Leon’s eyes.

Whispers floated through the courts, rumors weaving a tapestry of uncertainty. The duke, despite his grandeur, was said to harbor darker affiliations—a shadowy member of the anti-monarchy faction. Though the claim remained unconfirmed, it lay heavy in the air, filling the nobleman's charming demeanor with an unsettling chill.

“Allow me to extend my deepest congratulations on your accession to the throne,” intoned the Duke, his voice smooth as silk, as he bowed slightly in a show of respect. Leon glanced at him, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. “It brings me great pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Your Grace,” he replied, his tone steady yet laced with an undercurrent of caution.

“The pleasure, indeed, is entirely mine,” the Duke countered, a glimmer of something inscrutable dancing across his features. “I must express my sincerest apologies for my absence at the coronation ceremony. The demands of my time are relentless, and it is a regret that weighs heavily upon my conscience.”

As their conversation progressed, the air crackled with a tension that belied the pleasantries exchanged. Words flowed freely between them—a melodious waltz of compliments and well-crafted phrases, carefully designed to obscure deeper intentions. Yet, despite the polished façade, Leon couldn’t shake the gnawing unease that crept upon him. There was an undeniable hint of strategy behind the Duke’s cordial demeanor, as if each smile and polite laugh were mere moves in a grander game of power. In this intricate dance, Leon felt like a pawn being maneuvered on a vast chessboard, aware that every exchange was laden with potential treachery.

Then, in the midst of lively conversation and laughter, the Duke's gaze suddenly fell upon you, illuminating the very essence of your charm as a smile blossomed on your cheeks. “Ah, the illustrious fiancée of His Majesty,” he declared, his voice steeped in a feigned humility. “What a radiant beauty! They say her heart is as pure as belle, as generous as the sun. Truly, she is a great match for the King.”

"Indeed, she is," Leon replied, his tone both calm and placid, yet acutely aware that hidden behind the compliment was the menacing edge of a 'but.'

“But…” the Duke continued, just as Leon had anticipated, his voice slithering through the air like a serpent. “You cannot overlook the stark disparity in social standing. The commoners, no matter how virtuous in their hearts, cannot fathom the intricacies of royal lineage. And what of the future?” The words hung heavily in the air, each syllable a chill that stirred the guests. “What if…” he paused, letting the insinuation linger. What if your blood produced an heir unfit to wear the crown?

Silence engulfed the room as Leon’s gaze intensified, a feral gleam igniting in his eyes, as if he could consume the man before him whole. Here, within the sanctity of his palace during his own celebration, someone dared to cast shadows upon the woman he cherished—the one destined to be his queen. He could feel the stirrings of doubt ripple through the nobility surrounding him.

The Duke, sensing the simmering rage emanating from Leon, leaned in with a predatory glint in his eye. “Perhaps, Your Majesty,” he purred, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “if the weight of such criticism becomes too burdensome, I could recommend… a more suitable bride.”

Leon’s hands tightened into fists, fury coursing through his veins. The facade of regal composure he had so carefully maintained threatened to shatter beneath the Duke’s insidious suggestions.

Yet, with deliberate restraint, he inhaled deeply, forcing a smile that was icy and unforgiving, reminiscent of winter’s cruelest grip.

“Your Grace,” Leon said, his voice slicing through the tension like a blade, low and commanding, “it appears that some individuals have developed an unhealthy fixation on meddling in affairs that do not concern them. I would suggest you confine your talents to your art and refrain from overstepping the boundaries of those who govern the royal court.”

The silence that followed was palpable, a testament to the dawning realization that Leon would not tolerate such disrespect toward the woman he loved.

The Duke’s smiling façade faltered as Leon stood firm, his voice resonating with authority. “My fiancée embodies exceptional virtue and intelligence,” he declared, his gaze unwavering. “Her humble lineage does not define her worth nor diminish the depth of her love for me and for Rhodolite. It was she who chose me to be King, and in turn, I will choose her to reign by my side as Queen.” As he spoke, the atmosphere grew more tense, each word tightening the invisible noose around the Duke, who suddenly realized the gravity of his misstep.

“Your Majesty?” You stepped forward, determination fueling your movements. With a graceful bow toward the Duke and the assembled guests, you added, “Please excuse my interruption. I feel compelled to express my heartfelt gratitude for your presence at our gathering today.” A glimmer of resolve shone in your eyes as you continued, “I promise to strive with all my might to meet the expectations placed upon me as your future Queen.”

A ripple of approval washed over the guests, their smiles mixing with soft murmurs of encouragement, impressed by your poise and fierce determination. At that moment, you felt Leon's presence beside you, his strong arms encircling you in a protective embrace. Yet, it was his intense gaze that caught your attention—his eyes were fixed on the Duke, who was now visibly unsettled, his smile draining away like color from a painting.

With a subtle nod, you turned your charm toward the other nobles, weaving your way into their favor, leaving the Duke isolated and encircled by his own choices. It was a calculated maneuver, one that spoke volumes about the shifting dynamics in the room.

In the realm of royalty, criticism was a common whisper in the shadows. Now that Leon wore the crown, he would need to navigate this turbulent sea of opinions with skill and composure. Yet, one truth remained unwavering in his heart—he could face any critique thrown his way, especially when it revolved around you, his chosen future Queen.

Fin ❤️✨

Taglist : @leonscape @violettduchess @lorei-writes @the-bird-and-the-flute @chirp-a-chirp @reborn-elven @judesmoonbeauty @drachonia @wistfulwanderingone @candiedcoffeedrops @scummy-writes @rjthirsty @candied-boys @citrusmornings

[blueberrypancakesworld]

Day.21 ~ Let's celebrate as family ~ Hallowtober

William Afton x wife!reader and Mike Schmidt x girlfriend!reader

warning : fluff, kiss, comfort, implied murder

summary: In the small town, Halloween is as present as anything else. Both William and Mike don't have much to do with the holiday, but when their respective partners like the special day, they do everything they can to make it as special as possible for them.

info: So back to fnaf (I should write more). Well, I'm looking forward to the second movie anyway. Have fun reading and have a nice day ;)

masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

His wife had passed away many years ago, but he still remembered Halloween with his daughter, walking through the streets of the small town together, where so many people took part and gave each other a treat, whether it was sweets, harmless jokes or costumes.

Since the mysterious unsolved murders, since the change in the economy and the city, which was increasingly losing its crazy shine with the ravages of time, William's interest in the festival had also waned.

This was not least due to the fact that his daughter Vanessa had to leave for a few years to train as a police officer and his job only allowed him to have limited time for his…hobbies.

A time that bored him, saddened him and only the joy of the memories of his past deeds seemed to cheer him up, but all this seemed to be nothing when he met her shortly after the murders.

It had been a cool autumn day and on his way back to his house, he had gotten a flat tire and she, she had simply appeared out of the dark like him and had helped him on Halloween and the origin was she was wearing a rabbit costume almost like his.

Since then, William had something else to keep him busy, something he loved and in which he was completely absorbed. ,,You fulfill me more than any Halloween together, my love,” he had told her as he had taken out the golden ring, the orange-red leaves flying around them both, and they went for a walk along the road where they had met a few years earlier.

You could call it fate.

,,And you showed me what true devotion meant, my bunny" had she replied and returned his kiss, into which he had then drawn her, even though the iron-like, almost bloody smell around William never seemed to fade away in all this time.

Neither on Halloween nor at any other time and maybe, just maybe, one day she would look closely when he came home, gave her a kiss and she saw the small bloodstain or the torn clothes…but maybe, who knows, maybe one day she would be the one former pizzeria, lock the doors behind her, give him a knife and calm the new mysterious soon-to-be victims. Who knew when love blossomed in the fall and William's hand was on hers, drawing her into a kiss.

Who could say? Because the dead remained silent.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Halloween is a bittersweet reminder of the past for Mike, a memory as a young boy with his brother and their parents together on the couch under cozy blankets.

The hum of the television when his father put a Halloween special of Scooby-Doo, he held his little brother and the candy almost fell out of his hand before he felt his mother's embrace, which calmed him down.

As I said, a bittersweet memory that had nothing to do with what he had now: an unpaid small bungalow, his sister asking him every minute if they could decorate the house, and the pain of an aunt who called him every hour.

He had to make another compromise when he put the key in the door and opened it, he winced and said, ,,Oh Jesus-fuck…sorry” as he walked right into a spider hanging from the ceiling, which he hadn't expected before he heard two laughing voices.

The culprits, who he couldn't be angry with, ,,Haha, you should have seen your face!” he heard the laughter of Abby, who was holding her stomach in front of her, and his girlfriend, who had been given a loli, and who was still giggling back on the couch, to enjoy the little treasures they had bought.

Shaking his head and smiling slightly, he put the shopping on the table and ran his hand over his face before he felt her hands on his and she gave him a kiss on the forehead.

,,Such a sweet, tired face you have, my little spider,” he heard her voice and he pulled her into a short embrace when he realized that she had worked the early shift at the flower shop, then neglected her sleep to go shopping with Abby and decorate the house.

He loved her, he had loved her from the moment he had first seen her, and given Abby a free sunflower when he had just had to bring a small present for elementary school because of some important appointment.

,,I love you and this exciting October so fucking much,” he murmured to her and pulled her into another kiss that was interrupted by a giggling Abby holding up a picture with a heart, and the two adults couldn't help but laugh along with her as they continued to prepare for the biggest and best Halloween yet, while Josh occasionally reached for her hand and squeezed it, receiving a look of love and reciprocation in return.

It would be the best Halloween they'd ever had.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~