Naamloos

Synopsis: After a dangerous escape, that leavea George with one ear, you return to the Burrow and find George injured and hiding his pain with humor. As you care for him, you help him and Fred find a moment of quiet and reassurance after the chaos.

The Burrow is louder than usual when you step through the front door—but not in the way it should be. The warmth is there, the familiar clutter, the low hum of voices—but it’s strained, stretched thin with worry.

Molly’s voice cuts through it all.

“How do you feel, Georgie?”

You follow the sound into the sitting room. George is stretched along the couch, pale beneath his freckles, a bandage clumsily pressed to the side of his head. There’s too much blood. Even now.

“Saint-like…” he mumbles.

Fred is hovering nearby, restless, eyes darting too quickly. “What’s wrong with him? Is his mind affected?”

George doesn’t even open his eyes. “You see… I’m holy. Holey, Fred, geddit?”

Molly lets out a small, broken sob.

Fred groans, exasperated. “Pathetic. With the whole wide world of ear-related humour before you, you go for holey?”

You don’t wait for more. You cross the room and swat George’s leg as you sit beside him.

“Don’t joke like that.”

His head turns slightly toward you. The smirk is still there—of course it is—but it’s weaker now, worn thin at the edges. His eyes soften when they meet yours.

Molly is still trying to clean the wound, her hands trembling despite her effort to stay steady. You reach out, placing a hand gently on her shoulder.

“Here. Let me.”

She looks up at you, tired and frightened in a way you’ve rarely seen. After a moment, she nods and steps back, grateful for the excuse to breathe.

You take her place beside George’s head, carefully moving the cloth aside to properly see the damage. It’s worse up close. Cleaner than before—but final in a way that makes your chest tighten.

George watches you, quieter now.

“Ah, my favorite healer finally takes pity on me,” he murmurs. “Careful—wouldn’t want you getting blood on your hands.”

Fred snorts. “Unbelievable. Half an ear gone and he’s still flirting.”

You don’t smile.

“George,” you say, steady but firm, “enough. It’s alright to feel awful. You just lost an ear.”

That lands.

For a moment, the act slips. His mouth presses into a thin line, and you see it—real pain, real exhaustion, the effort it’s taking just to stay upright.

“Didn’t want Mum crying more,” he admits quietly. “Or Fred panicking.”

Fred stiffens at that, but says nothing.

George lowers his voice, just for you. “Hurts more than I let on.”

You nod once, continuing your work. “Molly’s with Arthur now. She’ll be alright. And Fred—” you glance briefly at him “—he’ll survive not being the brave one for five minutes.”

Fred huffs, but doesn’t argue.

You begin stitching.

George’s breath catches sharply, his fingers twitching like he wants to grab onto something—but he holds still, jaw tight. His eyes stay on yours, grounding himself.

“Rest,” you tell him quietly. “Just for a bit.”

He tries for another smirk. It barely forms.

“Reckon I could,” he mutters. “If you promise not to let Fred draw anything on my face.”

“Would I ever—” Fred starts.

“Yes,” George cuts in, already fading. His hand finds yours briefly, grip weak but deliberate. “You’ll be here when I wake up?”

“Yes,” you answer.

That’s enough. His hand slackens, and he’s asleep within seconds.

—

Time passes quietly after that.

You finish the stitching, wrap the bandage properly, clean away what you can. One by one, the others drift off to bed, exhaustion finally winning over worry. Eventually, it’s just you and Fred left in the dim light of the room.

George sleeps deeply now, his face younger without the constant mischief animating it. The bandage stands out starkly against his hair.

Fred speaks first, voice low.

“How is he?”

“Exhausted. Vulnerable,” you say, cleaning your hands. “But he’ll be fine.”

Fred nods, though the tension in his shoulders doesn’t ease.

“He hides it,” he says after a moment. “Always has. Doesn’t like people fussing.”

“I’ve noticed.”

Fred glances at you. “It’s different with you.”

You shrug lightly. “You see through him too. You just let him get away with it.”

That earns a quiet, tired chuckle. “Fair.”

Silence settles again, softer this time.

“Go sit with him,” you say gently.

Fred doesn’t argue. He moves to the couch and sits carefully, placing a hand on George’s shoulder. The gesture is small, automatic—familiar in a way that doesn’t need explanation.

You grab a couple of blankets and drape them over both of them.

“You should rest too,” you add.

Fred looks up at you, eyes heavy now. He starts to protest, but a yawn cuts him off.

“Yeah… alright,” he admits. He adjusts the blanket around George before settling in properly. “You’ll wake me if anything changes?”

You nod.

“I will.”

Fred relaxes slightly at that, his hand still resting on his twin as his eyes begin to close.

And for the first time since you walked in, the Burrow feels a little steadier.

Credits: I used a cai bot from @Moonlightnight123 as my base so all credits go to them.

Synopsis: Neteyam, still shaped by a past near-death experience, struggles with fear and responsibility when leadership suddenly falls on him. As his protectiveness over you intensifies, your decision to go hunting alone creates tension between his fear of loss and your need for independence.

Years had passed since the wound that nearly took Neteyam’s life.

The scar remained—faint now, hidden beneath corded muscle and the beads of the Metkayina—but it had changed him. Not just his body, but the way he carried himself, the way he loved, the way he feared loss. The reef had become his home, the rhythm of the tides replacing the forests he once knew. He had found a place among the Metkayina, earned their trust, their respect… and something more.

He had found you.

You were there when he was at his weakest—when breath came sharp and shallow, when pain blurred his thoughts, when survival itself felt uncertain. You had guided him through healing, through belonging, through becoming something new without losing who he was. And somewhere between training, quiet conversations, and shared silences, you became the center of his world.

Neteyam was not careless with his devotion. But with you, it ran deep—fierce, protective, and sometimes overwhelming.

—

It was supposed to be an ordinary day.

The marui was warm with filtered sunlight, the ocean breeze slipping through its woven walls. You worked near the cooking stones, hands steady, familiar with every motion. Behind you, Neteyam sorted through baskets—his movements slower than usual, distracted.

Then the news came.

Tonowari had fallen ill.

The words spread quickly, carried on urgency and worry. Tsireya had gone to him. Aonung followed. The village shifted, unsettled, leadership suddenly uncertain.

And just like that, the weight fell onto Neteyam’s shoulders.

He didn’t say it out loud, but everyone felt it. He was trusted. Capable. Strong. A leader in all but name.

But you saw what others didn’t.

The tension in his shoulders. The way his jaw clenched. The quiet storm behind his eyes.

—

When you approached, he was already seated in meditation, back straight, eyes closed, trying—failing—to steady himself.

“Not now, ma’sevín… I’m trying to think,” he muttered, his voice tight.

You leaned against the doorway, watching him for a moment. You didn’t answer right away.

You didn’t need to.

“I know,” he added after a second, exhaling slowly. One eye opened, glancing toward you. “You didn’t have to say anything.”

You sighed softly, pushing off the frame. “Teyam… I know you’re stressed. But don’t aim it at me.”

That made his eyes open fully.

A flicker of guilt crossed his face, quickly masked by frustration. “I’m not.”

But even he didn’t sound convinced.

You inhaled, steadying yourself. This wasn’t a fight worth having—not now.

“I’m going hunting,” you said instead.

That got his full attention.

His head snapped up, eyes sharp. “What? No—you’re not.”

He stood immediately, crossing the space in a few strides and placing himself between you and the exit.

“It’s not safe.

You crossed your arms slightly, unimpressed. “I see you, Ma’Teyam. But I’m not a child. I’m a warrior. I know these waters, these forests.”

His expression softened at your words—but only slightly. The worry didn’t leave his eyes.

“I know what you are,” he said quietly, stepping closer. His voice dropped, more vulnerable now. “I see you. I always see you.”

His hand lifted, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face, fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

“Strong. Fierce… stubborn,” he added under his breath.

Despite everything, a faint warmth flickered between you.

“But my heart doesn’t care about that,” he continued. “Not when it comes to you.”

There it was—the truth beneath the tension.

“If something happened…” His voice faltered, barely above a whisper. “I wouldn’t survive it. Not again.”

Silence settled between you.

You stepped closer and pressed a gentle kiss to his temple.

“It wasn’t a question, Teyam,” you murmured. “I need space. And right now, you’re too wound up to give it to me.”

He closed his eyes at your touch, leaning into it instinctively. For a moment, the leader, the warrior—all of it fell away. He was just him.

Just yours.

“I don’t have to like it,” he muttered, pulling you into an embrace and burying his face against your neck.

You smiled faintly, running your fingers through his braids. “I’ll be back before sundown. Try to calm down while I’m gone.”

“I’ll try,” he said, though it sounded like a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep.

His arms tightened slightly around you.

“Just… come back to me.”

“I will.”

—

The forest swallowed you quickly—familiar, alive, and calming in a way nothing else was. Each step steadied your thoughts, each breath clearer than the last.

Back at the marui, Neteyam felt the opposite

The moment you disappeared from sight, the silence became unbearable.

He tried to focus—on tasks, on breathing, on anything—but his mind kept circling back to you. Every distant sound made his ears twitch. Every shadow stretched into something worse.

Time dragged.

Hours passed.

And still, he waited.

—

When you returned, it was quiet—your steps soft, almost teasing.

“I thought I told you to calm down and rest,” you said as you stepped inside.

Neteyam jolted upright instantly.

Relief hit first—sharp and overwhelming—followed closely by frustration.

“I tried,” he said, running a hand through his braids, breath uneven. “But how could I when you were out there? Alone. Anything could’ve

He stopped himself, exhaling sharply.

His eyes scanned you quickly, checking for injuries, for anything out of place.

Only when he found none did his shoulders finally drop.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered, though there was no real anger behind it.

You raised an eyebrow. “And yet, here I am.”

He stepped closer, reaching for you without hesitation this time—hands settling at your waist, grounding himself in your presence.

“Don’t do that again,” he said quietly.

You tilted your head slightly. “Go hunting?”

“No,” he corrected, voice softer now. “Leave when I can’t protect you.”

You held his gaze for a moment, then rested your forehead against his.

“I don’t need protecting all the time, Teyam.”

“I know,” he said.

A pause.

“…but I’ll never stop wanting to.”

And this time, you didn’t argue.

Credits: I used a cai bot from @Yax_N0tTaken as my base so all credits go to them.

Synopsis: For weeks, the Wayne family has watched Damian grow increasingly distant and volatile, unable to uncover the cause behind his shift in behavior. But when a mysterious young woman from the League of Assassins arrives at their door, the truth comes to light: Damian had been hiding a secret even they couldn’t uncover—an arranged marriage from his past.

Damian Wayne had always been the biggest mystery in the family.

And that was saying something—considering the family included a billionaire who dressed like a bat, a former circus acrobat turned cop, a genius insomniac, and a crime lord with a helmet.

When Damian first arrived at Wayne Manor, he’d been sharp edges and silence. He spoke only when necessary—and usually to insult someone. Over the years, that had… softened. Slightly.

Now, at nineteen, he tolerated proximity. Occasionally accepted touch. Insulted people less creatively.

But he was still closed off in ways none of them could quite reach.

And lately?

Something was wrong.

“He’s been off for weeks,” Dick said, sprawled across the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes. “More than usual.”

Tim didn’t look up from his phone. “I checked patrol logs. Camera feeds, comms—nothing unusual. No injuries he didn’t report, no weird encounters.”

Jason, half-watching a basketball game, shrugged. “Maybe he’s just being his usual charming self.”

“Master Damian has been… more irritable than normal,” Alfred added politely.

Bruce stood near the fireplace, arms crossed, brow furrowed. “It’s not just irritation,” he said quietly. “Something’s bothering him.”

Jason glanced over. “Talia?”

Bruce hesitated. “No recent contact.”

That didn’t make it better.

If anything, it made it worse.

The room fell quiet, each of them turning it over in their heads—because for all their differences, they agreed on one thing:

If something was wrong with Damian, they wanted to fix it.

A knock echoed through the manor.

All of them stilled.

At this hour?

Alfred moved first, as he always did.

When he opened the door, he paused.

That alone was enough to draw the others closer.

You stood on the threshold, framed by the dim lights outside. Composed, but not entirely at ease. Your posture was perfect—trained—but there was something restrained in it, like you were holding yourself carefully in place.

The dress you wore was unmistakable in its craftsmanship—deep greens, gold threading, elegant but deliberate.

League.

“Good evening, miss,” Alfred said smoothly. “How may I assist you?”

Before you could answer—

“Habibti?”

Every head turned.

Damian stood at the top of the stairs.

Frozen.

For a moment, he didn’t move at all. Just stared—like his brain hadn’t caught up to what his eyes were seeing.

Then something in him broke loose.

He moved—fast

Down the stairs, across the floor—straight to you.

His hands found you first, then his arms wrapped around you fully, pulling you in like he needed to make sure you were real. His face pressed into your hair, his breathing uneven for the first time anyone in that room could remember.

“Beloved…” His voice was quieter now. Rougher. “I haven’t—”

He stopped.

Didn’t finish.

Just held you tighter.

Three years.

That’s how long it had been.

“Dame,” Jason cut in, because of course he did, “who the hell is that?”

Damian didn’t let go of you when he answered.

“My wife,” he said flatly.

Silence.

Complete.

Utter.

Jason blinked. “Your what?”

Damian finally pulled back just enough to look at them, one arm still firmly around your waist.

“My wife,” he repeated, slower this time, like they were the stupid ones. “Arranged marriage. League politics.” A pause—brief, but meaningful. “Not just that.”

The way he looked at you then said the rest.

It wasn’t obligation anymore.

Hadn’t been for a long time.

“I haven’t seen her since I left.”

That landed.

Harder than anything else.

You lifted a hand slightly, offering a small, uncertain wave. “Hello.”

Damian immediately tightened his hold on you, just slightly—protective, grounding.

“Ignore them,” he muttered near your temple. “They are incapable of behaving properly.”

There was a faint warmth in his voice that hadn’t been there before.

A softness none of them had ever heard directed at anyone.

Then, quieter—just for you:

“You’re really here.”

“I was sent,” you said gently.

That did it.

His entire body went still.

Not relaxed—still.

“Talia,” he said, and it sounded like a warning

You felt the shift instantly—the tension, the instinct to shield, to prepare.

He pulled back just enough to look at you properly, his hand lifting to your cheek without thinking.

“Why?” he asked, low. Controlled. “What does she want?”

“I’m safe,” you said first, before anything else. You could see where his mind had gone. “She didn’t threaten me.”

That didn’t fully ease him—but it helped.

“The League is unstable right now,” you continued, glancing briefly at Bruce before returning to Damian. “Internal conflict. Power struggles.” A small pause. “I am… politically valuable.”

That was putting it lightly.

Damian’s jaw tightened.

He understood exactly what that meant.

And he hated it.

Bruce stepped forward slightly, his voice measured. “You’re seeking refuge.”

“Yes,” you said simply. “If you allow it.”

Before Bruce could answer—

“You’re staying.”

Damian didn’t even look at him.

It wasn’t a suggestion.

It wasn’t a request.

It was a fact.

Bruce studied him for a moment, then you.

“…You’re welcome to stay,” he said finally.

You inclined your head politely. “Thank you.”

Dick clapped his hands once, trying to break the tension. “Great! Ground rules—”

Damian groaned under his breath.

“No killing,” Bruce said immediately.

You tilted your head slightly. “That is all?”

Jason snorted. “Oh, she’s definitely League.”

“Weapons will be logged,” Bruce added.

You nodded once.

Then, without hesitation, you lifted the slit of your dress and retrieved two blades, holding them out handle-first to Alfred.

“Careful,” you said calmly. “They are poisoned.”

Alfred accepted them without so much as blinking.

Behind you, there was a very noticeable silence.

“…Poisoned?” Damian repeated.

There wasn’t judgment in his voice.

There was concern.

Not about the weapons.

About you.

You glanced at him, just briefly. “Standard precaution.”

His expression darkened slightly—not at you, but at what that implied about how you’d been living.

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then his hand found yours again, grip firm, grounding.

“You will not need that here,” he said quietly.

Not an order.

A promise.

He stepped a little closer, positioning himself just slightly in front of you—not enough to be obvious, but enough that anyone watching would understand.

You were under his protection.

Entirely.

And for the first time since you’d arrived—

He didn’t look like a mystery.

He looked like someone who had been missing something.

And had just gotten it back.

Credits: I used a cai bot from @h0ttiewithab0dy as my base so all credits go to them.

Synopsis: After a brutal night on patrol leaves all four brothers injured, Damian unexpectedly leads them not back to Wayne Manor—but to a place none of them knew existed: your apartment.

Rain hadn’t fallen in hours, but Gotham still looked soaked through—streets gleaming under streetlights, rooftops slick, fire escapes dripping like the city hadn’t stopped crying at all.

Four figures moved across those rooftops, slower than they should’ve been. Not careless—just worn down. The kind of exhaustion that seeps into bone and makes even trained bodies hesitate.

Damian was the only one still trying to move like nothing was wrong.

Trying.

His posture stayed straight, stubborn as ever, but it didn’t hide everything. His cape was torn, the fabric heavy where blood had soaked through near his ribs. Each breath came a little too sharp, a little too shallow. He hid it well—but not from them.

Dick noticed first. He always did.

He landed beside him on the last fire escape, boots clanging softly against metal. “Hey,” he said, voice lower than usual. “You’re leaning.”

“I am not,” Damian snapped, immediately proving the point by stumbling half a step.

Tim dropped down beside them, one arm pressed tight to his own side, his breathing controlled but strained. “We need to head back,” he said. “This isn’t—”

“No.” Damian didn’t even look at him. “We’re closer to somewhere else.”

Jason came last, slower than the rest, helmet tucked under his arm. He looked all irritation on the surface, but his eyes were sharp, tracking every misstep Damian made. “That ‘somewhere else’ better have a bed,” he muttered. “Because I’m not carrying you if you drop.”

Damian ignored him. Of course he did.

He was already moving again, hand pressed to his side, jaw tight as he made his way down the ladder. The others followed without arguing further. They knew that tone.

Still, something felt… off.

Tim glanced over as they walked. “Is he checking his phone?”

Jason huffed. “Yeah. He knows exactly where he’s going.”

That alone was strange enough.

Five minutes later, they stood in front of a narrow apartment building tucked between two aging brick shops. Quiet. Dark, except for a faint glow from one upstairs window.

Damian hesitated—just for a second—before steadying himself against the railing.

Dick stepped closer, voice softening. “Whose place is this?”

No answer.

Instead, Damian stepped forward and keyed in the entry code.

The lock clicked.

All three of them froze.

Jason blinked. “You’ve been here before.”

Tim muttered, “More than once, apparently.”

Damian didn’t respond. He just pushed the door open and stepped inside, his movements slower now, the adrenaline clearly wearing thin.

“Stay quiet,” he said under his breath. “You’ll wake her.”

That stopped them cold.

“She?” Dick echoed.

But Damian was already heading upstairs.

They followed anyway.

At the end of the short hallway, he stopped in front of a door. There was something small hanging from the handle—a simple charm, handmade, a little worn. He looked at it for a fraction longer than necessary.

Then he unlocked the door and stepped inside.

Warmth met them immediately.

A lamp glowed softly in the corner. The faint scent of a candle lingered in the air. The space felt lived in—comfortable in a way none of them expected from Damian’s life.

He exhaled, and for the first time that night, his shoulders dropped.

Jason stepped in behind him. “We’re definitely waking her.

“Too late,” Dick murmured, glancing toward the hallway.

A quiet sound—movement. Then your voice, still thick with sleep:

“…Damian?”

He closed his eyes briefly.

When he opened them, something in his expression had shifted. Not gone—just cracked enough to let something real through.

Relief. Pain. Trust.

“I’m here,” he said, quieter now.

You stepped into the hallway, pulling on a pair of sweats, your eyes still adjusting. And then you saw them.

All of them.

And the blood.

Your expression changed instantly.

“God—what happened?”

You didn’t wait for an answer.

“Sit,” you said, already moving, already thinking ahead. “All of you.”

There was no hesitation in your voice, no panic—just clear, steady control.

It worked.

Dick sank onto the couch first with a tired exhale. Jason followed, still looking around like he was trying to piece together a puzzle. Tim sat more carefully, his hand never leaving his side.

You grabbed water. Painkillers. Moved like you’d done this before—or at least like you weren’t about to let them bleed on your floor without a fight.

“I’ll introduce myself later,” you said, handing out pills. “Right now, you take these.”

Jason gave you a brief, surprised look before muttering, “Thanks,” and doing exactly what you said.

Tim followed suit. Dick didn’t even question it.

Then you turned.

“Damian. Sit.”

He didn’t argue.

That alone was enough to earn three very quiet looks from the couch.

He lowered himself into the chair, movements stiff now that he didn’t have momentum to hide behind.

You came back with the first aid kit, took one look at him, and raised a brow.

“Do I treat you through the suit, or…?”

He huffed softly, already undoing the fastenings. “I am capable of removing it.”

“Good,” you muttered.

The armor came off in pieces, revealing the damage beneath—dark fabric soaked through, the wound deeper than he’d let on.

The room went quieter.

You didn’t react beyond a small tightening of your jaw. Just lifted his shirt carefully and got to work.

The antiseptic hit.

His breath caught sharply, fingers gripping the edge of the chair—but he didn’t pull away.

“Delicate,” he muttered, somewhere between complaint and something softer.

“Don’t start,” you said, focused.

From the couch, Jason muttered, “This is unreal.”

“Shut up,” Tim whispered.

You ignored them.

By the time you finished with Damian, the tension in his shoulders had eased—just a little. You pressed a final bandage into place, then leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his forehead.

It was small. Casual.

But it landed.

You turned immediately. “Alright. Who’s next?”

Tim stood first.

One by one, you patched them up. Cleaned wounds, wrapped injuries, kept them all steady and quiet in a way none of them were used to outside of… well.

Not this. Not something this gentle.

By the time you were done, the room felt different. Softer. Quieter.

You gathered the supplies, already moving on.

“Any allergies?” you asked over your shoulder.

Three tired voices answered no.

“Good.”

You disappeared into the kitchen.

They watched you go.

“Is she… cooking?” Dick whispered.

Tim rubbed his face. “I think she is.”

Jason leaned back, staring at Damian. “You’ve been hiding this.”

Damian didn’t answer.

He was watching you.

“Don’t hover,” you called without turning. “Either sit or come here.”

He hesitated for half a second—then moved to the counter.

“I am not hovering,” he muttered.

You didn’t dignify that with a response.

Soon, the smell of tomato soup filled the apartment—warm, simple, grounding in a way none of them realized they needed.

When you handed out the bowls, they didn’t pretend to be polite about it.

“This is incredible,” Dick said after the first bite.

Tim didn’t even speak—just kept eating.

Jason shook his head. “Yeah. Worth getting stabbed for.”

“There’s more,” you said. “Don’t rush.”

You handed Damian his last.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Then you sat beside him, leaning carefully against his uninjured side.

He adjusted instantly, arm coming around you without thinking.

The others noticed.

Of course they did.

Dick smirked. “Wow. This is new.”

“He better,” you murmured, eyes half-closed. “You all woke me up and bled on my floor.”

Jason huffed a quiet laugh. “Fair.”

Tim added, “We’ll fix the carpet.”

Dick’s voice softened. “And… sorry.”

The room settled after that.

No more tension. No more urgency.

Just quiet. Warmth. The clink of spoons against bowls.

Damian rested his chin lightly against your head.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he said.

You didn’t open your eyes.

“Just come when you need to,” you murmured.

He went still for a moment.

Then, softer—almost like he wasn’t sure he meant to say it out loud:

“And if I always need to?”

A faint smile tugged at your lips.

“Then stay.”

Simple.

Too simple, maybe.

Because his grip on you tightened slightly, like he wasn’t used to things being that easy.

“You make it sound simple,” he said under his breath.

You didn’t answer.

You were already drifting again—safe, warm, and completely certain he’d still be there when you woke up.

Credits: I used a cai bot from @RayRay94 as my base so all credits go to them.

Synopsis: Wally West may have a messy romantic history, but with you, he’s determined to do things right. Braving your intimidating family, he shows up with takeout and a lot of nervous energy, trying not to mess up something that actually matters.

Wally West is very aware of the reputation that follows him around.

It’s not entirely unfair—but it’s not entirely right, either.

He’s not a bad guy. He knows that much with absolute certainty. Sure, he talks too fast, moves too fast, feels too much, and yeah—he’s dated a lot. Tried to date even more. Failed at that a lot more. But none of that makes him careless with people. If anything, it’s the opposite. Wally cares too much. Every mistake sticks with him longer than it should.

And right now?

Right now, he’s trying very, very hard not to make another one.

Because this—you—this actually matters.

“Sorry, babe—!”

The door nearly slams off its hinges as a blur of red streaks into the room. A second later, Wally stands there like he’s always been there, slightly out of breath, holding a takeout bag that’s still steaming.

“The line was insane, I swear. Like, criminally long.”

He gives you that sheepish grin—the one that usually gets him out of trouble.

Usually.

His eyes flick over you quickly, softening without him even realizing it. There’s something quieter there, underneath the energy. Something real.

He’s liked you for a long time. Longer than he ever planned to admit. It used to be easier when it was just admiration—from a distance, safely tucked behind jokes and casual friendship. Because crossing that line?

Yeah. That came with consequences.

Your brother made sure of that.

Dick’s still not over it. Not even close. The memory of a very justified punch to Wally’s face is still… fresh.

And somehow? Dick isn’t even the scariest one.

No, that title belongs to the looming presence of a certain dark, silent figure who doesn’t even need to say anything to make Wally feel like he’s one wrong move away from being launched through a wall.

Coming to the manor feels like walking into a battlefield.

A very judgmental, heavily trained, emotionally complicated battlefield.

“So—uh…” Wally shuts the door behind him, glancing over his shoulder like he expects someone to already be there. “Damian’s, like… fully retired, right? From the whole assassin thing?”

A pause.

“…No reason. Just asking. Casually.”

He is not being casual.

Not after the way Damian looked at him earlier. Wally’s pretty sure he’s been evaluated as a threat. Or prey. Possibly both.

He exhales, shaking it off. “You know what? Food. Food’s good. Let’s focus on that.”

You chuckle, soft and easy, and tilt your head toward the hallway.

“Want to go to my room instead of staying here?”

Wally perks up immediately.

There’s a very brief moment where hesitation flickers across his face—risk assessment, survival instinct, all that.

Then it’s gone.

“Yeah. Yep. Absolutely. Great idea. Best idea you’ve ever had.”

Because yeah—risking another run-in with your family?

Worth it.

Every time.

He follows you upstairs, careful this time, the takeout balanced in his hands like it’s something fragile. When you warn him not to mess up your bed, he gasps dramatically.

“Wow. Wow, okay. You think I’d do that? Me? The Flash? A man of refinement?”

A beat.

“…Okay, yeah, I’ve made mistakes before. But I’ve grown.”

Before you can respond, he zips ahead—and flops onto your bed.

Except… not quite.

He hovers just above it, vibrating slightly, holding the bag up like a trophy.

“See? No crumbs. No spills. Absolute perfection.”

That grin again—bright, a little smug, a little playful.

You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed, and settle onto the bed yourself.

That’s when he finally drops the act.

Just a little.

The takeout gets placed safely on the nightstand this time, and he slides in beside you, slower now. His arm drapes around your waist like it belongs there. Like it’s always belonged there.

He exhales softly, relaxing into the warmth of the space—and you.

“Mm,” he murmurs, quieter now. “Smells like you.”

You laugh, nudging him lightly. “Well, yeah. It’s my bed.”

“Right, right,” he says, voice softer than before. Less performative. More… honest.

He shifts closer, resting his head near yours, nuzzling briefly against your neck without thinking about it.

There’s no rush in the movement.

For once.

“Guess that means it’s officially my favorite place.”

There’s a comfortable silence that settles in, the kind that doesn’t need to be filled.

Until you break it.

“We’ve got, what, fifteen minutes before someone comes looking for something?”

Wally groans immediately, dropping his forehead against your shoulder.

“Don’t say that. Don’t manifest that.”

He lifts his head slightly, frowning. “It’s gonna be Dick, isn’t it? Or—no, worse—Damian. I’m telling you, that kid is plotting something.”

You hum, fingers slipping into his hair, idly playing with the strands.

“Probably Jason.”

Wally freezes.

Then groans louder.

“Of course it’s Jason.”

But he doesn’t move away. If anything, he leans into your touch, eyes slipping half-closed as your fingers comb through his hair.

“Great. Awesome. Fantastic,” he mutters, though there’s no real heat behind it. “He’s gonna roast me alive.”

A small pause.

Then, softer—

“…Worth it, though.”

He doesn’t elaborate.

He doesn’t need to.

Because the way his arm tightens slightly around you, the way he stays right there despite everything waiting outside that door—

It says enough.

Credits: I used a cai bot from @bisexuals4jasontodd as my base so all credits go to them.

Synopsis: After the battle against Taga, you are left unconscious, caught between the physical world and the spirit realm. As Katara struggles to heal the damage, Zuko refuses to leave your side.

The island felt wrong.

Not dangerous in the usual way—but ancient. Heavy. The air itself seemed to hum with something older than bending, older than memory. Around you, the massive stone ribs of long-dead Lion Turtles curved toward the sky, their remains forming a silent, sacred graveyard.

At the center of it all, a shallow pool reflected the pale light above.

That was where you lay.

The battle against Taga had ended—but not cleanly. Not safely.

Katara knelt at the water’s edge, her hands glowing with a bright, steady blue. The spiritual energy of the place amplified her bending, the water around her swirling gently as she worked. One by one, the others stirred—Sokka groaning, Toph shifting beneath the stone—but Katara didn’t look away from you.

Zuko did.

At first.

He staggered upright, breath uneven, but the moment his eyes found you lying motionless in the water, everything else disappeared.

He didn’t check his injuries. Didn’t speak.

He just ran.

Water splashed beneath his boots as he dropped to his knees beside you, pulling you carefully into his arms. “Hey—” His voice caught, rough and unsteady. “Hey… look at me.”

There was no response.

The mark Taga had left was still faintly visible—a cruel, burned imprint across your skin. Too familiar. Too much like the one Zuko carried himself.

His grip tightened.

“Katara,” he said, quieter now, like he was afraid of the answer. “Is she—?”

“I’m trying,” Katara replied, her voice strained with focus. “The spiritual damage is deep.”

Zuko lowered his forehead to yours, his hands trembling despite himself. For all his control, all his training—this was different. This wasn’t a fight he could win with fire.

“Come back,” he whispered.

The water around you shimmered, responding to Katara’s bending. Slowly—agonizingly—the mark began to fade. Your breathing, once shallow and uneven, steadied just enough to give hope.

But your eyes stayed closed.

Katara finally let out a shaky breath, her hands lowering. “The damage is gone,” she said softly. “But… the rest is up to her.”

Zuko didn’t move away. If anything, he pulled you closer, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other pressed firmly against your back as if he could keep you anchored just by holding on.

Then—

You shifted.

Barely. Just enough that your body leaned instinctively toward him.

Zuko froze.

Your skin was cold.

Too cold.

Fear flashed across his face, sharp and immediate. He tightened his hold without thinking, pressing you against him. “No,” he muttered under his breath. “No, you’re not doing this.”

“Zuko,” Aang said urgently from nearby, having just pushed himself upright. “Use your bending. Keep her warm.”

Zuko didn’t argue.

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe—not fast, not panicked, but steady. Controlled. The way Iroh had taught him.

Fire wasn’t rage. Not anymore.

It was life.

A soft warmth began to build beneath his skin, not wild or destructive, but steady—like sunlight. He focused it carefully, letting the heat spread through his arms, into you, surrounding you without burning.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then—

A soft gasp escaped your lips.

Zuko’s eyes snapped open.

Relief hit him so hard it almost knocked the breath out of him, but he didn’t lose focus. If anything, he steadied further, keeping the warmth constant, careful.

“That’s it,” he said quietly. “Stay with me.”

Your breathing grew stronger. Less fragile.

And then, slowly—your eyes opened.

At first, unfocused. Distant.

Then they found him.

Zuko didn’t move, like even the smallest shift might break the moment. “Hey,” he said, softer now, his voice almost gentle enough to disappear into the air. “Can you hear me?”

“…Zuko?” you managed, your voice barely more than a whisper.

His composure cracked.

“Yeah,” he breathed, a small, disbelieving laugh escaping him. “Yeah, I’m here.”

He leaned his forehead against yours again, eyes closing briefly. For once, he didn’t try to hide the emotion—relief, fear, all of it tangled together.

“I thought—” He stopped himself, exhaling slowly. “You’re okay.”

You shifted slightly, still weak. “Cold…”

“I know.” His arms tightened around you instinctively. “I’ve got you.”

The warmth around you deepened, steady and controlled—but stronger now, driven by instinct more than thought.

It took a moment for you to realize.

“Zuko…” you murmured, a little more clearly this time. “You’re overdoing it.”

He didn’t respond right away.

“…Zuko.”

That got through.

He hesitated, then slowly let the intensity drop, the heat settling into something gentler. Enough to warm, not drain.

“You almost didn’t wake up,” he said quietly, like that explained everything.

You managed the faintest smile. “And you’re still exhausting yourself.”

A small, tired huff escaped him—something close to a laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

Only then did you notice the others.

Katara watching with relief softening her exhaustion. Aang sitting forward, worry easing from his face. Sokka and Toph both clearly trying not to look too concerned—and failing.

You gave them a small, reassuring smile.

“I’m okay,” you said.

Zuko didn’t let go.

Not when you leaned back against his chest. Not when your breathing finally evened out. Not even when the tension in the air began to fade.

His arms stayed around you, steady and certain.

Grounding.

As if, for a moment, he needed to remind himself you were really there.

And this time—

You weren’t slipping away.

Credits: I used a cai bot as my base so but i cant remember which one im so sorry. But if you find them, all credits go to them.

Synopsis: After years of ruling together, you and Zuko have grown into your roles as Fire Lord and Fire Lady. When Avatar Aang calls on him for a dangerous mission, Zuko leaves the palace in your care. For two weeks, you lead the Fire Nation alone, carrying the weight of the throne and keeping everything steady in his absence.

The gates of the palace had barely finished opening when you saw him.

“Zuko!”

Your voice breaks before you can stop it, your composure—carefully held together for days—slipping all at once. You don’t wait for ceremony, or dignity, or the watching guards. You run

He barely has time to react before you’re in his arms.

The impact pushes a breath from him, but his arms come around you instantly, strong and certain, holding you as if anchoring himself. For a moment, neither of you speaks. He buries his face in your hair, inhaling slowly, like he needs to remind himself you’re real.

“I missed you,” he says quietly.

There’s no performance in it. No Fire Lord. Just Zuko.

You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands still gripping his robes. “I missed you too. Welcome back.”

His golden eyes soften, tension easing from his shoulders. His thumb brushes your cheek, a small, absent gesture that feels more intimate than anything else. “It’s good to be home,” he murmurs. “And… thank you. For everything here.”

You know what he means—the meetings, the decisions, the quiet weight of responsibility he left behind. You shrug lightly, though your chest warms at the acknowledgment. “Someone had to make sure you didn’t come back to chaos.”

A faint smirk tugs at his lips. “You did more than that.”