Meatboy

Zuko:

I could see him using temperature play with his tongue/mouth to make you feel the sensations a bit more intensely. leaving heated kisses on your thighs, or directly to your clit

seeing his pretty hair splayed between your legs would probably drive you insane-

incredibly passionate and has taken the time to get to know your body, the things that make you tick, etc. out of his adoration for you (maybe a bit for his own pleasure too)

biceps wrapped around your thighs hhhghhhhh

wants to see how many times he can get you to cum with just his mouth-

Toph:

messy eater 100%

she'd have her hands firmly placed on you, making sure you can't squirm or shift away from her (that grip is STRONG too, you aren't moving)

I imagine her heightened senses would make it fun for her, being able to pick up on your every tremble, jolt, etc. due to how in tune she is with them

super unrelenting, she'd def overstimulate and keep going after you cum just to get your reaction

Katara:

probably the one out of the gaang to get you there the fastest

because of this I imagine her spending a lot of time on foreplay, exploring your body with her hands, or her bending

gentle, but very intentional. she doesn't have to do much to get you drenched almost immediately

because of how in tune she is with your body, she'd be able to sense when you're getting fairly close too

Sokka:

hungryyy. doesn't leave behind any scraps

I could see him getting pussy-drunk really early too lol

lots of body worship, would probably talk you through it, praising you while he's down there

uses his hands to his advantage; making lightwork out of finding your g-spot while his mouth focuses on your clit once he notices you getting close

Aang:

very tender and sweet- will often steal glances at you, trying to read your expressions during it

holds you up like you weigh nothing while he eats you out- keeping you stable by holding you against a wall/another firm surface with your legs draped over his shoulders

Though it all started a few years ago, before you two even got married.

Back then, you two had settled on establishing boundaries before committing to each other, in every aspect that was relevant. One of them, clearly, was the matter of children.

Which, even if a bit scared due to his own childhood, he did want it (‘if it’s with you, I do’ he had said back then on an outburst of honesty). With just one particular condition, one you understood perfectly:

One child.

Just one kid you could raise with all the care and love you could both offer. No siblings that could cause rivalry, no comparisons of who’d be a better heir, nothing that he could accidentally turn into a pressure for anyone else.

Which, over the years, resulted in your daughter Izumi. Now four years old, and the highlight of both your lives, even if he pretends not to melt every time she hugs him or calls him ‘papa lord’ in her sweet little voice, trying to mimic the formality of the people around him when addressing the Fire Lord.

And things had been peaceful enough until two weeks ago, when, for a few days, you believed you might be pregnant once more. Something completely against the plans that the two of you had previously agreed on. Luckily, it had only been a scare, but it made him aware of how easily something so important to him could revive his own fears about fatherhood.

So, he found his resolve on…restraint. On moderating your nights together. On disciplining himself into being a devoted husband in more ways than settling his hands over you or letting his kisses wander in the privacy of your room.

He had lasted exactly two days before his own decisions made him go into the most ridiculous type of spiralling.

“You were the one saying you didn’t want to touch me, a few days ago.” You remind, undoing the ties of your sleeping robes despite his earlier words, letting it pool at your feet. Then, moving to reach for the elegant silks that had been your daily wardrobe for years now.

“I didn’t say I didn’t want to.” He corrects in a voice too stern for the topic, voice a bit clearer, which lets you know he had the courage to gaze at you briefly. “I said it’d be better if I didn’t. We can’t risk another scare. Or worse, for it not to be a scare. This is the responsible option.” He adds, his tone firm despite the expression of longing he directs at you, as if you weren’t only a few steps away.

“That’s very honourable of you.”

“Don’t mock me.”

“I’m not. You have your reasons. I respect them fully.” You answer genuinely, back still turned to him as you fix the ties of your formal clothes, smoothing the fabric into place. Only then do you turn around to look at him; propped on his elbows now, long hair cascading over his shoulders, sleeping robes slightly open at the neck to let you a small glimpse of his collarbone and chest. And an expression that shows, quite easily, that he’d rather for you to not be so clothed right now. “I suppose you’re thinking about respecting your own wishes, aren’t you?” You add, almost entertained.

“…I am.” He lets out abruptly, gaze averting from you to get up from the bed with more effort than he probably intended. “I made that rule for a reason.”

“You did.”

“And it was a good reason.”

“It was.” You reply easily, but the faintest amusement can be perceived in your words.

“And I don’t regret it.” Zuko adds almost defensively, noticing your tone and stance as you walk through the room to reach the doors of your shared chambers, already halfway out.

“If that’s what you need to tell yourself, it’s alright, love.”

Zuko is a disciplined man.

That’s what he believes. What he has proven to himself over the years; ever since his teenage years while chasing the Avatar (even if later his goals changed), even while becoming Fire Lord at such a young age, even while upholding the title for the following years, while helping restructure a nation buried under years of violent mentality.

…and apparently, it’s still not enough for him to actually commit to keeping his hands away from his wife. Not without a (internal) fight, at least.

Not even while being in the middle of his personal study, with one of his advisors standing next to him while reciting recent trading issues that have to be solved with utmost priority, stating the benefits and risks of each, while Zuko is, supposedly, attentively listening to his words.

The illusion of it is given by the very well-paced ‘hm’ or ‘indeed’ he apparently has a good sense to utter despite being lost in the conversation, more focused on you sitting in one of the divans of the room, completely absorbed in reading a scroll related to the latest initiatives you have to oversee for the next few weeks.

You’re not even aware of his gaze on you, and if you are, you’re good at pretending the opposite. That makes it worse for him; how utterly unaware you seem to be of the effect you have on him, even in broad daylight, while wearing your usual formal robes, not even showing an inch of skin that could provoke the thoughts he’s harbouring. Just you, existing, in your…maddening, beautiful way of being.

“Your Majesty.” The advisor then clears his throat, gaze focused on him as Zuko pretends not to be startled at the call of his title.

“Yes?” He answers without hesitation, with all the composure and confidence of someone who had been listening intently; something he clearly wasn’t, but he wasn’t about to let it show.

“You seem rather…absorbed in your thoughts.” The man speaks carefully, tone polite either way. “Perhaps you’d rather discuss these matters at another moment?”

“I was merely thinking about the trade agreement of the eastern port, I assure you. That one is rather…demanding, even if very appealing.” He says instead, his eyes daring to gaze at his wife for a brief second, like his words weren’t precisely about diplomatic treaties. “...Appealing given the terms that were offered, of course.” He continues with a cough, as if to bring himself back into the matter at hand.

“Precisely the reason why the council wants to solve it as swiftly as possible, Your Majesty. Do you have any preference regarding the matter?”

“I do.” He nods, hands reaching for one of the scrolls of his desk like he’s searching for a particular term of the treaty, eyes searching even if they don’t know what for. “But I’d rather consider it more carefully. We’ll continue after this afternoon’s council session. You’re dismissed.” The advisor bows politely at him, walking towards the door, not before bowing slightly to the Fire Lady on the close divan, before he actually leaves the room.

Silence reigns over the space, which makes him believe the universe has finally mercifully allowed him a moment of peace.

“You didn’t hear a single word he said in the last few minutes, did you?”

Zuko sighs at your amused tone, very briefly considering the possibility of deflecting the question. But his instinct tells him you already know the answer, and anything else he may utter might be senseless attempts to ignore a fact.

“I didn’t hear anything since he arrived.” He ends up saying, his resigned tone letting you know this was a deliberate bruise to his pride. One that would’ve hurt more if he hadn’t been honest with you.  

“Poor little Fire Lord.” You reply with a mocking, pitying sigh. “Too distracted by his wife to focus on his work. She must have you quite neglected if she occupies your thoughts this much.”

“You aren’t the one at fault here, and you know it well.” He exhales heavily once again, hands let go of the scroll he had been pretending to read a few seconds ago. “I made the rule; you just accepted my wishes.”

“Mhm, I know. Which means you can just ignore it, you know?”

“Not possible.” His hand finds his quill, determined to actually get work done and to commit to his own principles. “I won’t risk another scare.” He adds, like it’s enough to finish the conversation. And given that you add no answer, it seems to have been effective.

It stays quiet for a few minutes. The peace is barely interrupted by the occasional sound of his quill against paper, and the movement of the scroll you’re reading, or the faint sound of movements outside the room, a reminder of the structure of the life you both have.

But even if it makes no sound, you can almost feel the recurring flex of his free hand against the side of his desk where it’s resting, like he’s anchoring himself to avoid acting on certain thoughts.

“…do you want to come sit next to me?” You end up offering after a while, avoiding any mocking tone that might make his pride flare up, sensing his inner turmoil.

“My desk is fine.” The excuse doesn’t answer your question, but it does provide an answer at all, which to him is enough.

“You won’t get me pregnant by sitting next to me, Zuko. You know it doesn’t work like that.”

He pauses at the slight patient edge of your tone, like you know he’s craving to feel your presence in at least some way. It should irritate him that you know him so well. Instead, he complies.

“…That’s a fair point.” He nods, already standing to continue his work along you, posture regal as if walking towards a formal event instead of towards his very beautiful, very tempting wife.

“Do you want to lean against my shoulder?”

“Yes, please.”

Zuko was a man used to rational thinking.

To consider all the possible variables to reach the most beneficial decisions, to make himself as neutral as he could to avoid his judgment being clouded, to deal with the constant pressure that, if he didn’t, there’d be consequences. One cannot lead a nation without that ability.

And for all the discipline he had in theory, he realised during the past few days, it wouldn’t be enough. Not this time.

Not with you waking up in his arms every morning. Or holding him after long days. Or with how much you enjoyed running your fingers through his hair late at night when the weight of the world outside the doors of your shared room seemed to ease.

Not with him being so infuriatingly in love with you.

That much he decided one bright morning, when, for once, he had no urgent matters for a while. Which made you suggest that you both could spar in the open hall of the palace, for old times’ sake.

And he had agreed, because who was he to deny you, really?

It had been easy at first. Letting the sparring match guide him and ease his thoughts, to focus on the way you lit up every time you managed to catch him off guard or make him stumble.

Or even more so, to notice with endearing precision how you were one of the few people who could match him in a fight; not because you were stronger than him, but because you knew him so well that you could predict his forms with almost clinical accuracy.

That, of course, until he managed to sweep you off your feet, his body naturally moving to pin you against the floor of the hall with an unconscious reflex.

By the time his mind caught up to his actions, he was braced above you, one of his hands holding your wrists over your head. Face close enough that your breaths mingled like they have done multiple times in far more private settings.

And before he could even begin to make himself aware of the press of you against him, the expression of your eyes as you gazed up at him with a shaken demeanour or the way you exhaled shakily due to exhaustion, before he could bask in it…he let go of your wrists, promptly standing up. And then, immediately offered you his hand to stand up, because he might be forcing himself to control his emotions, but he’d rather die than let such a thing get in the way of your comfort.

“Well, at least you aren’t going easy on me.” You comment with a light laugh as he helps you up. Right away, you're already moving into a fighting stance, intending to continue the sparring. If you noticed his internal agitation, you made no comment on it.

And in that precise moment, Zuko decided, he would make use of his rational thinking to find alternatives to end his suffering without risking his principles. And once he decided something needed solving, he didn’t let it go.

Zuko is a resourceful man.

Years into the role had taught him to look for options where there seemed to be none, to twist his proposals until the council accepted them without losing their main goal, to be aware of how, even when things seemed complicated, there were always ways out.

Surely, he could apply such ability to his current predicament.

“Something on your mind, Fire Lord?” He lets go of his quill as soon as he hears your voice as you enter his private study, the scrolls on his desk (ones this time he had actually been working on) almost judgmental of his newly distracted demeanour.

“…trade agreements.” He replies simply, even as you walk closer, a small tray of warm tea in your hands, which you place delicately on the free space of the table that isn’t buried in paperwork. Despite his stern tone, his hand still finds your wrist, moving towards your now free hand, almost unconsciously lacing your fingers with his. “You didn’t have to bring the tea yourself.”

“I wanted to do it. Can't I give myself the pleasure of seeing my husband work so diligently?”

“…You can.” His grip on your hand tightens for a brief moment, sensing the warmth of your skin before reluctantly letting go. “Just don’t expect me to stay focused.”

“You needed a break, either way.”

“Maybe.”

For a moment, there’s silence. Not the empty kind, but rather the one that grows between two people comfortable enough in each other’s presence to not need to fill it with small talk.

You lean slightly against the desk, your eyes briefly scanning the room until you realise you’ve left the door slightly ajar while entering with your hands full with the tray. You’re about to walk towards it to close it fully when his voice interrupts the quiet.

“I’ve been thinking.” He begins, hand reaching for one of the cups of tea, tone stoic as if he was about to, in fact, discuss trade agreements. “About our rule.”

“I assume you aren’t going to suddenly ask for another kid, are you?”

“I’m not.” He denies calmly, taking a sip of the warm liquid. “But I’ve been thinking of alternatives.” That catches your attention.

“…alternatives?” You mutter, tilting your head slightly, already curious given how, by his attitude, one would assume he’s discussing a crucial political agreement instead of…your private life as a couple.

“Yes, ways we could avoid…distance.” Zuko phrases it carefully despite the slight confidence in his voice. “While still keeping our decision.”

You laugh lightly, already entertained by how serious this seems to be for him. “Do tell.”

“We don’t have to avoid it completely. There are…other ways we could-” He sighs against his cup of tea. “Physical closeness can be done in more than one way. And you’re…good with your hands. So am I.”

“…are you saying that, for now, we should only-?”

“It’s a safer alternative.” He interrupts. “It’s not inherently a risk, depending on how we approach it”

You stare at him for a few seconds. At the slight furrow of his brow, at his too serious expression and slight frustrated edge beneath it.

“You know if we do only that kind of thing, you probably still will get carried away in the moment and we’ll end up having sex either way, right?”

“…I’ve considered that.” Zuko sips once away from his cup of tea, as if it’d shield him from the slight embarrassment of his tone. “But if we’re mindful, there are ways to reduce the risk.”

“…reduce how?”

“If I’m careful of the timing.” He begins, still with a light frown. “It might still be avoidable.”

“Zuko.” You call, already sensing where his words are going and determined to save him from that kind of mortification. Even more as his tone seems a bit more frustrated now. And if you have learned anything through the years, it is that when he runs out of options, he tends to get blunt in a way that later haunts him at night.

“I mean, the chances would be lower if I didn’t-”

“Zuko.”

“If I don't-” He pauses, searching for a better choice of words. He doesn’t find them. “If I don’t finish inside.”

…

There it is.

You sigh, already opening your mouth to answer, when-

“Ahem.”

You both freeze immediately. Then, almost at the same time, you both slowly turn your gaze toward the door.

The same door where the Grand Chamberlain (who clearly had been waiting for the right moment to announce himself without interrupting, which didn’t arrive in the most graceful way) stood with a stack of papers in his hands, things that surely needed immediate attention from the Fire Lord.

It didn’t help that he didn’t look awkward; his face just showed the exhaustion of someone who had clearly heard too much, but that wasn’t about to make a show out of it in front of the most powerful man of the Fire Nation.

The same man who, for a few seconds, looked like he’d rather fight his sister again rather than deal with this.

That, clearly, until he masked his face with the same expression he used for every formal event and council sessions, leaving his cup of tea back on his desk with such calm precision that it seemed to belong to someone who wasn’t discussing how to not get his wife pregnant again a moment ago.

“Grand Chamberlain.” His voice is firm. “The door was closed for a reason.”

“It was not closed, Your Majesty.” He replies in the same polite tone he always directed at him. This makes Zuko gaze at you, almost silently looking for an answer. You shrug slightly, letting him know that, in fact, you hadn’t closed the door.

“…Is there something you need?” Zuko speaks again despite the obvious flush of red on the tip of his ears.

The chamberlain clears his throat again, clearly unsure of how to proceed. “I brought the new reforms you need to approve for the afternoon.”

“Of course, give them to me.” He asks, despite how clearly he was avoiding eye contact now from anyone who wasn’t the scroll of his desk, which suddenly seemed incredibly interesting. Not even after the Chamberlain left the documents on his desk and left the room with a small bow (and a very respectful ‘I’ll close the door on my way out’) did he take his gaze away from the paper.

“Now that we’re alone again.” You begin once more, tone clearly entertained even if you also felt completely mortified. “Do you want to…finish your earlier thought?” You add, tone amused.

“…I was finished.”

“Were you?” You continue with a small laugh, which makes him catch the intention of your previous joke, the flush of red now extending to his face.

“Please leave my office.”

Zuko was a defeated man.

He had faced the council during his early years, where traditionalists wanted nothing to do with him as the new Fire Lord, had spent years reforming a nation to erase the brutal motivations set by his father, and had spent the rest working himself to the bone to ensure peace.

And this was his defeat.

“This is ridiculous.” He sighs, a small flame escaping from his lips along it, frustration represented by the most unconscious use of his firebending.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed of your shared chambers, duties already done for the day, which should have left him to change into his sleeping robes. That, if it weren’t for his predicament and the still lingering mortification of the earlier unfortunate moment with the Grand Chamberlain.

“You seemed troubled.” You enter the room, your tone without any mocking, even after you (very mindfully) close the door of your room, returning from putting your daughter to sleep after she had been fussy and wanting to hear more stories than usual before settling in her own room.

“You know well why.”

“I do.” You nod, walking closer until you make room for yourself, settling to sit on his lap, arms wrapping around his neck for both support and closeness. “Talk to me.”

He sighs once again, leaning into you despite his frustrated state. “It’s just that…I love you.”

“Oh.” You get startled at his sudden words, then recover your composure. “And that’s a problem because…?”

“It’s not a problem. I am.” He clarifies right away, leaning against you so his face rests on the crook of your neck. “Because I want to love you properly. Not just physically. I want to…be close to you. Show you my care. Let you know how much you mean to me.” He nuzzles deeper. “But I can’t let that get in the way of keeping the rule, and I refuse to have the slight chance to make the same mistakes my father did with Azula and me.”

“You would never be the same as him.”

“You don’t know that.” He counters back, not unkindly. “I’m trying to be better, but…if we had more than one child, I might end up favouring one without knowing, or passing them the pressure of being the better heir. I’d never do that to Izumi.” He adds, honest in a way he only allows himself when he’s too tired for his usual filter. “I’d never forgive myself if I did it without even noticing.”

You stare at him for a few seconds, endeared by his worry towards your daughter, by the genuine worry of wanting to be better, of balancing his love for you with the sense of duty that had guided him his whole life.

So you take his face between your hands, away from your neck, fingers delicate against the warmth of his skin as you lightly caress the space beneath his eyes, mindful of the scarred segment of his features. And then, without much thought, you lean to kiss him, hoping it would reach him easier than any word might do right away.

He leans immediately into it, his own arms circling your waist to press you closer with almost a gentle touch. His lips move against yours like this had been what he had needed all day, and his shoulders relax enough to confirm it to you.

And after a few seconds, he separates slightly, with an almost reluctant demeanour but caring more to let you room to breathe properly, even if he remains close enough that both your breaths still mingle.

“You already are the best father she can have just by caring this much about her.” You speak then, fingers still lightly caressing his face to reassure him. “And if you don’t want more children, I’ll continue to respect your wishes. But don’t force yourself to hold back with me.” You continue, voice soft. “You don’t have to choose between loving me and staying true to your beliefs.”

“But the risk-”

“Will get worse if you force yourself to stay away from me in any way.” You interrupt gently. “Let’s just be careful, not turn this into something extreme just to keep you restricted.”

“…Alright.” He exhales, getting more relaxed at the idea of not keeping himself on such a tight leash, given how devoted he had always been when it came to loving you. And when you notice he seems less troubled, you continue, tone almost amused.

“Maybe we can even go with your suggestion. The one earlier at your study.”

He perks up slightly, gazes towards you like he wonders if he heard correctly.

“You mean-?”

“Yes.”

“…nice.”

“They also said he was an adult with horns and a tail.”

It shut the man up fast. When the kind woman’s gaze turned to Murata, the man entrusted with not just Sukuna’s safety, but his well-being as well, she straightened. She expressed her disappointment in him and watched as his responsibility to the village and the boy tear him in two with Imai standing beside him. Her gaze had darkened as silence hung heavy over them when Murata chose not to voice the regret that shone in his eyes.

Still, Sukuna couldn’t bring himself to feel any hatred towards his guardian.

Sometime in the past few years, Sukuna began to absorb the idea of politics within the village and what Murata’s role truly entails. At nine years old, he can’t bring himself to care much for it. On some level though, he understands his own neglect when he sees the way Imai looks at him. Were he any wealthier and in possession of a mirror, he would look at himself the same way.

But right now, that thought remains at the back of his mind as he continues to skirt around the edges of the village, avoiding anyone he can and hiding away when people visit Murata.

Saya’s house is his only safe haven, but even then, her father doesn’t seem fond of him.

Hatred follows the child wherever he goes, it would seem.

He’s already resigned himself to such a fate when he calls for you from outside your home. Go figure that your father would answer. Still, he’ll take your father’s quiet disapproval any day over Imai’s. The man’s gaze shifts to the right side of Sukuna’s face, judgemental as he makes a point of watching the child uncomfortably avert his gaze.

“Can I come in?” Sukuna queries, peering up from beneath his lashes.

Your father grimaces, something flashing in his eyes. “It’s ‘may’ you come in.”

The briefest of knots forms in Sukuna’s brow, but he obliges. “May I come in?”

Your father’s judgement is clear as day, but he isn’t outright cruel like Imai. He moves aside from the door, shutting it behind Sukuna as the little boy bounds to the corner of the house where you’re excitedly watching, wooden figures strewn across the floor. He greets you with a call of your name and bright eyes. “Guess what?”

“What?” You meet him with an eager grin, on your feet in an instant.

“Murata-sensei is training me!”

He could swear your eyes twinkle as your jaw drops open in an envious ‘O’. “No way! Like in archery?”

“And the art of the sword!” He grins triumphantly, puffing his chest out as he makes a demonstrative pose of holding a tachi sword. “He said it’ll be good to be able to defend myself and eventually the village if the Gojo clan attacks.”

“No fair! I wanna defend the village too!” You move across the house like a storm of electricity, excitement radiating from you in sparks. “Papa, can I learn archery? Pleaaaaase?”

As you tug on his sleeve, your father turns. His demeanor is far softer with you than it is with Sukuna, but he remains stern. “We’ve discussed this,” he begins, punctuating his sentence with your name. “You will be responsible for providing for a household, just as your mother does for us.”

“But I don’t wanna. Boys are gross!” You pause only for a moment, casting a glance back at the pouting boy behind you. “Except Ryo.” He seems satisfied with the addendum to your statement, though your father remains firm.

“Just as myself and Ryomen do, you have a role to fulfill. I will not tolerate any further complaining.”

“But papa!” You whine, opening your mouth to retort that there are women in armies and within the ranks of the Kamo clan’s sorcerers in all of their stories. Couldn’t the Zen’in have a few?

“No. That is final.”

Your shoulders fall as he shuts you down before you can even say anything to convince him. When you turn back to Sukuna, you can’t make heads or tails of the look on his face as he watches. He fiddles with the sleeves of his robes, quietly watching as your dreams are denied in spite of the fact that you aren’t different like he is.

He can’t begin to understand the way women are treated in society, particularly within the Zen’in clan’s territory. To him, you’re an archer. Born to be one, and already one in your games. So what better therapy is there for a bad mood than to play games?

“Do you wanna go get Saya?” He asks in a low tone, casting a glance at your father who faces away, sharpening a blade. “We could play games.”

You nod slowly, turning back to your father with a far more reserved demeanor. “Can I go play outside with Saya and Ryo?”

Your father casts a glance back at the little boy. “You may. Be safe. You know there’s been word of the Gojo clan being seen to the south, so stay out of the woods in that direction.”

“Yes papa,” you nod your understanding, though it does brighten your mood a modicum.

You’re not the usual flurry of limbs and shouts as you turn for the door, your mood noticeably dampened by your father’s words. Your friend casts a glance back at your father, unable to wrap his head around why he would deny you the opportunity to learn archery.

He speeds up in order to catch up to you outside the door as you pad over muddy ground given recent rain. Once he’s certain his voice won’t carry through thin walls to your father’s ears, he gives your arm a nudge. “I could teach you.”

“Teach me what?”

“Archery.”

Hope blooms in your chest at the thought. “You can?”

He shrugs and nods at once, feeding what could feel like delusion were you not nine. “Murata-sensei leaves our bows by the field. I could show you what he showed me.”

Excitedly grasping his forearm, you drag him to collect the third member of your trio. Although uninterested in archery herself, she does love the prospect of your imaginary games being a little bit more real.

“Show us, show us!” You hop on your feet where fields meet houselines as Sukuna picks up the smaller bow his sensei had crafted for his size. It’s far too big for you given that Sukuna grows like a weed, but it’s the best you’ll get.

His palm’s heel settles on the grip as he adjusts it, moving his fingers until it feels right. His index finger keeps the bow steady, his thumb carries its weight. The rest are nothing more than minor adjustments to aim. “You hold it like this,” he demonstrates the grip to you, waving the bow around and nearly smacking Saya with it as she watches.

“Watch out!” She whines, barely ducking out of the way.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. He readjusts in an effort not to harm either of you as you curiously peer at his grip. “You try!” He insists as he hands you the bow, watching your hand fold around the grip wrong. You hold it more like a tool and less like an art. “Not like that, like I showed you.”

“This is how you showed me!” You insist.

Stubborn as a bull, the boy shoots you a look. “Is not.”

“Is too!”

Before your argument devolves into a full-blown childish butting of heads, Sukuna simply reaches over and adjusts your grip himself. “Put your thumb like this. Don’t hold it with the last three fingers.”

“It’s heavy,” you complain.

“They made the bow for me. I’m bigger than you,” he shrugs.

In spite of your complaints, you raise the bow like one would aim, mimicking his grip to the best of your ability.

“See, it’s not that hard!” He puffs his chest out like the mere fact that you can hold a bow almost correctly makes him a good teacher. “Here,” he jogs on short legs– still longer than yours– to the wall where an ebira, a quiver of sorts, stands upright against the wall. Within it, bamboo-carved arrows. Sharp as they are gorgeous with beautiful plumage at the base. He returns to your side, holding it out to you.

Your fingers skim the hawk feather at the base, careful not to cause them any harm in spite of their purpose. “Pretty.”

Sukuna has no commentary for your thoughts on the feathers, although he takes a moment to evaluate them himself. Pretty. He blinks once at the arrow, filing the thought away for later as your fingers finally close around the ammo. You clumsily bring it to the bow using only knowledge of what you’ve seen. It bounces back off the tension of the string once, before allowing you to settle it crooked over the nocking point. The arrow tilts to the ground where you try to hold it upright, while also managing the weight of the oversized bow. It’s all a bit much for your small stature.

“Put it on your thumb.”

Your tongue sticks out as your grip falters and you hold the bow down in an effort to line up the arrow. Once it’s in the right position with the arrow on your thumb, you hold the bow up once more. Concentration paints your features as you attempt to keep it mostly upright, with only the slightest tilt.

Your posture is… clumsy. Your grip… marginally better, if Sukuna squints. And when you pull back on the string and immediately release upon the realization that the tension is far beyond what you imagined and what your small arms can pull?

It’s a work in progress, to say the least.

You pout, your form immediately falling as your shoulders dip with your mood. “It’s too hard,” you whine. The arrow is a discarded thought on the ground, but your little group of friends is nothing if not stubborn, particularly Saya.

“Keep trying, you’ll get it!” She encourages at your side. “I know you will!” Her chest puffs out at the mere thought of a future she can already see. “Someday you and Ryo will protect me from the Gojo clan!” Her nose wrinkles at the mere thought. “Then we can play in the south forest again.”

Sukuna allows the thought to hang for a moment, hoping to play in the woods again himself. Then, he makes a suggestion. “Maybe try without the arrow for now?”

You glance between them, a modicum of disappointment draining from your eyes as you give a resilient nod.

The afternoon passes with little progress. Tears well. Saya’s hugs heal. Sukuna continues pushing the bow back into your hands until it feels less foreign. By the end of the day, your muscles ache, your fingers have dents you hope your father won’t notice as the beginnings of callouses form, and you set the bow down with an adamant sigh.

Not forgotten. You’ll try again, come morning. You’ll disobey your father if it means a chance at a life more appealing than simply running a house.

You don’t want a husband.

Boys are gross.

But the burn in your arms is enough to tell you that the day’s practice is done. You throw yourself back into the dirt, what little grass grows in the tilled dirt behind Sukuna’s house serving as your pillow. “I’m tired,” you complain.

Plopping down cross-legged in the dirt across from you, Sukuna’s lower arms shift under his garments, though still hidden. He picks at the grass by his feet. “Yeah,” he agrees, “it’s a lot of work.”

Saya plops down, completing your trio. You push upright onto your palms, leaning back on angled arms as she settles a bouquet of flowers in front of her that she’s spent the afternoon collecting while you and Sukuna practice archery. “Look!” She happily exclaims. “I found them all in the fields.”

It’s an amalgamation of stray flowers and weeds that happened to sprout between wheat stalks and against Murata’s house. Thistles, dandelions, canola, and even a few stray vibrant pink shibazakura flowers all flutter across the ground in a sunset of petals, the shibazakura immediately catching your eye.

“Oooh!” You beam, delicately arranging the petals so that they don’t overlap, effectively forcing the flower into a bloom in early spring.

At your side, Sukuna stares down at them, poking a spine on one of the thistles. “Why pick them?” He queries, unable to gather what you see in the plants.

“Because they’re pretty, duh.” Your sassy friend presents a canola flower in her outstretched hand like it should be obvious.

She’s shot a glare from the boy across from you at her reply, but he still reaches out to hold the flower. His expression– knit at the brow– gives away that he doesn’t understand, but tries regardless. The plant in his hand is frail as its life drains away now that it’s no longer planted. He can understand the enjoyment in a plant in the ground, the splash of color it provides to a backdrop while you play, but picked?

What’s he meant to do with it like this?

His gaze rises to rest on his two friends, happily preening the flowers to their liking and setting them in little bouquets. You hold one up beside his face, the pink shibazakura sitting somewhere between the color of his eyes and his hair.

You fight a laugh at the sight. “It matches you!” You grin, a giggling lilt to your tone.

“My hair isn’t pink,” he frowns. His arms cross over his chest in defiance.

“Is too!” Saya butts heads with him without a second thought.

“It’s salmon.”

“Salmon is pink,” Saya leans forward on a hand as the two insist on an argument at the best of times.

Before Sukuna can spit out a rebuttal, his words end up dissolving on his tongue as you reach forward in the midst of the fight to delicately place a flower in the crook of his ear. He stops, fixing you with a confused stare. His hand reaches up to see what you’ve done, although he doesn’t remove the decoration.

“See! You match!” You declare, still grinning jovially. “You look pretty!”

The little boy’s gut churns at the prospect of being called something so gentle. It’s a stark contrast to the terms he’s accustomed to. His cheeks warm, his chest burning with something he can’t name. He doesn’t speak, but mouths your chosen word, testing it without saying it aloud. It feels wrong, although he finds himself still wanting to reach out and hold it.

“Told you!” Saya proudly reaches for a flower, tucking a dandelion bloom behind his opposite ear.

Sukuna’s willingness to fight has long dissipated, replaced with a rather sheepish glee that he isn’t sure what to do with. He casts small glances up at you as you both giggle to yourselves, scooting closer to him as you begin threading small stems in his hair and tucking them in the shoulders of his robes, effectively covering him in flowers.

His cheeks burn. He fiddles with his thumbs as you and Saya arrange flowers in his hair and behind his ears, unwilling to admit to either of you or to himself how much the moment means to him.

“Put the purple one here!” You giggle as Saya plucks thorns from a thistle, checking it over before she tucks it behind Sukuna’s ear with a dandelion.

Saya gasps your name as a sudden epiphany comes over her. “Braid them together!” She exclaims, both of you in a fit of giggles as slowly but surely you put together a little crown of what floral blooms remain. You both crowd around your work while Sukuna watches, a little stitch in his stomach– warm and fluttery– that he can’t identify.

His gaze flickers between each of you as you both turn to face him with wide grins, dropping your work atop his head. Saya rises to her feet to evaluate her work, standing a few steps back as she eyes the boy sitting incredibly still as though the florals in his hair might fall apart if he so much as moves.

“Yep!” She dusts her hands off on her kimono. “It matches.”

Before his brow can even furrow for the stubborn rebuttal that rises in his throat, you’re already agreeing. “They look so pretty!”

His cheeks burn a deeper shade of red.

“I wish my hair was pink.”

As Saya agrees, imagining a world where her hair matches her kimono, Sukuna rises slowly from the ground. He’s careful not to move too quickly or disturb the flowers, padding slowly closer to the house where a rain barrel rests against the outer wall. His head tilts slowly as he approaches it. A canola flower falls from behind one ear, landing bloom-down in the still water. His reflection distorts under the subtle ripples, and the little boy stays completely still until at last a pair of crimson eyes stare back at him.

A wreath of sunset colors adorn his head, while stray flowers are tucked wherever you thought they might stay.

You’re right.

His hair is pink.

But you’re right about one more thing, too. The canola flower floats gradually away from his reflection, stilling by the flesh that protrudes where his right eyes are. His lip twitches, his expression softening as he stares down at the flowers framing his face.

Flowers are pretty when they’re picked.

Your laughter floats through the air behind him, sing-song in nature as Saya tosses stray stems at you. It loosens something within, and before he knows it, his lips have curved up into a smile that shines back at him.

–

You’re barely ten when your window glows orange far too early for sunrise. Heat hits your face, and before you know it your parents are lifting you into their arms. You’re half-asleep, but you register the warmth of fire in the fields behind your house, and angry yelling somewhere too close for comfort.

Your body reacts before your mind, clinging to your mother as your father takes the lead. He heads for the far door, sliding it a hair open.

“Mom?” You whimper, flinching and ducking into her shoulder as a furious roar booms somewhere outside.

“Shh, sweetheart. Stay quiet.” Her voice should comfort you, but the tremor in it shakes you to the core.

This is one of the few times in your child life where your mother’s word isn’t a guideline to be bent. You cling harder to her, muffling your fearful breaths in her shoulder.

Your father moves first, kneeling low to the ground as he rushes to the first patch of canola. Your mother waits for his signal, moving under the cover of the night. Flames lick the sky, drawing closer to your hiding spot as the heat leaves an uncomfortable sensation in the hair on your arms. You can’t be sure whether it’s the ash rain or heat that burns your eyes, but tears are already welling, forcing you to blink and squint.

You only catch glimpses of the carnage around you. There are no visible bodies, but familiar sights are torn and burned to pieces.

Your house is crumbling behind you, sending your heart racing at the sight. The fear coursing through your body is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. Your throat works against you, pushing out a whimper at the crushing sight of your house’s singed roof caving in as your father moves methodically through the shadows of the village.

You can just barely make out the spot where Saya’s house was on the horizon, but there’s nothing there.

“Saya–” a cry rips from your throat as you can only hope she escaped, followed by a thought of your other friend. “Ryo–”

The words grate against your throat as ash enters your lungs. You cough into the garments under your hands, attempting to stifle them to the best of your ability. Your mother does what she can to shush you and calm your shaking body, but she’s already struggling with the weight of a ten-year-old in her arms.

The village passes by in flashes whenever you chance opening your eyes. Sukuna’s house is still standing, but you can see shadows moving within. The storehouses still mostly stand, though they’ve all been rummaged through. A shrine has been tilted on its axis, wood splintered at the base. The bath’s door is torn clean off. The carpenter’s house is nothing more than a pile of ash.

From every corner, you spot more men. They’re dressed wrong, in the kind of clothing and gear that spells wealth and power. In the distance, one waves his hand and fire trails behind his fingers.

Sorcerers.

The sorcerer’s hair nearly matches the ash piling atop your head and shoulders.

The Gojo Clan.

Sure, the stories have been around for years now. Invading forces to the south, ransacking any village that stands before them until the heroic Zen’in arrive. They tell tales of cruelty and corpses and heroes with shadows, and while you always knew they weren’t just stories, somehow this all still feels too real.

What stories are just stories if not those?

Are kitsune real? Are Oni?

Is the legend of the two-faced spirit your friend was named after also real?

You don’t have time to think it through as your father successfully threads through fields and ducks under shadows until you reach the north-western edge of the village. The treeline signals your escape, and you feel your mother release her own terrified breath once you’re under the cover of the trees.

It’s dark in the dead of night, illuminated only by the distant flames that are far enough away to give your lungs a break from ash and moonlight that feels frail by comparison.

You remain silent, shaking like a leaf in your parents’ arms as your mother passes you to your father to give her arms a break. He carries you to safety as after a good few minutes of walking, the fire is no longer visible. When at last you reach a clearing that Murata-san had deemed a safe muster point for the village many moons ago, a few familiar faces come into sight.

A few of your parents’ friends and their children, Imai, his wife, and their three boys, and the kind older woman who cleans the bathhouse.

No Saya. No Sukuna.

Your heart pangs as your father sets you on your feet while your mother checks on her friends. You cling to your father like sap to a bark, your hands curled in his sleeve as he heads first for Imai. “Have you seen Murata-san yet?”

Imai grimaces, arms folding over his chest. His slim stature is tense, his hair falling loose over his shoulders with no time to style it as he traditionally would. “Nothing yet.” He lists off the names of those currently missing, only for the older woman to chime in.

“The young couple and Haruhiku didn’t make it.” Her voice carries a grain that sits wrong in the air. The sentence hangs too long as all eyes train on her, then back to the carpenter as his hands ball into fists at his sides.

“Damn it!” He hisses, unable to mourn the young parents and their child of barely four years given the gravity of the situation.

Your father remains still as Imai paces back a step. When the carpenter steps forward again, he aims to speak when something catches his eye behind you. Your father catches the falter and his hand flies to your wrist in preparation to run, should the need arise. Thankfully, he meets Murata’s gaze instead. The man holds his arm, a noticeable burn seared through his sleeve.

Relief courses through your blood like a river running cool in the summer heat. You feel your shoulders relax an inch at the sight of a little boy trailing after him, along with several other missing villagers. Even in the dead of night in the middle of a raid, your friend is wearing a straw hat, his head tilted down to hide his face from the village.

His head shifts slightly as he gets a look at the sight of the escapees. Among them, you, but also a number of people he’s never before seen, all curiously peering at the child they don’t recognize. Of course, he’s seen the rest of the village in passing, but Imai has made it clear that survival and staying hidden go hand-in-hand.

He doesn’t dare test that.

He ducks his head again, slipping away from Murata-san to hide behind your father. On any other occasion, he might get a look from your father, but today he allows the little boy to huddle with you behind him.

“I’m scared,” you quietly admit, allowing the adults to speak overhead.

“Me too,” he murmurs, adjusting his hat just high enough that you can see his face. Imai’s younger boys, the two he hasn’t met, stare from where they’re hunched with their mother. He ducks his head again. His voice is a mere whisper. “Where’s Saya?”

You shake your head. “I don’t know,” you murmur, your throat tightening as it becomes a near-whimper.

He nods, shifting on uneven earth. The reality that dawns on each of you is too horrific to voice, so you simply remain close as Imai, Murata, and your father all speak.

“How’s your arm?”

“I’ll live,” Murata rolls his shoulder. “The sorcerer wields fire. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Damn it,” Imai murmurs yet again. “Where the hell are the Zen’in sorcerers? Should they not know a force is invading?”

Your father hums his agreement. “I agree, they should. We aren’t close enough to the border for a surprise attack.”

“I haven’t heard from the neighboring village in–” Murata shakes his head and shrugs at once. “A fortnight or two, at least.”

Reality sets in at that. There’s a brief pause, then– “Are they all dead?”

“That doesn’t make sense. The Zen’in should be patrolling.”

“Have they abandoned us?”

“How could this happen?”

“How are we meant to rebuild when they burned our crops?”

Noise ripples across the clearing. Sukuna steps closer to you.

Murata quiets the village to the best of his ability.

Your father chimes in over the murmurs. “Did you speak with them at all?” He asks the village leader, casting a glance at the burn on his arm.

He shakes his head. “They weren’t looking to speak.” He makes a motion to the burn across his arm. “They were shooting fire before I could get any words in.”

Imai exchanges a glance with your father. “Did they mention what they were after? Surely this isn’t for nothing and they should know better than to declare war on the Zen’in. They don’t stand a chance against the ten shadows.”

Another shake of his head. “No. I didn’t get anything from them.”

You shoot a glance at Sukuna, who seems equally confused by the adult conversation. You know tales of the ten shadows sorcerer– although you can’t be certain what’s imaginary anymore– but you know war. You frown, huddling closer to Sukuna until you’re practically hugging.

Your mother is speaking with someone sitting on the outer edge of the clearing, piping in when conversation goes quiet. “She heard some of the soldiers speaking,” your mother grimaces, her eyes flickering between all three men at the centre of the clearing. She rises to her feet, nearing them. “They were yelling about finding something and killing it.”

Sukuna’s body goes rigid beside you. Your head tilts to get a better look at him, but he’s staring at the ground opposite you. He’s turned away just enough that you can’t make out his expression. Still, you inch closer as though you might be able to provide comfort. Surely he’s simply scared, right?

“Killing it?” Murata mumbles thoughtfully, then shakes his head. “What, an animal? All of this over–” Imai’s fiery stare stops him dead in his tracks. It chokes him, his words coming to a dead sputter. The carpenter straightens, his lip curling as he shoots a cold stare at Sukuna. It all comes together in a moment for all four adults.

Too young to understand the bigger picture, you don’t know why your mother steps between you, Sukuna, and the three men. You don’t understand the silent exchange that takes place as your mother puts herself between you and your friend and the adult whose scorn could rival that of an oni.

Imai’s gaze rises to your mother’s face, though he chooses not to say anything. He need not say what he’s thinking, and he need not make a fool of Murata before his own village. He knows better.

Still, the tension is palpable. As silence permeates the clearing, footsteps from afar gather the attention of the escapees. Everyone tenses, making the necessary preparations to flee. Your mother grabs your hand, giving Sukuna a nudge to let him know to move a couple of steps back. He obliges, his body obeying before his mind can catch up to the reality of his current situation.

But the need to flee dies when Saya’s mother comes into sight. You take a step forward, relieved to see her face. Her robes are torn, singed at the edges and ash litters her hair. When she reaches the edge of the clearing, her legs give out. She barely manages to catch herself on shaky arms, before her sobs break out.

As moonlight permeates the clearing, reflecting her tears back at you, the crimson spattering her face becomes obvious.

Your mother leaves your side to do what she can to soothe, pulling the woman into her arms as she attempts to get any matter of explanation.

Through broken sobs, you catch bits and pieces. Fire everywhere. A sorcerer with some sort of ability to rain fists down. Ash.

Your father listens from a distance, choosing to stay near you as Murata and Imai close the distance to get a better understanding of what’s going on.

But truthfully, you don’t need to be closer to hear her words.

Hell, you wish you were farther when her last sentence hits you harder than any sorcerer could.

You wish you could turn back time.

The world tilts on its side in an instant. Your heart beats in your ears, a stark contrast to the sudden ringing. You cling to Sukuna in an effort to keep upright, and although his arms fly out to hold you too, it only manages to bring you both to the ground as he’s left in an equal state of shock.

Your breaths are staggered, gasping for air that doesn’t seem to come as you fall into Sukuna. His body shakes against you, seeking your comfort as you cling equally to him.

But it’s not enough. Your lungs claw and tear at your chest, your heart pounds like a hammer against your ribs, pain ripping through your body like nothing you’ve ever experienced as sobs tear through you. The ash and heat of the fire doesn’t begin to compare to the pressure in your head, or the way your eyes feel dry in spite of tears.

When your sobs turn suddenly to wails, your mother dashes to your side. Her knees are covered in mud as she slides a small distance over the earth, your body tense as she attempts to silence your wails with an unfortunate hand over your mouth. You writhe against her grip, but she holds strong out of fear you might attract unwanted attention.

“Shh sweetheart.” Her own voice is taut with fear and grief that fails to comfort you. She glances down once at Sukuna, frozen to the spot beside you with a hand curled in your sleeve as he stares back at Saya’s mother. Flashes of a time long past replay in his mind. His body shakes, and after the initial shock wears off, he folds in on himself, as small as the boy can possibly get.

His stomach hurts. His head hurts. He clenches his eyes shut with such force that pain ripples through his body. Although he’s quieter than you, his grief matches yours. Tears well in all four eyes, dotting the ground in a darker gradient where they hit the dirt.

Your mother hesitates for a moment, bringing one hand from where it rests on your back to hover over Sukuna. She glances towards Saya’s mother, then back to Sukuna. Her lips pull into a tight line as she brings herself to settle a hand on his shoulder.

She sucks in a breath, remaining as the strength you both need right now as she hauls you both closer. Your wails quiet slowly. You’re both still shaking figures under the blanket of night, so small it reminds your mother that you’re both just children.

He’s just a child.

You won’t recover quickly, she knows that. But the least she can do is hope you both might get some rest after the night everyone has had.

No matter how much sleep you get, one thing will remain the same.

Saya is gone.

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➴ a/n ; i miss doing archery

also, forgive me :')

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