klauv

Omg the man is not condescending yet so sweet at the same time while we have a mental breakdown over it.

@poserbowser @sylvieisoffline  @anon34570

yess ofc 😍 here's an aftermath/continuation of this drabble. lemme know if you guys want some more, potentially of them actually getting together/more of caleb just chasing lol

-

You don’t stray near rooftops anymore.

When you go out on patrols, it’s at a later time at usual, and you stick grounded to the streets, prowling down alleyways and backroads. It’s more dangerous, and you’ve had to shake off a fair share of meddlesome rookie thieves, but it’s better than what you know is lurking over those buildings.

Sometimes, you swear you can feel his intense stare on you, can see a darkened figure looming nearby. You’re quick to press yourself up against a wall, heart pounding as if waiting for him to materialize in front of you. When nothing comes, you realize it’s just your own paranoia.

You haven’t seen Caleb since that day, two weeks ago. You had stood there, trembling and wide-eyed, when he gave that whole earth-shattering confession that’d changed your life. Then you snapped to your senses and ordered him to leave immediately, albeit with a shaky voice. His gaze had narrowed, as if you were an unruly child he was irritated by— and by that point you were sure he was never going to leave— until those eyes rounded dejectedly and he left.

You spent days after that just huddled up in your apartment, villain suit stashed in the back of your closet, wondering what to make of everything.

The confession was one thing. It would be simple if it were a normal crush, but you can tell it is far from that. Caleb seemingly is not one to love lightly, nor let go of things. You saw it in the mania that’d brightened his features, the wistfulness in his voice. He can boast all he wants about being the good guy, but Caleb clearly is not right in the head.

More worrisome was your career. Your achievements as a villainess are undermined in your eyes— how much of your success is due to his favoritism is unknown. You’d pondered what the point of continuing was until you realized you still have bills to pay, connections, and a name for yourself. That much is enough to keep going. You just have to stay off Caleb’s radar.

You should’ve known you couldn’t do that for long.

It’s been long enough since your last major heist, and though you’d prefer postponing another one to lay low, your pesky goons keep bringing up that they want extra bonuses for an upcoming holiday even though you’ve already raised and paid their wages. But, you’re a benevolent boss.

The jewelry heist is familiar and should be easy enough. Your men disengage the locks, loop the cameras, and take out the guards, and soon enough you’ve infiltrated the building successfully. The halls are dark and empty, save for the expensive jewel displays around you— this heist is making you feel like yourself again, and you take your pick as if shopping, swiping gem after gem into a sack. It should’ve been a walk in the park, but all of a sudden, while you’re in the middle of eyeing up a pink diamond, there’s a commotion behind you.

Spinning around, you squint down the darkened hall. The figure looms in the shadows. At first you think it’s him, but then you see it’s only one of your other rival villains, and you visibly sag in relief— which must be confusing for your poor rival. He retaliates by throwing the first punch, and all of a sudden you’re dragged into an old feud when you’d rather be escaping the building already.

Those days off must have taken a toll on your skill, because you’re struggling in the fight, thrown down with a jab to your jaw and a kick to your knee. Your jewel bag clanks loudly to the ground and you scowl in annoyance. Before you can shakily stand, a shot rings out. The man falls to the ground, and behind him is Caleb.

You scramble to crawl away, fear pumping your heart into overdrive. His footsteps start behind you, slow and indulgent.

You’re not running because he’ll turn you in, or kill you. It’s the fact that he won’t, and that scares you more than any villain can.

“Honey, hey, where are you goin’?” Your breaths turn panicked as that cooing cadence approaches closer, as if approaching a scared animal. Before you can clamber to your feet, you’re turned over onto your back, Caleb’s shadow falling over you.

“You haven’t visited me in a while,” he pouts, twirling his gun flippantly around his gloved fingers before holstering it. He looks the same, save for his messier hair and the unmistakably aggrieved glint in his eyes that tells you his offense is not entirely feigned.

Your mouth dries, and you attempt to stand and flee again, but he cages you against him with a strong, vice-like arm.

“Stop,” you huff, but your injured knee buckles, forcing you to lean against him.

“Where’ve you been? I missed you,” and he nuzzles close against your neck, as if reuniting with a lover. A flush rises to your face.

“Get off,” squirming in his grip, you stammer when his arms tighten.

“You’ve been ignoring me, huh? Did I scare you that day?” You squeal as Caleb brushes those lips against your the shell of your ear, breathing in the scent of your hair. The feeling makes you shiver and you jerk against his arms.

“Leave me alone, you’re insane,” you snap, venom dripping from your words. He freezes up terrifyingly, and the temperature drops.

“Stay still or I’ll drag you to the cops right now.”

The threat is hissed into your ear, and you stiffen, paralyzed by the harsh shift in his words that slither like ice through your veins. Caleb inhales, as if shocked himself at his words, before he melts against you, gloved hand cupping your head against his chest.

“Fuck, baby, I’m sorry,” he gasps, heart thumping against your ear. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just want to hold you, is all. Okay?”

He relaxes when you remain silent, chuckling as if trying to bring back the banter between you two.

“I would never turn you in,” Caleb admits, stroking your hair adoringly. “A jewelry heist, huh? Your villainess act is so cute.”

He continues despite your bristle of annoyance. “If you like gems, I can buy you all the jewelry in the world. A ring, even. You’d never have to steal again. Or you could, if you want to. But I could provide everything for you.”

He pauses his ramble at the sound of sirens approaching. “Guess you should go.” Caleb’s tone is disappointed, and you can tell this isn’t the end of what he has in store for you.

You don’t hesitate for a second as he releases you, snatching up your bag and starting for the window.

“Sweetheart.”

You pause near the exit and turn, glaring daggers at him.

Pairing: Soshiro Hoshina x Reader

Tags: Filipino Alternate Universe, High School, Light Romance, Teenage Angst, Cringe Humor

Summary: What happens when a big fish from a small pond meets a big fish from the ocean?

Word count: 1750

previous chapter.

The sun was barely rising, but you were already halfway your usual path to school.

"Everyday na gan'to oras ng pagpasok ko," your older brother said, his helmet muffling his voice, "so, kung gusto mong sumabay, you better shower before me."

You yawned, the crisp wind passing through your brother's motorcycle biting your arms.

"Umkay," you answered lazily. "Uh, bakit bago na naman 'ata 'yong sched?"

"Ano pa ba?" he sneered. "DepEd, as usual."

As your brother, a high-ranking teacher, ranted about how terrible the system was, you occasionally hummed to make sure he knew you were listening to this rare instance of speaking with you.

"It's just Monday, pero iniinis na nila ako, ah," he continued. "And, this nonsensical, 'No Child Left Behind,' Policy kineme nila."

He grunted, steering his vehicle to the left. You laughed softly, finding his loss of composure a very amusing to witness in such an early time.

"'musta mga bata mo sa Volleyball Club ng Junior?"

With that, he calmed down.

"Magaling pa rin si Kikoru. For someone so intense, marunong naman makinig."

He spent a few minutes praising the kid, which was something that does not happen often, given how perfectionist your brother can become when talking about his passions.

Perhaps, him being a hardass with his athletes and students was the reason every compliment that came from his mouth felt so genuine.

"Balita ko may bago kayo," he said, surprising you. "Soshiro Hoshina, huh?"

Curious, you asked, "Kilala mo?"

"Nakalaban 'yan ng bata ko sa Science Quiz Bee no'ng Grade Seven ka pa."

You closed your eyes and tried to remember what he was talking about.

"Ang bata-bata mo pa, you're so forgetful na—I'm pertaining to first time I've coached a student."

"Eh, hindi ba Grade Ten 'yon?"

"Oo."

You winced.

Just how amazing this Soshiro Hoshina could be?

"I thought he'd enroll for STEM," he mused, "but—oh, well—don't care."

After some time, you have finally reached the gates of your school.

Your brother slowed his motorcycle down and let you get off. You removed your helmet and gave it to him.

"Bye-bye," you said energetically.

You waved before you jogged to the building where your classroom was, but as usual, your brother simply drove off.

"Prick."

Clutching your the straps of your bag, you skipped, the heels of your three-inch, black school shoes clacking on the concrete ground.

The academic year has just started, but the feeling it brought you was different from eleventh grade.

The subjects you were taking were mostly Humanities-related, save for the general ones, like Entrepreneurship and Physical Education, and you knew that you could handle them with ease. However, maybe it was the realization that you were so close to becoming a college student, or maybe it was simply the chill morning breeze, but the goosebumps were having a field day on your nape.

"Hm, bukas na kaya canteen?"

Instead of worrying about what should come, you decided to fantasize about the snacks you could get with your allowance.

"Cookies?" You nodded to yourself. "Cookies."

When you arrived at the front door of your classroom, you noticed that only a few seats were occupied. You took a look at the wall clock your adviser, sir Nogizaka, has provided.

It was still early.

"Seven-thirty ang flag ceremony," you spoke under your breath. "Bisita muna ako."

Placing your things on your chair, you immediately went to your former classmates' room.

"Morning, mga beh."

Your friends perked up at the sound of your voice, temporarily halting their gossip.

Your friends, Tae and Mina, was always seated at the first two seats from the door. Even when you were still their classmate, they loved squeezing themselves in that small gap between the wall and Mina's desk, only for them to unknowingly push her desk away to give your pink-haired friend some space to sprawl her legs.

That still has not changed; it appeared so.

"[Name]," Mina said, while her fingers comb through Tae's pink hair. "Aga mo."

"Daig pa ng may mood swings sched ni Kuya." You giggled and sat sideways on her desk. "A las seis y media, baby."

Tae, who was sitting on the floor, tried standing up. She tried, because Mina's hands were quick to grasp her hair.

"Magpapatirintas ka 'di ba?"

She reached her arms to your direction, almost a zombie attempting to grab a victim to consume.

"[Name]chi!" Tae said, "Balik ka na sa 'min!"

You fished your pocket for your tinted lip balm.

"Sa'n na? 'yon," you stated. "'di naman basta-basta na puwede ako lumipat dito."

"Eh, samin ka naman talaga dapat. Sec namin ika—ray, ray, ray." She looked up at Mina. "'sakit Pres."

Loosening the braid, she replied with, "Sorry."

"Ba't naman kasi nalipat ka do'n?"

You opened the tube of your lip balm and swiped the product onto your lips.

"'yong class attendance kasi ng Section C, sobrang lala. Iyon, to balance out, inilagay ako ro'n."

You were not bullshitting, or whatsoever. You, [Full Name], have been known to attend classes even when sick—and, you always were—and your attendance alone was the reason Section C used to have a whopping ninety-three percent class attendance, which was the highest.

"Sino ba may kasalanan? Sasakalin ko lang, pucha."

"Gen."

Tae grunted.

"Ah, si Meng."

"Gago talaga kahit kailan 'yon. Wala 'atang buwan na wala 'yong absences."

From behind you appeared Ryo.

"Hi, bhe."

"Mhm." He pinched his nose bridge. "Ganiyan na 'yan, elem pa lang."

"Glasses mo, sa'n?"

"Contacts muna 'ko."

"Hindi ba siya binibisita ng adviser nila?" Tae asked. "Imposible naman na 'di man lang 'yan nakaranas ng home visit."

"Pa'nong bibisitahin, eh 'yong guardian niyan, 'yong principal natin mismo."

You got off of the desk with a small jump and dusted your skirt. You leaned on the doorframe and crossed your arms.

"Magkamag-anak?" you pried. "The principal's daughter doesn't look remotely similar to Gen at all."

"Ewan ko sa kanila," Ryo huffed. "Kaya lang naman napasa 'yang kumag na 'yan, eh, dahil alaga ni sir Shinomiya."

"Matalino naman siya," you admitted. "Base sa mga Sports News entry ng mga dating Grade Twelve, magaling din sa basketball."

"Wala namang disiplina."

You supposed even a well-mannered guy like Ryo was bound to be ticked off by Gen. Still, you have only actually interacted with him twice for you to make a conclusion about his personality.

"President namin siya."

"Siyempre," he said. "Tropa silang lahat sa section nila."

"Excuse me."

You whipped your head and saw a student—Soshiro—standing on the doormat, both his hands full.

"Hm?"

"Makikiraan," he said, a peculiar accent bleeding through. "Please."

Huh?

Ah.

"Ay!" You jolted, scrambling away from the door. "Sorry, sorry."

He did not reply to your hasty apologies. He passed by your group and walked toward the empty glass shelves at the opposite corner of the room.

"Dami niya bitbit, ah," Tae commented without a care. "Bayanihan ba 'to?"

Soshiro flinched, but you swore you heard him chuckle.

"Ba...lik na me sa room ko."

Whether it was your mind playing tricks or not, you did not dilly-dally longer to know.

You returned to your classroom, and at exactly seven-twenty in the morning, the school bell rang.

The flag ceremony started at seven-thirty, and the gates closed at the same time.

"Si Gen, wala pa rin ba?" your adviser inquired.

"Wala pa rin po, sir."

"Anong klaseng class president 'yan?"

You smiled awkwardly, not wanting to appear to be siding on either of them.

"Pina-chat ko na po siya kay Secretary Rin."

"I-chat niyo 'uli."

"Yes po, sir."

Even without the star, the Gen, the whole school sang the national anthem, prayed, and recited every oath that was required to be spoken. After some brief announcements, which were led by the ever-so-terrifying-looking principal, Isao Shinomiya, the flag ceremony was finished before the first period started.

Then, as though time passed in a blur, you found yourself sitting on a chair of the Journalism Club again, but this time, there was a free seat that separated you from Soshiro.

It would not be such a nerve-wracking experience for you, if it were not for you being alone with him.

He has yet to begin his self-appointed task, and he was just scrolling though his phone. While he was there at your right, sitting straight yet relaxed, your brain was begging your whole system not to fail on you.

"Erm, Soshiro."

Your voice was meek as hell, but the lack of noise, except for the humming of the air-conditioners, made it painfully loud. Your head mechanically turned to him, and you could clearly see that he has stopped fiddling with his phone.

"Sorry kanina," you breathed out.

"What fo—oh, that."

You nodded, feeling your tongue curling inward and blocking your airways. He laughed—maybe, at you—and waved his free hand dismissively.

"No biggie." He tilted his head side to side and stretched his neck. "You're [Name], right?"

He peeled his eyes from his screen, and his rich, red eyes stared at you with prickling intensity.

"Uh-huh," you stuttered.

"Let's work hard, yeah?"

Is that—

Was that—

Was he being condescending with you?

"Uh." Your voice died down in your throat. "Yeah!"

You turned away, and mindlessly, you rocked back and forth while still sitting.

A minute, or two, or ten have ticked by—you were too lazy to check—with you doing the same motion. Maybe the sound of your soles making contact with the tiled floor was enough to set him to edge.

"You're early," he said, his tone strangely soft.

"May appointment 'yong last period namin, so she dismissed us agad. Ikaw?"

"Had an activity for CNF. Y'know, that one ma'am Kirimori allowed us to do ahead of time at home?"

"Ah, oo." You opened your bag, searching for your candy stash. "But, wala man si Tae with you?"

"Didn't see the appeal with finishing it in advance. She's still in class."

The sound of plastic wrapping crinkling made the purple-haired journalist raise an eyebrow.

"I see," you acknowledged. "Milkita, gusto mo?"

"No, thanks."

You unwrapped a chocolate-flavored lollipop and shoved its wrapping inside the small side pocket of your school bag.

Your lollipop was milimeters away from your lips when he added, "'sides, I don't think we're allowed to eat inside."

You clamped your mouth and stretched your lips into a frog-like smile.

"Sir Otoga mostly eats his lunch here," you told him, not feeling any ounce of guilt for snitching. "Garlic Pepper Steak galing canteen."

"Oh."

next chapter.

Hoshina Soshiro x Reader

Requested by: @metsum @metsuma

The first time Soshiro saw her, she was arguing with a vending machine.

He was walking back from a late lecture, his bag heavy with books he didn't want to read, when he heard the commotion. A girl was pressing the same button over and over, her palm flat against the glass, muttering threats that would have made a lesser machine weep.

"Give me my money back or I will find your plug and I will pull it."

He stopped. Watched. The vending machine beeped cheerfully and did nothing.

She kicked it. Not hard. Just a tap of her sneaker against the metal panel, more frustration than violence. Then she sighed, dropped her forehead against the glass, and stood there in defeat.

"You know," Soshiro said, "they don't respond to negotiation."

She turned. Her face was flushed, probably from embarrassment or anger or both. Her hair was pulled back in a messy knot. She was wearing an oversized hoodie and jeans with paint stains on the knees.

"I wasn't negotiating. I was threatening."

"Clearly it worked."

She glared at him. He smiled. He didn't know why. Maybe because she looked tired, the same way he felt. Maybe because she didn't recognize him. Most people on campus knew his name, his family, his face from the business school's promotional materials. She just looked at him like he was some guy with bad timing.

"I'm Soshiro," he said.

"I'm not giving you my name. You saw me commit vending machine violence. That's evidence."

He laughed. Actual laugh, the kind that surprised him. "Fair enough. How much did it eat?"

"Fifteen hundred yen."

He pulled out his wallet, extracted two bills, and held them out. She stared at his hand like he was offering her a live snake.

"What's that for?"

"Your drink. Whatever you wanted."

"I don't take money from strangers."

"We're not strangers. I just watched you threaten an appliance. That's intimacy."

She snorted. Then, slowly, she took the money. "I'm Y/N. And this doesn't make us friends."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

She bought her drink. He bought one too. They sat on a bench outside the building, not quite facing each other, not quite looking away. The night was cool. The campus was quiet. She told him she was an art major, that she had a studio in the old building near the north gate, that she was behind on a project and the vending machine had been the final straw.

He told her he was in business. That his family expected certain things. That he was tired of certain things.

"Rich kid problems," she said. Not mean. Just factual.

"Yeah," he said. "Rich kid problems."

She didn't apologize. He liked that.

They started meeting after that.

Not on purpose, at first. The vending machine became their spot. She'd be there at odd hours, always after dark, always looking like she'd crawled out of a studio or a library. He'd be there too, on his way back from the business school, always carrying more work than any person should.

"I'm not stalking you," she said one night.

"I didn't accuse you."

"You were thinking it."

"I was thinking that you have paint on your nose."

She wiped her face. Missed. He reached over and thumbed the smudge off the bridge of her nose. The touch was brief. Barely a second. But she went very still, and his hand lingered a moment longer than necessary, and something shifted between them.

"Thanks," she said quietly.

"Don't mention it."

They started sitting closer after that.

Weeks passed. The bench became a table at a cafe. The cafe became a study session in the library. The library became walks across campus, her hand brushing his, his shoulder bumping hers, neither of them pulling away.

He learned things about her. She grew up in a small town, the first in her family to go to university. Her mother worked at a grocery store. Her father drove a truck. She had a younger brother who wanted to be a chef and a cat named Miso who was probably fatter than she remembered.

She learned things about him. The Hoshina name. The expectations. The way his father looked at him like he was an investment that hadn't paid off yet. The way his mother called every Sunday to ask about his grades, his networking, his "prospects."

"They don't know you're an art major," she said one night.

It wasn't a question. She'd figured it out. Of course she had.

"No," he said. "They don't."

"Would they care?"

He thought about it. His father's face. His mother's silence. The way his older brother had been disowned for marrying someone "unsuitable."

"Yeah," he said. "They'd care."

She nodded. Didn't push. But her hand found his under the table, and he held on like she was the only solid thing in a world built on sand.

They started dating properly in the spring.

Cherry blossoms. The whole ridiculous cliche. He asked her in front of the vending machine, because it felt right, because she laughed and called him an idiot and kissed him before he could finish the sentence.

"You're supposed to let me finish," he said against her mouth.

"You took too long."

They were happy. Genuinely, stupidly happy. He'd wake up to messages from her—photos of her projects, complaints about her professors, voice notes of her humming while she worked. She'd fall asleep on his shoulder in the library, her breath warm against his neck, her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.

He introduced her to his friends. Kafka, who was studying something vague and ate too much. Reno, who was pre-med and always looked tired. They liked her. She liked them. It was easy.

But nothing easy lasts.

His father called on a Sunday. The conversation was short. His grades were fine. His networking was acceptable. But there were rumors, his father said. Whispers. About a girl. An art major. Someone not from the right circles.

"She's nobody," his father said.

Soshiro's grip on the phone tightened. "She's not nobody."

"She's not Hoshina material. You know what's at stake."

He knew. The company. The legacy. The future his family had mapped out before he was born. He'd spent his whole life trying to live up to it, trying to earn approval that never came.

"She makes me happy," he said. Quiet. Almost pleading.

His father laughed. "Happiness isn't the point."

The call ended. Soshiro stood in his apartment, phone in hand, and felt something cold settle into his chest.

The cracks appeared slowly.

He started canceling plans. His schedule filled with networking events, family dinners, meetings with his father's business partners. He'd text her I'm sorry, can't make it, rain check? and she'd reply with a sticker or a joke, but the replies took longer each time.

She noticed. Of course she noticed. She wasn't blind.

"You've been distant," she said one night. They were at her studio, surrounded by half-finished paintings and the smell of turpentine. She was sitting on a stool, hands folded in her lap, looking at him with an expression he couldn't read.

"I've been busy."

"You've always been busy. This is different."

He opened his mouth. Closed it. What could he say? That his father had started asking questions? That his mother had mentioned a "suitable" girl from a "good" family? That he'd spent every dinner for the past month lying about his weekend plans?

"I'm trying," he said.

"I know." She reached for his hand. He let her take it. "But trying isn't the same as being here."

"I am here."

"Are you?" She looked at their joined hands. "Because it feels like you're already gone."

He didn't have an answer. So he kissed her instead, and she let him, and they pretended that was enough.

The argument happened on a Tuesday.

It was raining. He was late. Again. She'd been waiting at the cafe for an hour, her coffee long since finished, her messages left on read. When he finally arrived, soaked and apologetic, she didn't look up.

"I'm sorry," he said. "My father—"

"I don't care about your father."

He stopped. "What?"

She looked up then. Her eyes were red. Not from crying—she was too stubborn for that—but from exhaustion, from frustration, from the weight of something she'd been carrying alone.

"I don't care about your father," she repeated. "I care about you. And you're not here. You haven't been here for weeks."

"That's not fair."

"Fair?" She stood up. Her chair scraped against the floor. "You know what's not fair? Waiting. Wondering if today's the day you finally show up. Making excuses for you to my friends. Telling myself it's fine, he's busy, he'll call. But you don't call, Soshiro. You text. And even your texts feel like a chore."

"That's not—"

"Your family doesn't want you to be with someone like me. I get it. I've always gotten it. But I thought—" Her voice cracked. She pressed her lips together, steadied herself. "I thought you might want it enough to fight for it."

"I am fighting."

"Are you? Because from where I'm standing, you're just hiding. From them. From me. From yourself."

The words hit like a slap. He wanted to argue. Wanted to tell her she didn't understand, couldn't understand, the pressure of a name that weighed more than a person could carry.

But she was right. And that was worse.

"What do you want me to say?" he asked.

"I want you to tell me I matter. More than your father's approval. More than the family name. More than whatever future they've planned for you."

He opened his mouth. The words were there. I love you. You matter more than anything. I'll choose you. Every time.

But his father's voice was louder.

"You matter," he said. But it came out wrong. Hollow. Like he was reading from a script.

She heard it. Of course she heard it.

"Okay," she said. Quiet. Final.

She picked up her bag. Walked past him. At the door, she paused.

"I'm not going to wait forever, Soshiro. Nobody's that patient."

The door closed. The rain kept falling.

He stood there for a long time. Then he sat down in her empty chair, put his head in his hands, and didn't move until the cafe closed.

They didn't speak after that.

He saw her on campus sometimes. Across the quad. In the library. Once, at a crosswalk, close enough that he could have reached out and touched her arm. She was laughing at something a friend said, her head thrown back, her whole body loose and easy.

She looked happy. Or maybe she was just better at pretending than he was.

He wanted to cross the street. Wanted to say I'm sorry, I was wrong, please. But his feet stayed planted, and the light changed, and she walked away without looking back.

He told himself it was for the best. She deserved someone who could show up. Someone whose family wouldn't look down on hers. Someone who wasn't half a person, split between duty and desire.

He told himself that so often he almost believed it.

Time passed. A year. Maybe more. He stopped counting.

He graduated. Took a position at his family's company. Did the work. Smiled at the right people. Attended the galas and the dinners and the endless meetings where nothing was decided and everything was measured.

His father was pleased. His mother was satisfied. He was neither.

He thought about her often. In the quiet moments. In the car between appointments. In the dark of his apartment, the one she'd never seen, the one that smelled like nothing because he never cooked or painted or left laundry on the floor.

He still had her number. He never called.

The second meeting happened at a gallery opening.

He was there for work. His father wanted to expand into art acquisitions—something about diversifying, about culture as currency. Soshiro didn't care. He just needed to be seen, to shake hands, to nod at the right time.

The gallery was crowded. Wine glasses clinked. Conversations hummed. He was halfway through a particularly dull exchange with a collector when he saw her.

She was standing in front of a painting. Her painting. He recognized the style—the bold strokes, the unexpected colors, the way light seemed to move across the canvas. She was wearing a dark suit, her hair loose, her posture different from the girl who had argued with a vending machine.

She looked like she belonged.

His feet moved before his brain caught up. He crossed the room. Stopped a few feet away. She turned, probably sensing someone watching, and her eyes met his.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

"Y/N."

"Soshiro."

Her voice was neutral. Not warm. Not cold. Just... careful.

"It's been a while."

"Has it?" She tilted her head. "I hadn't noticed."

He deserved that.

"Your work," he said, gesturing at the painting. "It's good. Really good."

"I know." A ghost of a smile. "That's why it's here."

He nodded. Swallowed. The gallery buzzed around them, people passing, voices rising and falling. But the space between them felt suspended, separate, held in amber.

"How have you been?" he asked.

"Busy. Successful. Happy." Each word was deliberate. A wall being built. "You?"

"The same."

"Good."

Silence. He wanted to say more. Wanted to explain, to apologize, to bridge the gap that he'd let form between them. But she wasn't looking at him anymore. She was looking at the painting, her painting, the one with the bold strokes and the unexpected colors and the light that seemed to move.

"I should mingle," she said. "The gallery owner wants me to—"

"Can we talk?"

She paused. Didn't turn.

"About what?"

"About everything. About the way things ended. About—"

"There's nothing to talk about, Soshiro." Her voice was soft. Not cruel. Just tired. "It ended. That's all."

"It didn't have to."

She turned then. Her expression was unreadable. But her eyes—her eyes were the same. The ones that had looked at him across a vending machine, across a bench, across a table in a cafe. The ones that had seen him when no one else did.

"You chose," she said. "You made your choice. I made mine. We don't get do-overs."

"I'm not asking for a do-over. I'm asking for a conversation."

She studied him. The gallery lights caught the edges of her face. She looked older. Not older in years, but older in the way that came from decisions made and consequences accepted.

"One conversation," she said finally. "Not here. Not tonight."

"Where?"

She pulled out her phone. Typed something. His phone buzzed.

"My studio. Tomorrow. Seven o'clock. Don't be late."

She walked away. He watched her go, watched the crowd close around her, watched her disappear into the bright, noisy world that she had built without him.

The studio hadn't changed.

Same smell of turpentine. Same cluttered tables. Same half-finished canvases leaning against the walls. But there were new paintings now—more confident, more complex, more her.

She was sitting on the same stool, hands folded in her lap, watching the door when he walked in.

"You came."

"You asked."

She nodded. Gestured at a chair across from her. He sat. The distance between them was a few feet, but it felt like miles.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"For what?"

"For everything. For not showing up. For not fighting. For letting my father's voice be louder than yours."

She was quiet for a long moment. Then: "I wasn't angry that you had family obligations. I was angry that you didn't trust me enough to share them."

He blinked. "What?"

"You never told me what was happening. You just... disappeared. Cancelled plans. Stopped calling. I thought I'd done something wrong. I thought you'd changed your mind about me."

"No. Never. I never changed my mind."

"Then why didn't you say something?" Her voice cracked. Just a little. Just enough. "Why didn't you tell me about your father? About the pressure? About any of it?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Because she was right. He'd shut her out. Told himself he was protecting her, but really he'd been protecting himself. From vulnerability. From the possibility that she might leave if she saw how small he really was.

"I was scared," he admitted. The words tasted like glass. "I was scared that if I told you, you'd realize how weak I am. How trapped. How I've spent my whole life trying to earn approval from people who will never give it."

She stared at him. Her expression softened, just barely.

"You're not weak, Soshiro. You're just—" She stopped. Shook her head. "You're just scared. And scared people make stupid decisions."

"I know."

"But knowing and changing aren't the same thing."

He leaned forward. Elbows on his knees. Hands clasped. "I want to change. I want to try again. Not because it's easy. Because I can't—" His throat tightened. "I can't keep living in a world where you're not in it."

She looked away. Her fingers traced the edge of her stool. The silence stretched.

"I've spent a long time learning how to be happy without you," she said quietly. "It wasn't easy. There were nights I wanted to call. There were mornings I checked my phone first thing. But I stopped. I moved on."

"I know."

"I have a life now. A career. People who care about me."

"I know."

"So what are you asking me, exactly?"

He took a breath. "I'm asking you to let me back in. Slowly. Carefully. No pressure. No expectations. Just... let me try."

She turned back to him. Her eyes were wet, but she wasn't crying. She was thinking. Weighing. Calculating the risk.

"I can't promise anything," she said.

"I'm not asking for promises."

"I can't promise I won't get hurt again."

"I know."

"And I can't promise that this will work."

"I know."

She stood up. Walked to the window. The city lights blurred beyond the glass. He watched her shoulders rise and fall with her breathing.

"One date," she said finally. "One date. And if it's terrible, if it's awkward, if it feels wrong—we stop. No hard feelings. No second chances."

He stood. His heart was pounding. "One date."

"Wednesday. That cafe. The one we used to go to. Seven o'clock."

"I'll be there."

"You were late last time."

"I won't be."

She turned. Looked at him. The same face. The same eyes. The same person who had argued with a vending machine and called him an idiot and kissed him before he could finish his sentence.

"Okay," she said.

"Okay?"

"Okay." A small smile. Wary. Tentative. But real. "Don't make me regret this, Soshiro."

He wanted to cross the room. Wanted to take her hand, touch her face, close the distance that had been years in the making. But he didn't. Not yet. That wasn't what she was offering.

Instead, he nodded. "I won't."

He left. The door closed behind him. He walked through the dark campus, past the old buildings, past the bench where they'd sat, past the vending machine that had eaten her money.

Wednesday. Seven o'clock.

You won't know what they're like if you just attack them. Half the time I can already tell someone has internal prejudices and biases and low reading comprehension and have absorbed other opinions in fandom like a sponge, but if I engage, I engage until insulted to discuss or even to debate normally.

@luvqi and I were talking about how hot today was and the question was asked if we could realistically live at that hot ass palace.

"you want me to make what?" sokka looks confusedly at the crude drawings zuko had scribbled on a piece of scrap scroll.

"an air cooling system, i need something to keep my wife cool, it's nearing summer and the heat is getting to her."

sokka nods solemnly. "headaches?"

zuko frowns as he nods. before he left, you'd been complaining of headaches that spanned to the nape of your neck as the heat prickled your skin uncomfortably.

"suki has them too." his eyes roam the drawings, already drawing up plans in his head. "i got ya buddy, i'll get something ready for the missus, gotta make sure sokka jr is okay."

"we are not naming our son sokka jr." zuko scoffs, but his eyes soften in gratitude.

"but it's catchy right?"

"imagine having to say to her, 'honey, sokka needs a nappy change'." the fire lord shudders, making sokka cackle.

"y'know, sometimes i forget you're funny."

I drew a little comic ! Yay! I was too lazy to deal with backgrounds, so I pretended to be doing it by framing the scenes in tree colors.

Pairing: Tim Drake x gn! reader

Summary: when your new friend at university discovers how close you live to campus, he spends a lot of nights crashing at your place

Word Count: 2.5k

Content/CW -> university! au, Tim is your bestie, you enjoy pumpkin spice lattes (it's a sacrifice for the fall vibes ok?), minor injury + mentions of blood

— requested by anon <3

froggi yaps -> everyone thank mr froggibus for bullying me into getting this done cause otherwise this fic was nawt going to see the light of day ;-; its been foreverrr since i wrote for tim so hopefully this is still acceptable <3 enjoy!

Summary: Damian’s girlfriend is a little oblivious.

(Potential) Warnings: fluff, angst, kissing, cursing/swearing, established relationship, mention of a rape alarm, a few creepy men, the film they’re watching is Spider man so if Marvel exists in DC in this fic (very controversial) I have no idea what dilemma means tbf so lol

Divider credit to @cafekitsune

Slán go fóill! 💗 Enjoy!

Damian was sat on your bed, sat up against your mountains of pillows, his arm wrapped around your shoulders as some silly Superhero film played on his laptop. The masked hero, hanging upside down on a web, kissed the girl and pulled away. Little did the girl know, he was her next door neighbour of, like, 17 years and she had been his childhood crush.

“I’m sorry, but you’d definitely know.” You commented softly, proud.

“Know what, beloved?”

“You’d know if your boyfriend was Spider-man.”

“They are not in a relationship, she’s dating Harry.” Damian corrects, turning the volume on the laptop down.

“I know, but, if you knew the guy for 17 years, you’d know the sound of his voice. The look of his lips,” You elaborate, throwing your hands up briefly.

Damian had to hold back a smirk. “You’d know, would you?”

“Yes. If you were Spider-man, I’d know it was you. Well, if you spoke to me.” You quipped back confidently.

“So you think if you spoke to each vigilante in Gotham you could pick them out just by their voice?” He questioned incredulously, amused now as you paused the film and sat up to face him.

“I don’t know, maybe. But i’ve never had a run in with any of them. I wouldn’t mind having a run-in with Superman.” You tease, seeing his smirk drop. “Oh, Dami, I’m joking.”

Damian’s ears turn red hot. “Tt. I suppose it’s a good thing Superman is in Kansas, then.”

“It’s not that far. Jon lives in Metropolis.”

“Smallville. What are you getting at, anyway? Superman is pushing 50.” Damian grumbles.

“What, do you not think there’s a sexy superhero out there?”

“No.”

“Not even Catwoman?”

“She is a vigilante.”

“So? She’s still smokin’,” You returned with a mischievous glint in your eyes.

“I like you.” Damian declared finally.

“Aww..I like you too. You’re okay.” He rolled his eyes at your playful tone. “I still stand my by point, i’d know if you were a hero, vigilante, whatever.”

“How would you?”

“I mean, there’s obvious signs - running off in the middle of dates, out in the middle of the night, superpowers.” You list off, as if it were obvious.

“I disagree. People can be very oblivious. How do you think Spider-man got 3 movies? They don’t all find out in the first one.”

“Yeah, but this is a film. A film where this guy’s girlfriend is too dumb to suspect her boyfriend as Spider-man.”

It was a regular Thursday evening, and as you were on your way home from work — a waitressing job at an Italian restaurant — around 9:30, you had felt eyes on your ever since you exited the tram station. You knew better. You had your house keys in one hand, one earphone in and one ear free, and a rape alarm in the other hand. Sometimes that wasn’t enough.

The man had been following you ever since you got off the same tram, but you didn’t dare look back. Just walk fast, stand tall and confident.

Your heart nearly fell to your ass when you heard the footsteps quicken behind you, suddenly louder and closer. Fuck!

Just as you crossed the road of the empty street, you heard a brief shout directed at you, then a pained one.

You glanced back, only to see the creepy man now on his face, ankles tied together by a rope. And fucking Robin stood before him, dissembling his handgun. The man was shouting, before the vigilante punched him into last week. You stood in the middle of the street, frozen, scared.

The man had a gun. Was he planning to kill me? Kidnap me? Worse?

The masked man shot something up at a lamppost, and suddenly the creepy man was hanging from it by his ankles.

Those white eyes met yours. The domino mask did nothing much of hiding his face, but you couldn’t make out much. He stepped toward you, guiding you back into the footpath on the opposite side of the road. “Are you alright, miss? The middle of the road isn’t so safe,” He replied lightly.

You just stared up at him; at the white covering his eyes, the black mask on the curve of his nose, the shape of his lips, the array of spiky hairs, cowlicks and the dark swirls and waves across his head. All of these could be mistaken, lots of people have these features. But he smelt like Damian. Not just the expensive cologne or his body wash, his scent. You knew your boyfriend. “..Miss? Are you hurt—?”

“Damian?”

He froze. His mask moved with his brows, as much as they could, and raised almost comically. What was he meant to say to that? “Uhm..I- Miss, i think you’re mistaken,”

You were still before him, and the silence was killing him. “Do you need help home?”

He walked you home — which he knew wasn’t far — in the most uncomfortable silence ever. He didn’t know what to say, what he could say, and he knew your head was probably wracking itself to make this situation make sense.

Damian stood next to you outside of you home, seeing your knuckles whiten with how tight you were holding the keys.

“..You sure you’re not hurt?”

You ignored him. And you made your way towards the front door.

Damian was going crazy the past few days. Only because you’d been ignoring him. With that, his whole family got the worst of it: the snappy and pissy mood, the ignorance, and he didn’t know who to turn to. He probably should’ve asked Bruce since he was ‘in charge’, but what the fuck does Bruce know about healthy relationships?

After the first day of you ignoring him, he went to your house at a reasonable time; the sun was still out, but unfortunately it was just you home, and you just told him to leave you alone. He was hoping one of your parents would answer the door, at least they would try and convince you to talk to him.

He left you alone after the second day, but he was clawing at himself by that evening — figuratively. He couldn’t throw rocks at your window, realistically, he would either break your bedroom window which was a huge risk or scratch your parents car. All he could do was text you.

Dami 💞

Can i please come over

Dami 💞

It is very important

Beloved please

I won’t come over if you tell me not to

Dami💞

I am outside

I will only leave if you come out here and tell me to

Damian’s chest thudded briefly when he saw your curtains open slightly, and a shadowed version of your face from the dusk outside lighting and the dim lights of your bedroom. He was hopeful.

You opened your bedroom window, staring down at him. “What do you want, Damian?”

She said the whole government name. She was that upset with me? Damian worried.

“..Can we please talk?” He asked, raising his voice a bit so you could hear him.

“What is there to talk about?” You sigh, sitting back on your bed. “You’re Robin.”

“..I am.” Damian confirmed quietly. He didn’t really have nervous habits, because he was taught from a young age not to let anyone see his sentiments, he needed to stay indifferent. But he wouldn’t with you.

His hand instinctively moved up to the back of his head, fingers flicking through the thick and dark strands of the cowlick - probably curled upwards due to his habit. “..Are you upset?”

“I don’t know how to feel,” You mumble, watching him pace like a caged animal. “..I’m sorry for ignoring you, Damian, but- How am I meant to react?”

“If it makes you feel better, no one else knows but my family. And Jon.”

Damian felt his chest squeeze further when you didn’t respond. You didn’t even look at him. “I cannot tell anyone. For their safety. And my own.”

“..Yeah, I got that much.” You answered quietly. “How am I supposed to feel about this? You’re out every night beating up bad guys with guns and knives, that’s pretty fucking nerve wracking.”

“Yes, it is. But it is something i’ve been doing for a long time.” Damian answered with a sigh, seeing your face contort into one of confusion. “How long?”

“..I have kept my childhood a secret from you because it was barely a childhood. Mine was nothing; I had no toy animals or Hot Wheels, we did not celebrate my birthday with balloons and video games, I had no Christmas or Hanukah or Eid,” Damian explained, still fidgeting with his hair. “I told you I grew up in Saudi, that much is true. It was not as glorious as you imagine it to be,”

You stayed silent, wanting to hear this. It seemed like he needed to get it off of his chest. Patting the space next to you, and you grab his hand gently to settle him down. “..I have done horrible things. You will not understand them, or where I came from, and you…You may want to end this relationship, but it is wrong to keep you in the dark.” He would do anything not to tell you, but he’d gone too far at this point. He’s ruined everything he’s built with you, all of the work he’s put into himself being a better person, a more emotional person for your sake.

He told you everything. About the League of Assassins, about his mother and Ra’s, he is not only the heir of Wayne Enterprises but also of the Al Ghul dynasty. He informed you of the things he was forced to do, people he had hurt and killed, what he had received when he refused to do as his grandfather said, and how he was forced to ingest poison every day to build up the immunity, the same with every recreational drug under the sun. He ended up tumbling out that Bruce was Batman, that’s why he was Robin, along with his siblings, which he felt stupid for doing. He’s ruined everything; his relationship with you, his family, his name, his status as Robin and as Bruce Wayne’s son. All for you, all because he wanted to be with you.

Damian didn’t realise there were tears rolling down his cheeks until he felt soft fingers wiping them away. “..I am sorry for lying, and for dropping this on you. I should not have told you,”

“Oh Damian..” He heard you exhale, voice gentle and kind.

“D-Do not pity me, this is my own fault, I will leave you alone from now on—”

“Dami,” He paused when he felt your hands in his, pulling him back onto the mattress. “I’m not upset with you, I..Just stay with me for a bit,” You plead, stroking his knuckles.

He sat back down, stiff and distraught, both of his hands now in his hair and pulling on the strands in a panic.

“Dami, please calm down, I won’t tell anyone.” You promise, your voice so calming and sweet, Damian couldn’t help but feel soothed. A warm hand ran up and down his back, gently prying his hands from his head and cupping his cheeks. “I promise you, the secret is safe…And for what it’s worth, I am so so sorry for what you went through, babe..”

Damian stared at you through cloudy tears, holding your gaze as your words sunk in. “None of that is right, and you didn’t deserve any of it. You didn’t deserve anything less than love, and guidance.”

He held your gaze, still nervous and trembling, but he felt better. A lot better. Like all of the noise, the alertness and the constant thinking had vanished into nothing. Because being with you seemed to soothe everything, and made everything better. “I love you. You hear?”

Damian nodded, tears slowly fading. He knew he didn’t have to say it. He couldn’t say anything right now. He wouldn’t have sacrificed his whole family’s status and big massive secret if he didn’t love you.

using c.ai does not make you better or any different than other ai users. using c.ai is just as bad as using any other sort of ai. you cannot be anti generative ai and still use c.ai.

as a writer who has had their work stolen and put through c.ai multiple times, it’s very weird to be using a platform that basically encourages theft to ‘heavily inspire’ your writing

this blog is free from all uses of AI—and I cannot believe this needs to be clarified—but that includes c.ai. i have never and will never use ai to come up with, inspire or god forbid, actually write for me.

there are no ethical uses of generative ai. ai and ai users are not welcome on my page.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ “like him”

: ̗̀➛ parings: mindreader! mychael (mushroom oasis) female!reader

: ̗̀➛synopsis: you are so sweet, so kind, so sensitive. it shouldn't hurt to stay with him longer, right? after all, you're the only one who's ever been nice to him. don't leave him.

̗̀➛ tags : she/her pronouns, yandere behavior, manipulative mychael, vague mentions of animal death

summary: you get aang to try a tik tok trend. it fails (?).

"Okay," you say seriously, hands on your hips. Aang's stood before you, listening attentively as always. "Here's the scenario: you've gone to the supermarket without me—"

Aang frowns. "We always go to the supermarket together."

"I know, baby." You have to suppress a smile; he's so damn cute. "But we're just acting something out I saw on Tik Tok. I need to see how you'd react if someone tries to flirt with you when I'm not there."

"Ooooh," Aang replies before he's grinning. "That's so easy."

You raise a playful brow. "Really?" You tease. "Because one woman tried to get your phone number last week and it took me telling you what her true intentions were."

"I thought she was being friendly!" Aang exclaims, chuckling at your laughter. "She saw I was getting pottery supplies and started me asking me questions. I assumed she was interested in the craft."

"You're a handsome 6'4" broad-shouldered man with adorable doe eyes and a very cute smile. Never assume you're being approached for friendly conversation."

Aang grins, all goofy. "Aw, you think I'm handsome."

You grin back. "And annoying," you say, patting away Aang's greedy hands crawling around your waist. "Focus up! We need to do this! Mainly because I'm bored and you indulge my whimsy."

"I love your whimsy," Aang declares fondly, making your heart swell against your ribcage. "You should be whimsical more often."

"For you, I'll be anything," you say, just as fond before patting away Aang's wandering hands again. "Focus!"

"Stop being so cute and maybe I will!"

You stick your tongue out at him, joyful as he laughs. "Okay, we're starting." You clear your throat, put on a flirtatious smile as you sidle up to his side. Your chest presses into his arm, cushioning it with the plush of your bosom and Aang falters, his eyes going wide and a little glassy.

"Hey, I just—oh!" You're immediately interrupted by Aang's lips on yours, coaxing you into a kiss that leaves you breathless. You melt into at first, your initial reaction to anything involving Aang. But then you remember the task at hand and have to, reluctantly, push him away. "A–Aang!"

Aang, still dazed from the kiss, goes, "Hmm?" before trying to come in for another kiss. You make a valiant attempt to evade it, even if you don't stop the kisses he rains on your cheeks and jaw. His arms are locked around your waist, his hands dropping to the small of your back.

"You were supposed to—" He cuts you off with a well-timed kiss, rendering you weak-kneed when his tongue licks into your mouth. "Hah, you were supposed to say—"

"As if I'd look at anyone else when I have you," he murmurs, pulling you closer until you're molded into him. "If that ever happened, that isn't me. I have been abducted."

You manage a laugh, biting your lip when his mouth makes its way to your neck and brings to a life an old bruise from two nights ago. His words hit you like a drum, setting your soul ablaze while softening your already too softened heart.

You love this man so much.

"You still failed," you say, just because you can and your breath hitches when he bites down on a sensitive patch of skin as his hands glide down to lovingly cup your ass.

"No, I didn't." He's grinning widely and you have to agree.

Now I can just imagine a day at our house watching movies (for a moment I thought it would be a horror movie, but I don't want to scare our little boy). So, any movie he likes will do (and I'm curious to see how he reacts if he watches a horror movie). We love you!

Based on my personal interpretation, I think it would probably be something like this🧐🙌

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

If you liked this, don't forget to also check out other ATLA stories I've written so far.

To find my main master list, click HERE.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Zuko would not be a smooth, charming, secretly manipulative yandere.

He would be intense, awkward, emotionally constipated, and painfully obvious without meaning to be.

He does not know how to love casually.

When Zuko cares, he cares like it is a battlefield, a duty, a wound, and a lifeline all at once.

His obsession would come from fear, abandonment, shame, and his lifelong belief that love must be earned before it disappears.

He wouldn't become obsessed because he wants power over you.

He becomes obsessed because you make him feel seen.

If you show him patience, kindness, and genuine understanding, it would hit him harder than any Agni Kai.

Zuko is used to people fearing him, judging him, using him, rejecting him, or expecting him to fail.

So if you look at him and see a person rather than a prince, traitor, enemy, or weapon, he would not know how to handle it.

At first, he would deny his feelings.

Aggressively in the beginning.

Then embarrassingly later on.

With the emotional subtlety of a flaming boulder.

If Iroh casually suggested that Zuko cared about you, Zuko would snap, “I don’t care!”

Then he would spend the next hour staring out at the ocean like a banished raccoon with unresolved attachment issues.

His love would not begin as romance in his mind.

It would begin as concern.

Then protection.

Then responsibility.

Then need.

Then obsession.

Zuko would convince himself that everything he does is for your safety.

He would tell himself he only watches you because the world is dangerous.

That he only follows you because you might get hurt.

That he keeps people away from you because they cannot be trusted.

Now, the problem is that Zuko’s definition of “dangerous” can become very broad when he is scared.

Soldiers are dangerous.

Strangers are dangerous.

Nobles are dangerous.

Anyone from Azula’s circle is dangerous.

Anyone who makes you laugh too easily is suspicious.

Anyone who looks at you for too long has apparently chosen death by bad decision.

Zuko would be very protective, but not soft about it at first.

His concern would sound like criticism.

“You look terrible.”

Translation: Please rest. I am worried about you.

“Don’t be stupid.”

Translation: Please do not risk yourself. I cannot lose you.

“Stay behind me.”

Translation: I will burn the world bald before I let someone hurt you.

Zuko would not be emotionally fluent.

He would feel too much, then express it badly.

He would stare when he is worried.

He would snap when he is scared.

He would pace when you are gone too long.

He would pretend he was not waiting for you. (He was absolutely waiting)

If you returned late, he would not say, “I was scared.”

He would say, “Where were you?”

It would sound accusatory.

His face would betray him.

Zuko’s jealousy would be immediate and obvious.

He would not smile politely while hiding it.

He would stiffen.

His jaw would clench.

His eyes would narrow.

His shoulders would rise like he is preparing for war over eye contact.

If someone flirted with you, he would interrupt.

Badly.

“You’re standing too close.”

If they laughed, he would step closer and repeat himself.

“I said you’re standing too close.”

Zuko would hate feeling jealous.

It would make him feel weak.

He already hates wanting things because wanting means someone can take them away.

You becoming important to him would terrify him.

He has already lost his mother.

He was burned and banished by his father.

He betrayed Iroh and nearly destroyed the one stable love he had.

He knows what loss feels like.

He knows what regret tastes like.

So when he loves you, fear follows close behind like a shadow with teeth.

Early Book One Zuko would be the most volatile yandere version.

He would be angry, defensive, desperate for honor, and terrible at understanding his own feelings.

If he met you during his hunt for the Avatar, he would probably justify keeping you near him through strategy.

He would say you know too much.

He would say you might interfere.

He would say you are safer where he can see you.

Secretly, he would panic when you are out of sight.

He would be possessive without having the emotional maturity to recognize it.

If you challenged him, he would get defensive.

“I’m trying to protect you!”

If you asked why he cared so much, he would freeze.

Then he would get angry because freezing embarrassed him.

Zuko’s anger often protects a much softer feeling underneath.

As a yandere, that pattern would become very obvious.

Anger covers fear.

Irritation covers tenderness.

Control covers panic.

Silence covers longing.

After Ba Sing Se, his obsession would become heavier and more conflicted.

If you were with him in the Fire Nation palace, he would become extremely protective.

The palace would feel dangerous to him.

Not because of swords or soldiers.

Because of the smiles, politics, servants listening at doors, nobles using kindness like perfume over poison, and most of all...

Azula.

He would warn you not to trust certain people.

He would tell you which hallways to avoid.

He would quietly arrange guards near your room.

If you noticed, he would deny it.

Terribly.

“That has nothing to do with me.”

It absolutely has everything to do with him.

If Azula noticed his attachment to you, Zuko would become even worse.

Azula would notice immediately.

She would see the way his eyes move toward you first.

She would hear the change in his voice.

She would recognize how easy it is to provoke him through you.

Zuko would know that she knows.

That would terrify him.

He would become stricter.

More watchful.

More insistent that you stay close.

If you accused him of trying to control you, he would look wounded before he looked angry.

Because part of him knows you are right.

Another part of him believes he is the only thing standing between you and danger.

Post-redemption Zuko would be the most tragic yandere version.

He would recognize that his obsession is unhealthy.

He chased the Avatar across the world because he believed capturing him would restore his honor.

He knows what tunnel vision can do.

So when he starts feeling that same consuming focus toward you, he would be horrified.

He would try to restrain himself.

He would try not to follow you.

He would try not to ask where you have been.

He would try not to glare at people who get too close.

He would fail sometimes. (A lot of times, actually)

The difference is that post-redemption Zuko would feel guilty.

He would not be proud of frightening you.

He would not enjoy controlling you.

If he scared you, it would devastate him.

He might still get defensive first, because it is Zuko.

But after the anger fades, shame would settle in.

He would apologize stiffly.

“I shouldn’t have done that.”

Then, after a painful pause, he would force himself to continue.

“I was scared. That doesn’t make it right.”

That kind of apology would cost him.

But he would say it because Zuko’s entire arc is about choosing to become better.

His yandere love language would be protection.

He would walk you home.

He would sit near the entrance so he can see threats first.

He would train you in self-defense if you asked.

He would correct your stance with intense focus.

He would get frustrated if you were reckless.

If you got hurt during training, he would look furious.

Not at you.

At himself.

At the world.

At the fact that bruises exist.

He would say, “I told you to guard your side.”

Translation: I aged twelve years watching that happen.

Zuko would also show love through small acts of service.

He would remember what foods you like.

He would notice when you are cold.

He would give you his cloak or blanket without making eye contact.

He would make sure you ate.

He would pretend it is practical.

It is not practical.

It is devotion wearing a grumpy little hat.

His compliments would be awkward.

“You did well.”

“That was smart.”

“Your form improved.”

If you smiled, he would immediately look away.

He would remember that smile forever.

Zuko would treasure small moments intensely.

The first time you trust him enough to fall asleep near him, he would sit still for a long time.

The first time you touch his arm casually, his brain would briefly leave the physical world.

The first time you defend him, he would not know what to say.

He might snap, “I didn’t need help.”

But later, quietly, he would say, “Thank you.”

If you ever touched the scarred side of his face gently, he would go completely still.

He would not pull away unless he panicked.

He would look vulnerable in a way he hates.

If you kissed his scar, he might not speak for a while.

That tenderness would undo him.

Zuko has been hurt through that scar.

Being loved through it would feel impossible.

His possessiveness would become strongest when he thinks you are leaving.

Abandonment is his deepest wound.

If you tried to walk away after discovering how obsessive he had become, he would unravel.

First, anger.

Then fear.

Then desperation.

Then shame.

Early Zuko might physically block your path.

He would insist it is too dangerous for you to leave.

He might order someone to stop you.

Then the second he saw betrayal on your face, regret would hit him hard.

Post-redemption Zuko would want to stop you, but he would force himself not to touch you.

His hands would curl into fists at his sides.

He would take one step, then stop himself.

His voice would crack before he could hide it.

“Don’t go.”

That would be Zuko at his rawest.

Not commanding.

Pleading.

His confession would probably happen during a crisis.

Zuko does not plan emotional speeches well.

Feelings ambush him.

He would confess after nearly losing you, after an argument, or after realizing someone else could take you from him.

It would be messy.

Honest.

Too intense.

Very Zuko.

He might say something like, “I thought I knew what I wanted. Honor, my throne, my father’s approval. I chased it until I couldn’t recognize myself. But when I thought something happened to you, none of that mattered. I couldn’t breathe. Because I care for you. It’s you. It’s always been you.”

Then he would look horrified because his entire soul just escaped without permission.

Iroh would be very important in keeping yandere Zuko from spiraling.

Iroh would notice Zuko’s attachment early.

He would notice the pacing.

The protectiveness.

The jealousy.

The way Zuko becomes calmer and more unstable around you at the same time.

Iroh would not mock him cruelly.

He would guide him.

He would remind Zuko that love cannot be forced.

He would tell him that protection without trust becomes a cage.

Zuko would pretend not to listen.

He would absolutely listen.

Iroh would probably compare Zuko to a teapot left too long over a flame.

Zuko would hate that.

Mostly because it is accurate.

Fire Lord Zuko as a yandere would be dangerous in a different way.

He would have power now.

Real political power.

Guards.

Messengers.

Armies.

Court influence.

The ability to make problems disappear through official channels.

That would scare him because he knows what abusive power looks like.

He grew up under Ozai.

He knows rulers can call control “order.”

He would try very hard not to become like his father.

But if someone threatened you, insulted you, or tried to use you politically, Zuko would become frighteningly cold.

He would not rage immediately.

He would remember names.

He would investigate.

He would remove people from positions where they could harm you.

If a noble tried to manipulate you, they might suddenly lose access to the palace.

If a court faction used your name in a scheme, Zuko would dismantle them with terrifying focus.

He would tell himself it is justice.

Sometimes it would be.

Sometimes it would be obsession wearing royal armor.

He would struggle with the difference.

The palace would quietly rearrange itself around your safety.

More guards near your wing.

More trusted servants assigned to you.

More reports brought to him.

More “coincidences” keeping certain people away.

If you confronted him, he would not have an easy answer.

Fire Lord Zuko wants to be fair.

Yandere Zuko wants you safe at any cost.

Those two parts of him would fight constantly.

Zuko would not be a sadistic yandere.

He would not enjoy your fear.

He would not want you broken.

He would not want blind obedience.

He wants your love.

Your trust.

Your choice.

Unfortunately, choice is what scares him most.

Because if you can choose him, you can also choose to leave.

That thought would haunt him.

He would sometimes ask blunt questions because anxiety chews through his restraint.

“Do you regret staying?”

“Are you afraid of me?”

“Do you still want this?”

If you hesitated, he would shut down.

Not because he is angry.

Because he is bracing for impact.

Zuko would need reassurance, but he would hate needing it.

He would never want to seem weak.

But with you, the mask would crack.

He would crave proof that you still care.

Not grand declarations.

Small things.

Sitting beside him.

Touching his hand.

Saying his name gently.

Choosing to stay when you could leave.

A healthier yandere Zuko would still be obsessive, but self-aware.

He would still get jealous.

He would still worry too much.

He would still want to keep you close.

But he would fight the urge to control you.

He would apologize when he overstepped.

He would listen, even if it took effort.

He would try to protect you without owning you.

That struggle is what makes him faithful to canon.

Zuko’s story is not about being naturally good.

It is about choosing good after being shaped by cruelty.

As a yandere, he would stand on that same edge.

One side of him would cling, command, and control.

The other side would let go, trust, and choose love over fear.

He would not always choose correctly.

But he would try.

That is the most Zuko thing about him.

He is not Ozai.

He is not Azula.

He is not a polished villain with a perfect mask.

He is a wounded boy who became a scarred prince, then a better man through painful choices.

His obsession would burn hot, messy, and frightened.

His love would feel like fire in a closed room.

Warm enough to save you.

Bright enough to blind him.

⇦ back to masterlist ⇦

status: COMPLETE!! IT’S COMPLETE AFTER 5 YEARS OF WRITING !!

summary: As a servant in the Fire Nation, you’ve learned that life is often unfair. But as you venture through a tumultuous relationship with a certain prince, you come to realize a very tricky lesson: everything happens for a reason.

warning(s): angst, hurt/comfort, hurt without comfort, threats of death, parental death, betrayal, there is a lot of sadness but that comes along with a zuko fic lmao. there is a happy ending though! i promise 

features endgame kataang, sukka, and mailee, and past yue x reader and maiko

timeline | playlist | ao3

current wc: 134,009

CHAPTER 1 . I am not your concern

CHAPTER 2 . And out of the blue, I fell for you

CHAPTER 3 . I feel so much, I get carried away

CHAPTER 4 . The night was full of terrors and your eyes were full of tears

CHAPTER 5 . I can go anywhere I want, I can go anywhere just not home

CHAPTER 6 . The thing about forever is that it’s a fucking lie

CHAPTER 7 . I think my ways are wearing me down

CHAPTER 8 . Used to do these things so effortlessly, somehow

CHAPTER 9 . I fell in love with a war, nobody told me it ended

CHAPTER 10 . I hate you for what you did, and I miss you like a little kid

CHAPTER 11 . Memories, where’d you go?

CHAPTER 12 . Living in the state of dreaming

CHAPTER 13 . But there was one thing missing, and that was the moment I knew

CHAPTER 14 . How could you be so reckless with my heart?

CHAPTER 15 . I thought I had you figured out

CHAPTER 16 . I miss you more than anything

CHAPTER 17 . And maybe I don’t quite know what to say

CHAPTER 18 . Don’t speak, I know just what you’re thinking

CHAPTER 19 . Can we go back to the world we had? With a love so sweet it makes me sad

CHAPTER 20 . Guess it’s true, I’m never getting over you

CHAPTER 21 . Meet me in the afterglow

CHAPTER 22 . I’ve been waiting on you

CHAPTER 23 . Finally, you and me are the lucky ones this time

CHAPTER 24 . You’re coming back, and it’s the end of the world