The Legend of Aang / Avatar: Aang, The Last Airbender
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You've always been one to be aware of Sanemi's hatred towards you, stirring in fear anytime the wind Hashira was nearby. But one day, as luck would have it, a mission arises... with him; and it's one that unexpectedly requires an overnight venture. What's the worst that could happen spending the night together?
wc: 5.4k
cw: dirty talk, overstim, jealousy, p in v, pain, fingering, creampie, cursing, breeding kink, choking (slightly)
a/n: Sorry for the delay in this first writing request! Also, noting I'm still learning how to write smut... plus I've been so tired and depressed lately, so I am so sorry if this isn't the best :( (mental health is so rough omggg but i've been watching fruits basket and trying super hard to be as positive and optimistic as Tohru)
❀ all images are found off of pinterest! I do not own them.
🧸 requested by anonymous
This was stupid.
Implicitly, irrevocably stupid. So profoundly vacuous that the moment Pebble opened his beak, you feigned obliviousness. Your fingers busied themselves with the tsuba in a contrived display, hoping that someone, anyone, was closer to the town than you were.
But you should’ve known better — especially with the way Pebble had been consistently conjuring up outbursts in the past few weeks due to his sudden apprehension of being ignored. So, the crow puffed his chest at your disregard, claws scraping lightly against the branch above you as his wings flared with theatrical indignation. “You are to report to Aokiri village!” You turned your back, feet kicking up a scatter of leaves in a poor attempt to drown out the bird’s deafening screech. Pebble, however, accepted the challenge. “You are not busy y/l/n! You are to meet Shinazugawa!”
“Nope.” Your words were low; hatred entwined with the single syllable.
There was no way in hell you would encounter Sanemi. He had made it abundantly clear to everyone that your presence was, in fact, a hindrance on his day-to-day. Each fleeting moment in passing, every thirty-minute Hashira meeting had been stained with insults, glares, and eye rolls. Which meant that if you tagged along on this mission, he would make the rest of the year a living nightmare — his horrid view of you as a partner in battle carved into every second of it.
But Pebble only scoffed at your refusal, the thin patience the crow held for you wound tighter with each transient second. “Orders are from Ubuyashiki — you cannot refuse!”
Fuck.
You were stuck. Thrust into a sick and twisted proposal with no real exit, forced to walk alongside the crow who was beginning to grate on every last nerve you possessed. You tried to ignore each of Pebble’s shouts, but the more you learned of the missing villagers, the harder that became.
It sounded almost surreal: Members of the surrounding villages reported strange glows near grave sites. Faint lights flickering between the headstones and whispers in the dark that resembled the voices of lost loved ones.
It was no wonder the lower-ranking slayers continued to follow the same path as the vanished villagers. Each description of the demon’s ability hinted at something far stronger than the average threat — something nearing the level of an Upper Rank. The kind of monster only a Hashira could realistically handle.
And Shinazugawa was a safe bet. His Wind Breathing technique was volatile and erratic, destructive in ways most slayers couldn’t hope to match. If anyone could dive headfirst into a situation like this, it was him. Which, frankly, pissed you off even more. Not only were you stuck with the one coworker who seemed perpetually irritated by your presence, but now you had to watch him work; forced to witness firsthand just how terrifyingly skilled he actually was.
Not that you would ever admit that to him. You’d rather drop dead.
The village was quieter than it should have been. Sure, it was small, but even the coziest places carried a rhythm: Voices echoing between houses, shop owners waving in customers under the crowded paths. Yet here, there was nothing. Only a few sparse flowers tucked in a dirty vase near the vegetable stand.
Even the graveled walkways were scarcely disturbed. Each crunch of your feet a new indent into the pristine streets. It was depressing, really. Witnessing the fear and despondency of the residing citizens. The bouts of futility that lingered from the lack of rescue by the Imperial Army. All that remained was the stench of dread for the future. And unanswered pleas.
But what was worse? Sanemi.
There he stood, palms clasped to his sides as he perked his brow at the young boy standing in front of the medicinal herbs. His hair was unruly, probably from the constant drag of his fingers, and his sword was tucked tightly against his hip. The clasps of his top were unlatched, allowing any human (or demon) he encountered to see the years of scars he’d obtained from the monsters.
“Huh?” His lids narrowed, lips thinned into a tight line. “What do you mean a group of people investigated last night? Are you all that dumb?” His tone was the usual; condescending. As if Shinazugawa was the only one in a thirty-mile radius that obtained solid logic.
The boy almost looked shaken at the outlandish declaration, his eyes jumping from wall to wall to ignore the lingering gaze of pale purple. And as selfish as it was, all you could hope for was the notion that you’d become invisible. That the young kid would skip over the unknown entity coward in the corner.
But you never had good luck.
Sanemi followed his goggled expression, intrigued brows now knitted together in a crease as the realization sank in. He was to be accompanied on this mission. And, of course, it had to be you.
“Why the fuck are you here?” The kid took the well-timed opportunity to bolt. The wind Hashira paid no mind, though. His focus was glued exclusively on you. “Tell me this is an accident.”
“It’s not,” you stepped forward, arms crossed over your chest as you fought back the trembles that threatened to slip from your legs. Fuck he was intimidating. “Ubuyashiki requested me… and you.”
Shinazugawa looked as though he was going to burst into a fit of rage. But he held back, the logical side of his brain etched on public appearance towards the Demon Slayer Corp. Because if he were to make one wrong move, one wrong sign of destruction — his paycheck was bound to eat it.
Besides, last time Sanemi was placed under disciplinary review, he almost went insane.
He mumbled a string of profanities, hand pressed to the hilt of his sword as he scoured the surroundings again. Something he always did when you were near. It didn’t take a genius to detect such displease to your presence; knuckles white from death gripping his weapon, eyes shooting towards something tangible and less... you.
What was it about you that irked him so much?
“Well,” you took your cue. “I’m going to go see if I can track anyone down. And next time Sanemi, please don’t let a witness get away.”
He hated when you used his first name. You knew that. Which is exactly why you did it, watching as his ears turned a shade of red that matched Rengoku’s haori. If he was going to be a dick (like usual) the least you could do in return was poke fun at the bear. It made it all the more entertaining. And easier — you weren’t afraid to admit you were fearful of the wind Hashira. So playing a little game always eased your nerves.
“Whatever. Let’s just get this over with.”
That was the intention at least; getting this all over with. But somehow, someway, Sanemi had managed to scare the very last witness off again.
It all started when you continued forward, knees bending slightly as you placed your hand above the gravel. Initially, you were there to inspect the spill of oil — a clear sign that someone had dropped a lantern in the midst of an escape. But then you felt it: a small pulse underneath the soil.
Huh… weird.
“Um, excuse me,” a wavering voice pulled you from your investigation, causing you to peer above, head tilted slightly to view the tall man who hovered close by. “Do you need help?” He flinched at your innate narrowed stare, clutching a small knife in his hand. His cotton vest bore a single kanji in white: ‘Watcher.’ Perhaps he was the village’s makeshift guard until someone more capable arrived.
“Actually, yes.” You heaved yourself off the ground, palms pressing against your sides to scrape off the few loose rocks that indented themselves in your skin. “Do you know anything about the missing residents?”
“Oh,” the man straightened instantly at that. His previous scared demeanor quickly overshadowed with relief as his eyes scanned your sheathed Nichirin sword. He knew. “Are you with the white-haired man?” You almost gagged. But you nodded anyway. “Some of my neighbors noted that he had shown up a bit earlier today! I’m so glad you came too.”
Great, so he got here a whole hour before you — just one more thing he can irk about later on.
“Your vest, it says you’re a watcher?” He nodded at your query. “Does that mean you know what’s been happening?”
He chewed the inside of his cheek; his pointer directed to the edge of the town. “There’s been witness accounts of small bouts of light coming from over there,” he shifted slightly, leaning closer to your ear, his voice hushed — as if to keep the two children pressed against the cracked door nearby from hearing. “There’ve been… voices too. From dead loved ones.”
Your brow furrowed, thumb rubbing small circles against the hilt of your sword in puzzlement. Voices? Lights? Pebble had mentioned it in the debriefing. But if there were witnesses, people stood nearby to notice each trademark… Well, it sounded more like a serial killer than a demon. Not once had you seen blood demon art that could harbor such purity with such foul intentions. Not to mention leave bystanders alive.
“Has anyone investigated?”
He swallowed, eyes darting nervously. “Yeah… and they never come back.”
You had planned to pry more, your eyes widened up at the man who was now leaned in closer. Each breath he dragged swayed the strands of your hair; and, honestly, he was kind of cute. His brown hair, ruffled and layered, laid just above his lashes. The shade of pink that coated his cheeks only exacerbated the adorable freckles that coated his nose.
Was he single? No, this is probably the wrong time to ask that. “How long has this been happening?”
“A week ago; it only happens every other night, oddly enough.” His distance stayed the same, nose brushed against yours with each swift word. And you had to wonder now — was he doing that on purpose? “Sorry if this is… weird, but can I ask something?”
You nodded. But the poor man was never able to finish his inquisitive wonder. Because Sanemi rounded the corner, eyes wild and swirled with a twinge of darkness that only happened in the midst of battles. “I’m sorry,” his voice was low; sharper than it was before. “Did we lose the goal of this mission?” You didn’t even have time to respond. “If it wasn't apparent,” he continued, gaze flicking briefly between you and the man. “This isn’t a ‘find a husband’ search.”
The villager stiffened instantly. “My apologies!” He stammered, bowing quickly toward Shinazugawa before retreating without another word. You watched him go, irritation flaring: First of all, there was no reason for him to apologize to Sanemi. Second — you had been gathering information.
Crucial information. The one piece of information, actually, that was the cause for the shared room at the inn.
Don’t get it twisted, you did try to plead with the innkeeper; bribe him into splitting you both up. Yet with travelers too afraid to leave, and even fewer willing to pass through, every room but one had been occupied. So, here you were, stretched out atop the shikibuton, staring up at the ceiling as the white-haired man beside you made a very deliberate effort to drag the kakebuton further away from your side.
Which was pointless. The room was far too small.
“Can you move your makura?” you asked, voice edged with vexation. “Preferably… away from mine?”
Sanemi just scoffed. “There’s nowhere else to put it.” He dropped back against his own futon, forearm sliding beneath his head as he shoved the pillow slightly to the side, as if that alone created distance. It didn’t. “Trust me,” he muttered, eyes fixed above. “If I could, I wouldn’t be here.”
“This is so stupid.” You whined. Shinazugawa was quick to grunt in agreement. “What the fuck does the demon even do every other night?”
“How the fuck would I know?”
You shot him a glare. “It was a rhetorical question,” you paused, eyes scanning over his obviously irked demeanor. “If you don’t know what that is, it’s—”
“I know what that is!” There was a moment of silence after his outburst. A quietude that you felt grateful for. Until Sanemi decided to make it a one man show — once again. “Shit, you’re a distraction.” Your fingers stilled against the fabric of the kakebuton. And slowly, your head turned, observing as the scarred Hashira kept his gaze on the plafond. “No fucking clue why you’re here.”
“A distraction?” You repeated.
You couldn’t believe it. There was no way in hell you were a distraction. If anything, he was. All Sanemi did was scare off every witness. Not to mention consistently groan in protest to your arrival. Which, from what Mitsuri told you, was completely out of character for him. But maybe Obanai wasn’t the most trustworthy informant when it came to the love Hashira. He was probably too distracted by her presence to actually delve into the hell he faced with his co-worker.
“Yeah.”
You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, brows raised in utter astonishment. “That’s funny,” you mumbled. “I don’t remember asking for your opinion.”
“Didn’t realize I needed permission to point out the obvious.” He retorted.
Oh, you wanted to punch him. No, worse — you wanted to leave him for dead. There was absolutely zero evidence to support his claim. “What are you even talking about?”
“Seriously?” His head flit to the side, the corner of his right iris peering at you over the scrunched makura. “I had to keep you from kissing a total stranger.”
That’s what this was about? His entire exasperation in this very moment had to do with the notion that the villager… stood too close? “Excuse me?” You leaned forward, strands of hair cascading over your cheek as you eyed the Hashira mere inches beneath you and to the right. “I was gathering information. Like we planned.”
“Information on something, I bet.”
That was the final straw. You could deal with his ignorance in Hashira meetings, deal with the fact that every time you stepped in a room he left. For fuck’s sake, you could deal with the fact that everyone knew just how much he despised you — no matter how humiliating it was. But this? This was beyond that. Because now, he was insulting your morals.
Well, sure… You did think he was attractive. And yes, the thought of asking if he was single had crossed your mind. But you didn’t. That counts for something. “Even if he was attractive,” you said. “I wasn’t going to jeopardize the mission. Every slayer knows work comes before anything else.”
“The fuck did you just say?” Shinazugawa propped up on his arms, the swirls in his pale purple eyes turning closer to a shade of a ripe plum. “Attractive?”
Of course he completely glazed over the rest of the sentence.
“Yes.”
He surged forward, the futon shifting beneath him as he leaned in, closing the distance in an instant. But it was too fast, too close — your breath caught, a flicker of defensive instinct tightening in your chest as his presence loomed over you. And for half a second, you thought he might actually hit you. “That’s your type?”
Okay, this steered completely off topic. “Again, what are you talking about?”
“Your type is ugly dark-haired men.” You opened your mouth to protest, but he kept going. “I’ve seen the way you hang with Tomioka. He’s ugly. And has dark hair.”
And you couldn’t help it. You laughed. You doubled-over, hand clasped to the Hashira’s shoulder as your head swiveled down, your shoulder bouncing with each drag of breath. “Tomioka is the only one that will train with me when asked.” But Shinazugawa didn’t laugh with you. And he sure as hell didn’t crack a smile. His gaze stayed locked on you — and, against his will, dipped just slightly as your chin lifted again. The quick flick of your tongue across your lower lip definitely didn’t help either. “How do you even know this? You leave every room I walk into unless you’re forced.”
“Obanai.”
Huh, it seems Obanai was everyone’s messenger when it came to things they had no business in knowing.
And, really, that should’ve been your first sign. The first inclination that Sanemi’s reason for distance was not due to your ‘lack’ of skills. But you were too caught up in the moment — too distracted by the humor of it all. Too focused by the absurdity in the way the whites of his eyes began to web with faint vessels, twitching with every flicker of irritation.
“Laugh it up,” His voice turned rougher, like something was sitting wrong in his throat. Or, more accurately, as if one flawed tone, one wrong slip up, and his secret would spill. “Didn’t realize that was your standard.”
You should’ve pulled away after your laughter subsided. Created some sort of distance between the two of you. Hell, that’s exactly what you would’ve done two days ago. But if you were being realistic, this wouldn’t have even been a predicament — because Sanemi would’ve never let you get this close. And he sure wouldn’t have allowed you to brace your palm over the broad part of his shoulder. “Why does it matter?”
“It doesn’t.” He kept still, eyes lasering through the thick of your orbits. “Hashira operate under different rules when it comes to being with commoners."
“Not when it comes to sex.”
Sanemi’s lid convulsed, something volatile flickering beneath the surface as he leaned impossibly closer — close enough that the ridges of his scars brushed faintly against the fabric of your yukata. His hand pressed into the futon beside you, bracing his weight, caging you in with full oblivion. Because if he had half a mind, he’d maintain any sliver of distance. “You can’t just—” His voice faltered, the words catching unexpectedly as his jaw tightened. “sleep with strangers?”
“I never said I wanted to,” you corrected, steady despite the way your pulse had begun to climb. “I was just stating that the rules around sex aren’t the same as marriage.”
Sanemi stared at you. Really stared. Like he was trying to pick apart every word you’d just said — and getting more irritated the longer he thought about it. “You think that makes it better?”
Your brows knitted together slightly. Honestly, you didn’t even understand why he was so upset about the logical part of your solution. Sure, sex with strangers wasn't the most ideal; diseases and unwarranted pregnancies could always arise. But it seemed way better than marriage. Besides, men usually lacked emotional maturity needed for such a long-term commitment. “I’m just being realistic.”
“Realistic?” His fingers clutched the fabric beneath him, knuckles whitening as the tendons in his hand pulled tight. “Is that what your mind thinks of?”
Truthfully, that was a very personal query. Of course you thought about it. Every Hashira probably has. Especially Tengen with his three wives. But no one really… discussed it. “Well, um,” you were stammering. And each delay of the answer only solidified his initial notion. Which, somehow, shifted his expression. As if he was filling in the blanks himself, and none of the conclusions were helping his mood. So you pivoted. “Do you?”
“What?” His eyes narrowed, the ends of his lips downturned at the sudden transfer in discussion.
Good, you managed to deflect. “Do you think about sex?”
Sanemi blinked. Once. Then twice before the tips of his ears twinged into a shade of deep red. It was obvious he wasn’t prepared for the switch of his inquiry. A flicker of satisfaction sparked in your chest. And maybe you would’ve pushed it further, pressed the advantage, watched him unravel under the pressure of it. But his gaze dropped; lower than you anticipated.
Your lips. He was staring directly at your lips.
And it wasn’t the casual glance, the one you do when you’re displaying listening intent. It was more. His jaw pulled, brows tugged together like something in his mind had gone haywire — and he was irritated with himself, with you, with whatever had him frozen there instead of pulling away like he should have.
“... Sanemi?”
His teeth ground together, the tension in his body coiling tighter as his fists pressed deeper into the blanket beneath you, fabric bunching beneath the strain. You could tell he looked to be in agony; like he was desperately trying to ground himself, hold himself back from… Well, you weren’t exactly sure.
“Don’t say my name again.” Even his sentence came out pained. And suddenly — you were aware of everything: Your hand on his shoulder, the heat between you, the way his face had drifted closer without you noticing.
An inch. That was all it would take.
And that didn’t make any sense: This was Shinazugawa. The Hashira who avoided you. Who left rooms just to escape your presence. Who met you with insults and indifference at every turn. He never wanted you around. So why wasn’t he moving away?
“Why?” You weren’t even sure what you were asking anymore; Why wasn’t he moving? Why didn’t he want you to say his name?
Either way, it didn’t matter. He ignored it entirely. “Yeah, I’ve thought about it.” Your breath hitched. The admission sat heavy between you, honest in a way nothing else he’d said had been. But surely he wasn’t saying what you thought he was saying… “And it’s a distraction,” he continued, jaw shifting. “That’s why I avoid it.” Your chest tightened, because he didn’t need to spell it outright. Didn’t need to clarify. You understood.
By it — He meant you.
And you’d be lying if you said you hadn't thought about it too. The way his hands would clasp around your neck, his movements drilling into you with such force that your eyes would innately roll back. It would be volatile; rough. There would be no care for your wellbeing — just Sanemi chasing his own high as he watched you unravel beneath him.
But it was a fantasy. A fleeting moment of imagery while you touched yourself in your own estate. Because there was no world in which Sanemi would lay a finger on you. For fuck’s sake, he hardly even looked at you.
You opened your mouth to retort something sarcastic. Say anything that could shift the conversation back to his usual irritation with you. Yet all you could do was gawk. Irises traveling down his lips and to his exposed chest; the diabolical images now displayed proudly in your mind.
No — no, this wasn’t okay. How dare you feel the warmth pool between your thighs. Shinazugawa warranted nothing more than a slap to his face… his beautiful, sculpted and scarred face.
Oh my gosh you were losing it. There was no reason for this excitement. You hated Sanemi; loathed him with every ounce of your being. Sure, you imagined him naked on the rare occasion. And sure, you had noted that he was attractive the first time you met. But you had learned to push those feelings down; learned the notion that Shinazugawa saw you as nothing but a burden. Yet, here you were; legs shifted beneath the blanket, hoping that whatever dampened your undergarments was nothing more than the start of your period.
But who were you kidding, you weren’t due for two more weeks.
“Something bothering you?” Your eyes trailed back up to his face, observing as he adorned a rare smirk. It was the same expression you had only noted once; the single moment in passing as you heard him tease Obanai for gifting Mitsuri new socks after she ruined the first pair.
He knew.
Sanemi fucking knew.
And he was reveling in it, finding absolute pleasure in the way your knees brushed together to obtain some sort of friction to distract yourself from the fluttered heartbeat between your legs. But the more you tried to conceal the explicit anticipation, the more Shinazugawa pressed forward. His nose touched yours; the plump of his lips brushed slightly against your skin.
It was wrong. All of this was irrevocably inapt. And Sanemi understood that. He knew the consequences of Hashira romance, the constant turmoil that followed due to death and lack of time. Even his brain was shouting at a high octave, attempting to halt the insanity that was about to ensue: The amygdala displayed a horrid future — you dead, strewn on your back as blood seeped from your lungs. And the only thing Shinazugawa could do was watch. Witness the last moment he’d ever lay eyes on you again.
But that image wasn’t a fact. It was fear; fear of the unknown. And Sanemi hated that. He prided himself on his ability to dive head first with no terror. So, if ripping your clothes to shreds meant he’d conquer trepidation? All well.
Besides, it was a bonus that he’d make you forget about the commoner who stood too close to you.
He’d just reap the repercussions later.
His palm released the scrunched cloth, finger dragging over the kakebuton as it neared the dip in your borrowed yukuta. It was a silly thing — your initial idea of wearing pajamas was a sigh of relief due to its comfort. But now? Now all you wished for was a pound of fabric shielding the way your chest trickled with goosebumps. The telltale sign that, whatever Sanemi was doing, had some sort of impact on your body.
“Someone nervous?” Of course you were nervous. Not once did this idea flash inside your mind. The only thing you anticipated was snarky remarks and ignorance. You didn’t prep for… this. But it seemed Sanemi had thought about this moment a bit too much. His mouth watered in excitement; eyes darting at every inch of exposed skin. “Odd. I thought casual sex was… what did you say? Realistic.”
Ugh, curse your loud mouth.
You swallowed the lump forming in your throat, knees still pressed together to keep the rapid heartbeat from quickening further. Still, the wind Hashira wasn’t oblivious. And besides, your lack of refusal as he unfastened your yukuta was all the agreement he needed to move forward. So, before you knew it, he had mounted on top of your bare body, scarred chest pressed to yours as his digit dragged along your folds.
“Tsk,” his pointer dipped just slightly, pressing your slick inwards. “Already this wet? Don’t tell me you’re this easy.” Even in the heat of the moment he was being condescending; which warranted a punch. But you’d be lying if that didn’t hasten the throb between your legs. And you’d be even more of a prevaricator if you didn’t admit that Sanemi could feel it. “If you’re going to be such a distraction,” his lips brushed the curve of your jaw, breath soft against the lobe of your ear. “The least you could do is relieve the pressure you fucking curse other people with.”
Without warning his thumb dipped in the confines of your walls, an agonizing stretch that forced a whine out of your throat. It was cruel, really. The way Shinazugawa had seemed to completely dismiss the notion of benignity in intercourse. Yet, once again, your body betrayed you — hips bucked in the air, palms pressed flat against his haori. “You like the pain?” Your head nodded innately. “That idiot definitely wouldn’t have known that.”
Idiot?
“Huh, w—” Your query was cut short as he replaced his thumb with his middle finger, curling it ever so slightly until it pressed against the pattern of your gummy tissue — the very spot that made stars speckle across your vision. “Nemi’ hold — nghhh — on.”
You didn’t mean to give him a nickname. But you could hardly form a coherent sentence; a shortened version of his title seemed reasonable enough to get your point across. Yet Sanemi stilled. His once rhythmic pace overshadowed with a faint twitch. “What… What did you just call me?”
“... Nemi’?”
Sanemi groaned in pleasure at the sound of your voice; forehead pressed to your collarbone as he continued to thrust his fingers with intense precision. And if it wasn’t clear before; this was why he created distance. The exact reason why he avoided you. Because he couldn’t contain himself; too aware that a slight change of your tone would have you trapped beneath him as he pummeled himself to ecstasy. But here you were — served on a platter for him in the shared room.
Plus, how could he let your crude imaginations be entwined with the man who happened to stumble upon you this afternoon?
The very commoner who almost asked you out on a date. Pathetic.
Shinazugawa’s eyes blurred with hatred; the idea of another person fueling your pleasure was a complete disgrace to him. So what if he ignored you? So what if he wasn’t your boyfriend? You still belonged to him. And any inclination of another man’s touch vindicated rage.
Which was why you practically shouted as something much… bigger unexpectedly slipped deep within you. A frustrated blow to your walls that bordered pain more than pleasure. Oh how oblivious you were to the unclasping of his belt, the way he fumbled with his pants while his right hand continued to create some sort of relief for the tightening knot deep within your abdomen. “Such… a fucking — aghhh,” Sanemi’s breath became ragged the more he moved his hips. “Distraction.”
Moans spilled from your throat, the occasional cry of agony etched in between the sounds of rapture as his nails dug into your hips, keeping you stationed to withstand the increasing brutalized pace he began to set. “Who do you think about?”
His words were almost lost. Your muddled brain too focused on the near snap of the knot. Not to mention the squelches of wetness and slaps of skin that reverberated off the cramped corridor. “W-what?”
“Alone,” his right hand made its way to your throat, tightening ever so slightly as his thumb and pointer cupped your jaw, tilting your head to look up at him. “Fuck — who do you think about… alone at night?”
You shouldn’t have answered. Shouldn’t have admitted the occasional late night pleasure that came from him. But you were too drunk on bliss to think of reason. “You.”
And that was all it took. The single word that made him snap his hips in an agonizing way until he got to observe a stream of tears spill from your eyes; cheeks painted in a rosy shade of pink. But still, Sanemi needed more. He needed to hear your sniffles, observe as your eyes rolled back with each shaky sob.
He needed to witness the effect he bestowed on you. Something no one else could ever dream of achieving.
He shifted his right hand down to your thigh, hoisting it over his shoulder to deepen his momentum. Your irises bulged, the feeling of his length deep in your stomach prevalent. It was plain from the get-go that Sanemi was showing zero mercy for you, your eyes consistently brimming with salty tears that leaked with every thrust. “Shit, you’re so…” he grunted, tongue dragging his lower lip and brows creased in concentration. “Tight.”
“Nemi’.” You whined, nails clawed deep within the kakebuton beneath you. There was no way in hell you were going to last another thirty seconds — not with the way his tip pummeled against your g-spot. “You’re gonna make me… nghhh.”
But what came next was a surprise. Or, more accurately, a slip-up of Sanemi's true intentions. “Maybe I should get you pregnant, hm?” A moan caught in your throat, your breath jagged while you stared wide-eyed at the Hashira. And normally, you would’ve screeched in horror at his erratic statement. The absurdity of the comment so outlandish it warranted nothing more than a scolding. Yet right now? The idea of him stuffing you full was more important than anything else — the ache in your abdomen something that could only be fulfilled with his warmth. “Then… oh fuck — no one will look at you.”
It was wrong. The way his declaration took you over the edge, fingers grasping at the fabric beneath you while your sclera took over for your rolled back irises. And the flutter against his dick? The string of thoughts that allowed everyone to know you were his? Yeah, that fucked him
He cursed under his breath, doubling-over and tightening his grasp around your neck as his rhythm stuttered, his hips carelessly hitting your ass as he spilled inside. His groan was gruff, teeth clenched together to bite back the overwhelming wash of ecstasy that overcame the months of pent-up tension.
“If one more person looks at you. I’m seriously going to get you pregnant. Got it?”
I'm rewatching ATLA (after I saw the film) and am 2 eps from the end,
I forgot how funny they made the ships near the end of the series, the culmination of it all.
Since Zuko joined them Katara & Aang have surprisingly few interactions of substance.
The non consensual kisses where he pushes the issue and her calming him down (bcs ofc) and the southern raiders arguement.
Other than that Katara practically spends the entire last chunk of the series w Zuko. Sleeping near each other, always fighting together, anytime he needs to talk to someone she's the one who's there or asking how he is etc, they're framed together the entire ember island episode and how angry it makes Aang, and then the finale, their fight w Azula is arguably the most emotional sequence in the finale. And how he takes that lightning for her and she heals him and CRIES when she thought he might die but she saved him.
And then, after all that, there's now Aang & Katara as the last scene and now they're in love and yay.
Was the battle of the shippers THAT bad behind the scenes? It's so disjointed, what you're seeing and what they want you to be seeing.
I am not inherently anti kataang btw, I wouldn't mind them getting together when they're older after going through so much together, but if you want to sell the ship then SELL IT.
Settle it in the writer's room BEFORE the finale, cause as it stands we got 2 Katara rejections and Aang's frustrations without them ever really discussing them and the culmination of the story literally being Katara & Zuko joined at the hip for the last chunk of episodes and behaving like perfectly in sync partners until the end.
And then they never speak again, cause Bryke won.
Don't even get me started on how petty and lame it is that they erased their entire friendship just to fuel their own ship. If you need zutara to never interact so people don't ship them, your arguments for kataang are pretty weak.
He doesn't even talk half the time- he just follows without a word. He got into the habit not long after you both got together, and you can't recall when or why it started. Just that one day, you woke up, and suddenly Giyuu was everywhere you were. Moving and stopping whenever you do, standing stationary in the same room as you, or waiting for you to come out of specific rooms he feels weird following you into.
The bathroom, for example. He won't follow you in, but he'll wait outside. And once you do come out, he's right back to whats essentially your shadow.
You've questioned him about it before. Why he feels the need to follow you around, even when you're not conversing or touching. He doesn't have a proper answer apart from the fact that he enjoys your presence. It's to such a point that everyone who's seen it since it began is used to it.
If someone wishes to find either one of you, its more than likely you'll be in the same place.
Now, it's not as if Giyuu ignores you anytime you ask to be left alone. All you have to do is say the word, and he'll be off to do something away from where you are. Like staring at a wall inside his house or something...
Nonetheless, you eventually grow used to it. The silence is comfortable, and theres no expectation or pressure to entertain or speak to one another. But if you wish to, theres always the option. He clearly doesn't mind.
It's endearing that someone as antisocial as him would adore you so much that he'd prefer to be around you than be alone.
Author's Note: I finished this a lot sooner than I anticipated. Ugh, I just love writing this fic so much. This fic as a whole may or may not be slightly based on true events.
Cw: Family issues, alcohol, injury, past trauma, mentions of overdose.
All dialogue between Giyuu and his friends is written in English, but they are speaking Japanese.
The sound startles him slightly as he reaches for his phone in his pocket, glancing at the caller ID before picking up.
He begins speaking in Japanese immediately, his tone laced with worry and something else you can’t quite place.
“Kon’nichiwa,” he says as he answers, a muffled voice spilling through the speaker.
“Nani? Jiko tte, dō iu kotoda?” Confusion sharpens his voice now. He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling deeply through his nose.
Meanwhile, you just sit there confused, wondering what the hell is happening.
“Tanjirō, ittai nani ga atta nda?” The muffled voice responds again.
Giyuu’s expression grows tighter with every passing second. He nods once before quietly saying, “Ichiban chikai bin ni norimasu.”
He hangs up quickly, dragging a hand down his face.
“What’s wrong?” you ask immediately.
“Something came up back home,” he says, still sounding slightly out of breath. “Someone’s injured. I’m taking the nearest flight to Japan.”
You understand, you really do. He has people who need him right now.
Still, you can’t stop the small feeling of disappointment curling in your chest at the thought of the date ending so suddenly.
He seems to notice.
“I’ll make it up to you,” he says quickly, like the words leave him before he can stop them. “I promise. I just really need to go.”
“It’s okay,” you say softly. “I understand.”
His shoulders relax slightly at that.
He walks over to pay the bill, handing the cashier his card before returning to your table.
The walk to your car feels strangely quiet now.
Not awkward.
Just abrupt.
You unlock the driver’s side door, and just as you begin climbing inside, his voice stops you.
“I’ll call you as soon as I’m able to.”
“You don’t have to,” you say gently, not wanting him to feel obligated to give you his attention while dealing with a family emergency.
“I know,” he says.
Then, after a brief pause:
“But I want to.”
Something warm settles in your chest at the words.
You nod before finally climbing into your car.
As you pull out of the parking lot, you catch one last glimpse of him walking quickly toward his own car, phone already back in his hand.
It’s still pretty early when you arrive home, and with your entire day suddenly free, the apartment feels weirdly quiet.
Your mind keeps drifting back to Giyuu.
The worried look on his face.
The way his hands had tightened around his phone.
You chew the inside of your cheek for a second before grabbing your own phone and scrolling through your contacts.
You drive home, humming to the tune playing from the radio.
You throw your purse onto the counter and sink into the couch, pulling out your phone and scrolling through your contacts.
You find Mitsuri's contact and call.
Mitsuri answers before the first ring can even finish.
“Y/n! How was your date? Tell me everything immediately!!”
You can’t help laughing a little at her excitement.
“That’s… kind of why I was calling,” you admit.
“Oh?” Her tone shifts instantly, concern replacing excitement. “Wait, did something happen? Do you need me to come get you? I can totally fake an emergency if necessary.”
“No!” you laugh quickly. “Nothing like that.”
You hear her sigh dramatically in relief.
“He was actually really lovely,” you admit, smiling faintly despite yourself. “Something just came up back home and he had to leave early.”
“Ohhh.” Curiosity immediately slips back into her voice. “Okay, but how was the date?”
You glance around your apartment before flopping backward onto your couch.
“I’ve got the rest of the day free,” you say slowly. “So… how about you come pick me up and we go shopping or something? I’ll tell you everything then.”
You already know the answer before she gives it.
“I’LL BE THERE IN TEN.”
The line immediately disconnects.
You stare at your phone for a second before laughing to yourself.
Exactly ten minutes later, Mitsuri’s bright pink car is parked outside your apartment.
You slide into the passenger seat, immediately greeted by fluffy pink seat covers, dangling charms hanging from the mirror, and at least three plushies shoved into the backseat.
The inside of her car looks like a strawberry exploded.
“So,” Mitsuri says excitedly as she pulls away from the curb, “where are we going first?”
“Hm… maybe the mall first? Then food after.”
She nods enthusiastically.
Then—
“Sooooo?”
You already know what’s coming.
“What was he like?”
“Was he weird?”
“Was he cute?”
“Did he murder anyone?”
You stare at her.
“Mitsuri.”
“What?”
“You asked like four questions in five seconds.”
She giggles sheepishly. “Sorry. I’m invested now.”
You laugh, shaking your head.
“Jesus, Mits, at least let me answer the first question.”
“I’m just worried about you,” she says dramatically.
“Worried?” you repeat.
“Well, yeah!” she says like it’s obvious. “Y/n, we both know you have questionable taste in men.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
“I really don’t.”
Mitsuri shoots you a look.
You immediately look out the window instead.
“…Want me to start listing names?” she asks sweetly.
“Actually, I think I’m good.”
She bursts out laughing.
“Thought so.”
You groan quietly, sinking lower into your seat.
“Okay, fine,” you mumble. “Maybe my track record isn’t amazing.”
“Thank you.”
“But he’s different,” you say after a moment.
That gets her attention immediately.
“Oh?”
You nod slowly.
“He was… a lot different than he was at the club. And different from how he acted during my appointment too.”
“How so?”
You think about it for a second.
“At the club he barely spoke,” you explain. “And during the tattoo appointment he was all serious and intimidating.”
“And now?”
You stare absentmindedly out the window.
“…He’s awkward,” you admit with a quiet laugh. “Like, genuinely awkward.”
Mitsuri gasps dramatically.
“Oh my god, you like him.”
“I do not.”
“You totally do.”
“I literally met him two weeks ago.”
“And yet you’re staring out the window smiling right now.”
Your head snaps toward her immediately.
“I am not smiling.”
“You sooo are.”
You groan loudly while Mitsuri cackles beside you.
“But seriously,” she says after calming down slightly, “do you trust him?”
The question catches you off guard.
You think about the way Giyuu had looked at you across the café table.
The way his voice softened when he talked about his friend.
The way he’d promised to call.
“…Yeah,” you admit quietly. “I think I do.”
Mitsuri smiles softly at that, though there’s still a hint of protectiveness in her expression.
“Well,” she says finally, turning into the mall parking lot, “I still reserve the right to beat him up if he hurts you.”
You snort.
“Noted.”
The two of you continue talking as you head inside the mall, Mitsuri occasionally interrupting you to aggressively judge random outfits in store windows.
The sterile smell of the hospital is the first thing that hits Giyuu as he walks through the sliding doors.
He’s never been unfamiliar with that smell.
There just aren’t any good memories attached to it.
Nothing good ever happens inside hospitals.
He learned that a long time ago.
He makes his way toward the emergency waiting area, exhaustion weighing heavily in his limbs after the long flight.
Tanjiro is already seated on one of the benches with Kanao beside him, Nezuko sitting nearby.
Kanao’s here?
Panic flickers through him briefly.
Could that mean she’s here too?
He pushes the thought away immediately.
Tanjiro notices him first, standing quickly.
“Giyuu, you’re finally here.”
“Yeah,” Giyuu exhales quietly. “Sorry the flight took a while.”
Then-
“How long has he been here?”
Tanjiro thinks for a second.
“About twenty hours now. He’d already been admitted for around two hours before we found out. We called you as soon as we heard.”
Giyuu nods once, jaw tightening.
He bites lightly at the inside of his cheek, trying to keep himself composed.
Tanjiro notices anyway.
“The accident wasn’t too bad,” he adds quickly. “The doctors said he should be okay after surgery.”
Giyuu nods again.
The words should comfort him.
Instead, they somehow make the knot in his stomach worse.
Urokodaki is strong.
He’ll be okay.
He has to be.
Giyuu lowers himself into one of the cushioned chairs, exhaustion sinking deep into his bones.
His mind drifts despite himself.
The night of the overdose...
Hospital lights.
Cold hands.
Sabito.
The memory hits too fast and too hard, vivid enough to make his chest tighten painfully.
Just then—
A shadow falls over him.
“Earth to Giyuu.”
He blinks, looking up.
Makomo waves a hand in front of his face.
“Oh,” he says quietly, pulling himself back to reality. “Sorry. I didn’t see you there.”
Makomo gives him a look.
“I noticed.”
She drops into the seat beside him.
He glances over at her, "When'd you get here?"
“I got here around the same time as Tanjiro-kun and Kanao. I just stepped outside for a minute.”
She runs a hand through her hair before sighing.
“I needed a cigarette.”
Giyuu glances at her briefly.
“You should stop doing that.”
She waves him off dismissively.
"I'm serious, it's bad for your health, you'd better not come crying to me when you end up with lung cancer." There's a slight edge in his voice.
“Yeah, yeah. Says the guy who used to live off convenience store coffee and cheap beer.”
The comment slips out casually.
But Giyuu stills for half a second before looking away.
“…I cut back,” he mutters.
Makomo hums like she doesn’t fully believe him.
“Anyways,” she says, changing the subject, “how was the flight?”
“It was alright.” He shrugs once. “Tried getting here as fast as possible. Airport staff can be a pain in the ass.”
A quiet breath of laughter leaves him, though there’s no real amusement behind it.
Makomo studies him for a second but lets it go.
The two fall into small talk after that.
Mostly meaningless conversation.
The kind people use to avoid thinking too hard.
A while later, the doctor finally walks out into the waiting room.
Everyone immediately stands.
“The surgery went well,” the doctor explains. “He should be awake within a few hours. You’ll be able to visit once he’s conscious.”
Relief visibly floods Tanjiro and Nezuko’s faces.
Kanao looks relieved too, though calmer about it.
Makomo taps Giyuu’s shoulder.
“Hey. Giyuu.”
He looks over.
“Yeah?”
“I’m gonna stop by Urokodaki-san’s house and grab some clothes and stuff for him.” She pauses. “Wanna come with?”
Giyuu knows by now that this isn’t actually optional.
“…Yeah. Sure.”
“Great,” she says, already standing. “This’ll be a good time to catch up.”
He follows her outside and slips into the passenger seat of her car.
The drive passes in a blur.
His mind stays somewhere else entirely.
He doesn’t even realize they’ve arrived until Makomo is already unbuckling her seatbelt.
The two step out and walk toward the familiar house.
Makomo fumbles through a set of keys before finally unlocking the door.
The house looks almost exactly the same.
Neat.
Quiet.
Familiar.
The walls are covered with old photos of him, Sabito, and Makomo through every awkward stage of childhood imaginable.
This house carries too many memories.
Good ones.
Painful ones too.
Makomo unzips the backpack she brought and heads toward the bedroom to look for comfortable clothes.
Giyuu follows silently, helping search through drawers.
Neither of them speaks for a while.
The silence starts pressing too heavily against him.
“I saw Kanao at the hospital,” he says quietly.
Makomo immediately understands what he actually means.
“If you’re worried about running into Shinobu,” she says calmly, “don’t. I doubt Kanao will mention you.”
He nods once, suddenly feeling stupid for bringing it up at all.
“You can’t avoid her forever, Giyuu.”
“I’m not trying to avoid her,” he mutters. “I just don’t want things to be awkward for both of us.”
Makomo sighs softly.
“You know the breakup wasn’t entirely your fault, right?”
Giyuu runs a hand through his hair.
“You don’t have to try making me feel better. I know I fucked up.”
“I think you both did,” Makomo says honestly.
Then suddenly—
“Oh! Tsutako told me you’re seeing someone.”
Giyuu immediately closes his eyes for half a second.
Damn Tsutako, and her big mouth.
“Kind of,” he admits reluctantly. “I’m not really sure what it is yet.”
Makomo grins.
“Oh my god.”
“We went out for coffee,” he continues quickly. “It got cut short because of the call.”
"Mhmmm," she says slowly
“And how exactly did you meet?”
Giyuu hesitates.
He debates lying for approximately three seconds before giving up entirely.
“…At a club.”
Makomo raises an eyebrow.
“I was drunk,” he says flatly. “She was drunk. We slept together.”
Makomo’s eyes widen immediately.
“A week later she ended up in my chair for a tattoo appointment.”
“…Wow.”
“Yeah.”
“You move fast.”
Giyuu exhales quietly through his nose.
“…Maybe.”
Makomo watches him carefully for a second.
“You like her.”
“I barely know her.”
“That wasn’t a denial.”
He pointedly ignores her.
Eventually they finish packing everything Urokodaki might need before drifting toward one of the picture frames hanging near the hallway.
The photo shows the three of them much younger.
Sabito’s grin practically takes up the entire frame.
Makomo’s expression softens immediately.
“Times like these,” she says quietly, “I really fucking miss him.”
Giyuu stares at the photo for a long moment.
“…Yeah,” he murmurs. “Me too.”
The silence afterward feels heavier.
Urokodaki had taken Sabito in when they were kids.
Giyuu and Makomo lived in the neighborhood.
That’s how the three of them met.
And after that, they became inseparable; they did everything together.
“Remember when Urokodaki-san tried teaching you how to swim?” Makomo asks suddenly.
Giyuu lets out a small laugh despite himself.
“You mean when I almost drowned?”
“You were flailing around like a dying fish.”
“I learned eventually.”
“That’s putting it lightly,” she teases.
Giyuu shakes his head faintly.
“Sabito was always the best swimmer out of all of us.”
Makomo smiles softly.
“Yeah,” she says quietly. “My boyfriend was pretty amazing.”
The two share another laugh.
They head back to Makomo’s car so they can bring the clothes and snacks back to the hospital.
By the time they return, the waiting room has quieted down slightly.
Tanjiro and Nezuko are speaking softly near the vending machines while Kanao sits curled up in one of the chairs nearby.
Makomo hands the bag over to one of the nurses before dropping back into her seat beside Giyuu.
“Hey, Giyuu,” she says after a moment, “how long are you staying?”
He shrugs faintly. “Not sure yet.”
“You can stay at my place tonight if you want.”
“No, it’s fine,” he says quietly. “I got a week off work, so I’ll probably just stay with Tsutako.”
Makomo nods, though her eyes linger on him for a second longer.
Giyuu sinks further into the stiff hospital chair, exhaustion settling heavily into his bones now that the adrenaline from earlier has finally started fading.
He feels off.
Like his mind is somewhere several steps behind his body.
“Hey,” Makomo says carefully, “have you actually been doing okay?”
“Yeah,” he lies automatically. “I’m fine.”
Makomo immediately gives him a flat look.
“Giyuu,” she says slowly, “I’ve known you since we were five years old. Spill.”
He exhales sharply through his nose, irritation briefly flickering across his face.
Not at her.
Just at the conversation itself.
After a long pause, he finally speaks.
“He called me two weeks ago.”
Makomo’s expression shifts immediately.
“He said he wants to talk,” Giyuu continues quietly, staring down at his hands. “Apparently he already spoke to Tsutako. She’s willing to forgive him and give him another chance.”
“Oh…”
Makomo already knows enough about his father for the room to grow tense immediately.
“So…” she says carefully, “are you going to meet him?”
“No.” The answer leaves him instantly.
Too quickly.
“He hasn’t been part of my life for over a decade,” Giyuu scoffs bitterly. “He doesn’t suddenly get to show back up now and pretend any of it didn’t happen.”
He means every word.
And yet—
A small part of him still hates how angry it makes him.
Because anger means he still cares.
He still can’t forgive him.
Not for leaving.
Not for everything he put their mother through.
And not for the way everything ended afterward.
Some wounds stop bleeding long before they actually heal.
Makomo’s expression softens slightly.
“…Yeah,” she says quietly. “I understand.”
A heavy silence settles between them after that.
Then Makomo nudges his shoulder lightly.
“For what it’s worth,” she says, “I think you’re handling things a lot better than you used to.”
Giyuu glances at her briefly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
Makomo doesn’t elaborate further, but she doesn’t need to.
He’d gotten better since then.
Mostly.
“…I’m trying,” he mutters eventually.
Makomo’s expression softens.
“I know.”
The two fall quiet again after that.
Makomo studies him for another second before sighing dramatically.
“But,” she adds lightly, trying to ease the heaviness in the conversation, “I still think that Uzui guy you work with is a terrible influence on you.”
Giyuu blinks once. “Tengen?”
“Yes, Tengen,” she says. “The man sounds like he starts every morning by making bad decisions on purpose.”
A quiet breath of amusement escapes him despite himself.
“He’s not that bad.”
Makomo gives him a look.
“Giyuu, Tsutako told me he convinced you to go clubbing.”
“…In my defense, he was very persistent.”
“And look how that turned out,” she says teasingly.
Giyuu immediately looks away, the tips of his ears turning pink.
Makomo’s eyes widen slightly before she bursts out laughing.
“Oh my god, you actually like her.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
And she's right.
You’re curled up in bed watching your favorite show now, exhausted from your outing with Mitsuri and her relentless interrogation.
Not that you can really blame her.
She means well.
Still, your mind keeps drifting back toward Giyuu.
You wonder how things are going back in Japan.
Whether the person he rushed to see is okay.
Whether he’s okay.
Your phone suddenly buzzes against your nightstand.
You reach over immediately, unlocking it.
It’s Giyuu.
Giyuu: Hey, sorry for taking so long to reach out. Things have been a little busy since I landed.
Y/n: No worries, I totally understand. Is everything okay? What happened?
A few moments pass before the typing bubble appears again.
Giyuu: Yeah, everything’s under control now. My old swim instructor got into a pretty bad accident, but he’s going to be okay.
Despite the wording, you can tell the man is probably far more important to him than just a swim instructor.
Y/n: Oh, I’m really sorry to hear that. I hope he recovers quickly.
Another pause.
Then-
Giyuu: I know it’s late, but can you call?
Your chest tightens slightly at the message.
Y/n: Yeah, sure.
Almost immediately, your phone lights up with an incoming call.
You answer quickly.
“Hi,” you say softly.
Giyuu’s tired voice fills your room almost instantly.
“Hello.”
He sounds exhausted.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
The two of you talk quietly for a while, mostly about small things at first.
The flight.
The hospital.
How Mitsuri nearly killed you dragging you through five different clothing stores.
At some point, you suggest playing twenty questions to distract him a little.
To your surprise, he agrees.
You learn he’s twenty-one.
His birthday is February eighth.
His favorite color is blue, and his favorite food is simmered salom daikon.
You quietly tuck the information away for later.
In return, he learns yours too.
You can practically hear him memorizing it through the silence that follows.
He asks about your interests next, and somehow the conversation spirals from there.
He learns you’re also twenty-one, currently suffering through pre-med while juggling your job as a barista.
“You willingly chose that life,” he says dryly after listening to you complain about exams for nearly five minutes straight.
“I was young and optimistic.”
“You made poor decisions.”
You gasp dramatically.
“That’s mean.”
“A little.”
The quiet amusement in his voice sends warmth blooming through your chest.
You smile into your pillow.
Eventually, curiosity gets the better of you.
“So,” you ask softly, “what made you become a tattoo artist?”
The line grows quiet for a moment.
Then-
“It started with drawing,” he says.
His voice sounds softer now.
Less guarded.
“I liked it because it made it easy to escape sometimes.”
You stay quiet, letting him continue.
“One day I saw someone with a tattoo I thought looked incredible,” he says. “I liked the idea of art becoming part of someone permanently.”
You smile faintly.
“So you bought a tattoo gun?”
“…Behind my sister’s back.”
You snort quietly.
“I was sixteen,” he adds defensively.
“That somehow makes it worse.”
A soft huff of laughter leaves him.
He tells you about practicing on himself first.
About ruining several designs before finally getting better.
About how he fell in love with tattooing because every client walked in carrying a different story.
“Every tattoo means something different to someone,” he says quietly. “I think that’s my favorite part.”
It’s the most he’s spoken all day.
Maybe even the most he’s spoken to you at all.
You listen quietly as his voice fills the room.
Slow.
Low.
Comforting.
He isn’t pushy or demanding, or arrogant like most men you’ve met.
For the first time in a long time you let your guard down.
Slightly.
Eventually, exhaustion begins catching up to you.
Your responses grow quieter.
Slower.
Your eyes drift shut before you even realize it’s happening.
On the other side of the world, Giyuu notices the silence almost immediately.
“…Y/n?”
No response.
He waits for a second before hearing the soft sound of your breathing through the speaker.
Something in his chest tightens unexpectedly.
Not painfully.
Just… warm.
After a long moment, Giyuu leans his head back against his sisters couch and closes his eyes for the first time all day.
you know how Katara was the Painted Lady and then the real Painted Lady showed up cause her river was clean like "thank you" and that was pretty cool? Yeah? Ok:
Zuko goes out into the garden at night, he looks at the pond, swoosh, he lifts his head up and the Blue Spirit is there like "fuck you, people think i'm a pastry thief"
༉‧₊˚✧ Summary: After having your first child with Zuko, you realized this is what he needed to finally heal.
༉‧₊˚✧ A/N: PURE FLUFF
You remembered Zuko during his first days upon the Fire Throne more clearly than anyone else ever could.
Not the image the people eventually came to adore - the composed Fire Lord with sharp eyes and royal posture, draped in crimson and gold like he had been born for power.
You remembered the boy beneath the crown.
Seventeen years old. Far too young for a throne built from generations of bloodshed and fear.
He carried himself as though he belonged there, spine straight and chin lifted high, but you knew better. You saw the truth hidden underneath every carefully controlled expression.
Zuko was terrified. Not merely of failure, nor of the war his family had left in ruins around him.
He was afraid of himself.
Sometimes, late at night, when the palace corridors fell silent and the servants had long disappeared behind closed doors, you would catch him staring into the flames burning inside the royal braziers with an expression that almost resembled fear.
As though he expected the fire itself to betray him if he lost control for even a second.
And perhaps that fear made sense.
He had been born from a love that was never meant to be gentle, crafted from two souls that should have never been bound together in the first place - a father who carved destruction into everything he touched, and a mother too isolated, too powerless against the monster surrounding her, to fully shield her son from the cruelty of the Fire Nation court.
Ozai had burned his way through Zuko’s life long before the scar ever touched his face, and Ursa, despite loving him with everything she had, could only do so much while drowning in that palace herself.
The result of that broken union stood before the world as Fire Lord: scarred, exhausted, painfully human beneath all the royal armor.
It showed in every part of him, in the stiffness of his shoulders whenever advisors questioned him too harshly, in the exhaustion beneath his eyes after another sleepless night, in the way his hands curled tightly into fists whenever anger rose too quickly in his chest, as though he feared what might happen if he loosened his grip for even a moment.
Pain lived inside Zuko like a second heartbeat.
So did trauma.
So did anxiety.
So did guilt that never truly belonged to him.
Even years later, even after becoming the kind of leader the nations learned to respect, there remained something unbearably heavy about the way he carried himself.
As though the sins of generations rested across his shoulders simply because he happened to be born into the wrong bloodline.
As though he spent every waking moment trying to prove he was not his father.
And perhaps the cruelest part was that Zuko never fully understood how extraordinary that alone made him.
Because despite everything done to him, despite the violence, the exile, the humiliation, the years spent desperately clawing for love from a man incapable of giving it, he still chose kindness. He still chose mercy. He still chose to become better.
Every single day, Zuko fought a war inside himself that nobody else could see, and every single day, he won.
You knew Zuko far too well to ever mistake his silence for coldness.
You had grown beside him through every version of his life - through the fear of becoming the next ruler of a nation stained by war, through stolen moments of happiness that never seemed to last long enough, through heartbreak, grief, healing, and every painful step in between. You had watched him survive the worst parts of himself and somehow still stand back up afterwards.
That was why you noticed the little things nobody else ever paid attention to.
The way he clung to routines as though they were the only stable things in his life.
The way every movement of his seemed carefully calculated, every decision thought through a hundred times before spoken aloud. Zuko hated unpredictability.
He hated losing control. After spending his childhood surrounded by chaos and fear, he had built patterns for himself so meticulously that stepping outside them almost seemed to unsettle him physically.
Because beneath everything - the title, the power, the fire running through his veins - Zuko was terrified of becoming a monster.
The thought alone haunted him more than any enemy ever could. You saw it in the restraint he carried around others, in the guilt that crossed his face whenever anger slipped too sharply into his voice, in the way he would sometimes stare at his own hands after firebending too aggressively, as though he feared they belonged to his father more than to himself.
And yes, Zuko was Ozai’s son.
There was no denying that.
You could see it in the intensity of his gaze, in the frightening strength behind his bending, in the authority he naturally carried without even trying. But the resemblance ended where it mattered most. Where Ozai ruled through fear, Zuko ruled through understanding. Where his father took, Zuko gave. He possessed the same fire, yet chose warmth over destruction every single time.
That was the kind of man he became.
And as a man, Zuko was extraordinary in ways he never fully realized. Capable, intelligent, fiercely protective, the kind of person who carried the weight of entire nations on his shoulders without complaint. Sometimes he became too trapped inside his own thoughts, overanalyzing every mistake until it nearly consumed him, but even then, there was something painfully genuine about him.
Something dependable. Safe. At the end of the day, beneath the scars and royal robes and impossible responsibilities, Zuko was simply a real man.
And more than that, he became a real husband.
He refused to give you anything less than a true marriage.
Not one built out of obligation or political convenience, but one founded on love, trust, and choice.
He waited until the timing was right - until the world around him had finally calmed enough for him to love you properly, without war breathing down his neck or duty constantly tearing him away.
Yes, it took time before he finally allowed himself to court you openly, and there were moments when the waiting frustrated you more than you cared to admit. But looking back, you understood why.
Zuko wanted to offer you stability before asking for your heart completely. He wanted to be certain he could give you the life you deserved instead of dragging you into the chaos he had spent most of his own life trapped inside.
And the wait turned out to be worth it in every possible way.
Because somehow, impossibly, Fire Lord Zuko became the kind of husband young girls dreamed about in romantic stories.
Not because he was perfect, but because every ounce of love he gave was real.
He memorized the smallest things about you without even trying - the teas you liked after difficult days, the exact way you preferred your blankets folded at night, the expressions that meant you were upset even when you insisted you were fine. He kissed your forehead absentmindedly while passing through rooms, held your hand beneath crowded council tables, and looked at you with such quiet devotion that sometimes it still stole the breath from your lungs.
And because Zuko loved so deeply, and because you were hopelessly in love with your husband in return, it was almost inevitable that your love would eventually grow into something even greater.
Maybe the pregnancy had not exactly been planned, but somehow, it still arrived at the perfect time.
Life had finally softened around the two of you - not completely, never completely, but enough for peace to settle into the palace without feeling fragile.
Enough for Zuko to sleep through most nights without waking from old ghosts. Enough for both of you to finally breathe instead of merely survive.
And perhaps that was why it happened so naturally. It did not take long at all after your marriage truly began for love to bloom into something deeper. A few quiet nights tangled together as husband and wife, a few moments where the Fire Lord stopped carrying the world on his shoulders long enough to simply be yours, and suddenly the realization settled between you both like sunlight breaking through clouds.
You were going to have a child.
Before that moment, you and Zuko had spoken about children countless times, usually during the quieter hours of the night when the world outside your chambers no longer demanded pieces of him.
You always smiled whenever the topic came up because, unlike him, you had never feared the idea of parenthood.
Children had always melted your heart so easily. It was simply part of who you were.
Every time you heard a toddler babbling nonsense through the palace gardens or saw tiny hands reaching excitedly toward their parents in crowded streets, your entire expression softened without realizing it.
Zuko noticed it every single time.
He would catch you smiling at children during festivals or stopping to wave at babies carried through the market, and there would always be this faint amusement in his eyes, like he already knew exactly what kind of mother you would become one day.
But him… him, it was more complicated.
There was always warmth in his expression whenever he looked at the children of the people closest to him. You saw it whenever he held Aang and Katara’s youngest in his arms, awkwardly allowing tiny fingers to tug at his sleeves while pretending not to know what he was doing. You saw it in the softness that overtook his face whenever little ones laughed around him, a gentleness so natural it almost seemed to erase the harshness life had carved into him.
For brief moments, he looked peaceful.
And then the fear returned.
You could always spot the exact second it happened.
The subtle tension settling back into his shoulders. The distant look creeping into his eyes as though some painful thought had suddenly dragged him away from the present. It was sharp enough to ache every time you noticed it.
Because Zuko wanted children.
But he was terrified of becoming someone’s father.
It was not difficult to understand why.
His own childhood had left scars far deeper than the one burned across his face. Ozai had turned fatherhood into something cruel in Zuko’s mind - something tied to fear, disappointment, and pain rather than safety or love. You knew there were moments when he genuinely questioned whether darkness simply lived inside his bloodline, waiting to be passed down like some terrible inheritance.
Once, during one of those late-night conversations, he admitted it quietly.
“What if I end up hurting them without meaning to?”
The vulnerability in his voice nearly shattered your heart.
Because that alone proved he never would.
Zuko feared becoming his father so deeply that he monitored every emotion inside himself like it was a weapon waiting to slip from his grasp. He was careful with his anger, careful with his words, careful with the way he carried himself around people he loved. Sometimes too careful. And perhaps he did not realize it then, but monsters never question whether they are monsters.
Ozai never lost sleep wondering if he was causing pain.
Zuko did.
Constantly.
That was the difference between them.
But despite all of Zuko’s fear, despite the hesitation that sometimes clouded his expression whenever the topic of children came up, you still felt it deep in your heart - he would be a good father. No, more than good. He would become the kind of father children felt safe running toward without fear.
The kind that would kneel beside scraped knees and bedtime tears with more patience than he ever believed himself capable of.
You knew it because, beneath all the damage life had inflicted on him, Zuko carried an overwhelming amount of love inside himself. It simply took him longer than others to trust that love enough to let it breathe.
Before your child was born, you had always imagined yourself becoming the mother of a little boy someday.
In your mind, he looked almost identical to you - your smile, your features, your softer expressions - but with Zuko’s stubbornness and quiet intensity woven somewhere into his personality.
You imagined tiny hands gripping your robes through palace halls and messy dark hair sticking up after naps.
That image had lived inside your head for years so naturally that you never thought to question it.
But the moment Zuko became part of your life, that fantasy slowly began slipping away without you even noticing.
Because realistically? Your genes never stood a chance against his.
Not against those sharp golden eyes capable of melting and terrifying people alike. Not against the dark hair that seemed painted from firelit shadows. Not against the sheer force of presence the royal bloodline carried even in childhood.
Somewhere along the way, you simply accepted the inevitable truth: any child of Zuko’s would come into the world already carrying pieces of him too strongly to miss.
And then it finally happened.
After months of waiting, worrying, hoping, and countless sleepless nights, you brought your first child into the world.
A daughter.
The moment the midwives placed her into your arms, it felt as though the entire palace, the entire world, fell silent around you.
She was impossibly tiny, wrapped carefully in soft blankets, her little face scrunched with sleepy confusion at being pulled into such a bright and unfamiliar world.
Thick dark hair already dusted the top of her head, and when she finally blinked her eyes open, your breath caught entirely in your throat.
Amber.
Warm, glowing amber eyes identical to her father’s stared back at you.
You thought your heart might burst right then and there.
She was beautiful.
Not because she carried royal blood, nor because she was destined to become a princess of the Fire Nation someday, but because she already felt like something precious enough to heal broken parts of the world just by existing.
And when you looked toward Zuko, you realized he was staring at her as though he could not believe she was real.
Your husband - the man who once feared himself so deeply, the man who spent years convinced he carried too much darkness inside him - looked utterly defenseless in that moment.
All the strength he wore like armor throughout his life seemed to crumble the second his daughter wrapped her tiny hand around his finger.
You would remember that expression forever.
Wonder.
Fear.
Love so overwhelming it almost looked painful.
Your daughter became the greatest gift either of you had ever received.
Perhaps especially for Zuko.
Because despite all the horrors he had endured, despite the scars his father left carved into his soul, life had still placed something so soft and pure into his hands and trusted him not to break it.
Your little firecracker quickly became the center of both your worlds, filling the once quiet palace chambers with warmth that had been missing for years.
Laughter echoed through hallways once known only for heavy silence and royal tension, tiny babbles replacing the distant sound of political discussions and endless responsibilities.
It was almost unbelievable sometimes, how one impossibly small child could breathe so much life into a place that had spent generations drowning in fear.
And she looked so painfully like her father that it almost made you laugh.
Even at such a young age, before she could properly walk or speak without stumbling over her own words, Zuko’s features were already stamped all over her.
Thick dark hair that stuck messily around her face after naps, sharp amber eyes glowing with curiosity, expressions far too dramatic for someone who barely reached your knees. Her cheeks were so chubby that they nearly swallowed her eyes whenever she smiled, revealing tiny little teeth through drooling giggles that instantly melted everyone around her.
Yet somehow, despite how adorable she was, there was already something strong about her presence - something unmistakably royal, unmistakably Zuko.
Sometimes you would catch servants staring at her with amused expressions because it truly felt like someone had simply shrunk the Fire Lord down into toddler form.
But beneath all the laughter and chaos she brought into your lives, there was something deeper happening too.
Something quieter.
Your daughter healed wounds she did not even know existed.
Wounds her father had carried for so long that he no longer remembered what it felt like to live without them.
Because becoming a father changed Zuko more than anyone realized.
He had not expected it to happen so soon.
Truthfully, he barely felt old enough to process being Fire Lord half the time, let alone someone’s father.
But what truly shook him was not simply parenthood itself.
It was the fact that he had a daughter.
A daughter.
A tiny, fragile little girl carrying his bloodline forward.
The realization alone seemed to haunt him during those first months.
You noticed it constantly in the way he watched her.
Sometimes you would wake in the middle of the night only to find him sitting beside her cradle in complete silence, staring at her with an expression so conflicted it nearly hurt to look at.
She seemed impossibly delicate in his eyes.
Too soft. Too vulnerable for a world he knew could be cruel.
He could barely comprehend how small she truly was.
Her skinny little arms would wiggle wildly in the air while she crawled determinedly across the palace floors, stubbornness radiating from every movement in a way that was very clearly inherited from you.
And Zuko would simply stare at her, almost disbelieving, as though he could not understand how someone so tiny could already possess such fierce determination.
“She’s impossible,” he muttered once while watching her stubbornly attempt to climb over cushions twice her size.
But the fondness in his voice betrayed him completely.
She was so small, her head barely measured the size of his two fists put together. Sometimes when he picked her up, his hands looked absurdly large supporting her little body, making him freeze every single time as though one wrong movement might somehow hurt her.
You knew part of him was constantly terrified of his own strength around her.
And perhaps that fear deepened because she reminded him too much of another little girl he once knew.
Azula.
More than once, you caught his gaze lingering on your daughter with distant thoughts clouding his expression. Later, quietly, he admitted it to you. He remembered Azula at that age too - louder, taller, round-faced and sharp-eyed even as a child.
He remembered the palace swallowing both of them whole long before either truly understood what was happening.
Perhaps that was why he watched your daughter so carefully.
Not because he feared her.
But because he feared the world around her.
Because despite all the joy your daughter brought into his life, Zuko struggled far more with fatherhood than he ever allowed others to see. Becoming Fire Lord had already forced him to grow up too quickly, but becoming someone’s father at such a young age felt entirely different. He had barely learned how to carry the weight of a nation without breaking beneath it, and suddenly he was entrusted with something infinitely more fragile than politics or war.
A daughter.
The reality of it seemed to shake him to his core.
Not because he was disappointed, never that, but because the thought of his bloodline continuing through such a small, delicate little girl awakened fears inside him he did not know how to silence.
A girl.
Someone soft enough to be hurt by the world far too easily.
Someone who trusted him completely from the moment she opened her amber eyes.
There was always hesitation in him during those first months. Hesitation before picking her up from her cradle, as though his hands were too rough for someone so delicate.
Hesitation while helping her stand on shaky legs.
Hesitation even while holding her tiny hand because he feared squeezing too tightly without realizing.
Your daughter was as delicate as a flower in his eyes.
And Zuko, after spending most of his life surrounded by destruction, did not know how to trust himself with something so soft.
“What am I supposed to do with you, my little firecracker?” he sighed one evening while sitting beside the bed, watching her happily tangle herself in expensive silk sheets without a single care in the world.
She barely acknowledged him, too busy babbling nonsense to herself while kicking her tiny feet excitedly against the mattress.
And despite all his fear, despite the anxiety constantly living inside him, you could still see it happening slowly.
Zuko was already hopelessly, completely in love with his daughter.
No matter how much Zuko tried to keep that careful distance at first, your daughter had completely different plans.
Maybe you were the one who carried her for nine months, the one spending most of the day feeding her, bathing her, soothing her back to sleep after nightmares, but in her tiny little mind, none of that mattered nearly as much as her father did.
From the moment she learned how to properly reach for people, she reached for him first.
Tiny hands constantly grabbing at his robes whenever he passed by, little babbles filling the room the second he entered it, amber eyes instantly lighting up with excitement at the mere sight of him.
She was hopelessly attached to Zuko.
And unfortunately for the two of you, she was also painfully possessive about it.
Every attempt he made at peacefully loving his wife somehow ended with a tiny interruption.
The moment he sat beside you, she suddenly needed him.
The second he wrapped his arms around you, she came waddling over with offended little noises, demanding to be picked up immediately.
Half the time, she would physically shove herself between the two of you with all the determination her tiny body could muster, glaring up at you as though you were the intruder stealing her father away.
And Zuko, traitor that he was, always laughed before giving in.
“How could I possibly ignore the princess of the palace?” he would murmur dramatically while scooping her into his arms, despite the way you rolled your eyes at him afterward.
Truthfully, though, he never stood a chance against her.
He belonged entirely to that little girl from the very beginning.
Watching them together side by side was almost unsettling sometimes because of how deeply they resembled one another.
Not only physically, though even that was undeniable - the same amber eyes, the same dark hair, the same expressive face incapable of hiding emotions properly - but in countless smaller ways you never expected.
The similarities revealed themselves slowly over time, catching you off guard in the strangest moments.
The way she slept sprawled across the bed exactly like him, limbs everywhere as though she had personally fought the blankets and lost. The way she furrowed her brows while concentrating on something simple.
Even the way she walked somehow mirrored Zuko despite her tiny unsteady legs still wobbling beneath her with every rushed step. Sometimes she would stomp around the palace with the exact same dramatic determination her father carried during council meetings, and it took everything in you not to burst into laughter whenever you noticed.
You found yourself watching them often.
Quietly.
From afar.
Sometimes from the doorway of your chambers while Zuko sat cross-legged on the floor letting your daughter climb all over him like a tiny firebending menace. Other times from the palace gardens where she ran circles around him while he pretended not to notice her attempts at sneaking away.
And slowly, over time, you realized something beautiful was happening.
Zuko was healing alongside her.
As your daughter grew older - becoming louder, faster, more mischievous with every passing month - something inside him softened completely.
The constant tension living in his shoulders began disappearing little by little. He stopped overthinking every movement around her. Stopped analyzing himself so harshly every second of the day. Around your daughter, Zuko finally allowed himself to exist without fear constantly breathing down his neck.
He learned how to simply be.
To be a father.
A husband.
A man.
Not a Fire Lord burdened by expectations or haunted by his bloodline. Just… Zuko.
And for the first time since you had known him, he looked free.
You truly noticed it around the time your daughter turned one and a half. By then, she had become a whirlwind of energy incapable of sitting still for more than a few seconds.
Tiny feet carried her everywhere at alarming speed while her endless curiosity constantly pushed her toward new disasters waiting to happen.
That afternoon, she had apparently decided the palace gardens were hers to conquer.
You stood nearby trying not to laugh as Zuko followed after her across the stone paths, large hurried strides struggling to keep up with the way she changed directions without warning every few seconds.
One moment she was running toward the koi pond, the next she was distracted by flowers, and then suddenly sprinting toward a servant carrying fruit simply because she found the basket interesting.
And behind her came the Fire Lord himself.
Tall and radiant beneath the sunlight, crimson robes fluttering around his legs while loose dark strands of hair danced through the warm breeze. He looked almost godlike like that - powerful and untouchable beneath the golden afternoon glow.
Yet the expression on his face was anything but intimidating.
The anxious frown that used to follow him everywhere had disappeared completely, replaced instead by a teasing smile that looked so natural on him now it almost hurt your chest to witness it.
“My little firecracker,” he called after her with mock exasperation, laughter already slipping into his voice, “come back here before you destroy something important.”
“My firecracker, get back to your father!”
He always called her that - my little firecracker.
You did not know exactly when the nickname appeared or why it stayed, but somehow it fit her too perfectly to question it.
Perhaps it was the way she burned through every room with unstoppable energy, or maybe it was because she carried so much of him inside such a tiny body.
At the sound of his voice, your daughter looked back over her shoulder with wide amber eyes sparkling mischievously, and instead of obeying him, her tiny legs moved even faster.
The sight alone nearly made you laugh.
She could barely run properly yet, her steps uneven and clumsy, but she acted as though escaping the Fire Lord himself was the greatest challenge ever placed before her.
Zuko let out an exaggerated sigh before immediately giving chase again.
“Oh no you don’t-....”
It happened so quickly you almost missed it. One second your daughter was squealing triumphantly while stumbling across the stone paths, and the next Zuko had effortlessly swept her into his arms with a victorious grin spreading across his face.
“Gotcha!” he laughed, lifting her high enough for her delighted squeals to echo through the gardens. “And where exactly did you think you were going, huh?”
Your daughter answered him with incoherent babbling and breathless giggles, tiny hands immediately grabbing at his face while he pressed his cheek dramatically against hers.
They looked almost identical like that - matching dark hair tangled by the wind, matching amber eyes glowing beneath the sunlight, matching smiles so full of life it hurt your chest.
“You’re in serious trouble now, missy,” Zuko continued with mock severity while she laughed harder at absolutely nothing. “Your mother is waaay too far away to save you this time.”
At the mention of you, your daughter immediately twisted in his arms searching for where you stood nearby, little hands already reaching in your direction despite the fact she had spent the last ten minutes actively running away from him.
Traitor.
And then Zuko looked up too.
The moment his eyes met yours, something inside your chest softened so deeply it almost ached.
Because suddenly the image before you became one you knew you would carry for the rest of your life.
Your husband standing beneath the warm glow of the afternoon sun, robes fluttering gently around him, your daughter held securely against his chest while both of them looked at you with the exact same eyes. The two people you loved most in the entire world staring back at you with identical warmth painted across their faces.
One your heart.
The other your soul.
And somehow, they carried the same beauty so unmistakably that it felt impossible not to see how deeply they belonged to one another.
“Well, well,” you teased softly while walking toward them, unable to stop smiling, “look who finally got caught.”
Zuko narrowed his eyes playfully while adjusting your daughter higher in his arms as though protecting his prize.
“I caught a very dangerous criminal, actually.”
Your daughter squealed proudly at that, clearly taking it as a compliment.
“Perhaps I should step in and save her?” you asked, stopping in front of them.
At your approach, both their faces lit up at the exact same time.
The same smile.
The same eyes.
The same overwhelming love.
And in that moment, watching the two of them standing there together while laughter filled the gardens around you, you realized something simple yet devastatingly beautiful.
That was what home felt like.
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CRYING, SOBBING, AND THROWING UP IN FATHERLESS
Husagi Shuuhei @husagishuuhei - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
