Hi! I love your writing sm
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.
