Koi🪽

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Aangxreader- fluff-"The morning after" Zukoxreader smut aangxreadersmut(tw!breeding) aangxreader(eater!aang)

tophxreader smut aang x reader x sokka you dont make it home geto x reader x sokka x jinshi aang x reader x zuko zukox!reader(somo) getoxreaderxsuko(crossover/dddne) zukoxreader snippet sokkaxreader(lovers to enemies)

Zukoxreader enemies to lovers (finished)

part 2

part 3

BONUS

Zuko x Reader x Sokka love triangle-"the beginning of it all

chapter1

chapter2

chapter 3 chapter 4 chapter 5 chapter 6 chapter 7 chapter 8 chapter 9 chapter 10 chapter 11 chapter 12(the end,MxFxM)

The Consort Question (Part 1) The consort Question(Part 2) pt 3 pt4 pt5 pt 6 pt7 pt 8 pt 8 (alt ending)

Sokka x reader (pt 2) (full on a03) pt 3

Zuko x reader headcannons ATLA menxreader! smut

When they dont come home

Trigger Warnings: TW:Mean/Rough Nanami,SAH-Reader,Non-consensual leaning dynamics (CNC), Breathplay/Choking, Impact Play, Sadism, Bondage, Power Imbalance, Degradation, and Strong Language.

The heavy thud of the front door echoed through the apartment, followed by the sharp, rhythmic click of Nanami’s dress shoes. He didn't call out a greeting. The air around him felt thick, charged with a cold, simmering rage that had been building since his first meeting at 8:00 AM. Corporate incompetence and the endless cycle of overtime had pushed him to his absolute limit.

You could tell by the way he ripped off his tie, the silk fabric snapping as he tossed it onto the sofa. His eyes, usually calm and calculating, were dark and predatory. He didn't look at you with affection; he looked at you as the only outlet for the pressure mounting in his chest.

"Come here," he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

You knew that tone. It was the voice of the man who demanded absolute order, the man who had established a set of strict rules for your domestic life to ensure you remained his perfectly disciplined partner. You had broken one of those rules earlier that day, leaving a mess in the kitchen and forgetting to prepare his tea. In any other circumstance, it was a trifle. Tonight, it was a catalyst.

He didn't wait for you to move. He gripped your arm, his fingers digging into your skin, and hauled you toward the balcony. The night air was crisp, the city lights of Tokyo shimmering in the distance, but the atmosphere between you was suffocating.

Nanami shoved you against the cold metal railing. He reached into his pocket and produced a set of soft but sturdy leather restraints he kept for these specific moods. With efficient, brutal speed, he yanked your wrists behind your back and cinched them tight. The sudden restriction made you gasp, your chest heaving against the fabric of your thin dress.

"You've been careless today," he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. "I spend my entire day managing idiots who cannot follow simple instructions. I will not come home to find the same incompetence in my own house."

He didn't give you time to apologize. He reached out and delivered a sharp, stinging slap across your cheek. The sound cracked through the quiet night. Your head snapped to the side, a small whimper escaping your lips. He didn't stop. He shifted his hand, delivering a series of hard, rhythmic swats to your backside, the impact echoing.

You began to cry, the tears blurring your vision, but the pain was sparking a familiar, desperate heat between your thighs. Nanami noticed. He loved the contrast of your distress and your arousal. He leaned in, his voice shifting to a terrifyingly sweet tone.

"Good girl. Cry for me. Let it all out while you remember why you belong to me."

He moved his hand from your skin to your throat. His large palm pressed firmly against your windpipe, not enough to stop your breath entirely, but enough to make every gasp a struggle. He watched your eyes widen, your pupils dilating as the lack of oxygen sent a rush of lightheaded euphoria through your brain. You clawed at the air with your bound hands, your body arching instinctively toward him.

"Please," you sobbed, the word breaking.

"Please what?" he whispered, tightening his grip just a fraction more. "Do you want me to stop, or do you want me to ruin you?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He reached down and ripped your underwear aside, exposing your dripping wetness to the cool night breeze. He didn't use any lubricant; he wanted you to feel every bit of the friction. He entered you in one violent, singular thrust, his thick cock slamming into your cervix.

You screamed, the sound muffled by his hand still pressing against your throat. The sheer force of the impact knocked the wind out of you, mixing the sensation of choking with the overwhelming fullness of him. He began to fuck you with a relentless, punishing pace. Every thrust was a statement of ownership, a physical manifestation of the anger he had carried all day.

He gripped your hips, his fingers bruising your skin, and hammered into you. The railing of the balcony rattled with every collision of your bodies. You were sobbing openly now, your face flushed and wet, your voice a series of broken moans and high pitched cries.

"Look at you," Nanami groaned, his composure finally breaking as he felt your walls clamping tight around him. "So pathetic. So desperate for me to hurt you."

He shifted his angle, grinding his pelvis against you to hit your G spot with every plunge. The pleasure was so intense it felt like pain, a blinding white light that made your toes curl and your head toss from side to side. You were caught in a cycle of agony and ecstasy, your mind fracturing under the weight of his dominance.

As he felt himself nearing the edge, Nanami pulled out abruptly. He didn't let you go, keeping you pinned against the railing with his body. He forced you down to your knees, your bound arms making you wobble.

"Clean me," he ordered.

You didn't hesitate. You leaned forward and took him into your mouth, your tongue swirling around the head of his cock. He groaned, his fingers tangling in your hair, pulling your head back so he could look into your tear stained eyes.

"That's it. Suck it all. Be a good little slut for me."

The praise hit you harder than the slaps. You worked him with a frantic energy, your throat tightening around him. He began to thrust his hips forward, meeting your mouth with aggressive strokes. The friction and the heat built up until he let out a low, guttural growl.

He didn't pull away. He came deep in your throat, the hot, thick bursts of cum filling your mouth. You gagged slightly, but you swallowed every drop, knowing that was the only way to truly satisfy his need for control.

𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚠𝚎 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘

𝙳𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚡 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

tw: death, grief, dissociation, panic, blood

you ask him the question on a slow morning, half-awake on the couch at devil may cry. sun through dusty blinds. coffee going cold. his boots on the table like he owns time itself.

“would you love me if i was a rock?”

he doesn’t look up at first. flips a page in some busted demon ledger, lips quirked like he knows every punchline before it lands. then he glances over, lets the page fall. eyes the color of storms when they want to be.

“depends,” he says. “you a shiny rock? paperweight rock? can i skip you across a lake?”

you make a face. “why would you skip me?”

“to see how far you’d go,” he answers, softer now. “and then i’d jump in and get you back.”

you snort, try to hide the smile in your mug. “that’s not how skipping works.”

“that’s how my skipping works.”

later, the office hums with the kind of quiet that holds its breath. dante cleans his guns, hum under his tongue, something old, something that sounds like it survived the end of the world and decided to keep walking. you curl up on the threadbare couch and watch dust float like tiny planets. you think about being a rock. being carried in a pocket. warmed by a palm. skimmed by rain and kept anyway.

“i’d love you if you were a rock,” you tell him.

he doesn’t look up, but there’s that little hitch. the almost-smile. “yeah?”

“i’d keep you on the windowsill so the sun could find you. talk to you when mornings went long. turn you over in my hands when the nights got worse.”

he snaps the cylinder shut, sets ebony down gentle, like it’s a lullaby. “you’d get bored,” he says. “i’m not very interesting as a paperweight.”

“not true.” you shift, meet his gaze. that storm, that blue. “you’d be the heaviest light i ever carried.”

he blinks. looks away first. you win. you always gloat later. you don’t get the chance.

𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑑𝑖𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑔𝑒𝑡 ℎ𝑜𝑡?

TW: Somnophilia, dominance/submission, gagging, size kink, temperature play, obsession, mock sympathy, explicit non consensual elements during sleep.

I lay curled up in our bed at the Air Temple, the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the paper screens. A year. An entire year without a single letter from Aang. The Avatar's duties had pulled him away on some secretive mission, and communication was impossible. Every night, I fell asleep clutching his pillow, inhaling the faint scent of incense and wind that lingered on it. The temple felt empty without him, the air currents whispering loneliness through the halls. Tonight was no different. Exhaustion from training pulled me into a deep sleep, my body relaxed under the thin silk sheet.

A soft creak at the door stirred something in my dreams, but I didn't wake. Cool air brushed my skin first, like a gentle breeze from the mountains. Then, warm lips pressed against my forehead, lingering. I sighed in my sleep, shifting slightly. The kisses trailed down, feather light on my eyelids, my cheeks. A hand cupped my face, thumb stroking my jaw. The scent hit me next, that unique mix of earth, sky, and him. Aang.

His breath ghosted over my neck as he whispered, so low it blended with the wind. "Darling, I've missed you so much." His voice was rough, edged with desperation. I mumbled incoherently.

He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against my throat as he kissed there, sucking lightly. His hands roamed, sliding under the sheet to trace my curves. Fingers danced over my breasts, pinching nipples until they hardened. A shiver ran through me, cool air following his touch like he was bending it deliberately.

(this is not smut i repeat this is not smut)

sunshine x grumpy

i spent the afternoon trying to decide if the silk sleeves made me look merciful.

in the mirror my reflection floated like a drop of pomegranate wine in a bowl. the silk was fire lily red with a throat that wanted to be scandal. if i lifted my arms it would show the pale lines along the ribs that palace seamstresses called beauty marks and i called receipts. some of them were old debts i had collected in cities that now pretended they had always loved the fire nation. most were mine. most were earned.

behind me the palace hummed. there is a sound palaces make when they know they are about to be watched. it is a low polite throat clearing that travels from lacquered floor to beam to lantern. the royal celebration was for harmony. i had learned over time that harmony is when everyone lies at the same pitch.

zuko had been in council since morning. when i passed the east veranda the guards went quiet the way trained men do when they are cataloging how a woman moves. i smiled so they would think i was harmless. it worked on most people. it had not worked on me in years.

my shoes waited on a cedar bench under the window. they were impossible little things. silk straps like brushstrokes and a heel that could pierce fruit. the palace cobbler had made them after i said something reckless about wanting to feel taller than my ghosts. he put a little flame at the back where the heel met the satin. i had laughed and told him he was sentimental. he said i would like them more if someone put them on me.

the door slid open. zuko walked in

he had that look on his face that put a layer of glass between him and everything else, his robe was black with thin lines that caught light as if they had been inked by a patient god. his hair was tied back. the scar drank the lantern light and gave none of it back.

we looked at each other and i felt the palace remember it had a heartbeat.

"you are going to be late" i said.

he made a sound that i had once thought meant annoyance. i had learned later that it meant i am thinking about you and trying not to show it. he leaned a shoulder to the door frame and let his eyes travel the line of my throat like a match looking for a place to strike.

that dress is illegal he said.

so arrest me.

he did not smile where people could see. right now there was only me and a mirror and a pair of shoes that had opinions about worship. his mouth lifted anyway. not a smile. a mistake his face made when it remembered joy.

you look like you will forgive everyone tonight he said.

i tied one silk cuff at my wrist and watched my pulse push against it. i will forgive you if you bring me a drink before the first general finds me.

he crossed the room and put his hands at my waist. he had learned to touch me like i was a room he was allowed to live in. i leaned back into the heat that came off him.

i have to go be the cold fire lord and you have to go be the sun he said into my hair. try not to blind anyone i still need allies.

bring me a drink and i will try to dim.

he breathed out a laugh that belonged to the boy who had once chased a sky bison and called it duty. then he did the thing i had not asked for. he pressed his mouth to my temple. he did not have to ask to do that.

try not to start a war he said.

i looked at the shoes. i am going to start something.

by the time the lanterns were lit the palace had pulled itself into its party posture. every corridor glossy. every brazier a straight backed soldier. guests arrived with the smell of ships and rain still in their cloaks. the music threaded from courtyard to hall and made the pillars look like they were breathing.

if you have never walked through a room where everyone thinks they owe you or you owe them you do not know the choreography of the eyes. heads tip. smiles are measured out like spice.

i did the circuit with a tray in my hand so the servants would not feel alone. a water tribe envoy told me a story about her nephew who had tried to ride a turtle duck and had been chased into the koi pond. an earth kingdom magistrate congratulated me for existing near power so gracefully. i told him grace was the cleanest lie i knew how to tell.

zuko took his place by the dais with the carved dragons that watched the room the way knives watch throats. he was winter there. a tall quiet cold that made people feel like they should apologize for breathing too loudly. his posture said come closer. his eyes said i will decide what that costs you.

he had a cup in his hand. he looked over the crowd once and found me like there was a red string from his chest to mine. i lifted my chin a little. he touched the rim of his cup to his mouth without drinking.

we used to be alone at rooms like this. him and me and the space between the notes of a song. now the space was filled with a nation trying to learn a new way to be loud without being cruel. i am proud of him.

when the music shifted to court polite i stepped into the main hall.

people always say the great hall is intimidating. it is not. it is predictable. the floor is a checker meant for human pieces. it is painted with old victories that learned to look like murals. the ceiling holds storms that never break. the dais sits like a mouth waiting to swallow anyone who forgets what they are.

my heels were in my hand. i had walked barefoot because the hallway in front of the great doors always feels like a riverbed to me and it annoys the ghosts when i treat it like a spa. the music smoothed itself into the shape of night. people turned their heads one by one as i crossed the floor. i heard someone say my name in a tone that meant i thought she would be taller.

the straps of the shoes dangled over my fingers. i stopped at the bottom of the stairs. it took three breaths for the room to understand that i had stopped there on purpose and not to curtsy

zuko watched me with that stillness that used to mean terror and now meant attention held like a blade holds light. he did not move. the guard at his right flicked his gaze to mine and then away. i smile

my voice carried because the hall was trained to obey.

"my heel"

several things happened at once. the nearest ambassador inhaled like he had swallowed an ice shard. a lady from the colonies decided her fan needed to be adjusted. a general whose mouth had never learned when to stop moving said she must be joking to no one at all and to everyone around him. the dragons on the pillars looked down and did not blink.

zuko put the cup down.

there is a way men refuse. there is a way they obey. there is a third way that is yes because i worship you and also because i know the architecture of the moment better than anyone in this room. he chose the third way.

he stepped down from the dais. it took him four steps to cross the distance,he stopped in front of me and for a heartbeat we were alone in a hall with a thousand opinions.

he looked at my face to ask without words. i tilted my chin in answer.

he went to his knees.

no one breathed.

his hands were slow at my ankle. not hesitant. deliberate. the strap slid over my instep like a silk sentence. he raised my foot and placed my calf on his thigh to give himself a better angle. the cut of his robe tightened over muscle. i felt the press of him where he steadied me and had to make a choice not to make a sound that would turn the air molten.

he tied the first bow and then looked at what he had done like the knot meant something sacred. it did. it meant he knew whose foot had once kicked a blade out of a hand in a warehouse in north ba sing se. it meant he knew i hated buckles that required a mirror. it meant we had built a language of small things where other people built monuments of empty ones.

the second heel went the same. his thumbs pressed into the bone under my skin and drew a straight line that started in my belly and ended in the space behind my tongue. i shifted my weight onto him in a way that told a story only he needed to hear. his mouth barely moved. the scar made it look like he was always one thought away from mercy. he was always one thought toward it when he looked at me.

he finished the knot and did not let my foot go.

the court had already decided how the story would be told. some of them would say i had humbled the fire lord and it meant the sun was careless. some would say he had chosen to kneel and it meant the winter had learned to water gardens. a few would understand we had made a third story and it was ours.

zuko lifted my foot. his eyes were dark in a way that made the hall look like it had less light than it had a breath ago. he turned his face and set his mouth against the top of my toes like a seal.

it was not a chaste kiss and it was not obscene. it was a sentence that said i want you to live forever and also i would burn a city to keep you warm for one more hour. warmth traveled up my leg and settled low. i watched him do it. i let the room watch me watch him.

i put my foot down and balanced directly into him for a heartbeat. i let my knee press to the outside of his shoulder. i let my skirt fall and pool in a way that would be painted as an accident in any mural and remembered correctly by anyone with a pulse.

thank you i said quietly for him and loudly for everyone else. i did not bow. i reached and touched his jaw with two fingers. he stood because i had let him and because he had decided to.

he did not take my hand. he offered his arm and i took it because we were both performing a duet and neither of us was the instrument.

you promised me a drink i said.

and you promised me you would dim he said. you failed.

my apologies. i forget the switch sometimes.

tysm!! i havent posted on her in a while ( less than 1 week) but i am happy people like my work

yall be making me blush with compliments

Toph × afab!reader angst in which they were childhood best friends to lovers. However, due to Toph's "duty" with the Beifong clan, she and reader spilt up while both of them still cared for each other. With the birth of Lin and Su, reader looked afted and doted on them as her own. Eventually, she decided to settle down with a decent guy but unfortunately passed away because of childbirth complications, leaving Toph with unresolved feelings.

i wrote this half asleep sorry if it has spelling mistakes.

(its long)

You had known this water since you were little, since Toph stood in it with her shoes off and her hair wild, since she made the earth feel like it had a heartbeat you could hear if you put your face to the ground and listened. She hated silk. She told you with a wrinkle of her nose while the hem clung to her shins in the creek and the magnolias hoarded their perfume behind the servants’ wall. She hated whispering rooms and the way polished floors lied to her feet. She liked dirt honest and water cold and truth with a bruise you could name. She liked your laugh best when it startled her, the way a stone jumps when a fish brushes it by accident. The first kiss was not an accident. She found you where the estate thinned to weeds and low songs. She measured your pulse with her thumb as if testing the tension of a wire. Her mouth was a tectonic thing, careful as it moved, the ground holding its breath under you both. When you pulled back, she smiled.

timeskip a few years

Toph listened with her chin lifted and her jaw set, stone beneath silk, a statue pretending to be obedient. Later she took your hand until her nails bit. "I cannot" she said, each word a small landslide. "Not now. Not with them watching". You nodded because your body was a good liar.

You said you understood because you loved her and because language is the tool we use to sand down the edges of a wound until it looks like something you intended to make.

She left, she returned, she left again.

The world learned to make room for her footsteps. People began to say her name .The letters followed you like stray dogs. You carried them in your mouth and then in your pocket and then in a box that used to hold tea.

You wrote back because not writing would have drowned you.

You held Lin first because she wailed like someone wrestled thunder out of a brass bowl and you were the only one not afraid to put your cheek to the sound. You walked the floor while Toph paced, hands behind her back as if she were already wearing a badge that hadn’t been minted yet. Su arrived with a different fight in her jaw. You learned the lullabies the way you learned Toph, by ear and stubbornness. You learned the shape of a crib rail against a bruised knee at three in the morning. You learned how to tuck a blanket so a future could not wriggle free and fall. The house filled with small hands that reached for you without thinking. You fed them rice while Toph argued with a city about the definition of safety. You stood on the steps and watched her go, her back a dark slash against the morning. She came home smelling like rain before it breaks. Your shoulder learned the weight of her head again in moments nobody else got to see. You lived in the negative spaces between her legend and her kitchen table. You taught Lin to tie her sash left over right. You taught Su to count the cracks in the flagstones by feel. You taught yourself to stand close and not reach.

Zuko exhaled sharply through his nose—that old habit when words failed him. He leaned against the railing, close enough that the scent of cherry blossoms and rice wine wafted between us. Deliberate. "The physician says you're healing well." His gaze dropped to my abdomen, where the embroidered sash hid what we both knew was gone.

I flung the entire pouch into the pond. The ducks scattered as it sank, leaving only bubbles. "Is that why you came? To check your handiwork?"

Zuko flinched as if I’d struck him—a reaction he wouldn’t have given me months ago. Back when he still thought himself untouchable. "That's not—" He swallowed, his throat working around the lie. The scars on his forearms stood out starkly in the dying light, fresh and pink. "I deserved that."

"No." I turned to face him fully for the first time, the setting sun catching the gold in his good eye. "You deserve far worse."

Zuko’s fingers twitched toward my sleeve—a habit left over from when he’d tug me closer during arguments, as if proximity could bridge the gap between us. He caught himself this time, curling his hand into a fist instead. The silence stretched like the shadow of the bridge between us, broken only by the distant splash of a turtle-duck diving for the sunken crumbs.

“You left the crown in the pond,” he said finally, his voice rougher than I remembered. “The servants fished it out warped beyond repair.” He paused, his good eye darting to my face as if searching for a reaction. “They say it’s bad luck to discard a royal symbol like that.”

I laughed, sharp enough to startle the ducks into the reeds. “Funny. I thought the bad luck was marrying you.”

His jaw tightened, the scar pulling taut across his cheek. A year ago, that flinch would’ve satisfied me. Now it just tasted like ash. “Is that really all this was to you?” he asked, gesturing between us. “A political miscalculation?”

. "You know that's not what I meant," I said quietly.

Zuko pressed his palms against the wooden railing, his fingers digging into the grain like he could anchor himself to something solid. "I thought about burning the pavilion down," he admitted abruptly. "The one where—" His voice fractured. He didn’t need to finish. We both knew which pavilion he meant.

I watched a mother turtle-duck herd her chicks toward the reeds, their tiny beaks opening and closing in silent protest. "Why didn’t you?"

"Because you loved the lotus carvings." He said it like it was obvious, like the answer had been carved into his bones. The admission hovered between us, fragile as the ducklings’ first feathers.

A breeze rippled across the pond, carrying the scent of damp earth and something sharper—ozone, maybe, or the ghost of a lightning strike. Zuko inhaled sharply, as if he’d caught it too. "Do you remember the storm last summer?" he asked. "When the lightning split the old oak by the stables?"

"You hid in my dressing room for two hours," I said, watching the ducklings disappear into the reeds. "Claimed you were reviewing trade documents." The memory tasted bittersweet now—his knees knocking against mine in the cramped space, the way he'd jumped at every thunderclap like a spooked komodo rhino.

Zuko's mouth twitched, almost a smile. Almost. "You made me tea with that awful Fire Nation spice blend." He mimed gagging, the gesture too practiced, too charming. A performance. "I think you were trying to poison me."

"I should have." The words came out flat, stripped of venom.

"I wrote you another letter," he admitted, holding it between us like a peace offering. "Before I lost my nerve."

I didn’t take the letter.

"You think paper fixes this?" My voice sounded strange—hollow, like a gong struck too hard.

Zuko’s fingers trembled around the parchment. "No," he admitted. The scar pulled tight as his jaw worked. "But it’s not another jewel either."

 "Read it," he whispered. "Or don't. Burn it if you want." His fingers trembled where they gripped the paper. "Just know it's the truth."

I took the letter because the alternative was clawing his eyes out, and I'd promised myself I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of my rage. The parchment felt alive against my fingertips, pulsing with the ghost of his touch. The ink was smudged at the edges, blurred by something that couldn't have been rain.

"You picked cherry blossoms for Mai's hair the morning after," I said, folding the letter along its worn creases. "I saw you from the balcony. You stood on your toes to reach the highest branch." My voice sounded detached, clinical. As if I were describing someone else's tragedy.

Zuko's fingers twitched toward his scar, then stopped—an aborted gesture, like he'd forgotten he couldn't hide behind it anymore. "You were watching," he said, not a question. The sunset painted his face in shades of bruise-purple, making the scar look darker than usual.

"From the moment you left our bed." I crumpled the letter in my fist, feeling the parchment crackle like dry bones. The turtle-ducks had vanished, leaving only ripples behind. "You whistled while you picked them. I'd never heard you whistle before."

His throat worked. That was the thing about Zuko—he never realized how much he gave away. Every twitch, every hesitation a ledger entry I could read better than his advisors read trade reports.

"I didn't—" He swallowed. "That morning, I—"

"Spare me." I pressed the crumpled letter against his chest, feeling his heartbeat hammer beneath my palm. "I don't care what justification you've rehearsed."

Zuko caught my wrist before I could pull away, his fingers circling the delicate bones with that same desperate gentleness he used to touch porcelain. The letter fell between us, landing in the pond with a soft splash. We both watched as the ink bled into the water, the words dissolving like sugar in tea.

"You're right," he said hoarsely. The turtle-duck that had been watching us paddled over to investigate the sinking paper, pecking at it once before losing interest. "There isn't one."

His thumb brushed the inside of my wrist—an old habit, that unconscious stroking he'd always done when nervous. The calluses from sword practice caught on my skin, rough against the thin scars left by my own nails. I didn't pull away. Not yet.

The pond's surface stilled as the last fragments of Zuko's letter sank beneath the water. His thumb lingered on my pulse point—a traitorous anchor in the storm of my anger. I could feel each erratic beat of my heart against his calloused skin, betraying me the way he once had with cherry blossoms caught between his fingers.

"Don't," I warned, but my voice cracked like thin ice over a firebender's pond.

Zuko's grip loosened, yet his fingers didn't fully withdraw. His breath fogged the space between us in quick bursts. "You taught me this," he murmured, his thumb pressing lightly against the scarred crescent moons on my palm—the ones I'd carved the night he first visited Mai's chambers. "That some wounds never really close."

I wrenched my hand back with enough force to make him stagger. "Don't you dare use my words against me."

. Zuko stared at the spot where his confession had dissolved, his shoulders slumping beneath the weight of his robes. "You kept count," he said finally. "Eighty-seven times."

I flexed my fingers, the ghost of his touch still burning. "You think I wanted to?" The words tasted like copper, like the first time I'd bitten through my lip to keep from crying in front of the ministers.

He turned his palms upward—an offering, a surrender. The crescent scars there mirrored mine. "I kept count too." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Eighty-seven times I chose wrong."

The admission hung between us, raw as an open wound. The wind shifted, carrying the scent of the kitchen fires from the palace—smoke and something sweet, like the honey cakes they served at our wedding feast. Zuko's nostrils flared, his head tilting slightly. He remembered too.

The servant’s footsteps pounded across the bridge like a war drum, their breath ragged as they skidded to a stop before us. "Fire Lord" they gasped, bowing so low their forehead nearly touched the damp wood. "Lady Mai—the physician sent me—"

Zuko’s hand twitched toward his dagger, his body taut as a bowstring. "Out with it."

The servant swallowed hard, their eyes darting to my face before fixing on Zuko’s boots.

"Her labor pains began an hour ago. The midwives say—" A hesitation, weighted. "They say it’s coming too soon."

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.

"You should go," I said. My voice didn’t shake. It didn’t need to.

Zuko didn't move. Not when the servant whimpered. Not when the first drops of rain began hitting the pond's surface, distorting our reflections into grotesque parodies of who we'd once been. His gaze remained fixed on my face with an intensity that should have scorched the hair from my temples.

"Fire Lord," the servant tried again, fingers twisting in the hem of their tunic. "The physician said—"

The rain fell harder, sluicing down Zuko’s scar like a second tear. He didn’t blink. “Tell them to send for the Earth Kingdom healer,” he said, voice low. “The one who treated the Avatar’s wounds after Azula.”

The name hit me like a knife between the ribs—Yun, the Earth Kingdom healer who'd smuggled moonflower tinctures into my chambers when the royal physicians refused to touch "the Fire Lord's discarded leavings." I could still smell the bitter herbs she'd pressed into my palm, could still feel her calloused fingers stitching me back together as I bit down on a leather strap to keep from screaming.

Zuko was already striding toward the palace, his robes whipping around him like crimson flames. The servant scrambled after him, nearly tripping over their own feet. I stood frozen on the bridge, watching as the rain erased their footprints from the wooden planks.

"You remember her," I said to the empty air. Not a question.

"I meant what I said earlier," I said, watching a water strider skate across the surface where his letter had sunk. "About being done."

Zuko made a sound low in his throat—not quite protest, not quite surrender. The servant had disappeared into the downpour, leaving only the rhythmic tap of rain against lacquered wood. "You don't mean that."

I reached into my obi and withdrew the jade hairpin Yun had given me last winter—simple, unadorned, its cool weight familiar against my palm. "I opened a clinic in the lower ring," I said, twisting the pin between my fingers. "Nothing grand. Just a place where servants and soldiers' widows can come without fear of judgment." The words tasted clean, like the first sip of water after years of drinking wine.

Zuko's gaze dropped to the pin, his brow furrowing. He recognized it—not the object, but the craftsmanship. Earth Kingdom. Not his. Never his again.

The realization hit him like a physical blow. His fingers spasmed at his sides before curling into fists. "You're leaving."

"Already left." 

And I wanted to ask if I could please request a Katara x pregnant reader and they have one kid that’s 6 years old and you can take it form here I don’t really have any other ideas 😊

I threw in a little bit of drama, enjoy!

"You're holding the knife wrong," Katara said, leaning over my shoulder with a soft laugh. Her breath warmed the back of my neck as she adjusted my grip on the blade, her fingers lingering just a second too long,long enough for me to notice, but not long enough to acknowledge.

The kitchen smelled like ginger and garlic, the steam from the pot curling around us as I diced scallions with practiced precision. Our six-year-old, Mira, sat at the table with her legs swinging, meticulously arranging seaweed strips into something that might, in her mind, resemble a fish. "Momma," she announced, "I made dinner too." Katara grinned, wiping her hands on her apron before crouching beside her. "Looks delicious," she lied, kissing the top of Mira's head.

I focused on the knife, the weight of it familiar in my palm. It wasn't the same as the ones I'd carried years ago, but the motion,the clean, decisive cuts,still felt like coming home. Katara caught my eye over Mira's shoulder, her expression unreadable. She knew. She'd always known. It was in the way she didn't flinch when I moved too quickly, the way she'd never asked why I checked the locks twice at night.

The rice cooker beeped, and Katara stood, brushing flour from her knees. "Zuko’s coming by tomorrow," she said, casually, like she wasn’t watching for my reaction. I shrugged, stirring the broth. "Good. He owes Mira a story about the time he tried to ride the unagi." Mira gasped, scandalized, and Katara laughed,a bright, easy sound that filled the kitchen.

The knife slipped through the last scallion with a quiet thud against the cutting board. I set it down, fingertips brushing the wooden handle,smooth from years of use, nothing like the worn grip of the dagger I’d buried in the cliffs near Ba Sing Se. Katara’s hand settled on my lower back, warm even through my tunic. “You’re spacing out,” she murmured, nudging the broth pot toward me. Her touch lingered, deliberate.

Mira abandoned her seaweed masterpiece to press against my side, sticky fingers clutching my sleeve. “Is Uncle Zuko bringing Fire Flakes?” she asked, chin tilted up with the solemnity of a diplomat negotiating trade routes. Katara snorted, ruffling her hair. “Only if you promise not to steal mine again.” Mira’s grin was all mischief, a perfect echo of Sokka’s.

The broth bubbled, frothing at the edges. I stirred it absently, watching the swirl of ginger and lemongrass. The scent should’ve been comforting,home, safety, something softer than I’d ever expected to deserve. But my shoulders stayed tense, the old instincts humming under my skin like a plucked bowstring. Katara’s fingers brushed my wrist, brief as a leaf skimming water. “Hey,” she said, softer now. “You’re here.”

I exhaled, slow. The baby kicked, a sharp flutter beneath my ribs,a reminder, an anchor. Mira, sensing the shift, wedged herself between us, pressing her cheek to my rounding stomach. “Baby’s kicking!” she crowed, triumphant. Katara’s laughter wrapped around us both, her hands settling on my shoulders,steady, warm. “Trying to escape already,” she mused, thumb tracing the knotted scar beneath my collarbone,one she’d stitched herself after a storm had grounded us for three days on a tiny island north of the Fire Nation.

The broth boiled over, hissing against the stove. Katara lunged for it, cursing,waterbending the spill back into the pot with a flick of her wrist. Mira gasped, delighted. “Do it again!” Katara shot me a look,half exasperation, half something softer,before obliging, sending a twisting ribbon of broth spiraling above Mira’s head. The kid shrieked, ducking, and for a moment, the kitchen was all noise and steam and the scent of ginger clinging to Katara’s hair when she leaned too close.

The knife still lay on the cutting board, blade catching the fading light. I picked it up,not the way Katara had corrected me, but how I’d always held it: thumb braced against the spine, fingers curled tight. Mira watched, wide-eyed, as I flipped it once, twice,a habit from another life, muscle memory worn smooth as river stones. Katara didn’t flinch. She never did. Instead, she nudged a peeled carrot toward me. “Make yourself useful,” she teased, but her eyes lingered on my hands,the way they moved, precise and lethal even in something as mundane as chopping vegetables.

Mira tugged at my sleeve. “Teach me,” she demanded, small fingers reaching for the knife. Katara intercepted her wrist, gentle but firm. “Not yet, little minnow.” I caught the flicker of relief in her expression,quick, there and gone,before she turned to stir the pot again. The unspoken agreement settled between us, heavy as the summer humidity: Mira would never need to hold a blade like that. Not if we could help it.

The steam from the broth curled around Katara’s wrist as she stirred, her brow furrowed in concentration. She’d always cooked like she was bending,fluid, intentional, every motion carrying purpose. I watched the way her fingers flexed around the wooden spoon, the way her shoulders rolled with the motion, and for a fleeting moment, I imagined those hands guiding water like she guided our daughter’s unruly curls into braids,firm but tender.

Mira, unsatisfied with being denied the knife, had migrated to the pantry and was now dragging a sack of rice across the floor with the grim determination of a soldier hauling supplies to the front lines. Katara sighed but didn’t stop her,our child had inherited my stubbornness and Katara’s relentless problem-solving, a dangerous combination. "She’s going to try to cook it herself," Katara murmured, watching as Mira wrestled the sack onto a stool. "Should we intervene?"

I sliced the carrot into thin, even coins,too thin for stew, really, but the rhythm of the blade against wood was grounding. "Let her. She’ll learn faster when she’s hungry." Katara snorted, nudging me with her hip. "Cruel," she said, but there was no bite to it.

The door creaked open, and Mira abandoned her rice conquest with a shriek. "Uncle Zuko!" Zuko stood in the doorway, arms already full of a squirming six-year-old who had latched onto his leg like a barnacle. He looked, as always, mildly pained by the affection. "I brought Fire Flakes," he said, holding up a paper packet with the solemnity of a man presenting a peace treaty. Katara plucked it from his fingers before Mira could lunge. "After dinner," she said, tucking it onto the highest shelf.

Zuko’s gaze flicked to me, then to the knife in my hand, then to the perfectly even carrot slices. He didn’t comment. He never did. Instead, he shrugged off his outer robe and folded it over the back of a chair with the same precision he’d once reserved for armor. "Smells good," he offered, leaning against the counter.

Zuko’s presence shifted the air in the kitchen,not uncomfortably, but palpably, like the moment before a storm breaks when the pressure settles heavy on your skin. Mira, oblivious, tugged at his sleeve. "Did you bring the story?" she demanded. Zuko sighed, long-suffering, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "Which one?"

"The unagi one," Mira said, grinning.

Katara groaned, stirring the broth with more force than necessary. "Spirits, not that again."

Zuko hesitated, glancing at me,a silent question. I shrugged, flipping the knife once before setting it down. "She’s heard worse."

Zuko exhaled through his nose, the way he always did when preparing to recount something embarrassing. "Fine," he muttered, hoisting Mira onto his hip with practiced ease despite her kicking legs. "But you have to promise not to laugh." Mira’s grin was downright wicked as she crossed her heart solemnly,a gesture she’d stolen from Sokka during his last visit.

Katara rolled her eyes, but her fingers lingered on the ladle, stirring slower now. She’d heard this story a dozen times,first from Aang’s breathless retelling, then from Sokka’s increasingly exaggerated versions. Still, she leaned against the counter, her shoulder brushing mine. The contact was deliberate, grounding. Zuko cleared his throat.

"It was monsoon season," he began, shifting Mira’s weight. "The river was high, and I,"

"Was showing off," Katara interjected, smirking.

Zuko glared at Katara, but there was no heat in it,just the familiar exasperation of someone who’d been teased for the same mistake for over a decade. Mira, sensing blood in the water, poked his cheek. “Were you?” she asked, eyes wide with faux innocence.

“No,” Zuko lied, shifting her to his other hip. “I was assessing the current for strategic,”

Katara snorted. “He was trying to impress Mai.”

The name landed between us like a dropped spoon,clattering, awkward. Zuko’s jaw tightened, just for a second, before he exhaled through his nose. “Anyway,” he said, pointedly ignoring Katara’s smirk, “the unagi surfaced behind me.”

The broth simmered between us, filling the silence that followed Mai’s name. Katara’s fingers flexed around the ladle, but she didn’t press,some ghosts were better left undisturbed. Mira, oblivious, wriggled in Zuko’s arms. “Then what?” she demanded, poking his scarred cheek.

Zuko’s gaze flicked to me, a silent plea for rescue. I wiped my hands on my apron and reached for Mira. “Come help me set the table,” I said, hoisting her onto my hip with a grunt,she was getting too big for this, but the baby’s weight shifted my balance, and I staggered slightly. Katara’s hand steadied my elbow without looking up from the pot. Mira giggled, wrapping her arms around my neck. “You’re wobbly,” she informed me, delighted.

“Your sister’s stealing my balance,” I muttered, nudging a stack of bowls toward her. Mira grabbed them with both hands, solemn as an acolyte handling sacred texts. Zuko watched her, something unreadable softening the tension around his eyes. “She’s got your grip,” he said, quietly.

Katara ladled broth into the bowls Mira arranged, her movements precise. “And your stubbornness,” she added, shooting Zuko a look that was half teasing, half something heavier. The steam curled between them, obscuring their expressions for a moment.

Zuko took the bowls from Mira’s hands with exaggerated care, his fingers lingering near hers as if to ensure she wouldn’t drop them. “Careful,” he murmured, more reflex than necessity,Mira had inherited my steady hands, after all. She rolled her eyes, a perfect mimicry of Katara’s exasperation, and snatched a spoon from the drawer with a clatter. “I’m not a baby,” she declared, marching to the table.

Katara caught my eye over the steaming pot, her lips twitching. “Debatable,” she muttered, just loud enough for Mira to spin around, indignant. The broth sloshed in Zuko’s grasp, and he shot Katara a withering look,one that lost all its bite when Mira planted her hands on her hips and declared, “I’m six and three-quarters.”

The baby chose that moment to kick, hard enough that my breath hitched. Katara’s amusement vanished instantly, her hand replacing the ladle to press against my stomach. “Hey,” she chided, thumb rubbing circles over the stretched fabric. “Easy in there.” Her palm was warm, her touch firm in a way that still surprised me,how someone who bent water like silk could press so surely against skin and bone.

Mira abandoned her post at the table to press her ear to my belly, her braid tickling my wrist. “She’s arguing,” she announced solemnly. Katara raised an eyebrow. “And how do you know that?”

Mira puffed out her cheeks, mimicking the exaggerated thinking face Sokka had taught her. "Because she kicks like Uncle Zuko when Auntie Suki wins at Pai Sho."

Zuko choked on his tea, setting the cup down with a clatter. Katara burst into laughter, shoulders shaking as she leaned against the counter. "She's got you there," she said, wiping her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. Mira beamed, triumphant, and I caught the flicker of pride in Zuko's expression,brief, there and gone, like sunlight glancing off a blade.

The baby kicked again, a sharp protest against Mira's weight pressing into my stomach. I winced, nudging her gently aside. "Alright, diplomat, go help Zuko with the chopsticks." She scurried off, and I braced a hand against the counter, exhaling slowly. Katara's fingers slid over mine, squeezing once before she turned back to the stove. "You good?" she murmured, stirring the pot absently.

"Better than Zuko after that burn," I said, nodding toward where he was now attempting to explain Pai Sho strategy to a thoroughly unimpressed six-year-old. Katara snorted, but her gaze lingered on my face,searching, always searching. She knew the weight of old wounds better than anyone. The scars on my ribs ached sometimes, phantom pain from a life I’d buried, but her thumb tracing the back of my knuckles was real, solid.

Mira returned with an armful of mismatched chopsticks, dumping them onto the table with a clatter. "Uncle Zuko says I can learn firebending when I'm older," she announced, chin tilted up like she’d just declared war. Katara’s ladle stilled. "Does he now," she said, voice dangerously light.

Zuko froze mid-reach for the teapot, his fingers hovering just above the handle. The silence stretched,too long, too telling. Katara’s grip on the ladle tightened, knuckles paling beneath her sun-darkened skin. I exhaled through my nose, rolling my shoulders to ease the sudden tension knotting between them. The baby shifted, pressing a foot sharply against my ribs as if sensing the shift in the air.

Mira, blissfully oblivious to the landmine she’d stepped on, plopped into her chair and began sorting chopsticks with the gravity of a general organizing troops. “He said maybe,” she amended, shooting Zuko a look that was pure,  Katara‘s eyebrows raised, mouth pursed in mock disapproval. “If I’m good at meditating first.”

Katara’s shoulders loosened incrementally. She set the ladle down with deliberate care before turning to face Zuko fully, arms crossed. “Meditation,” she repeated

Zuko’s jaw twitched. He poured tea with exaggerated precision, steam curling around his scarred cheek. “Uncle Iroh’s influence,” he muttered, nudging a cup toward me. The porcelain clinked against the countertop, louder than necessary.

The tea was too hot, scalding my tongue when I sipped, but I didn’t flinch. Some habits died harder than others. Zuko’s gaze flicked to me, then away,silent acknowledgment. Mira, meanwhile, had abandoned her chopstick sorting to clamber onto Zuko’s lap, heedless of the tea sloshing dangerously close to the rim of his cup. "Meditation is boring," she declared, poking his chest. "I want to make fire."

Katara’s exhale was audible, her fingers tapping a rhythm against her elbow,the same restless motion she used during council meetings when some diplomat was droning on about tariffs. "Fire’s not a toy, Mira," she said, but the edge in her voice was dulled by the way Mira had curled into Zuko’s chest, her small fingers plucking at the embroidery on his tunic.

Zuko hesitated, then rested a tentative hand on Mira’s head, his thumb brushing the crown of her braid. "Your mother’s right," he said, gruff but softer than he’d been all evening. "Fire demands respect. It’s not just about power,it’s about control." His fingers flexed slightly, the ghost of a flame dancing just beneath his skin before he extinguished it.

Mira watched, wide-eyed, then twisted to face Katara. "But you let me play with water!"

Katara’s mouth quirked. “Water’s different,” she said, flicking her wrist. A ribbon of broth lifted from the pot, swirling in the air before splashing harmlessly back into the pot. “It forgives.”

Mira frowned, considering this. “Like when I spilled juice on your scrolls?”

“Exactly like that,” Katara deadpanned, though her fingers lingered on Mira’s shoulder, squeezing gently.

Zuko shifted, adjusting Mira’s weight on his lap. “Fire doesn’t forgive,” he said quietly. “But,” He hesitated, glancing at me, then at Katara, as if weighing his words against some invisible scale. “It can be gentle. If you learn how.”

The steam from the broth curled toward the ceiling, catching the last of the evening light filtering through the kitchen window. Mira twisted in Zuko’s lap, her small fingers hovering near his teacup as if daring the heat to bite. “Show me gentle,” she demanded, her voice half challenge, half plea.

Zuko’s exhale was barely audible. He lifted his palm, and a flicker of flame bloomed above his skin,smaller than a candle’s glow, its edges trembling like a leaf caught in a breeze. Mira’s breath hitched, her eyes reflecting the light as she leaned forward, entranced. The flame pulsed once, twice, before shrinking to a mere ember hovering just above his fingertip.

Katara’s hand found the small of my back, her thumb pressing into the knotted muscle there. Her touch was grounding, familiar. She’d seen this before,the way fire could be coaxed into something soft, the way Zuko had learned to wield it without destruction. The baby kicked, a sharp reminder of the life growing beneath my ribs, and I covered Katara’s hand with mine, lacing our fingers together.

Mira reached out, her fingertip hovering just shy of the ember. “Can I,?”

Zuko caught Mira’s wrist before her finger could brush the flame. “Not yet,” he murmured, the ember dancing just out of reach. His grip was firm but careful,the same way he’d once held a blade, back when we’d sparred in the shadows of the Fire Nation’s training yards. Mira pouted, but she didn’t pull away. “Why not?”

Katara’s fingers tightened around mine. She didn’t speak, but the press of her thumb against my knuckles said enough. Fire was Zuko’s burden to bear, his lesson to teach. The ember flickered, casting amber light across Mira’s determined frown. “Because,” Zuko said, quiet, “you have to learn to hold it here first.” He tapped her sternum with his free hand.

Mira’s nose wrinkled. “That’s dumb.”

Zuko’s mouth twitched. “Yeah,” he agreed, extinguishing the flame with a curl of his fingers. “It is.” The kitchen felt darker without its glow, the steam from the broth suddenly thick between us. Mira slumped against his chest, defeated, but her eyes stayed fixed on his palm like she might will the fire back to life.

The scent of ginger and garlic thickened as Katara lifted the pot from the stove, her forearm flexing under its weight. Steam curled around her wrists when she poured the broth into bowls, her movements precise despite Mira’s elbows jostling the table. Zuko watched the liquid swirl, his fingers drumming a silent rhythm against his knee,a habit he’d picked up from Iroh, one he couldn’t shake even now.

Mira, unsatisfied with the fire lesson’s abrupt end, slid from Zuko’s lap and wedged herself between Katara’s legs instead. “Can I have extra seaweed?” she asked, chin tilted up with the same diplomatic gravity Zuko used during treaty negotiations. Katara snorted, nudging her aside with a hip. “Only if you eat the carrots.” Mira’s nose wrinkled, but she snatched a handful of seaweed from the cutting board with the stealth of a pickpocket.

I caught Zuko’s eye over her head, his gaze flicking to the knife still lying beside the scallions. His mouth quirked,almost imperceptibly,before he reached for his chopsticks. No words needed. Some silences were comfortable, worn smooth as river stones.

The first sip of broth burned my tongue, but the heat grounded me,real, immediate. Katara’s knee brushed mine beneath the table, her thigh warm against my own. She’d always run hotter since Mira’s birth, as if some part of her bending had settled into her bones. The baby kicked in response, a sharp flutter beneath my ribs that made me hiss through my teeth. Katara’s hand was on my stomach before I could steady my breath, her palm pressing firm against the spot where a tiny heel had lodged itself. “Someone’s impatient,” she murmured, thumb rubbing circles over the stretched fabric of my tunic.

The broth’s heat lingered on my tongue as Mira’s knee bumped the underside of the table, rattling the bowls. She’d grown too tall for this,her limbs all elbows and knees, coltish in their restless energy. Katara’s fingers tightened around my wrist beneath the table, her grip a silent counterbalance to the chaos. "Slow down," she chided, but Mira was already halfway through her seaweed, cheeks puffed like a squirrel-fox hoarding nuts.

Zuko sipped his tea with the careful deliberation of a man who’d learned patience the hard way. Steam curled around his scarred cheek, obscuring his expression for a fleeting moment. When it cleared, his gaze flicked to Mira’s abandoned chopsticks,discarded in favor of fingers,and something in his posture softened imperceptibly. "Chew," he said, gruff, nudging her water cup closer. Mira obeyed, but only after sticking out her tongue at him, grains of rice clinging to the tip.

Mira's spoon clattered into her empty bowl, the sound sharp in the sudden quiet. She swiped a sleeve across her mouth, smearing broth on her cheek as she fixed Zuko with a stare that would've made Ozai reconsider his life choices. "If fire's in here",she jabbed a finger at her own chest,"how come Mama and Momma don’t bend fire?"

The silence that followed was thicker than the seaweed stew. Katara’s chopsticks hovered halfway to her mouth, a shred of carrot dangling precariously. Zuko’s teacup hit the table with a soft clink. My fingers twitched toward the knife out of habit,old instincts flaring at the tension coiling in the room.

Katara recovered first, setting her chopsticks down with deliberate care. "Bending isn’t just about where you’re born, minnow," she said, reaching across the table to wipe Mira’s cheek with her thumb. Her voice was steady, but I caught the way her other hand tightened around her knee beneath the table,white-knuckled. "It’s about… heritage. And spirit."

Mira frowned, her nose scrunching as she processed this. "But Uncle Sokka doesn’t bend either," she pointed out, kicking her feet against the chair legs. "And he’s your brother." Her small fingers plucked at a loose thread on her sleeve, unraveling the seam with the same single-minded focus she applied to all her curiosities.

Mira’s eyes darted between us, suddenly serious as she asked, "Did you used to bend, Momma?" The silence stretched just a second too long before Katara’s spoon clattered into the pot. Steam hissed where the metal met broth, the sound sharp as a blade drawn from its sheath.

Zuko’s fingers tightened around his teacup, the porcelain creaking under his grip. Katara’s exhale was measured,too measured,as she retrieved the spoon, her fingers curling around the handle like it was an anchor. Mira, oblivious to the tension, kicked her feet against the chair legs, her gaze fixed on me with the unflinching intensity only a child could muster.

The knife’s weight was familiar against my palm when I reached for it,not to threaten, just to ground myself in its solidity. Katara’s gaze flicked to my hands, then away. She knew what the blade meant to me. “No,” I said finally, flipping it once before setting it down. The handle thudded against the wood, softer than the truth. “Never did.”

Mira absorbed this with the solemnity of a scholar parsing ancient texts. Her fingers drummed against the tabletop, mimicking Zuko’s restless rhythm. “But you fight like a bender,” she insisted, squinting at me like I was a puzzle she couldn’t solve. “Uncle Sokka says you move like water.”

The broth pot sat empty, its ceramic sides still radiating heat when I pushed back from the table. My palms pressed flat against the wood for balance,six years and I still forgot how pregnancy threw my center of gravity off. Katara’s hand brushed my elbow as I stood, her touch lingering just long enough to steady me before she reached for the bowls. “I’ve got these,” I muttered, stacking them with more force than necessary. The porcelain clinked like the sound of thrown knives embedding in wood.

The dishes clattered louder than necessary in the wash basin, water sloshing over the rim as I scrubbed at a stubborn patch of rice stuck to the ceramic. Behind me, Katara’s footsteps were deliberately light against the floorboards,the way she stepped when trying not to startle me, a habit formed years ago when my reflexes were sharper and more dangerous. Her fingers brushed the small of my back as she reached past me for a towel, her breath warm against my shoulder. "Let me help," she murmured, but her hands lingered on my waist instead, thumbs pressing into the tension coiled there.

In the other room, Mira's voice carried over the clatter of dishes,bright, insistent. "Uncle Zuko, look!" A beat of silence, then her giggle, sharp as a blade. "I made this face just like yours!"

The towel slipped from my fingers into the water. Katara's grip tightened fractionally before she let go, turning toward the doorway just as Zuko's low chuckle rumbled through the house. "That’s not my face," he said, but his voice was too careful, the pause before his words just a breath too long.

Mira’s sandals slapped against the floor as she darted into the kitchen, her cheeks flushed with triumph. She’d pulled her hair into a lopsided topknot, her bangs deliberately swept over one eye in a crude imitation of Zuko’s scar. "See?" She struck a pose, arms crossed, chin tilted up in perfect mimicry of his Fire Lord portrait. The resemblance was uncanny,the stubborn set of her jaw, the way her amber eyes caught the light.

okay so this whole oneshot is zuko being the sperm donor for y/n and katara, yes they all have feelings for eachother but its katara and the reader more than it is zuko and both of them, i really felt like i could do more with the request cause if i went with it alone, it would have been short.

(It's long. I tried posting this 3 times only for tumblr to crash on me)

(If you sent me an ask im working on it, just doing the easier ones first)

"You're lying to me." The words slipped out before I could stop them, my voice barely above a whisper. The golden lanterns of the wedding hall cast flickering shadows across Zuko's face, his scarred eye twitching almost imperceptibly. He had been distant all evening, his fingers drumming against the hilt of his dagger as if he were counting down the seconds until he could leave.

He exhaled sharply, his breath warm against my cheek as he leaned in. "There’s an emergency at the palace. I have to go." His hand brushed my waist—a practiced touch, hollow now. The scent of jasmine from my bridal lei was suffocating.

I forced a smile for the guests, watching as he strode toward the doors without a backward glance. The heavy silk of my robe pooled around my feet like molten gold, too extravagant, too weighty. The ministers murmured their approval—Fire Lord Zuko, ever dutiful. Always putting his nation first.

I waited until the last of the guests had bowed their way out of the hall before sinking onto the steps of the dais, the ember-stones sewn into my hem scraping against marble. The servants knew better than to approach. Outside, the celebration fireworks burst in garish spirals—peonies of flame, dragon’s breath in gold and crimson. Each explosion shuddered through my ribs like a second heartbeat.

Three hours. Then four. The moon climbed higher, its reflection warped in the ornamental ponds. My fingers traced the edge of Zuko’s abandoned ceremonial crown, still warm where it had rested against his brow. The royal physician found me there at dawn, her hands fluttering like injured sparrows. “My lady, you’re bleeding.” Only then did I notice the crescents my nails had carved into my palms.

The first apology came with sunrise—a chest of Ba Sing Se jade so heavy it took six men to carry. “For your gardens,” the attendant said, avoiding my eyes. I smashed every last piece with Zuko’s own war hammer, the green shards glittering like insect wings in the dew.

He returned at week’s end with the scent of cherry blossoms clinging to his robes. Mai’s favorite. I said nothing as he pressed a necklace of fire opals into my hand, his fingers lingering a beat too long. “The Earth King sends his regards.” The lie tasted of ash. That night, I dreamt of drowning in a lake of molten gold.

The first time I found them together was in the western pavilion, the one with the lotus carvings where Zuko used to read me poetry during our engagement. Mai's hair was down—something she never allowed in public—and Zuko's hand was tangled in it, his knuckles white against the black silk. They didn't notice me. The way her fingers dug into his scarred shoulder, the way his breath hitched when she bit his lower lip—it was a language I'd never taught him. I stepped backward silently, my wedding slippers crushing a fallen magnolia petal into the lacquered wood.

By the third month, I stopped counting the jewels. The attendants would deposit them in my chambers with bowed heads: rubies wrapped in Shu silk, emerald hairpins from Kyoshi Island, a circlet of diamonds so cold it left frostburns on my fingertips. I began stacking them along the windowsills where the sunlight could turn them into knives. The servants whispered that I was building a dragon's hoard. They didn't understand—I was learning the weight of his guilt, measuring it carat by carat.

The physician confirmed my pregnancy during a thunderstorm, her voice nearly drowned out by the rain hammering against the bone-white tiles. "The Fire Lord must be informed," she said, her eyes darting to the fresh bruises on my wrists—fingerprints from where Zuko had shoved me aside to reach a messenger hawk from Mai. I pressed a jade pendant into the physician's palm, still warm from being clenched in my fist. "He'll know when he chooses to." That night, I vomited into the gold-veined marble basin, my reflection warped and trembling in the water.

The confrontation happened in the war council chamber, where the maps still bore the burn marks from Ozai's reign. Zuko was arguing about trade routes when I dropped the ledger on the table—87 entries, each dated with his absences, each matched to a gemstone in my collection. His advisors froze. "Eighty-seven times," I said, watching his pupils dilate like a cornered animal's. "That's how often you've chosen her over me. Over our child." The silence that followed was thicker than the smoke from the torches.

Zuko's hands froze mid-air above the trade route scrolls. The scar tissue around his eye pulled tight as his brows furrowed, his lips parting slightly before pressing into that familiar thin line—the one he wore when calculating damage control.

"What child?"

Can you please do Toph×fem!reader who's on her period? :3

*if you haven't read the books you wouldn't know what a canteen is used for by toph but she basically uses it to talk to her group the same way she's using it in this fanfic)

A Toph x Female Reader who has endometriosis

The first thing you feel is the weight of pain, not yet but of Toph. Her hand, warm and sure, resting low on your belly, palm flat, fingers splayed just above your hip bone. Not pressing. Just there. Like an anchor dropped into still water. Like a promise held without words.

You’re curled on the worn cotton rug in the sunroomyour favorite spot, where light spills in like liquid gold and the scent of dried lavender lingers near the window ledge. Your body feels hollowed out, scraped raw from the inside. Endometriosis doesn’t whisper. It roars a deep, grinding ache that starts low and spreads upward like spilled ink, tightening your ribs, stealing your breath, turning even the softest fabric against your skin into sandpaper. Your period isn’t just heavy this time. It’s violent. Like your own body forgot how to hold you gently.

And Toph? She’s been watching. Not with eyes she never does but with her whole self. With her feet pressed bare into the floorboards, reading every tremor in your breathing. With her hands tracing the air beside you, sensing the heat radiating off your skin, the slight hitch when you try to shift position. She’s known since before dawn, when you whimpered in your sleep and she rolled over, silent and swift, and pressed her forehead to your spine just to feel the shiver travel up your nerves.

Unless ur like crazy awesome at writing but idk

Bro what....

I mean yeah English isnt my first language but that doesnt mean I dont know it.

(i major in a class that needs me to be good at writing)

I dont use Ai for my fanfics never have never will,if anything I have friends who help me out (literally written in my masterlist btw) and yeah they edit and add stuff to it not everything is 100 percent mine, sometimes they gimme ideas and I write it.

Please dont come at me saying I use AI cause there are a bunch of authors who write fanfic out there for the love of it that are going to be bullied off the Internet cause of false accusation.

Pairing: Toph Beifong × Reader (WLW, pregnant reader with hearing impairment)

The world didn’t go silent for you—it changed .

It happened during the Siege of Ba Sing Se. Not in the grand, golden-lit chaos of the Earth King’s throne room, but in the crumbling underbelly—the Whispering Tunnels—where the Dai Li’s whispers turned to fists and steel. You’d taken a blow to the left temple, then another to the jaw, then a jagged chunk of falling ceiling that split your earlobe and sent shockwaves through your inner ear like shattering glass. You woke up three days later in a quiet tent, Toph’s hand gripping yours so tightly her knuckles were white, her face buried in the crook of your neck, breathing like she’d forgotten how.

She never let go.

Not then. Not ever.

You were Lady y/n—well-born, well-mannered, firebender by blood, gentle by nature. And Zuko? He was the Prince. Scarred. Serious. Always looking like he’d rather be anywhere else—even when he stood beside you at your wedding.

You didn’t marry for love. You married because your father bowed low and said, “It honors the Fire Nation.”

And because Kael—the boy who held your hand under cherry blossoms, who wrote you poems in ash on slate, who promised to wait—was just a common scholar. Not noble. Not useful. Not enough.

So you kissed Kael goodbye behind the garden wall, pressed your forehead to his, whispered, “I’ll come back,” and stepped into the carriage wearing red silk and a smile that felt like cracked porcelain.

The palace was beautiful. Cold. Empty in all the ways that matter.

Zuko never yelled. He didn’t need to.

He’d walk past you in the hall like you were furniture. Eat dinner without looking up. When you tried to talk—about the weather, about the tea, about anything—he’d say one word: “Hmm.”Like your voice was background noise.

Once, you lit a small flame in your palm—just to warm your hands—and he looked at it like it disgusted him.

“Fire isn’t for comfort,” he said, not unkindly. Just… tired. Like even your warmth was an inconvenience.

You stopped bending.

Stopped wearing your hair up.

Stopped sleeping in the bed he gave you—just lay on the floor sometimes, wrapped in your old shawl, listening to the silence between his breaths.

Then one night—you left.

No note. No drama. Just your boots, your mother’s locket, and Kael’s dried fire-lily tucked inside your coat. You slipped out through the east gate before dawn, heart hammering—not with fear, but with relief, sharp and dizzying.

You made it home.

Not to the house you grew up in—the Fire Nation had seized it—but to the little cottage where you and Kael used to study. The one with the crooked roof and the herb garden out back.

You waited until dark. Then you knocked.

The door opened.

Kael was there.

But he wasn’t alone.

A woman stood behind him—soft-spoken, round-bellied, her hand resting on his arm. She smiled when she saw you—warm, kind, completely unaware.

“Oh! Are you lost, dear?” she asked.

He didn’t recognize you.

Not right away.

Then his eyes widened—just a little. His breath caught. He took half a step forward… then stopped.

“y/n?” he whispered.

And in that second—before he could speak again, before she could ask who you were—you saw it. Not anger. Not guilt.

Just… peace. A life built without you. A future already settled. Warm. Real. Whole.

You nodded once.

Turned.

Walked away.

No crying. Not yet.

You sat on the riverbank for hours, watching the water carry leaves downstream—each one floating, then sinking, then gone.

You thought: I left everything for him. And he built a life while I was still walking home.

That night, you cried.

Not quietly.

Not beautifully.

Like someone who’d held it in too long—great, ugly, shaking sobs that hurt your ribs and made your nose run and your throat burn. You cried for Kael. For Zuko. For the girl who believed love was enough. For the firebender who forgot her own name.

And then—you bent.

Not gently. Not carefully.

Flame roared up—wild, golden, hungry. It lit the trees. Scared the birds. Made the earth crack.

You didn’t stop.

You let it out—every tear, every lie, every “should have been”—all of it, turned to fire.

Afterward, you looked at your hands. Not with pride. Not with shame.

Just… recognition.

This is mine. Even if I hate it. Even if it hates me back.

You cut your hair short. Dyed it brown. Wore plain clothes. Learned to walk slower, speak lower, look down first—not out of fear, but choice. You changed your name. Not to hide from Zuko.

To disappear from yourself.

Because the worst part wasn’t that he didn’t love you.

It wasn’t even that Kael moved on.

It was realizing—you were the only person who still remembered the girl who believed in promises.

And she was gone.

Zuko searched. People said he did. They said he asked about a woman with amber eyes and quiet hands. That he went to villages, to temples, even to Earth Kingdom refugee camps—asking, always asking.

But you weren’t hiding from him.

You were gone because of him.

Because of Kael.

Because of the world that told you your heart was currency—and spent it without asking.

So you stayed gone.

Not as revenge.

Not as a lesson.

Just… survival.

And sometimes, when the wind blows just right over the hills near Omashu, you pause. You tilt your head. You feel it—faint, far away—a flicker in the air. Like heat off distant flames. Like someone looking, still.

But you don’t turn.

You keep walking.

Because some fires don’t need to be put out.

Some people don’t need to be found.

And some loves?

They’re not meant to last.