"if you stop, i stop, baby, you know the deal. don't you wanna make me happy?" clark's voice is so condescending with a faux pout jutting out his bottom lip. the hint of a smirk is hidden in his pout and amusement dances in his eyes. you're barely coherent, you hate how easily he reduced you to putty under his tongue. he’s sooooo smug. so smug.
you nod through a whimper. the comic — you forgot the name of it, though clark had been circling the letters incessantly along your slit — crinkling under the tightening pressure of your fists.
"keep reading," he adds, head dipping back down to press a long teasing kiss to your clit. clark smirks as the muscle jumps against his lips. “come on, baby, she’s begging for it.”
“you come to metropolis and have to stop a burglary?,” your voice comes out shaky. you struggle to focus on the words on the page just above superman's head. your thighs fall further apart, hips lifting to chase clark's mouth. "you should have called ahead, i would've gotten you theatre tickets."
"huh. forgot about that part," clark murmurs against your folds. his brows wrinkle in contemplation, completely ignoring your choppy breaths. his nose traces down your slit as his tongue dips inside you. one thumb holds you open for him as your thighs threaten to tighten around his ears, while the other presses softly against your clit, applying enough pressure to have you begging for more.
"little louder for me, baby, wanna hear what bruce does next,"
an: the obsession is this serious. I want him, your honour!
summary: as a reporter of the daily planet, you haven’t been shy of your dislike for superman. clark is desperate to prove to you how superman, and by extension, him, is not as bad as you think.
content: flufff, clark kent being an adorable loser, still a loser as superman, interview banter, superman as the wingman for clark (cheeky ik), silly coworkers having a crush on each other but having no idea its reciprocated, office romance
author’s note: seeing clark’s frustration in the interview and article scene in superman 2025 got my head spinning 😏
“Okay, but why do you dislike him?”
Clark is on his interrogation case again. You don’t blink an eye as he settles across your desk, squeezing into the office chair with one elbow leaning on the armrest as he waits expectantly, almost desperately for your answer.
Every time you publish a new article with your detailed opinions on Superman’s recent actions, to provide an alternate perspective against the other rose-coloured articles of Metropolis’s favourite metahuman, Clark is always the first in line to question you.
“I don’t particularly dislike him.” Typing away at your computer to polish up one of your drafts, you rehearse the same line you tell everyone. “How could I dislike someone I’ve never met?”
“Then why the title?” He huffs. “I mean, come on. 'Superman’s Ulterior Motives In Recent Metropolis Fire Controversy'? You make him sound like a criminal."
“Come on, Clark.” You give him a pointed look. “You know how article headlines work. If I wrote something like “a critical approach to Superman’s latest actions regarding the fuel explosion”, who would read that?”
“I would.” His response is immediate, and it forces you to crane your neck, away from your latest article that’s been giving you writer’s block, to cast your attention to him.
“I appreciate the sentiment, but one reader wouldn’t exactly meet my paycheck’s expectations.”
“Well, I’m sure there are others who would appreciate a less cash-grabby title.” He retorts.
He realises the error in his words the moment he's on the receiving end of your icy glare.
“I have work to do, Clark.” Placing a metal sign that states "DO NOT DISTURB" on your desk, he doesn't need a hint to get that you're telling him to leave. "Even if you don’t appreciate my efforts, you could at least go distract someone else with your critiques.”
Clark knows he’s made a huge mistake. He doesn’t actually think your work is cash-grabby, he just wished you could see him- well, his alter identity in a more positive light. He loves your work, even if it makes him cringe when you point out his flaws with your cutting tongue, getting under his skin better than anyone else could.
You’re brilliant, and he’s just.. him. As Clark Kent, he doesn’t hold a candle to you. You’re fierce, bold and you leave a mark with your words and your presence. He can’t even begin to describe how much he admires you, but you barely even glance his way.
Maybe that’s why he’s in the office, eight on the dot every morning with a coffee in hand for you, asking you about your articles, your thought process, anything to get a few minutes with you.
Now, he’s officially screwed it up. Whatever tolerance you held for him previously, it’s all gone now thanks to his stupidity.
He sighs, shutting down his computer. He can’t even focus, and his eyes were starting to strain over staring at the blank document. Glancing over at you, you’re still typing away, with that same furrow in your brow that he’s memorised in his mind. How could he make it up to you? How could he change your mind?
Shifting his weight, his chair squeaks as he ponders.
“What are you looking at?” Clark jumps, suddenly registering Jimmy’s voice. Its rare for him to not hear footsteps nearing him, and it's only more proof of how much of a distraction you were. “Oh, her. Your office crush.”
“I do not have a crush.” Clark interjects, feeling oddly defensive. Having a crush on you, it makes his neck hot from the mere thought of it. “I just made her angry, and I’m thinking of how to make amends.”
Jimmy laughs. “Unless you somehow snag an interview with Superman for her, I think you’re going to have to wait awhile for her to cool down.”
“What did you just say?”
“That you’ll have to wait awhile?”
“No, the other thing.”
“Oh, an interview?” Jimmy scratches at his head. “I overheard her talking to Lois about how she’s stuck on her most recent article, and that she wished she could have a one-on-one with Superman to hear his perspective.”
That’s it. He may have screwed it up with you as Clark Kent, but Superman may be able to salvage this. Clark practically leaps off his chair, giving Jimmy a grateful squeeze. “Thank you, man. Seriously, I owe you.”
“Woah, dude. You’re heavy.” Jimmy huffs. “You’re welcome? But how are you going to get Superman to agree? It’s not like you have his contact or anything, do you?”
Clark doesn’t bother to reply, determination coursing through his blood as he walks out the office. Nearly out of ear-shot, he still hears Jimmy’s ‘Wait, Clark! Do you?’ repeating as an echo through the walls.
By the time you've managed to break a paragraph into your latest article, you feel that incoming headache and back-pain on its way to torment you for your incompetence. There's this block in your mind that refuses to be drained, and your tension with Clark earlier this morning certainly didn't aid you in your focus. You look up, noticing that the office is practically empty, and that most of the lights are off except for a few desk lamps from other co-workers who haven't left either.
You eye Clark's desk discretely, only to feel a pang of disappointment that he's already left. You rarely fought with him, as much as he was an insistent Big Blue fan. He was the sweetheart of the office, and on some days, you'd like to think he extended his sweetness a little more to you than everyone else. After today's conversation, you probably soured his impression on you after bashing his favourite metahuman in your headlines.
There's some part of you that worries you won't see him at your desk tomorrow with your coffee and another debate ready on his lips. He had left so early, which is incredibly unlike him. He couldn't possibly still be upset that you told him to bugger off, did he? He didn't seem like the type to hold a grudge, but maybe today was a step too far?
You shook your head, trying to shake off all your thoughts about your strange co-worker with his oddly charming demeanour and a size too large for his clumsy antics. Maybe you should pack up and go for a walk to clear your head. Sitting around here wasn't doing you much good other than increasing the hours of your back and eye strain.
Metropolis was nice at night. The city, which was always packed with crowds and honking cars, had quiet down at this hour. You watched as the lights went out in the tall buildings around you, signaling people leaving their work stations or going to sleep for the day.
If only you could get your hands on an interview opportunity with Superman. Funnily enough, despite having lived in Metropolis your whole life, you've never seen the hero who was so beloved in people's hearts. Other than social media spottings and the morning news, you have never seen the actual man who captivated Metropolis.
Kicking a crushed soda can on the sidewalk, you wonder if your bad luck in sighting him has to do with your articles being the singular negative perspective in the Daily Planet.
"Should I consider that as littering?"
Your head snaps up, and you.. can't believe it.
"Superman." You gasp, and realise this is probably the first time you've addressed him to his face rather than through an article.
He smiles, and you're surprised by how human it is. He bends down, picking up the soda can you kicked and tossed it into the nearest trash can- which was nearly ten feet away.
"You shouldn't be out alone this late." He comments. "The city's crime rate is higher at night."
"Isn't that what you're here for?" You ask. "To keep the city safe?"
His dimple deepens, and he lowers his head in a nod. "I do my best, but I can't be around every area no matter how fast I try to fly."
"Right." Through your daze, only one thought comes through with sharp clarity. You can't lose this opportunity to interview him. "Um, actually. I'm a news reporter from the Daily Planet. I was wondering if we could have a-"
"An interview?" His voice is filled with mirth. "Of course."
That was easy. Easier than expected. The daunting task and envy of Clark being able to secure interviews with Superman so easily seems less intimidating now, but you find yourself at a loss of what to ask as you prepared your recorder.
"What is your line of thought regarding the recent Metropolis fire?" You decided to start there, the topic most fresh in your mind from having just published the article this morning.
"I saw people that needed saving, so I did just that." He answers.
"However, when you saved the culprits who intentionally started the fire and insisted they be brought to the hospital and taken care for, you received a lot of criticism for not considering the victims who had to watch you care for the culprits."
"In life or death situations, I don't place people in boxes based on their roles. I do think the culprits need to face the consequences of their actions, but they were also injured. A life is still a life."
"You have very strong morals." You responded. "However, people are concerned on whether your judgement can be misplaced one day, and that you'll let the wrong people walk off free because you only cater to your own morals. What do you have to say to that?"
"If I had to consider what everyone wanted before I made a decision, I would have lost a lot of lives. In my situation, I will always be prone to making mistakes, so I try to make the ones I'll least regret."
"That is true." You answered, not expecting him to be so honest and open to your intrusive questions. "You are one of the only few metahumans in Metropolis. Have you ever felt out-casted by living on Earth?"
"Not really." He shrugs. "I always saw myself as human. I was raised by human parents with a normal human life. I am a Metropolitan as much as everyone else here."
"Just with ridiculous strength and the ability to fly." You point out.
He laughs. "And that too."
He walks alongside you as you add on more questions, your excitement palpable over the chance to finally have a real debate with the man himself. He's charming- irritatingly so, and sometimes, you have to force yourself to focus on what he's saying and not the way his eyes glimmer under the street lights, or how his height makes you crane your neck to look at him in the eye.
“So do you swoon all reporters this way to keep your pristine reputation?” You tease.
“Nope.” That damn dimple of his. “You’re the first person I’ve ever done this with.”
“Interviews? You sure give plenty to Clark.”
“Clark?" His expression freezes for a moment before relaxing. "Ah, that Daily Planet reporter? He’s a nice guy who happens to be around whenever I.. save people.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.” You huff. “He might be your biggest fan.”
He takes note of your tone, the near sigh at the end of it. “Do you not.. like him?”
“No, I never said that! It’s just that..” How could you tell Superman of all people that you had a disagreement with Clark just this morning about him? “I was a little harsh with him this morning.”
“How so?”
“Well, before I met you.” Evading your gaze, your force yourself to admit the truth. “My impression was different to his, and it was quite obvious from my articles. He commented that my works were cash-grabby.”
“That’s a rude thing to say.” He responds.
“Really?” You implore. “I mean, I wasn’t exactly kind when twisting my words to fit the narrative of what sells. I didn’t consider how you also have feelings, and that you’ll probably feel horrible if you read what I wrote. Maybe I felt defensive about what he said because I was scared he’d be right.”
“Well, he isn’t right.” His gaze is determined, so sure his words are the truth. “Your articles are amazing, and he’s a fool to comment on them so carelessly.”
You blink. “You read my articles?”
He realises his accidental confession, his lips stuttering to come up with a response. “Occasionally.” He coughs, being the one to avert his gaze this time. “I am a Metropolitan, and you make good headlines for the news covers. Even I can be curious about what the Daily Planet writes about me.”
”My, if Superman is keeping an eye on my writing, I’ll have to be careful on what I say.”
“No, I like your honesty.” There he goes again with that smile. You understand what people mean when they say it blinds you. “It’s refreshing. And it’s good journalism.”
You snort at his words. “If Clark heard you say that, he’ll never dare critique my articles again.”
“You sure do mention Clark a lot.” He murmurs. “Is he a close colleague or..”
“Oh, not really.”
For some reason, his expression dampens at your words.
“He’s, how do I put it?” You mutter. “He’s like this ball of sunshine. He’s always got something nice to say to everyone, and a real big heart. He'll help out when the photocopier is down, when someone could use an extra coffee, when someone needs a proofreader. He’s the complete opposite of me. It's like he came into this world to help others.”
“Is that a bad thing?” He asks.
“No, actually I-” You bite your lip, wondering if you should tell him. I mean, it’s not like him and Clark are tied to the hip or anything, it’s practically the same as telling a stranger. “I kind of do- like him.”
Superman is silent. Deathly silent. It’s like he’s going through cardiac arrest, and you hurry to speak to clear the air. “You can’t tell him. I swear, not even my closest friends know about this.”
He seems to be recovering from your words, with a small grin raising the left corner of his lips. “I can keep a secret.”
“No, seriously. No one except you and my cat knows about this.” You sigh, feeling the flurry of emotions overwhelm you. “He drives me crazy.”
He looks like he’s trying to contain his laugh, making you feel even more silly. “How so?”
“He never gives me a break to recover from well, him. It's like he's always ready as soon as I reach the office with my favourite coffee, having already read through my entire article even if I published it minutes before. He’s always hogging my desk and asking me questions during my break too, and I do my best to not feel special because he treats everyone nicely.”
“From the way you put it, I think he likes you too.”
“Seriously?” You ask, trying hard not to be swayed by his confidence. He's looking at you so earnestly as he says it, it's almost like he knows he's right.
“Why don’t we do a little test?” He offers. “Does he wait to give coffee to other people in the morning?”
“No..”
“Does he ask other people about their articles?”
“Not that I know of?”
“Does he spend time with others during break or is it always just with you?”
You’re silent, feeling the racing of your heart. Superman smiles again, as if he already knows the answer you refuse to accept.
“I think you should have a talk with him.”
The moments you had with Clark flash through your mind. All the times he was so considerate with you, so passionate, and.. how you ended things today with him during your conversation. You didn't want to lose him, not when you had a chance to turn things around. “You know, Superman? Maybe you're right.”
The next day, after Superman graciously dropped you off at your apartment per your directions, you feel your anxiety clogged up in your throat as you wait for the office elevator. Your foot taps anxiously, wondering if you should truly take the advice given to you and confess to Clark.
Worse case scenario, you get rejected and have to face a lack of free morning coffees and interrogations for the rest of your career. That realisation does pummel your spirits down a little. You do like his interrogations, even if you had to be held at gunpoint to admit it.
You reach your floor, and step out with a chaotic choir shrieking in your chest, instinctively looking to your desk where Clark would usually be waiting with your coffee. Your heart seizes when you find no one there. Right, maybe this is a sign that your plan is bogus and you should come back to Earth, instead of listening to some metahuman’s love advice-
A call of your name interrupts your train wreck of thoughts. You turn around, and Clark is standing there with your coffee.. and a bouquet in hand.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be late.” He stammers. “Your favourite coffee spot was crowded today, and the florist was on the opposite side of town, and I wasn’t sure what flowers you liked.”
“Also, I’m really truly sorry about the other day.” It’s like he’s on a marathon but with words, spilling sentences out like he’s rehearsed them beforehand. “I didn’t mean to call your articles ‘cash-grabby’. You’re an amazing writer, probably the best I’ve ever met, and I don’t want you to feel insulted by my stupid comments-”
You step closer, ignoring his rant and place a kiss on his cheek, stopping him in his tracks. His lips are still parted midway through his sentence, only now, there’s no sound coming out from him.
“Thank you, Clark.” You replied, ignoring the shakiness of your hands. “And lilies are my favourite, so good guess.”
He swallows dryly, blinking like a morse code pattern as he tries to find something, anything to respond to you. “Well- Right. That’s good. Flowers are good.”
You laugh, taking the coffee from his hand to take a sip, mostly to ease your nerves from your impulsive action. The faint scent of coffee and peanut butter was still lingering in your mind from having been so close to him. “I have a new article on Superman." You brought up, trying to seem casual as you toy with the back of your chair. "I thought you would like to have a read.”
That seems to kick him back into his senses, his response arriving as soon as you stopped yours. “I would love to.”
You move the monitor to make the article visible to him. “I’ve come up with a few pointers, but I need help with the title. Do you want to.. work over it while getting lunch together?”
“Yes!” He exclaims, a grin so wide on his face it nearly splits it in two. “I mean, yeah." He shrugs, a light red coating his ears. "I would be glad to help out.”
You can’t help the grin that slips out when you see his, which is as infectious or even more so than Superman’s. Maybe Clark was right about Superman being more than the words you wrote about him in the past. Yet, it was the man in front of you now.. that held your heart.
a/n: I love him so much. The movie was so good, I was geeking the entire time. I have so many more fics I want to write for Clark, I can’t wait!
when FIRELORD ZUKO takes a liking to AVATAR AANG'S mysterious new BRIDE.
TORN BETWEEN TWO ROADS ! — aang x reader x zuko
PLOT. republic city is finally at peace, and katara allows herself to hope that maybe now, after everything, she and aang can finally become something real. but when aang returns after eight months, he isn’t alone. he comes back with you at his side, introducing you as his wife. suspicious yet helpless, his friends do their best to welcome you, even as nothing about this sudden marriage makes sense. but while everyone else keeps their distance, one person doesn’t. and perhaps Zuko gets a little too comfortable with the avatar’s new wife.
CHARACTERS. AANG and ZUKO.
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, smut, angst, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps. reader is 21, dark themes, sexual assault, mentions of rape (not aang or zuko dw), established relationship, yearner aang, infidelity, depression, mentions of suicide, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not canon compliant to legend of korra, wip.
masterlist
CHAPTER ONE
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps. reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang but follows the characters, not canon compliant to legend of korra, not proofread.
CHAPTER TWO
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps. reader is 21, established relationship, mean sokka (no hate for him please, i am just a bitch hahah), little arguing (lowkey fight), fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
CHAPTER THREE
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, some 'arguing' with zuko, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
CHAPTER FOUR
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, smut, angst, hurt with comfort, small argument (i don't think it even counts), penetration sex, no protection (do they even have protection?), my own version of plan b used, pregnancy talks, slightly insecure reader (regarding katara), takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, kinda proofread.
CHAPTER FIVE
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, implied sexual assault, fight with zuko, zuko is kind of a prick ngl, protective aang, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
CHAPTER SIX
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, blood, stab wound, cauterization, lots of fire, a little tension, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, slight panic attack, a very bad injury (not detailed), takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
CHAPTER EIGHT
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, alcohol consumption, underage drinking (?) [idk their legal age for drinking, but in this fic it's 21], takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
when FIRELORD ZUKO takes a liking to AVATAR AANG'S mysterious new BRIDE.
TORN BETWEEN TWO ROADS ! — aang x reader x zuko
LOT. republic city is finally at peace, and for once, katara allows herself to hope—maybe now, after everything, she and aang can finally become something real. but when aang returns after eight months, he isn’t alone. he comes back with you at his side, introducing you as his wife. suspicious yet helpless, his friends do their best to welcome you, even as nothing about this sudden marriage makes sense. but while everyone else keeps their distance, one person doesn’t. and perhaps Zuko gets a little too comfortable with the avatar’s new wife.
CHARACTERS. AANG and ZUKO.
CHAPTER WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, some 'arguing' with zuko, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
(please check the story masterlist for the story warnings.)
WC. 7.2k
masterlist : story masterlist
chapter two
a/n: i read this chapter on my phone last night before going to sleep, and i made so many corrections in my head, but now i just can't seem to remember them. it sucks, cause my brain was working so well too.
It had been a month since you had last seen Aang.
Initially, he had planned to leave with Zuko once his week-long stay in Republic City came to an end. Yet, his plans had changed, and instead of leaving, he had stayed to help you get accustomed to life in Republic City, something he too was learning quite slowly, since he was never able to stay long, even at his own home.
So for the two whole weeks he was with you, those extra days had been spent entirely with you, exploring everything you both could.
And while the days had belonged to the city, the nights had belonged to each other, spent under the sheets.
One by one, the others had begun to leave.
Zuko had been the first, called back to the Fire Nation, being the busy Fire Lord he is. Toph had followed soon after, returning to the Earth Kingdom the very next day with little ceremony.
Sokka had remained longer, and Aang had been there when he had apologized to you.
His apology had been straightforward; there had been no attempt to soften it as he came clean about the things he had said, and though the words had been direct, even sincere, they had not been easy to hear.
You had accepted them nonetheless, understanding where they had come from, and because of that, forgiveness had come easier than you had expected.
Your heart, however, had not followed as quickly; something in it still holding onto the weight of what had been said, even if you had let it pass.
Sokka had noticed.
It had shown in the way he avoided your gaze in the days that followed, as if he knew some things could not be undone so easily.
Days later, he too left for the Southern Water Tribe.
And then, Aang had left as well.
The departure had been inevitable, though that had not made it easier. You had been left alone in this unfamiliar place that you now called your home.
Days passed in slow repetition, your time spent within the walls of a home that still felt unfamiliar despite being yours, your routine built out of small tasks meant to fill the hours that stretched forever and ever.
Republic City remained what it had always been, but none of it reached you in the way it had when he was there beside you.
It had been six weeks since you had arrived in the city, and in that time, you had tried, in your own way, to reach outward.
You had sought out Katara.
She had been the only one who lived in the city, her time divided between its development and the people. Your conversations had been polite, never unpleasant, yet always riddled with awkwardness.
You couldn't tell who was to blame for it, but a part of you suspected that she knew.
She knew that you were aware of what had once existed between her and your husband. And perhaps that awareness had made its way into your own actions, into the way you observed her, trying to understand what had once drawn Aang so completely toward her.
You found yourself understanding more than you expected to.
You saw her in the city, watching the way people turned to her with trust, the quiet recognition she received for the work she did, her gentle yet fierce presence both warm and reassuring.
She stood not only as someone close to the Avatar, but as someone who had earned her place beside him, being the most loyal aid to the Avatar in his absence.
And in comparison, you felt—
Lacking.
You hadn't been able to help the feeling of incompetence wash over you whenever you noticed her, wondering if you had some talent to your name, maybe you could have been with Aang, aiding him has well.
But you knew there was little you could offer in the world Aang moved through so effortlessly.
You had been raised for a different purpose, taught a different role in your sheltered upbringing, shaped into something that did not extend beyond the walls of a home, and now that you stood outside of your previous life, you found yourself uncertain of where you belonged.
You were raised to be a wife.
So you were being a wife, even in your husband's absence.
You could only stay at home, hoping Aang would come back soon.
And perhaps the spirits had heard your prayers, although they might have heard only half of it. Aang had arrived, but only in presence. Just a piece of him.
A letter.
The 'thud' sound had come first, breaking through the stillness of the room as something struck against the balcony glass. You had jumped in your seat, your first thought turning to intrusion.
But then came the sound, a series of chirps that carried no threat.
You moved toward the balcony, your steps cautious at first, before reaching for the door and opening it.
The bird entered at once.
It was yellow and small, its movements quick as it flew up and it landed upon your shoulder, settling there with a few more chirps.
The symbol upon its chest caught your attention immediately, the mark unmistakable.
The Air Nomad's Emblem.
The Avatar's messenger.
Your hand moved to the small roll secured against its back, fingers careful as you removed it.
The bird did not leave, instead following you inside as you stepped away from the balcony.
The letter had begun simple enough, your name attached to 'Dear'.
I wish I were there with you.
I was going to come see you. I had a plan and everything!
A really good plan, actually. I even thought about what we would do when I got there. I'm not writing that part down, but I think you can take a guess. (I'm winking by the way.)
But then everything here got complicated again and now I'm writing a letter instead.
I miss you. A lot. Like...a lot a lot.
It's weird being here without you. I keep catching myself turning to say something and then remembering you're not there, and it feels wrong.
Those seven months with you... I think I got a little too used to you being there
Things in the Fire Nation keep coming up, and every time I think I can leave, someone says, "Avatar! we need you for one more thing." and then it turns into five more things!
I promise I'm not staying away on purpose.
I did think about hoping something would happen in Republic City so I'd have an excuse to come back faster—
WAIT. No. That's a terrible idea.
Please ignore that. Spirits, please definitely ignore that. I take it back.
A quiet laugh left you then, unbidden, the sound making the bird chirp up at you as you continued.
Flameo Ho Zuko heard me say something like that out loud earlier and now he looks annoyed every time I sigh, which is happening a lot, so I think I'm making it worse.
But he did have a good idea!
He said you could come stay at the palace for a while, so we don't have to keep missing each other like this. It wouldn't be forever. Just until things calm down here. Maybe a month. (Hopefully less, but I don't trust that right now.)
I know the Fire Nation isn't exactly your favorite place, but it's different now. Really different. I want you to see it. I want to show it to you.
Also! Important! Zuko has already left for Republic City for some work, so by the time you're reading this, he's already there. He said you can come back with him on his ship.
Please come
Will you come?
Please Come
You should come.
(That wasn't me trying to sound cool or anything, just ignore the part where I said "please come" three times.)
Anyway.
Come.
I'll be waiting for you.
That was all.
No farewell.
Just a promise he made on your behalf.
You lowered the letter slowly, your fingers still holding onto it, your thoughts already moving ahead of you.
Of course you would go.
Republic City had grown familiar, but it had not become yours. And although The Fire Nation didn't seem the keenest place to visit, with Aang there you could find stability in your feelings.
You would leave, because frankly, you still weren't that keen on making friends with your husband's first love.
And perhaps, in doing so, you would find something more than just his presence waiting for you.
Now brimmed with anticipation, all you could do is wait for the Fire Lord to reach out. So for now, you let your back hit the mattress, clutching Aang's letter to your chest as you stared up at the empty ceiling.
Zuko stared of the roof of his cabin, the bedding beneath him cold despite the ship belonging to the Fire Nation.
The faint creak of wood and the distant rhythm of the waves against the hull filled the silence, yet it did little to settle him.
The night had fallen upon them, ready to lull everyone to sleep, yet Zuko took a few more moments before he succumbed to his heavy-eyes.
He would reach Republic City when daylight touched the harbor, and with it would come the inevitable notion of meeting you again.
Spirits.
He felt foolish for agreeing to Aang, even more so for having been the one to suggest it in the first place. The decision lingered with him now, because it was not something done out of reason, but as something he had failed to think through.
He felt stupid. And worse, he felt guilty.
Guilt did not sit lightly with him. It never had. It settled deeper than irritation, heavier than regret, and it refused to leave once it dug its claws in.
Aang had taken his suggestion at face value, had accepted it with gratitude, which only made it worse, believing it to come from a kind heart.
What Aang did not know, and what Zuko would never allow him to know, was that the motive behind Zuko's kindness had come from something far less noble. It had been a lapse in judgment. It was the perfect testimony of unauthorized curiosity coming to bite him in the ass.
And now he was left to sit with it.
His last conversation with you had ended poorly, at least that is what he believes.
It had ended without resolution, leaving behind more questions than answers, and after what he had witnessed that very night was not something one forgets that easily, especially if it involves their closest friends.
Your conversation with Aang had been cryptic without it meaning to be, broken subjects mentioned in passing, sentences incomplete because Aang just wouldn't keep quiet and let you speak.
So, he often goes back to that night, revisiting the moments, trying to place the pieces of the puzzle you and Aang have seemed to conjure up around your marriage.
He would replay it in his mind, shifting through what little he had heard, trying to understand something that had not been meant for him to understand in the first place.
"Did...did you tell Sokka about...what happened...—"
"I would never! I would never disrespect you like that, I promise you."
Something sensitive, so much so that Aang doesn't feel like it's his place to speak of it.
"...I feel as though I have trapped you. I should have never agreed—"
"You are the best thing that has happened to me. I know it may not have seemed like it in the beginning, but I do not regret asking you to marry me. I never will."
Trapped.
The word had not left him since. It did not sit cleanly with anything else he knew of Aang, it did not align with what he understood.
Feeling like you trapped him. Arranged marriage? Aang mentioned his feelings were not mutual in the beginning, or that there never were any.
The signs pointed to arranged marriage, but it couldn't be one.
Aang had admitted to being the one who proposed, and that he did not regret it.
But, it had not begun with love.
And yet—
Aang loved you.
That much was undeniable.
His constant sighs and mumblings of your name had driven him up the corner.
Zuko supposed your history was one of those things you just either knew or you didn't.
It it had made him all the more curious about the two of you.
He was not one to involve himself in matters that did not concern him, at least not anymore. He had learned restraint, learned where his place ended.
Yet this—
This had drawn his attention in a way he did not expect.
He no longer took your words at face value.
Not after that night.
Your vulnerable state that night did not soften the blow of what had been said before.
"He is still Aang's closest friend."
"Perhaps he will not be for long."
He could eliminate all suspicions of you, blaming your actions on the being overwhelmed in a new city, surrounded by people who weren't too hospitable to your presence.
But he didn't.
But he wanted to know more. And ever since Aang did share your social class, one just a level beneath his, being nobility, your presence had only piqued his interest.
And that, perhaps, was where his guilt found its root.
Guilt had flooded him quickly after offering your stay at the Fire Nation Palace, an offer that had come from his said interest, hoping to peel off the layers of secrecy you learned to adorn well, hoping to make sense of this marriage.
He really didn't enjoy the epiphany that he was only using his friend's mysterious turn in life for his own entertainment, wanting to make Aang's marital life his own private spectacle that can quench the thirst of both his novelty and boredom.
He had chosen not to look away.
He had chosen to look closer.
But the deed had been done, too late to take back his words once the pure joy on the Avatar's face had been showcased.
Zuko had seen it.
And he had allowed it.
It was not something he took pride in.
But it was done.
And by the time the first light of morning reached the horizon, there would be no avoiding it.
The harbor stood prepared as The Fire Nation ship had been set for departure, its massive structure steady in the water.
A sturdy metal plank extended from the dock to the deck, and along its length, soldiers stood aligned on either side, their formation strict.
You approached without hesitation.
Earlier that afternoon, one of the Fire Nation soldiers had arrived at your residence, his tone formal as he asked for your confirmation. You had given it without delay, and in return, he had informed you to be ready by two for departure.
By the time you stepped onto the dock, your belongings had already been taken from your hands.
A small travel case that didn't carry more than what was necessary for a month long getaway. It had likely already been placed within your quarters aboard the ship.
Your attention remained forward, holding your skirt to avoiding stepping on the delicate fabric as you moved up the slope.
At the top of the plank, he stood waiting.
Zuko did not move to meet you halfway, standing where the deck began as his presence held and authority you hadn't seen before.
Of course, the side of him shown tohis friends is not to be expected around his subordinates. With the exception of his family and friends, everyone gets the intimidating Fire Lord, someone to not be overstepped.
Zuko wasn't sure where you fell. You were Aang's wife. You may not be his friend, but you stood higher than people he called acquaintances. His gaze settled on you the moment you stepped onto the plank, observing the same poise from a month ago.
You closed the distance without faltering, letting go of your skirt as the fabric ghosts the deck.
Zuko inclined his head. It was a small gesture, familiar to the first time you had encountered him.
"Welcome aboard," he said in greeting, although there was no actual joy behind it. Just duty.
There was nothing casual in the way he spoke, at least not with you. It reminded you of your own presence, one you had trained countlessly in front of the mirror.
He stepped aside, allowing you passage onto the deck, his hand extending slightly in quiet indication for you to move ahead of him.
Everything had been set. You would see Aang within two days. Even the thought bubbled excitement in the flesh of your heart, the built up loneliness starting to ebb away.
The ship was cold, floor feeling like ice beneath your bare feet as you walked around the ship. It was past your usual bedtime, the strike of midnight already having passed as you actively searched for the Fire Lord.
There were guards still stationed across the halls, and when you had asked for assistance, you were easily led by one of them, taking a turn as you trailed behind him down the long hallway.
Finally you reached the door you had been searching for, the details along the metal a tad bit more extravagant than the others, four guards stationed at each side of it.
"The Lord's study, ma'am. Would you like me to announce you?" The helpful guard questions you as shake your head in disagreement.
"I can knock perfectly well. Thank you for your assistance."
You reached forward, fingers retreating in your palm your fist collided with the metal with delicate force, producing just enough sound without risking a bruise along your skin.
You hear a faint 'Enter' resound from within the room, the guard stationed to the right of the door opening it before you could reach out.
You give a nod in gratitude, stepping forward and letting your head peak in before the rest of you followed, the door closing shut behind you.
Zuko looked up surprised, lowering the scroll in his hand, eyes moving over your form, taking note of your nightly attire consisting of a thin lilac nightgown reaching past your knees, and a velvet warm robe worn untied over it for warmth.
"Good evening, Lord Zuko." You greet him, your body leaning forward into an objectively low bow, just as you had been taught when you were younger.
As you did so, Zuko had wished the Agni Kai with his father had gotten rid of his eyesight instead of sparing him with a scar, because it was embarrassing how quickly his sight fell onto your dipping cleavage.
In an instant, he averted his gaze with a hitch in his breath, eyes burning as though he had disrespected the entirety of Aang's existence with just one glance.
He cleared his throat in an attempt to compose himself, surfing through his brain for a respectful chain of words to speak.
"A 'Good Morning' would be a more appropriate greeting.." He humors you, and you get a slight chuckle.
"May I help you?" His words addressing you, not quite sure about your presence in his study.
"I simply wished to extend my gratitude for your kind gesture. Aang mentioned that this impromptu arrangement had been your suggestion, and I wished to thank you."
You speak softly, taking a few steps forward to address him better.
"I appreciate your gratitude, though I assure you it is unnecessary. It is an honor to assist the Avatar."
His words were so formal, even while addressing Aang.
"You mean your friend." You correct. Zuko blinks, his gaze measured as he scanned your face.
"Yes. My friend." He repeats, amusement laced in his words, leaning back as his elbows meet the armrest, resting his chin on the bumps of his knuckles.
"Hmm. Well, I have said what I wished to. I shall take my leave—"
"Sit."
The Fire Lord's words came as an order, leaving you surprised at how little room he left for refusal with just as single word.
"Join me for some tea. It may help you rest, given how you're still up at this hour." He adds.
You're stuck in your place for a few moments, not sure how to respond to it, so instead of a verbal response, you simply walk forward, taking the seat across from him on the smaller chair, while Zuko calls for his guard and orders tea for the two of you.
"How has the city treated you thus far?"
Zuko starts the conversation with the most mundane question, but you humor him anyway.
You sigh.
"It is boring."
"Careful."
His comment comes quick, prompting you to look at him as his next words follow.
"The city is a symbol of peace, an aftermath of years of war finally brought to justice. Your words risk diminishing the very foundation of what your hus..." He trails of, the urge to chaff taking over.
"...What my friend has built."
Your jaw locks subtly, muscle tensing in your cheek at the obvious jab to your previous comment.
"I did not intend to offend the foundation of the city. It stands with purpose, and I understand the weight it carries, but that does not make it any less uneventful for me."
You chide, the guard walking into the study, setting two cups down and pouring you both a share.
Zuko leans forward now, letting out a hum at your words as gestures for the guard to leave.
You then continue—
"What is it like ruling the Fire Nation?"
Zuko hesitates for a moment before answering.
"Torment."
You hide your amusement behind the cup, taking a small sip.
"Oh, How so?"
"It is no easy task to redeem a nation after a century of damage."
"Hmm." You hummed, holding the teacup between your fingers, the warmth settling into your palms, your eyes lowering briefly before lifting again to meet his.
"How did you and Aang become friends?" you asked, the question carrying some curiosity behind it, but you looked at him as if there was already a correct answer for it.
Zuko did not answer immediately, his eyes lingering on you as if searching for the answer you expect, before he leaned back slightly in his chair.
"I'm sure Aang has already told you."
"Yes," you replied, taking a small sip before continuing, "but as you mentioned that day, Aang tends to soften his words."
A faint shift passed through his face, and for the first time, since you've met him, a small smile finds its way to his lips.
"That he does," he said, his voice lower now.
"Aang and I have come a long way. It is not a story to speak on briefly ."
His gaze averted to the side, as if he was recalling something he didn't like dwelling on.
"Perhaps another night."
He rose then, unhurried with his steps as his attention shifted away from you completely, your eyes trailing him.
"Although," he continued, his back partially turned as he made his way toward one of the cabinets along the wall, "if you wish to speak of Republic City, I would welcome the conversation."
You watched him, your fingers resting lightly against the rim of your cup.
"What is there to speak about?" you asked, your voice carrying dismissal about the topic.
"Plenty," he replied, retrieving a bottle from within the cabinet before turning back toward you.
"You may find it 'boring,' as you say, but it is your home now, is it not?"
The cork came free with a soft sound, the scent of wine settling into the air between you.
"I hope you don't mind," he added, not quite asking.
You dismissed it with a small wave of your hand.
He returned to the table, the bottle in one hand, a glass in the other, placing them down softly as he remained on his feet and poured himself his desired amount.
"You all have made a wonderful place of Republic City—"
"I was not there for most of it," he interrupted, correcting your statement before it could end.
"It would feel wrong to take credit for something I did not build."
"Are you trying to take advantage of my lack of knowledge?" you asked immediately, a hint of challenge behind your voice.
"I am well aware of what the city was built upon."
He stilled for a fraction of a second, then tilted his head slightly, interest flickering in his expression.
"And what might that be?"
"Fire Nation colonies." You spoke in fact.
Your gaze was stuck on the warm liquid held within the cup, no longer meeting his eye. He let out a hum, something akin to approval but you knew it was far from it.
"It seems you were not as sheltered as you allowed us to believe," he said, lifting his glass and taking a slow sip.
The words settled between you, neither of you rushing to move past them.
"Aang and Katara put in a great deal of work into it," he added after a moment, his choice of words so deliberate, that he felt bad for saying them the moment they slipped past his tongue.
"Yes," you said, your fingers tightening slightly around your cup, your voice lowering for your next words, "Aang and Katara truly have."
Zuko continued to watch you. He didn't need to touch you to notice your face getting warmer, the subtle embarrassment of the being scrutinized under his gaze evident across your skin, laced with what Zuko would conclude being jealousy.
"May I ask you something?" you continued, your gaze finally meeting his in earnest, leaving him no room to disapprove.
He inclined his head once, already aware of where the conversation had begun to turn.
"Aang still has feelings for her, does he not?"
Zuko's mouth gapes open a little, eyes widening in tandem, not expecting you to be so direct about it.
But then again, with how much he knows of you and has concluded about you, he should have guessed you weren't one to beat around the bush.
Zuko did not answer right away. He brought the glass to his lips instead, taking a measured sip before lowering it again.
"It is not my place to speak on that."
"No," you agreed with him, setting the half empty cup of tea back on the table, the crystal clattering onto the saucer.
"It is not. But I have no one else to turn to." Your admission tasted rancid on your tongue, yet you had no other choice but to be truthful.
"And I trust you to give me an honest answer."
That gave him pause.
He set his glass down with care, then moved.
The distance between you closed in a few steps, his presence shifting from across the table to beside you, his hand reaching out toward your cup without asking.
Before you could react, he lifted it, tilting it slightly, the remaining tea spilling onto the saucer below.
Your lips parted, words forming without finding shape, your attention fixed on the quiet audacity of the gesture.
Zuko did not look at you.
He reached for his glass instead, pouring a measure of wine into the now-empty teacup, filling it only a quarter of the way before setting it back in front of you.
The scent of wine replaced the fading warmth of tea.
Only then did he meet your gaze again.
"How did you meet Aang?"
Your gaze snapped to him, swallowing your previous complaints before even a single one could come out.
"He stumbled across our nation, looking for traces of Air Nomad artifacts." You answer.
"Is that the truth?"
Your fingers curled slightly against your palm.
"Why would you doubt that it isn't?"
"Because, that wasn't what Aang told me."
The words landed with force, calling you out on your lie.
Aang wouldn't have. Zuko was leering you into his trap, and even a falter along your face could give it away.
"I have already mentioned that I abstain from drinking. What is this?" you asked, attempting to steer the conversation elsewhere.
"In case you need it."
"For what?"
Zuko shrugs, his answer plain.
"Liquid courage," he replied.
"For what? I believe I asked a question first." You reminded smoothly.
"And I asked one in return."
"Which I answered."
"Not honestly."
You scoffed.
"It is the truth." Was your only comment before your gaze dropped to the cup in front of you, the dark liquid catching the dim light from the torches.
Then, your eyes lifted again, meeting his through lowered lashes, your expression tightening despite you faux smile.
"Are you curious about my life, Zuko?"
Zuko chuffs, mirth painted on his face as he bit back just a hard.
"Only if you are curious about Katara," he returned without pause.
"Please," you said, your voice flattening, "the information you have does not even come close."
"All information holds value, so long as one is willing to hear it."
"I could simply ask my husband."
"Of course," he said before ending his statement.
"...And I will be here when you are left unsatisfied."
He hadn't intended to make his words wield the double edge, but it was blatant and out in the air, compelling you to snap at him.
"Lord Zuko!" you gasp, rising from your seat in one swift motion.
Even then, even standing at your full height, he remained taller, his presence looming over yours even more so than it did before.
"I was told you spoke well of me when Sokka insulted my honor," you continued, your voice trying to remain hospitable despite the rage beneath it.
"It led me to believe we might form a decent acquaintance after how our last conversation ended. It appears I was mistaken."
Zuko lowered his glass, surprised at your outburst, although he didn't let it show.
"I did not intend to offend you," he said after a moment, his tone steadier now that he understood he had crossed a line with you.
You, who were still a stranger to him.
"One cannot help but be curious when a friend returns married."
"This is becoming repetitive," you let out a crude laugh. "You sound just like Sokka."
"I do not agree with what he said," Zuko answered, his remark unwavering, "but I do not dismiss his suspicions entirely either. We have no reason to trust you. Not after that night."
"What do you mean?" You caught it immediately.
He slipped up. Zuko stilled for a second, registering it to himself that he almost ratted himself out at that moment.
"Call it instinct," he said, correcting course without hesitation.
"I am simply looking out for my friend."
The emphasis settled heavily.
You stepped back from him at once, the space between you re-established in a single motion, your back turning to him before he could read anything further from your face.
"Good night, Lord Zuko."
You did not look back.
The door opened with more force than necessary, then shut just as quickly behind you, leaving the room in silence once more.
Zuko remained where he stood, his gaze fixed on the space you had occupied, unmoving for a moment longer, then, slowly, he exhaled.
A minute passed before he moved, lowering himself into the seat you had vacated, the warmth of your presence still faintly lingering against the cushions.
He reached for the teacup he had filled, lifting it without thought, and drinking from it in one long motion before setting it back down.
He had come too close.
The realization settled in as his hand came up to cover his eyes, his fingers pressing briefly against his brow. His breathing slowed, steadying, each inhale pulling in the faint trace of something left behind.
Your perfume.
It lingered subtly, woven into the still air of the room.
He did not notice when his hand lowered, or when sleep claimed him, his thoughts left unresolved, drifting out of reach one by one.
The wind was gratefully soft the next morning, brushing against your face in steady currents, tugging gently at the strands of your hair that had been carefully set by you an hour ago, lifting the edges of your attire in soft movement.
You stood on the deck, hands placed on the railing as you watched the nearing harbor.
You were about to meet Aang again and you had evidently dressed for the occasion.
Gone were the simpler fabrics from the night before, replaced now with garments that carried your upbringing in every thread. Rich silks draped around you, the shades of orange and yellow woven together with intricate embroidery.
Jewelry rested against your skin, delicate like most of your other trinkets, light blue stones set across your ears, your wrists, your neck, even within your hair.
The colors did not go unnoticed.
Zuko stood at a distance across the deck, his posture composed as he studied you.
His gaze had settled on you long before the ship had begun to slow, and it remained there still, scanning your attire like he had done the first time he met you.
Orange. Yellow. Blue.
The colours of the Air Nomads.
Or better yet, the colours of Aang.
It was intentional.
Zuko wondered if it was something you had planned before you joined him on the ship, or had his words trigged you so much that you felt the need to declare your standing beside the Avatar by a show of your clothes.
You hadn't acknowledged him all morning, only having offered him a 'good morning', your voice carrying none of the sharpness from the night before, yet you had not met his eyes.
And you did not do so now.
So he turned his gaze away as the harbor approached, the ship slowing down before eventually coming to a halt.
The descent from the ship was quick, the soldiers once again lining either side of the plank as you stepped down behind Zuko. The guards surrounded you both in practiced formation, their presence forming a boundary that guided you both, leading you forward through the path that had already been cleared.
You followed, Zuko, albeit, a few steps behind.
The irritation had not faded entirely. You could understand his and the others worry for their friend, but they had no business crossing the line with you on multiple occasions.
You still didn't know who displeased you more.
Sokka, who had berated in your absence, but had apologized somewhat earnestly.
Or Zuko, who had spoken it to your face (which on some level, you respected), but had yet to offer you an apology.
The displeasure lingered beneath your composure, and although you tired to conceal it, it showed in the way your gaze remained forward, never once shifting toward Zuko despite the proximity.
The palace gates opened before you, and the moment you stepped inside, everything else ceased to matter.
Zuko ceased to matter.
Because Aang stood there.
At the center of the place grounds, his hand was smoothening the fur Appa's head, the sky bison leaning into his touch. There was ease in his posture as he stood there along will someone from the Fire Nation.
Then he saw you.
His face lit at once, his entire presence moving with it as he straightened, his steps already beginning before his thoughts could catch up, each one faster than the last as he crossed the distance between you.
You did not wait.
The formation you were in broke swiftly, your hands lifting your skirts just enough to allow your steps to quicken, your composure slipping in favor of something far more genuine as you moved toward him.
You closed the space with the same urgency, meeting his halfway.
His arms came around you without hesitation, pulling you into him fully, leaving no space between the two of you. The force of it caught you off guard, your own arms trapped at your sides beneath his hold.
Your breath was caught in your throat for a second before laughter found its way through it.
"Aang!" you exclaimed, laughing as you struggled in his hold, wanting him to free your arms.
He did not let go immediately.
He pulled only back enough to see you, his hands shifting as one lifted to your face, his warm palm settling against your cheek.
"...You are a sight," he said, brushing his thumb on your skin.
His lips met yours gently, his eyes closing in the moment as you craned your neck at the notion.
He only pulled away once the others had caught up to them.
Zuko approached with the guards at his side, his steps slowing as he reached the two of you, observing the scene with an unreadable countenance.
Aang turned toward him, his arm moving easily around your shoulders to keep you close against him.
"Yo! Flameo Hotman!" he greeted, his tone bright as always, carrying his unfiltered tone that was never questioned.
"Thanks for bringing her here safely. I really owe you one." His gratitude followed smoothly, as you tried not to hide your face in your husband's chest.
Zuko nodded is head slightly in answer.
"You owe me nothing," he said. "It was no trouble to ensure her arrival."
His eyes flickered toward you for only a second which you did not meet.
"I will have her settled in her room now," Aang added, already shifting his weight, his attention returning fully to you.
Just like that, one second you stood beside him, and the next, you were lifted from the ground, his arm sliding beneath your knees while the other supported your back, pulling you up into his hold.
"Aang!" you let out startled, your voice breaking into laughter at the suddenness of it.
"Avatar Aang, you have a meeting scheduled to—"
The Grand Chamberlain, the one who had been waiting for the Fire Lord's arrival along with Aang, cut through the moment, though it did not last long.
"Do not disturb the Avatar and his wife."
Zuko's voice followed, firm, leaving no room for further interruption.
The man fell silent at once.
Zuko's gaze shifted toward Aang then, giving a brief smile.
"You may take her. I will handle it."
Aang did not wait.
"Great! Take care of Appa for me!" he said, already walking away, light on his feet as his pace remained unbothered by the weight of you in his arms.
The palace was substantially more breathtaking than you had anticipated.
Your arms found their place around his neck, your fingers curling against him as you looked everywhere in awe. You took to admiring the grandiose walls, observing the ceiling and the symmetry of the torches.
Your earlier composure was entirely forgotten now that you were with Aang.
"How are you, my love?" he asked, making you snap your attention back to him.
"Were you bored without me? I bet you were." He laughed softly at the end of it.
For a moment, your mind faltered, and Zuko mattered again.
The memory surfaced uninvited at the word 'bored', the echo of last night's conversation returning where you had left it, Zuko's voice threading through it.
"It is boring."
"Careful. The city is a symbol of peace, an aftermath of years of war finally brought to justice. Your words risk diminishing the very foundation of what your hus..."
"...my friend has built."
All of that just because you spoke your truth? You pushed past the feeling, but you wondered how Aang would react to your answer if it had been him last night.
"I was bored out of my mind," you admitted, scanning his face as you spoke ahead. "This city life was not what I expected at all. Especially without you there."
Aang only hummed in response.
There was no judgement in his face, no edge taking over.
The absence of it eased something in you, the tension you had not realized you were holding loosened within your chest.
"I've barely even been in the city," Aang continued. "Most of the time, the house just felt empty."
His steps slowed slightly as he spoke, turning his face toward you again.
"At least now I have you to come home to."
He leaned in closer, his nose brushing against yours in a playful nudge that drew you swat lightly at his neck as you laughed.
"We're here!" he exclaims, pushing open the doors with his back and bringing you in.
And as Aang walked over to the bed in the center of the room, admiring the place as if he hadn't just spent most of his days there, your eyes were trained on him, gaze softening at realizing how far you had both come.
Finally reaching the bed, he gets onto the mattress before placing you down on the soft comforter, his figure looming over you.
He gives another kiss to your cheek before pulling away, getting off the bed as his hands reach for your feet that remain off the bed.
With swift movements, he removes one of your delicate footwear, as you finally look at the interior.
"This room is quite lovely." You remark.
"Your old one would've put it to shame," Aang jokes, placing your foot down to remove the other shoe.
"So...it seems they have been working my husband to the bone," you muse, leaning up slightly, supporting your upper body with your elbows to look at him.
"It's not that bad..."
"Aang."
"...Okay, yeah. It's kinda sucks."
You let out a soft chuckle at that, watching him as he lowers your other foot and gathers your footwear in one hand, walking toward the wall across from the bed.
"How was the trip? Did Zuko treat you well?" Aang asks as he kneels to arrange your shoes beside the vanity along the wall.
His back was turned to you, which you were are grateful for, considering how your reaction had nearly shown on your face.
"It was...fine."
Aang knew that tone. He turns around instantly, brows pulling together.
"Everything okay?" he asks carefully.
"Of course," you say with believable certainty, offering him a small smile before it fades.
"Can I ask you something?" you continue at once, watching as he walks back to you.
"Always," he says, stopping at the edge of the bed, your feet beside his thighs.
"Did the Fire Lord ever ask you about how we met?"
At your question, Aang brings a hand to his chin, looking off as he thinks before answering.
"I think so...Yeah! He did. Once."
"And what did you tell him?"
"I said I was looking for Air Nomad artifacts, and I came across your nation."
That's what you had said as well, which meant your instincts had been correct. Zuko had wanted you to slip up.
"Why do you ask?" Aang's question breaks you out of your epiphany.
"I was just wondering..." you trail off, your gaze slipping away from his.
"You're lying."
What is it with everyone calling you a liar?
"Did he say something?" Aang persisted.
"He just asked how we met."
"And?"
"And...nothing," you finish with a light laugh.
Aang doesn't take it lightly, ignoring your attempt to divert the mood.
"What did he say?" he presses, his voice lowering.
"Like I said. Nothing." You try to end it there.
"Fine. I'll just ask him myself."
Aang was done with everything. He already had to deal with Sokka once, now he did not want to go against Zuko as well.
It killed him how unwelcoming his friends were being, and it only made things worse that Zuko of all people, one that he didn't expect, one that had taken your side against Sokka, had potentially said something to upset you.
He turns, and you stare at his retreating figure in shock.
"Aang, wait!" you call, pushing yourself up fully as he turns back toward you.
"What?" he snaps, a hint of irritation slipping through.
You huff, trying not to roll your eyes at his childish behavior, even though you know others might just call it being protective.
"I haven't seen my husband for a month," you say, easing back onto your elbows again, eyes gaze narrowing with intention as you subtly tilt your head.
"Must we start with an argument? Hm?"
You hum at the end of your question, straightening your knees as you continued.
"I was hoping for something more...welcoming. After all, you did promise me something in that letter, didn't you?"
You were right.
He hadn't seen you in a month.
Aang stills, lips tightening as a blush creeps over his face.
He gives in, letting out an exhale as he walks back without another word, light steps bringing him to the bed again as he climbs onto it, leaning over you.
His hands coming up to hold your face as he draws closer and he kisses you, deeper this time.
His lips move against yours, your eyes falling shut as he pushes you onto your back, the mattress dipping under the two of you.
He pulls back, a faint flush settling over his face.
"We're still talking about this later," he murmurs, a little dazed.
"Fine," you grumble. "Now take off your shoes, Avatar."
Aang lets out a quiet laugh, already shifting back.
"Yes, ma'am."
chapter four
a/n: thank you so much for all the support you guys have been giving this story, it only motivates me to write more of it!
i wanted to use this opportunity to clarify that this story is not a polyamorous story. at least not yet. i do change my mind often for what works best for a story, and if I genuinely think i can make it work, i would be open to it. but so far, a poly relationship does not suit this story. i did think of it, but i can't justify why either of the two men would be okay with 'sharing' you. it is canon that zuko is a little possessive, and i just KNOW that aang is as well.
when FIRELORD ZUKO takes a liking to AVATAR AANG'S mysterious new BRIDE.
TORN BETWEEN TWO ROADS ! — aang x reader x zuko
PLOT. republic city is finally at peace, and for once, katara allows herself to hope—maybe now, after everything, she and aang can finally become something real. but when aang returns after eight months, he isn’t alone. he comes back with you at his side, introducing you as his wife. suspicious yet helpless, his friends do their best to welcome you, even as nothing about this sudden marriage makes sense. but while everyone else keeps their distance, one person doesn’t. and perhaps Zuko gets a little too comfortable with the avatar’s new wife.
CHARACTERS. AANG and ZUKO.
CHAPTER WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps. reader is 21, established relationship, mean sokka (no hate for him please, i am just a bitch hahah), little arguing (lowkey fight), alcohol consumption, swearing, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
(please check the story masterlist for the story warnings.)
WC. 5.8k
masterlist : story masterlist
chapter one
a/n: i did not expect the response i got for the first chapter. i am genuinely glad that you all enjoyed it, for which i would also suggest you to please read the a/n at the end!
p.s: do not ask me the layout of katara's house. just know that it's big and like the one we see in the movie, except i have made up everything inside for convenience.
Morning came quickly, and with it, Fire Lord Zuko.
Sokka, Katara, and Toph had come to greet him at the harbor, and while they did think to call Aang, knowing him to be an early riser, they just guessed he would be occupied with his wife.
Zuko walked alongside them, his presence drawing the occasional glance, though far less than it might have elsewhere. Here, in the Republic City, titles blended more easily into the crowd, and even a Fire Lord could pass through without bringing everything to a halt.
His attention remained forward, though it shifted slightly at the way the others had been speaking since he arrived; their awkwardness was blatant.
And when he had asked where Aang was, it was Sokka who finally said it outright, unable to hold it in any longer.
"He's married."
Zuko slowed half a step, eyes widening at the revelation. He was expecting an 'Oh, he slept in!' or 'He's busy with Avatar stuff, y'know?', but this was the most unlikely answer to the question he had asked.
"What?" he repeated, the surprise clear.
"Yup. He came back yesterday with a suspicious-looking lady, and then he introduced her as his wife!"
Sokka spoke animatedly, which really didn't help his case while explaining something that was already hard to believe.
"Oh. Good for him."
Zuko's reaction landed poorly. Sokka turned toward him immediately, incredulity written plainly across his face.
"Good? How is that your takeaway from this?"
Zuko frowned slightly, not in a defensive manner, but genuinely confused by the response.
"He's married," he said, as though that alone should explain it. "What's not to be happy about?"
Sokka stared at him for a second longer before his face shifted. Without saying anything, he tilted his head just enough, his gaze flicking briefly toward Katara.
Zuko understood, sparing a small glance at the Waterbender. He did not comment on it so as to not acknowledge the implication aloud.
So he spoke again, not entirely changing the topic but not dwelling on the previous conversation.
"What is she like?" he asked.
Toph gave a small shrug, her posture loose, though her answer came like she had it ready. "Couldn't tell you much. She barely spoke."
"She was all gloomy." Sokka added.
"That's not true Sokka, she was just tired." Katara said, and the fact that she spoke at all drew their attention immediately.
"She's..." Katara paused for a second, then continued, "she's beautiful."
Everyone visibly faltered in their steps, making Katara let out an exasperated sigh.
"Can you guys please stop? I'm fine, alright?" she said, a quiet firmness entering her voice as she looked at them.
"Can you stop looking at me like that? It's like you're walking around eggshells whenever you talk about Aang."
No one responded. Frankly, they didn't know what to say.
"There's nothing wrong," she continued, voice softer now. "He's happy. And nothing makes me happier than that."
Zuko drew a quiet breath, feeling the air grow awkward by the second, so he spoke—
"Where is his wife from—"
He couldn't finish.
Sokka's attention snapped elsewhere mid-step, his hand lifting abruptly as he pointed across the street, his voice cutting through Zuko's question.
"Look! There's Aang...woah."
All of them (except Toph) followed his line of sight, and there, moving through the street were you and Aang.
You walked beside him, your arm encircled around one of his. Aang greeted those around him with the same open warmth he always had, children waving as he passed, some giving a gentle bow.
But it was not Aang that had held their attention.
It was you.
The difference from the day before was unmistakable.
Where you had once appeared in plain robes, you now stood adorned in the finest of fabrics, silks that caught the light in all their glory, draped carefully over your form.
Delicate jewelry framed you, resting at your neck, your ears, your wrists, your hands, even woven into your hair, each placed with grace as though they were a part of you.
It was a stark contrast. Not only to what you had worn the day before, but to him.
Aang, in his simple robes, untouched by ornaments except for his prayer beads and the Air Nomads symbol he wore proudly, stood beside you without any attempt to match you in your regal ensemble.
It felt...unexpected.
The distance between all of you closed naturally, meeting the group halfway.
You had inclined your head slightly, offering a small bow in greeting, as Aang excitedly greeted his friends.
He left your side momentarily, moving to give Zuko a hug after not having seen him for over a year now.
Once Aang returned to your side, you finally spoke, and it felt as though they were hearing your voice for the first time.
"It is an honor to be in the presence of the Fire Lord," you said, your tone refined. "I have heard of your tales and your journey from my husband. It is a pleasure to finally meet you."
Your gaze rested on Zuko trying not to linger on the scar across his face. Simultaneously, Zuko took in every inch of you with a quick skim.
There was a confidence in the way you held yourself, in the way you walked, even in the way you spoke. The structure of your speech, the practiced tone, the accustomed comfort of status.
It was unmistakable, and Zuko took note of it easily.
You carried the weight of upbringing, much like himself. You carried royalty.
He inclined his head slightly in return, his response just as respectful.
"The honor is mine," he said.
Your attention shifted then, moving to the others.
"It is good to see you all again," you continued, offering a small smile that did not overreach.
"I apologize if my company yesterday was lacking. I had been traveling for days without pause, and though I would have preferred to settle into our home sooner, I understood that Aang wished to make up for lost time."
At that, you glanced back at Aang, and he met your look with a sheepish grin, one hand lifting to the back of his head in a gesture far too familiar to everyone there.
"Sorry," he said lightly. "I was just really excited."
His hand dropped soon after, settling over yours where it rested against his arm. You only shook your head faintly, your smile remaining.
"There is no need to apologize." Then your gaze shifted again.
"You are Katara, correct?" you spoke, turning to the Water Tribe girl.
The moment you spoke her name, you felt Aang flinch against you, your eyes snapping to your connected hands before returning to Katara.
"...Yes?" Katara answered with a question hidden beneath it.
"The food you prepared yesterday was lovely," you said. "I am grateful for the effort you put into hosting us on such short notice."
Katara blinked once, caught off guard by the sincerity of it.
"Oh...that..." she said, her words settling unevenly before she steadied them. "It was my pleasure."
You nodded slightly in acknowledgment before continuing.
"I understand from Aang that we are to gather at your home again this evening."
"Yes," Katara replied, more certain with her voice now. "I'll have everything ready by eight."
"I see," you said. "Aang and I shall arrive earlier to assist you."
Katara's response came quickly, almost like a reflex. "Oh, there's no need for that—"
"I insist," you said gently, and although you had just met, the finality in your words left little room for refusal.
"We will be there at six. Won't we, Aang?"
There was the smallest pause before Aang glanced at you, then back at the others, his smile returning easily.
"Yeah, Katara, we want to help."
"We'll be there too," Sokka added quickly, his words coming out faster than intended. He wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt, but something about your presence at Katara's home unsettled him.
"I will join as well," Zuko said, his voice steady, his gaze returning to you with quiet interest.
Toph let out a small huff. "I'd offer, but—"
"You're coming anyway," Sokka cut in immediately.
A quiet laugh passed between them, light enough to ease the moment.
Aang shifted, his attention returning to you as he remembered his agenda for the day.
"I promised to show her around," he stated, the grin stretching across his face in excitement.
"I'll see you guys at noon!" he said, before guiding you forward once more, his hand engulfing yours as he pulled you along with him.
By the time the sun had reached its peak, the earlier bustle smoothed beneath the midday heat. As promised, Aang had left to meet his friends. He had left you at home not long before, trusting you to settle in at your own pace.
He found Appa waiting, ever patient, as he climbed onto his back, Momo already darting up to join him, settling on his shoulder. The flight was short, and it did not take long before the city gave way to an open stretch of land just beyond the outskirts of the city, leading uphill to a stumped cliff.
His friends were already there, waiting for him. Aang was excited to spend some time with them. He had sensed your presence make them feel awkward around him, so he thought this might come as a good opportunity to ease their friends into his new marital life.
Sokka stood close to the edge, his posture restless even as he was still, while Katara remained close by, her attention shifting at the sound of Appa's descent. Toph sat relaxed, floating a few rocks in the palm of her hand, and beside them stood Zuko, his presence quieter than the group.
Appa landed and the wind settled around them as Aang stepped down, and Momo wasted no time in leaping off after him to greet the others.
His gaze moved across them, a small smile forming. It felt nice to have the group back together. And he hoped for you to gently be included in the future.
His friends on the other hand, had a different plan They trusted him. That much had never been in question. But even their trust was wavering as curiosity came knocking down those carefully built walls.
The scheme had been made before he arrived. It was simple. Get information out of Aang. Simple.
And perhaps if they had asked straightforwardly, Aang wouldn't have denied them.
But Sokka just had to ruin it all by starting off the conversation with—
"You know, Aang, you really shouldn't let your wife walk around dressed like that. Isn't she supposed to wear your monk robes now? What even was that?"
He let out a short laugh, the sound landing unevenly against the quiet of the hill.
Aang's expression shifted, his easy grin dropping so dramatically, they were sure the entire city felt the pressure in the air drop.
Beside Sokka, Toph let out a sharp exhale, her hand coming up to her face in immediate exasperation.
Katara did not hesitate, a quick motion of her hand sending a splash of water directly into Sokka's face with enough force to deliver a slap.
"Hey—!" Sokka sputtered, wiping at his face as he turned toward her, ready to argue, but Aang's voice came sooner than his.
"What are you trying to say, Sokka?"
Aang looked as though he would lash out, but he didn't. His voice wasn't loud, and it didn't need to be to feel the growing anger beneath it.
The tension followed, unsettling them all. For a brief moment no one spoke, because this had been uncalled for. None of them wanted their 'reunion' to start on a bad note, much less end on it.
So Zuko gives an attempt to salvage it in the easiest way he could think of. Throw Sokka under the bus.
"That was very rude, Sokka," he said. His gaze moved briefly toward Sokka before returning forward. "Why should Aang have a say in what his wife chooses to wear?"
There was a pause before he continued, his voice lowering to soften the weight of what he was going to say.
"Besides..." he added, the word carrying a hesitation he did not fully understand, "I think she looked rather...beautiful."
The last word came slower than the rest, and though his expression remained composed, something in him had bloomed.
Katara had been correct in describing you.
Zuko's dilemma went unnoticed by everyone else, slipping beneath the surface without acknowledgment.
"Yeah, whatever," Sokka says, brushing off Zuko's scolding with an edge in his voice.
"I'm just saying, Aang, if people see the your wife walking around dressed like that, they're going to start talking. You're the Avatar for Spirit's sake! No one's even heard of her before, and suddenly she shows up with you looking like that? People are going to assume things."
He didn't stop there.
"They might think she just married you to—"
"I beg of you to stop talking!" Toph cut in loudly, her tone sharp not only from annoyance but also concern
She could feel it, the subtle rise of rage encircling the area where Aang was sitting. Sokka threw his hands up slightly, frustration quick to follow.
"Hey, I don't mean it in a bad way! I want what's best for him."
The words did not land the way he had intended them to.
Somewhere in Aang's mind, he knew that Sokka would be a challenge. He knew Sokka would not be accepting to your presence, always having been the sensible one in the team. But the horrible implications he made about you were too much.
Yes, he had expected for Sokka to be unwelcoming, but he didn't think he would stoop so low to imply something so vile.
Aang moved before he realized, words spewing from his mouth as he still fought to hold back his anger.
"My wife," he said, the words coming out sharp, an unfamiliar tone that did not belong in their usual conversations, "left her home for me."
He rose to his feet as he spoke, the motion slow as his presence shifted with it.
"She chose to come with me to a city she doesn't know, to be around people she's never met, and the only things she has from her home are what she brought with her."
Sokka unconsciously took a step back, and even though Aang was further away the distance was evidently closing.
"If she wants to wear them, she will," Aang continued, "And if she wants more, then I will give them to her."
He took another step forward.
"That's her choice," he said. "Hers. Not mine. And definitely not yours, Sokka."
The space between them closed completely, and Sokka watched the boy he once towered over meet him eye to eye, where he could see that he had definitely struck a huge nerve.
Toph was on her feet, stepping close, her hand lifting slightly just in case.
"Whoa, easy, Twinkle Toes," she said, her tone lighter than the tension warranted. "Sokka's just being Sokka. Don't let it get to you."
"Yes, Aang, he's talking nonsense," Katara added quickly as she shot her brother a sharp look.
Zuko remained where he was, silent.
"It didn't sound like nonsense to me," Aang said, and in a single motion that came as quick as lightning, his hand caught the front of Sokka's collar, gripping it firmly to pull him slightly off balance.
"Do we have a problem, Sokka?"
The man in question gritted his teeth, his brain telling him to end the fight and apologize, but instead he chose to bite back just as fiercely.
"Yeah," Sokka shot back, the restraint he had been holding slipping away. "I do have a fucking problem."
Aang’s face twisted more, but he let the older man continue, understanding this wasn’t something as shallow as about what you wore.
"You disappear without a word for months, and then you come back married?" His voice rose and the frustration in it no longer contained.
"We're your friends, Aang! We're supposed to be your closest friends. Don't you think that's something you should've mentioned?"
Aang's jaw tightened, his grip still firm. He heard what Sokka was saying, and as much as he understood the weight behind it, Sokka's previous words, the way you had been spoken about, refused to settle.
Neither of them moved. But then Katara stepped in, her hand pushing against Aang's arm.
"Aang, let him go."
Toph was already there beside her, offering her silent support.
He let go.
Sokka stumbled back half a step, adjusting his shirt with a quick, irritated motion, watching as Aang spoke.
"It just... happened," Aang said, his voice quieter now, though the edge remained beneath it. "I don't always have the time to send out a letter for every little thing."
"Every little thing?" Sokka repeated, disbelief cutting through the words. "You got married. How is that something little?"
"Stop it, Sokka," Katara said, but he didn't stop.
"No," Sokka said, shaking his head, the frustration still too close to the surface to be dismissed.
"I will be honest, Aang. I do not like your wife."
The words landed harder than anything else he had said before.
"I know you're hiding something," he continued, his voice lower now. "And you can't even be honest about it with your own friends."
Something in Aang snapped.
"Maybe," he said, "you should realize for once that you don't need to know everything!"
Sokka held his gaze for only a second longer before he let out a frustrated breath, the anger in him growing.
"Forget it." he muttered, turning away abruptly.
He didn't look back.
"Fuck this. I'm done."
He started walking down the slope without waiting for a response, his steps quick as he stopped for no one.
Katara hesitated only briefly, glancing back at Aang momentarily, before following Sokka, her hand catching Toph's arm and pulling her along with her despite the protests that came from it.
"Hey! I can walk on my own—"
And within moments, they were gone, leaving Aang and the Fire Lord behind.
The wind moved across the hill, filling the silence as it brushed through the grass.
Appa approached first, lowering his head to nudge against Aang in an attempt to cheer him up. Momo followed him, settling near him with a soft chirp before climbing closer, pressing himself to his side.
Aang did not move them away. He let himself settle onto the grass instead, the tension still present in his posture. His gaze remained fixed somewhere else, thoughts going haywire, wondering how quickly it all went downhill.
Beside him, Zuko lowered himself to sit as well. He did not press, did not interrupt, allowing Aang to process the situation at his own pace.
Time passed in silence for a while, then, eventually, Zuko spoke.
"I do not mean to pry," he began, his tone slightly tentative. "but is your wife of royal birth?"
The question was not meant to be intrusive, but it felt as though it was, so Aang did not answer immediately.
For a moment, there was only the wind again, moving through the space between them.
Then—
"Noble," he said.
Zuko nodded his head slightly, accepting the answer for what it was, though his thoughts did not stop there.
"From where?" he asked after a moment.
Aang's gaze did not shift.
"A smaller nation close to the Earth Kingdom."
The explanation ended there and Zuko didn't ask anything more.
He understood restraint well enough to recognize it in others, and whatever was unsaid, he let it remain that way. Aang wouldn't go to such lengths if it wasn't important.
"I hope that you can find it in yourself to forgive Sokka." Zuko said after a moment.
Aang's expression did not change, though is posture softened at the though of his oldest friend.
"Only if he apologizes," he replied.
"Well...yes. Of course." Zuko assured.
Evening settled in fully by the time they gathered again, the sky dimming into a softer hue that filtered through the open windows of Katara's home.
Everyone had arrived at six, just as promised.
All except Sokka.
You stood beside Aang and Zuko in the kitchen, your hands occupied with small tasks Katara had asked each of you to do, easily settling into the mood for preparation. Aang moved beside you, while Zuko did his best to assist.
In the living section of the room, Toph had claimed the couch entirely, stretched out without any concern.
The conversations moved easy enough. You weren't much involved in the talking part, and you hadn't notice the underlying conflict between the group.
By the time you glanced up again, the light outside had shifted further, and the absence of a certain someone was all too blaring.
"Will Sokka be joining us at eight after all?" you asked, your tone unassuming, though the question itself stilled the room.
The discussions through the room came to a halt, taking you off guard by the sudden silence.
Aang answered before anyone else could.
"Do not worry about Sokka," he said too quickly, and though the edge in his voice was subtle, it was enough to make you take note that something was wrong.
You turned slightly toward him, your hand lifting instinctively to rest against his arm.
"Is everything alright?"
"Mhm." He gave an unsure hum.
"What he means is, Sokka is—"
Katara began, but she did not finish.
The door opened.
"I'm here."
Sokka stepped in without ceremony, the spare key tossed carelessly onto the counter with a small clatter that cut through the air.
"Sorry I'm late," he added, already moving across the room, dropping himself onto the couch beside Toph, who barely shifted at his presence.
"I'm glad you could you make it, Sokka." You greeted politely, but got no response.
"Would you like to help us out?" You prodded yet again, only to be met with a—
"In a minute. I just got here."
His words shut you up as you frowned at his behavior. He was very unlike the Sokka Aang had once described to you.
"If you're just going to be lazy, then come back at eight." Aang's voice came sharp this time.
He swiftly turned his back to the living area as he moved toward the stove, focusing instead on the task in front of him.
The room stilled again.
You glanced between them, and after a brief pause, you simply stepped after Aang, returning to your place beside him, your hands resuming their quiet work, peeling through the peas with careful attention.
Katara watched for only a second longer before she exhaled softly.
"I'll be back," she said, and her gaze lingered on Aang for a moment before she turned away, stepping out of the kitchen and into the living area.
Zuko noticed the way the space between you and Aang had closed again, your voices lowering for something private, so he followed Katara's lead, stepping away to give you both some distance without making it obvious.
In the living area, Sokka leaned back against the couch, his earlier frustration still present beneath the surface.
Katara did not sit. She stood in front of him, her arms folding as her voice dropped.
"You need to apologize to him."
"I will," Sokka said, almost immediately, his voice riddled with guilt. "Of course I will."
There was a pause.
Then he added, "But you can't tell me you don't agree with me."
"I don't."
Zuko's voice cut in before Katara could respond.
"I think she is rather lovely."
Sokka let out a short, incredulous breath, turning toward him with a look that bordered on disbelief.
"Okay, stop with the compliments," he snapped. "It's weird coming from you."
Toph pushed herself up slightly on her elbows, a grin pulling at her expression.
"Oh, this is interesting," she said, her tone carrying that familiar edge of amusement. "Has Zuko taken an interest in the missus?"
"Nonsense," Zuko replied immediately. "I am stating what is obvious. They suit each other."
His gaze shifted then, drawn back toward the kitchen as the others followed.
Through the open space, they could see the two of you clearly. Aang standing close you, speaking in hushed whispers and big smiles.
Perhaps he says something funny, because you reached for him, your hand lifting to land a playful slap on his shoulder, only for him to catch it before it landed.
His fingers closed around yours as he brought your hand upward planting a kiss to the inside of your wrist.
Katara looked away first, and her gaze shifted sharply, her focus fixing elsewhere as she tries not to dwell on what she just saw.
"Come on, Zuko," she said. "We still have dinner to finish."
She did not wait for a response, already turning back toward the kitchen. Zuko followed shortly after, stepping away and leaving Toph and Sokka alone.
It was nightfall by the time dinner ended. The table had been cleared, dishes left soaking, and a bottle of wine had been opened for those who wanted it, though tonight it was only Toph and Zuko who indulged.
Sokka had declined, his reason simple. He wanted to keep a clear head for what he had to do.
He had to apologize.
So he stood outside on the balcony with Aang, the doors shut behind them, their voices muffled by the glass, leaving the rest of the house quieter.
You did not remain in the living area.
The unfamiliarity of his friends still remained, so when Aang stepped away, you excused yourself with the pretense of needing water. The kitchen welcomed you back as you sat upon the open counter, a glass in your hand.
Zuko noticed.
He had been seated in the living area, his attention divided between the balcony and you. Your absence had settled firmly in his awareness.
Katara and Toph remained focused on the figures outside, so he rose without announcement. The soft sound of his steps did not reach you until he was already there, a glass of wine held loosely in his hand.
"Do you not drink?"
His voice broke through your thoughts as you looked up, pulled back into the present.
"Oh...I used to, my father would allow me a couple sips during dinner." you said, smiling fondly at the memory, but instantly a scowl tainted your face, as though you had remembered something foul.
"I abstain now that I have married Aang." You ended, smile returning.
"Did he ask you to do that?"
"No," you answered. "I chose to. Out of respect for my husband's culture."
You weren't sure of the Fire Lord's motives in approaching you, but you decided to make the best of the situation.
"May I ask what happened between him and Sokka?" you questioned, your eyes meeting his in confidence. Zuko was sure you were examining for even the slightest nuance.
Zuko did not answer immediately, knowing it wasn't his place.
"I think it would be better if it came from Aang," he replied at last.
Your expression did not change.
"What difference does it make, Fire Lord Zuko, if you were the one to tell me?"
"The difference lies in trust," he said. "You may not take my words lightly if they come from me, and I would prefer that there be no unnecessary conflict between us."
"And you suspect there will be," you said, not as a question.
Zuko exhaled faintly.
"I believe there would be," he admitted. "Because unlike Aang, I would not soften what was said."
A small sound left you then, something close to a laugh but not entirely one.
"I may not have known Aang for as long you have, but even I know that Aang is not one to gain a temper against his friends so easily. At least, not anymore."
"You would be surprised at his younger self." He humors.
You chuckle, but your fingers tightened slightly around the glass.
"Then maybe you can tell me this," you continued, your voice lowering.
"Was the reason of their fight, me?"
Zuko hesitated.
"...You could say that."
"Was I insulted in my husband's presence?"
His silence was answer enough.
"Pray tell," you said, the calm in your voice almost poisonous. "what exactly was said?"
"Many things," he replied. "Things I would hope you take with a grain of salt, since it came from Sokka."
"Funny."
You did not remain where you were.
The glass was set aside, forgotten, as you stepped down from the counter, closing the distance until you stood before him, your gaze lifting to meet his.
"Aang spoke to me about you. I didn't even know he was friends with you until yesterday."
"That's surprising, considering everyone knows of the Avatar's feat of ending the 100 year war, including my involvement."
"I didn't think to connect the dots."
"Hmm."
"He told me about how you met. A very endearing story. The lengths one goes to for their honor."
Zuko couldn't tell if that was meant to mock him, but that phase of his life still remained something he was ashamed of, so the frown on his face was inevitable.
"Do not be upset. I didn't mean it as an insult. I'm only mentioning it because it's something I can agree with."
You clarify, setting the cup of water down onto the counter before continuing.
"Which is why I figure you will understand that," you paused, your voice steady as you finished your sentence. "My honor is not something I treat lightly. It is very dear to me."
You stepped even closer, the space between you narrowing until it left little room for anything else.
Zuko did not speak.
There was something in the way you held yourself despite the quiet fracture beginning to show, that felt familiar. It did not come from recognition of you, but from something he had once carried himself, something he had fought to reclaim.
Honor.
It wasn't just a word, it was once his purpose and now his treasure.
"I understand." he said.
Your composure faltered then. Your jaw tightened, you did not look away, and Zuko noticed there was a sheen to your eyes now.
"Do you really?" you asked.
"I do," Zuko answered. "But I also do not want you to turn against Sokka because of it. He is still Aang's closest friend."
"Perhaps he will not be for long."
Your response had come without any hesitation, and it stumped him.
You drew in a quiet breath, the tension pulling inward once more as you turned away. You grabbed the glass of water you set down, draining it in one motion before you started rinsing it with more force than necessary.
Behind you, Zuko remained still.
Until now, he had believed Sokka's concerns were rooted in something else. Namely, in the history between Aang and Katara. But standing there, watching the way your single statement had carried a genuine threat behind it, he began to see it differently.
Maybe, Sokka was not disappointed by the unwritten story of Aang and Katara.
Perhaps he feared what your presence would do to the group, because he saw something in you the others failed to see.
Zuko returned to the living area and he noticed you leaving the kitchen in the same moment, your movement quick, and he assumed you had gone in search of some quiet corner of the house.
By the time he seated himself again, the balcony doors had opened.
Aang and Sokka stepped back inside together, the earlier tension between them no longer sharp, though it was not entirely gone. After all, Aang may forgive, but he was not one to forget easily.
Zuko's scanned their dejected faces, so to lighten the mood he jokes—
"Were you both crying?" he asked.
"No, we were not!" Aang and Sokka answered at once, their voices overlapping in perfect unison, and for a brief moment, something familiar surfaced between them.
Laughter followed, and it felt like they were all kids again.
Aang's attention shifted soon after, his gaze moving across the room before settling into a small frown.
"Where is she?" he asked.
Zuko leaned back slightly. "She stepped out. I believe she went to find the restroom."
Aang's expression tightened just a fraction. "I don't think she knows where it is."
"She's a big girl," Toph said from the couch. "She'll figure it out."
"I can go check," Katara offered, already stepping forward.
Aang stopped her before she could take another step. His hand caught her arm gently, halting her movement. Her breath hitched, the reaction subtle as her resistance dissolved beneath Aang's touch.
"I'll go," he said instead. He did not wait for a response before turning, already moving out of the room in search of you.
In his haste, he did not notice what had slipped loose. It was Katara who saw it first, her gaze dropping toward the floor just after he had disappeared from view.
"His emblem—" She pointed.
The small piece lay near where he had stood, the Air Nomad symbol detached. Zuko reached for it before anyone else could, his fingers closing around it with care.
"I'll bring it to him," he said, stepping away from the others, the emblem held loosely in his hand, as he moved through the unfamiliar layout of the house, turning once, then again.
And then he found you both.
He stopped before either of you noticed him.
You both stood close, your hands pressed against Aang's chest, your fingers curled slightly into the fabric. Aang's hands rested at back as his arms engulfed you.
Zuko stepped back instinctively, retreating into the shadow of the wall, turning his gaze away even he remained where he was, his presence hidden.
He did not watch.
He listened.
A soft sound broke through the quiet as you pulled away, your voice following after.
"Why won't you just tell me?" you asked, the words catching at the edges. "What did Sokka say?"
Aang did not answer, and the silence went on with the occasional break of your sniffles, enough to confirm what had not been said.
"Zuko said he insulted me. Did you just forgive him for it?" you pressed, your voice breaking slightly.
"...Not exactly—"
"It's a yes or no question," you cut in, sharper now, though the hurt beneath it did not lessen. "Tell me, what did he say, Aang?"
"Please stop crying," Aang whispered as you pulled you into a hug yet again. "I'll tell you everything once we're home."
You sobbed against his chest, your breath uneven, before you braced yourself for your next words.
"Did...did you tell Sokka about...what happened...—"
"I would never!" He exclaimed softly, pulling away slightly so he could meet your eyes. "I would never disrespect you like that, I promise you."
"But Sokka did, didn't he? And I consider you forgiving him is just as disrespectful."
"I forgave him because he was sincere with his apology. Sokka is not someone who acts on his feelings like that."
"How is that meant to justify anything."
"It means, whatever was said about you was his anger directed at me."
There was a pause after his statement, shifting your eyes from his as you closed them shut.
Your grip on him tightened, inhaling softly to you ease your emotions.
"It seems my presence has caused a lot of harm. And it's only been a day."
"It is not your fault. My friends felt deceived because I didn't tell them about you. I chose to stay silent."
You knew Aang meant well, but you were taking his words at face value.
"...I feel as though I have trapped you. I should have never agreed—"
"You are the best thing that has happened to me. I know it may not have seemed like it in the beginning, but I do not regret asking you to marry me. I never will."
His tone softened further as his hands lifted, cupping your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that had already fallen.
"I am sorry that you've been having a hard time around my friends."
Even though he didn't need to, his apology was reassuring, and you shook your head with a smile.
"It's alright. It shows how much they care for you."
At your words he smiles, thumbs brushing your cheeks.
"Let me take you home. I'll explain everything."
You nod, head tilting back as he leaned closer for a kiss. The kiss was not brief. It was deep and vulnerable, the shine of tears still tracing your cheeks.
Then there was nothing more.
Zuko did not stay. He stepped away as quietly as he had arrived, your conversation left behind him.
When he returned to the others, Katara noticed his failed excursion immediately, eyes dropping to the emblem still in his hand.
"You couldn't find him?" she asked.
Zuko glanced down at the emblem, then back at her.
"No." he said calmly. "I'm sure he will return for it."
chapter three
a/n: fair warning, this story will have darker themes in the future. my vision for this story is very straightforward and to the point, so yes, the characters may seem ooc at times. but i gotta do it for the plot. just promise me, no one will hate on the actual characters, okay?
Just Us Two: Damian loves intruding on your and Jason's alone time.
Third time's The Charm: The two times Jason almost told you he liked you, and the one time he finally did.
Baby Came Home: After you lose your powers while trying to take down a partnership between Lex Luthor and Penguin, Jason and you confront your deepest fear — being each other's second choice. When the rest of the batboys lock you in the Batcave, though, the confession becomes inevitable.
How Can We Go Back to Being Friends: You hook up with your best friend, and now you don’t know how to act around each other.
Damian, You Are So Psyched: Damian came home from school yesterday acting off, so now it's your goal to cheer up the distant little boy.
Don’t Judge a Book by Its Leather Jacket: Jason has been telling himself he's visiting the little coffee shop at the end of the block for its cheap coffee, but it's his only way to see the cute barista every day and quote "Pride and Prejudice" at her until she falls for him.
Don't Judge a Book by Its Leather Jacket (sequel)
Not what you think: Jason went snooping and thinks you're cheating on him. Good luck explaining yourself!
A shear disaster: Your boyfriend is acting suspicious and won't take off his helmet.
Guilty pleasures: You cheat on your boyfriend, Jason, with the Red Hood.
Unexpected Guests: Damian finds out you're dating Jason.
Rough Night: Your secret relationship with Jason is accidentally revealed the morning after a rough night.
The Babysitter: After being hired to babysit Damian Wayne, you end up putting a masked intruder in a chokehold, only to realize you’ve just tackled his older brother, Jason Todd.
Making an Ass of U & Me: Jason didn’t mean to keep your existence secret from his family. At first, it was for his and your own protection more than anything; his double life wasn’t just for any average person after all. But, even after the whole marriage and settling down thing, he may have just forgotten to mention it.
Careless Accidents: You get hurt, and Jason’s pissed.
So This is Love: You show each other what love is supposed to be like (4 in 1)
The Gift of Truth: After figuring out that your boyfriend is Red Hood, you struggle to figure out a way to tell him you are aware of his “nightly activities.” When Jason finally introduces you to his family a week before Christmas, you are presented with the perfect opportunity to tell him
Pride & Prejudice: When you first meet Jason Todd, he seems to be nothing more than an entitled asshole, but as the seasons change, you begin to realise maybe you were wrong about him.
Good With Kids: You never really had an opinion on your colleague Red Hood, that is until you walk into him interacting with some kids.
The Investigator: The Batfamily discovers Jason's been hiding a long-distance relationship with someone who might be even more terrifying than Batman himself.
Are You Dating My Teacher: Bruce decides to cash in a favor that Jason owed him, and now the Red Hood- the most ruthless vigilante of Gotham- is chaperoning his youngest brother’s field trip to the zoo.
Who Do You Love: You're hopelessly in love with your classmate, Jason Todd. And you just so happen to be quite good friends with Red Hood. drunk one night, you admit you have feelings for Jason to your vigilante friend, not knowing the man behind the mask is the man you're in love with.
When She Sees Me: Your best friend Dick Grayson took you to one of Bruce's galas a while ago. When Dick finds out his brother has a crush on you, he decides to play Cupid.
Blah Blah Blah: Jason is angry after watching Wuthering Heights. You are horny watching him get angry.
Cover Blown: You and Jason cannot stand one another. Unfortunately. you both go undercover as a married couple, and that should'nt change things between you two... right?
La Vie en Rose: The four times Jason wildly preferred you over everyone else.
Kiss or Miss: A quiet Saturday at the shooting range becomes anything but when Jason decides hands on help is the best kind.
Can I: It’s your last year of university and Jason Todd has been in your classes, plotting on you. You’d promised yourself you’d make the most of this year, go to more parties, finally lose your virginity, and step out of your comfort zone, while Jason steps into yours.
Glad It Was You
Prove It To You
Hit Me
The Magic Words: You’ve been urging to tell your boyfriend that you love him and you finally do.
Ice Skating With Jason: Ice skating, jealousy, and accidental confessions... what could go wrong?
Scuff Marks: Your car breaks down, and you meet your best friend's brother, Jason.
Brother's Best Friend: Sleepover at Wayne Manor with a side quest of making out with your secret boyfriend.
Wait…We're Not Dating: For the entire year you and Jason have known each other, he assumed you two were dating and had no idea you weren't.
It's Just a Crush: You have a crush on Red Hood, and your best friend stephanie brown thinks it’s so funny. Funny enough, she introduces you to her brother, Jason Todd.
Delayed Confession: Jason is trying to confess his feelings, but you already thought you were dating.
Domestic Disputes: Jason cannot handle having such an independent girlfriend.
Random blurbs
Old habits
Revealing Secrets
I'm still right though
Jason accidentally reveals he has a soon-to-be fiancée
Interrupted Dates
First Time
Shy (but experienced) Jason and his freaked-out (but inexperienced) girl
Jason Todd who makes everything in your home kiss
Random Headcanons
My pretty, pretty girl
Collar
Jason has a wet dream while you’re trying to wake him up
Jason is insecure about his scars
Jason Todd is hungry and impatient
Dick Grayson
Sweater Weather: Dick just wanted to have lunch with his best friend, but he didn't expect you to show up in some other guy's sweatshirt.
The Light Behind Your Eyes: A week spent at Dick’s apartment leads Damian to discover what unconditional love looks like.
Hard to Impress: Dick Grayson can't seem to make you swoon, no matter how hard he tries, until he finally does
The "She's With Me" Is The New Gaelic Shrug (sequel)
Easy lovers: After a series of dates, dick finds himself desperate and decides that tonight will not end until he gets to walk home with a kiss from you.
Miraculous partners: Basically, a "Miraculous Ladybug" plot between you and Dick.
Territory, Marked: Damian makes an unexpected friend at the dog park, and when his older brother tags along one day, he takes a little too much interest.
Dinner Was Not Served: Dick had one goal: to seduce his girlfriend. He forgot the part where he should check for unwanted guests first and narrates his plans in very, vivid detail.
Stakeout at Table Nine: Dick Grayson just wanted a normal date. No suits. No masks. Definitely no Batkid stakeout at a fancy restaurant. Too bad his siblings brought disguises, drama, and a front-row seat to his love life.
Lightning Strikes Twice: Nightwing accidentally develops feelings for the anxious woman whose rescue has become part of his regular nightly routine by this point.
Whatever You Say Teach: Damian gets in a fight at school, and his favorite teacher has to set up a meeting with a parent or guardian. Bruce Wayne is away on a mission and Alfred isn’t picking up the phone, so Damian’s eldest brother has to attend a parent teacher conference. Only to find out that he has history with his little brother’s English Lit teacher.
His Person: You and dick have been close friends for years now, and that's all it would ever be, but after he snaps and upsets you, things change.
Random blurbs
Take him back, please!
Revealing Secrets
Interrupted Dates
Sleeping in his bed turns into something more
Damian Wayne (aged up ofc!!)
Near: He hates contact, except apparently when it’s you he’s inching toward.
Nepo Vigilante: After your parents die, you inherit their legacy as vigilantes, reluctantly stepping into a life you never asked for. Bruce takes you in to honor a promise to them, pairing you with Damian, whose cruelty and perfectionism push you to your limits, until one day, fed up, you choose to train with Tim instead, sparking Damian’s outrage.
When The Spite Dies: You were expected to quit after Damian Wayne’s first vicious insult, but fueled by spite, you stayed— only to end up hopelessly attracted to the despicable man and vice versa.
When The Spite is Desire (sequel)
The Heart Remembers: Damian's short-term amnesia from a concussion causes complications when he refuses to believe the break-up ever happened—and his missing memories dissolve all defenses and unravel the true depths of his undying devotion for you.
The Only Exception: Getting a list of everything Damian hates, you feel self-conscious about ticking the boxes in that list—and try to fix that, not knowing that you’re Damian’s only exception.
Animal Interests: Damian’s father drags him along to an old acquaintance's house for intel, only to find that her teen also has an interest in animal rescues. In other words, she has a rescued panther as a pet.
Who Said The Waynes Were Cold: Damian Wayne, son of Batman, grandson of Ra's al Ghul, capable of neutralizing a threat in thirty seconds flat, is completely, irrevocably incapable of speaking to the girl he loves. The solution: an anonymous note slipped into a locker. Dick Grayson finds it hilarious. Damian doesn't.
Random Blurbs
Interrupted Dates
Damian Wayne and Reader Get Domestic
Tim Drake
If I Was Your Boyfriend: Tim Drake had his eyes on you from the very first week of the semester. So now he’s praying for your (ex) boyfriend’s downfall, because God forbid a man openly plots to have you for himself instead.
Dairy Queen Closes in 10 Minutes: You broke up with Tim a year ago. Too bad he still thinks of you as his. Too bad everything he does reminds you that you are.
Random Blurbs
Interrupted Dates
Bruce Wayne
The Wrong Man’s Wife: The Justice League members think Batman is in love with Bruce Wayne's wife.
Like Real People Do: Bruce's wife goes missing, and the media and family are both in shambles. Bruce grows colder as the family tries their best to find her. To try and cheer him up, they find old video diaries from the couple’s early dating lives and witness a new side of Bruce.
The Watchtower's Worst Kept Secret: The Justice League suspects something is happening between Batman and Bruce Wayne's wife.
Seven Smacks: Bruce Wayne was a stubborn and fiercely independent man, which meant that his children were too. Unfortunately for you, that meant that scolding one of them was practically a moment to scold both.
The Bat's Wife: Some members of the league are still surprised by the way the Dark Knight's wife looks.
Oh, It's... Gold: Bruce made a small mistake on a gift he gave you, and everyone judged him for it.
꒰ 🦇 ꒱ synopsis 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 after your parents die, you inherit their legacy as vigilantes, reluctantly stepping into a life you never asked for. bruce takes you in to honor a promise to them, pairing you with damian, whose cruelty and perfectionism push you to your limits, until one day, fed up, you choose to train with tim instead, sparking damian’s outrage.
GRIEF MAKES THE WORLD LOOK DIFFERENT.
the city has been loud your entire life, but ever since your parents died, it feels muted in strange places and deafening in others. the quiet parts hit hardest. the little moments where you forget for half a second and then remember all over again, the kind of remembering that isn’t a thought but a physical sensation, like a punch behind the ribs.
none of this was supposed to be yours.
their storage vault, the one bruce unlocked for you with the kind of calm that made you want to break something, smells like cold air, graphite, and steel. it’s carved deep beneath an old building that hasn’t seen sunlight in decades. the lights flicker in a way that suggests they were installed before you were born. it’s not a place designed for grief, it’s a place built for purpose. precision. continuation.
your parents’ suits hang on reinforced mounts, suspended just above eye level like they’re watching you judge whether you’re capable of this. your mother used to joke that the suits looked better in motion; standing still made everything seem too dramatic. you never understood what she meant until now, the way the armor casts double shadows, the way it mirrors shapes that are no longer there. you stare at them too long because it feels like the only thing left to do.
bruce had told you that all assets were transferred to your name. equipment, tech, safehouses, unfinished case files, half-deciphered intel. a legacy that was never meant to feel like an inheritance but does now, painfully.
you didn’t even know some of this existed.
you didn’t want to know.
they trained you, yes. they taught you how to throw a punch, how to read a situation, how to outrun consequences. but they also told you, repeatedly, that you could choose differently. that their path wasn’t meant to be hereditary. that the blood they spilled didn’t need to belong to anyone else in the family. you used to cling to that promise. now you hold their mask in your hands, and it feels like a broken version of a future someone else should’ve had.
everyone keeps telling you they died heroes, as if that’s supposed to dull anything. as if noble deaths hurt less. as if the city mourns them the way you do. the city moves on. the city always moves on. but you’re still standing here, breathing in recycled air and trying to figure out what part of your life is supposed to continue. your parents never believed in destiny. they believed in choice. in stubbornness. in doing the right thing because no one else would. and now, ironically, you are the one no one else is left to turn to.
the storage unit is colder than it should be. you’ve spent so many hours here lately you could map the room blindfolded. the crates of gear you haven’t opened yet, the leftover tech your parent never got to update, the suits displayed as if they’ll step back into it any minute. you shouldn’t still come here every morning. you know that. the batcave is bigger, safer, better equipped. but this place is theirs, and somehow staring at the suit in this cramped little box hurts less than seeing it under the manor’s bright clinical lights.
your phone vibrates. training cycle begins in 30 minutes. you don’t need the reminder; you’ve been counting the minutes anyway. the dread has been with you since you woke up, since your feet automatically carried you back to this unit, since you realized another morning means another sparring session with the demon brat incarnate.
you dread it.
you dread him.
damian.
the name alone is enough to sour your mood. you feel it immediately, your shoulders tightening, your jaw locking, your pace quickening in some futile hope that if you get there early enough you can ask bruce to pair you with literally anyone else. you know that won’t happen. damian wayne is unbearable. there’s no polite version of that. no “he has his moments” or “he means well” because he really, genuinely doesn’t. he’s a black hole of superiority, dragged around by entitlement so deeply rooted it might as well be genetic. he walks like the world is his inheritance and everyone else is trespassing.
he is arrogant in a way only someone who has never been allowed to fail can be. sharp-tongued, sharper-eyed, constantly calculating and constantly disappointed in everyone around him. including you. especially you. spoiled isn’t even the right word. damian is something harder, a prince raised in a fortress and told the world outside is beneath him. he carries himself like any deviation from his expectations is a personal insult, and he treats you like you breathe incorrectly.
and the worst part? the truly unfair part?
he’s good.
not “for his age” good. not “bruce trained me” good. he’s the kind of good that makes your blood heat because you hate giving him that win. when he fights you, it feels personal even when he swears it isn’t. there’s an intensity in him that borders on cruel, like he’s always trying to prove something, always needing to be sharper, faster, better. especially compared to you. of course bruce keeps pairing you together.
you exhale slowly, press your thumb against the message to dismiss it, and glance at your watch. if you leave now, you can get to the manor ahead of everyone else. being early gives you time to brace yourself, to shrug off grief and put on whatever version of yourself can withstand damian’s perpetual disapproval. you grab your bag, pull the metal door shut, and lock the padlock with a soft click. outside, the morning is still gray, the sky washed out and half-asleep. the city traffic hasn’t peaked yet. you keep your hood up.
you make it to the outskirts of the manor grounds with time to spare. the iron gates loom ahead, old enough to creak but still strong enough to give off that Wayne aura of we have money and secrets. the access scanner blinks once in recognition and unlatches the gate. the walkway up to the house is quiet, all manicured lawn and morning dew and the far-off rustle of wings. the manor itself looks almost peaceful from here, like nothing inside it could possibly be chaotic or loud or irritating.
a lie. obviously.
you steel yourself before stepping in. early is good. early means that hopefully you won’t walk into damian’s glare the second you arrive. early means you can stretch, breathe, maybe even convince yourself today won’t devolve into insults, scowls, and wanting to push him into a wall and also possibly strangle him.
or both. definitely both.
you swipe into the elevator, hit the sequence bruce programmed, and watch the floor drop away beneath your feet as the platform descends into shadow. the cave lights hum awake. water drips from stalactites. you step off, rolling your shoulders once, already planning the quiet you’ll get before anyone else arrives — a few minutes of peace, of solitude, of breathing room—
but no.
of course not. there he is.
damian stands in the center of the training mats like a statue carved out of irritation. already changed, already warmed up, already swinging a bo staff through the air with that crisp, too-perfect precision that makes you want to fling something heavy at his head. he doesn’t even look surprised to see you. just… mildly offended by your presence. his eyes track you the way a cat tracks a fly it isn’t sure is worth killing yet. then he speaks, voice flat, cool, the verbal equivalent of an eye-roll: “you’re late.”
you stop walking, blink once, and stare at him. “i’m early,” you say, very clearly, because you checked the time twice on the way here.
damian finally lowers his staff. not out of respect — no, never — but merely to cross his arms with maximum judgment. “early,” he repeats, like the word itself has personally insulted him. “you are precisely thirty four minutes and nineteen seconds later than the time i arrived. therefore, you are late.”
you suck in a sharp breath. “that’s not how that works.”
damian tilts his head, mouth twitching in something dangerously close to a smirk, the kind that says he knows exactly how annoying he is and simply accepts it as part of his nature. “that is exactly how it works. punctuality is measured by standards, not feelings. if i am present, and you arrive after me, you are—”
“don’t say it.”
“—late.”
you resist the urge to throw your bag at him.
he watches you like a hawk watches prey struggling with a trap. his gaze drops briefly, to your stance, your posture, how tired you look, how stiff your shoulders are, and then flicks away again like none of it matters. like he’s already cataloged you and moved on. you hate that he’s always here early. you hate that you’ve almost never once walked in without finding him already sweating, already glowering, already working three times harder than anyone asked him to.
you hate that it makes you feel behind.
he turns away first, which infuriates you more, as if you’re not worth continued attention. “you should stretch,” he says, dismissive, arrogant as ever. “you’re sluggish in the mornings.” damian glances back just long enough to add, “try not to fall behind today.”
training hasn’t even started and you already want to strangle him. you inhale through your nose, he kind of breath meant to keep you from launching yourself at a smug, infuriating, morally superior gremlin of a boy. it doesn’t help. at all. but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing you rise to it this early in the morning, so instead of snapping back, you drop your bag a little harder than necessary, kneel, and start stretching, pretending not to notice the way damian keeps glancing over in those sharp, evaluating passes, tracking you like part of his warm-up routine is assessing your weaknesses. you refuse to give him anything. not a flinch. not a sound.
you move through your stretches methodically, shoulders, arms, back, legs, and by the time you finish, your annoyance has settled into something sharp and clean. you stand. damian meets your eyes for exactly one second, nods once, the barest acknowledgment that you are, in fact, ready, and then the two of you slip wordlessly into your usual rhythm. warm-up drills. strikes. footwork. flow sequences.
the only sound between you is impact, gloves hitting pads, feet sliding across mats, the faint grunt of effort when he pushes harder than necessary (which he always does). you match him blow for blow. if he’s escalating, you escalate. if he’s testing you, you test him back. you don’t know how long you’ve been at it when you hear footsteps on the metal stairs.
damian is the first to break stance, head snapping up, expression twisting with immediate displeasure, as if the intrusion itself is personally offensive. tim appears first, holding a coffee the size of his head, hair a disaster, sweater hanging off one shoulder like he got dressed at a red light. he blinks at the two of you brawling at sunrise. “oh,” he says. “you guys are already trying to kill each other. nice. love the consistency.”
right behind him, cass moves with grace, eyes scanning the mat, giving you both a subtle nod that somehow manages to feel more respectful than anything damian’s ever given anyone. steph clomps down next, ponytail bouncing, still chewing half a granola bar. “morning! you two look like a divorce waiting to happen.”
damian glares at her like she personally offended a dozen generations of al ghuls.
duke trails last, hoodie pulled over his head, yawning. “didn’t know sparring started early.”
“it didn’t,” tim says, sipping his coffee. “they just hate each other.”
steph gestures at you. “no, they don’t. they hate everyone else. each other is foreplay.”
damian inhales sharply, scandalized, turning a lethal death-glare on her. you pretend you’re not on the verge of combusting. cass hides her smile behind her hand. before you can even decide whether to walk away or throw something at damian’s head, the temperature in the room shifts. it always does when he arrives, bruce steps out of the shadowed doorway with that unnerving, near-silent glide he’s perfected over decades. he surveys the group with an expression that barely qualifies as a nod. “morning.”
you straighten instinctively. damian does too, but with the insolent ease of someone who thinks he’s the favorite son, the heir apparent. somehow he can stand at attention while still looking like he’s tolerating everyone else’s existence.
bruce gives the usual rundown: drills first, then sparring rotations, then assessments. your muscles burn through the first round of drills, kicks, strikes, bursts of footwork across the mat, but the sting is almost grounding. easier than dealing with the person two paces ahead of you who insists on being perfect and loud about it. you’ve never understood what exactly you did to earn his contempt.
and of course, when bruce calls out the sparring pairs, he doesn’t even have to say the names. you already know you’ll get partnered up. damian doesn’t even look irritated, he just tilts his chin the slightest degree, that arrogant flicker of superiority. you swallow the spike of annoyance climbing your spine.
cass gives you a sympathetic look. tim quietly mutters “godspeed.” steph pretends to hide behind duke. bruce pretends not to see any of it. damian steps onto the mat, rolling his wrists, already in perfect form.
you follow, heart thudding, not with fear, but with frustration. sparring with damian is like sparring with a blade that resents being touched. he doesn’t go easy. he doesn’t slow down. he doesn’t adjust. he just cuts. the second bruce signals for you to begin, damian moves, slicing across the mat like the fight is already his. he doesn’t warm up, he doesn’t test distance, he just attacks.
his first kick nearly clips your ribs; you block too high, stumble back half a step. you bite down the instinct to snap at him. focus. you counter with a punch, clean, aimed for his shoulder; he avoids it without even looking, twisting out of reach and sweeping at your legs. you jump it, barely. he’s already coming in again. it’s impossible—
how the hell are you supposed to beat someone who was raised as a child assassin, who trained under people who don’t believe in rest or mercy, who has been fighting his whole life?
you’re good. you know you’re good. but damian is something else entirely.
the fight goes on like that, your lungs burning, your arms throbbing, damian not even winded. every time you get close, he pivots. every time you try something new, he shuts it down like he predicted it minutes ago. “you’re telegraphing,” he says at one point, dodging your strike. “and your footing is sloppy.”
you glare, breathless. “thanks, coach.”
he ignores the sarcasm completely and goes for your knees. you block late, and pain sparks up your leg. he sees it. he absolutely sees it, and yet he keeps coming. your frustration curdles into something hotter. the kind of anger that sits burning in your chest. unfair, you think. unfair that he gets to hate you for existing, unfair that he gets to win, unfair that bruce keeps pairing you with him like you’re supposed to just learn to survive him.
you go in again, one last strike, one last try, but damian is already there, sweeping your leg and hooking the back of your ankle with brutal, ruthless efficiency. your balance goes. you hit the mat hard. something cracks, sharp pain blooming up your arm as your elbow smashes against the ground wrong. the air sucks out of your lungs. you don’t scream, but you freeze, shock pinning you still. you only register the taste of copper a second later. blood sliding from somewhere near your eyebrow down your cheek. damian stands over you, bo staff poised at your throat, the picture of victory.
and something in you, something that has been caged inside of you for months since you’ve started training with them, finally snaps. not into grief. into rage. it rises fast, not at the pain, not even at the humiliation, but at what it represents. his contempt. his certainty you don’t belong. that you’re an inherited symbol, not a threat. that you didn’t earn this life. that you can’t live up to what your parents were, because you weren’t raised in a league, trained from childhood, sculpted into a weapon on purpose.
you think of your parents, the way they moved through the world like it could be better if someone just tried, and you think of damian, born into war, and how he looks at you as if you are soft. lesser. temporary.
your jaw clenches, and you move. you surge up off the mat so fast that damian barely has time to retract his staff. your fist meets his guard with a crack that rings through your bones. the pain in your arm screams, but anger burns hotter, drowning it out. damian’s eyes widen, barely, but enough. then you strike again, faster, heavier, not waiting for bruce’s command, not giving damian a breath, a second, an inch. you hit him like you’re trying to punch through every doubt, every comparison, every expectation. your blade flashes next, close enough that the edge slices a thread off the hem of his sleeve. he shifts back, blocking with the staff, but the rhythm he always controls isn’t his anymore. you don’t let him adjust. you won’t.
you go at him again. punch, kick, strike, blade, another punch. damian meets every attack but only just. he’s fast—always faster—but you don’t give him the one thing he usually owns: time.
he parries your sword and you’re already slamming your shoulder into his chest. he deflects your fist and your leg snaps up into a sharp kick. he twists to avoid a slash, and you’re following. relentlessly. “enough,” damian snaps once, breath clipped, rattled.
“no,” you spit back, punching harder.
a hit breaks through, your elbow to his ribs, and he grunts, doubling half a step. you don’t stop. not even then. anger drives you. your parents steady you. damian’s doubt fuels you. every expectation presses into your knuckles.
finally, one mistake, one slip of footing, and damian goes down on his back, hitting the mat with a thud. he tries to roll, already bracing to counter, but you’re faster, and you plant your foot firmly on his chest, pinning him down.
the cave goes silent.
damian is beneath you, panting hard, chest rising in sharp, uneven pulls. sweat slicks across his skin, turning the warm brown tone of it into something luminescent under the cave lights. loose strands of hair fall over his forehead, messy, sticking to the curve of his cheek. his jaw is tight, furious, but his eyes… his eyes are something else entirely.
wide. startled. dark with heat and something like reluctant awe. he’s looking up at you like he can’t reconcile the version of you he’s built in his head with the one standing over him now, foot pressed to his sternum, breathing hard, blood sliding down your face like a war mark you earned.
for a second, just a second, damian actually looks flushed. not embarrassed. not humiliated. flushed.
his gaze trails the line of blood at your temple, the rise and fall of your chest, the grip you still have on your sword. and something softens, barely, but it’s there. admiration. or something even more dangerous. then, instantly, he shutters it. wipes the expression clean. molds his face back into its usual carved arrogance. but he can’t hide the way he’s still breathing too hard, or the way his pulse jumps visibly at his throat.
you stand over him, chest burning, anger still pulsing through you, hot and alive and undeniable. for the first time since you stepped into the cave, damian isn’t looking down at you.
he’s looking up.
the next few days pass like you’re moving through water that’s resisting you at every turn. you throw yourself into training. not normal training. punishing training.
you’re in the cave before sunrise, long before even damian filters in. you hit the bags until your knuckles ache deep into the bone. you run drills until your vision blurs. you practice footwork until the mat feels like it’s tilting beneath you. every hour you carve out of the day becomes a place to bleed frustration into movement. it’s easier than thinking. easier than remembering the way damian looked lying beneath you. easier than remembering the flicker of—whatever that was—in his eyes.
and you ignore him.
very deliberately.
very thoroughly.
he walks into the cave during breakfast hour? you pivot away. he enters the training mat? you tighten your jaw, focus on the target dummy, and act like he’s made of air. he stands close enough that you can feel the shift in temperature from his body heat? you move five steps to the left without acknowledging him. you don’t give him even a nod.
and damian, naturally, does not take it well.
damian wayne is infuriating. arrogant. he speaks like everything he says is an objective truth and everything you say is an inconvenience. every time you think about the way he looked at you right before he knocked you on the mat and made you bleed, something twists in your chest. you want to punch him. you want to yell at him. you want to demand why he hates you so viciously when you never asked for any of this. but mostly, what destroys you, is the frustration. the way he makes you feel like you’re always one step too slow, one swing too reckless, one mistake too obvious.
you’d never admit it aloud, but sometimes your chest gets so tight with how he gets under your skin that you have to step into the hallway and breathe through it before you start to tear up. if damian wants to act like you’re some sort of cosmic inconvenience—fine. it’s not like you want to be friends with someone like that anyway.
on the fourth morning after that day, you’re stretching, wrapping your hands, trying to focus on anything other than the tightness behind your ribs when you hear the elevator. of course it’s him.
damian’s footsteps hit the stone with their usual measured pace, irritated at the concept of existing near you. you don’t even wait for him to speak. you grab your bag, sling it over your shoulder, and head straight for the elevator.
“where are you going?” he snaps.
you keep walking.
his voice sharpens. “I am speaking to you.”
you don’t turn, not even half an inch. you hit the elevator button harder than necessary. the doors slide shut on his glare.
you head two floors up to the manor proper, heartbeat still too fast. you need a buffer, someone who is not damian, someone who won’t make you want to scream or break something or accidentally cry. tim is the most neutral option.
you knock on his door.
a muffled, exhausted: “…yeah?”
you slip in. tim is at his desk, hoodie on, hair sticking up like static, surrounded by three monitors and a half-eaten granola bar. he blinks at you like he genuinely isn’t sure if you’re a hallucination. “can i train with you today?” you ask.
tim pauses. stares. looks over his shoulder as if checking whether damian is standing behind you with a sword to your back. “I’m sorry,” he says slowly, rubbing his face, “did I die in my sleep?”
you sigh. “please.”
tim leans back in his chair, rolling slowly toward you like a confused, sleep-deprived cat. “why me? i should be the last-choice option. like, I’m the ‘everyone else is busy or unconscious’ pick.”
you drop your bag on the floor and mutter, “i don’t want to train with damian.”
tim makes a soft noise, somewhere between a hum and a concerned question. “that bad?”
“he hates me,” you say, and it comes out more exhausted than intended. “he’s always… extra harsh with me. like he goes out of his way to piss me off. or embarrass me. or get under my skin. and I just—” your voice cracks despite your best effort. “—i don’t want to deal with him today.”
tim stares at you for a long moment, eyes clearer now, softening with something close to sympathy. “you know, for someone raised by assassins, he’s… weirdly terrible at hiding things.”
you frown. “hiding what?”
tim spins halfway in his chair, giving you a raised eyebrow. “he doesn’t hate you.”
you scoff immediately. “yes, he does.”
“no,” tim says with a half-laugh, “if damian hates you, you’ll know it. like, i know it seems like he hates you, but trust me, i’ve seen what it looks like when damian hates someone.” he shudders.
“tim—”
“what damian does with you,” he interrupts, pointing vaguely in your direction, “is not hate. it’s… something more irritating.”
your stomach does a stupid twist. “like what?”
tim shrugs. “i bet he likes you and doesn’t know how to show it.”
you freeze. “no. no, he doesn’t. he’s—he throws me into the floor.”
“yeah,” tim says, nodding slowly, “and he looks like he stops breathing when you ignore him.”
“he does not.”
“he does,” tim pauses. “trust me. I’ve seen the ‘why isn’t my sparring partner looking at me’ face. it’s tragic.”
“tim… i think he genuinely wants me dead.”
tim rolls his eyes. “no. please. that’s his flirting.”
“that’s NOT—”
“trust the local damian expert.” tim taps his own chest. “he acts like this when he’s conflicted.”
you sink onto the edge of his bed, head in your hands for a second. “i’m so tired, tim.”
tim’s expression softened into something you’ve only ever seen in moments where he’s too sleep-deprived to mask sincerity. “yeah, I know,” he says. “he’s… a lot.”
you let out a short, humorless exhale. “that’s one word.”
“look,” tim starts, leaning his elbows on the desk, “damian wasn’t raised with… normal emotional frameworks. or social ones. or friendship ones. or—human ones.”
you glance up at him.
tim gestures broadly. “the league isn’t exactly the place where kids learn, ‘hey, when you like someone, maybe try being gentle.’ they learn ‘if something scares you, strike first.’ ‘if you respect someone, challenge them to see if they’re worthy.’”
you frown, shoulders tight. “that’s… messed up.”
“yeah,” tim says. “and that’s damian’s baseline. that’s where he started. so when he doesn’t know what to do with someone,” he motions toward you again. “he defaults to the only tools he was ever given.”
you stare down at your hands. “you’re saying he’s being awful because he… doesn’t know better?”
“no. i’m saying he’s being awful because it’s the only way he knows how to handle caring about someone. damian’s whole life, affection was… conditional. if he liked someone, it was dangerous. if he got attached, it made him vulnerable. he trained himself to cut the feeling off before it roots. when he does the push-you-away, insult-you, out-perform-you thing? that’s him trying to keep the feeling small. and you make him feel big things. you must. i’ve never seen him get this worked up over someone.”
your pulse picks up, something complicated, uncomfortable, strangely warm and guilty all at once. “i never—” you start, voice thin. “i never thought about it like that.”
“no one does,” tim says softly. “it’s easier to just say ‘damian’s a jerk.’ and he is. he is. but the jerk part is the smoke, not the fire.”
you huff. “he makes me want to cry or commit a felony, tim.”
“yeah, that’s basically what dating him will feel like,” he deadpans.
“we’re not—!”
“uh-huh.”
you groan into your hands.
“okay,” tim says, resigned, rubbing a hand over his face. “fine. if you don’t believe me, yes, you can train with me today. we’ll see how he reacts. it’ll either prove my point or at least annoy him, and he does deserve a little annoyance after sweeping your legs like you’re a training dummy.”
you hesitate… then nod. “yeah. okay. i don’t want to deal with the attitude. and… i don’t want to cry in the stupid bathroom again.”
tim’s face softens. “hey. that’s not on you. damian’s never learned how to… want things without resenting that he wants them. it’s like—” he waves a hand vaguely, “like giving a feral cat a bowl of warm milk. it hisses at you and knocks it off the counter, but eventually if you keep feeding it, it still comes back.”
you blink. “…i’m the warm milk?”
“unfortunately, yes.” he pats your knee with dramatic sympathy. “congrats.”
tim stands with a groan. “alright. give me a minute to get dressed. then we go down.”
“and you really think he’s gonna… what, throw a fit?”
“he won’t throw anything. he’ll just stand there and seethe like someone critiqued his sword grip. trust me. i’ve been annoying damian for years.”
you almost laugh. “fine. okay. we’ll do your plan. not—” you point at him, “because of the plan. because I actually want to train with someone normal.”
“mm-hm,” tim hums, already walking toward his closet. “keep telling yourself that.”
you wait for tim in the hall.
when he finally cracks his door open he jerks his chin. “c’mon. let’s go ruin someone’s morning.”
this time, you enter the training room right when the clock hits the hour. not one second earlier. heads turn when you step inside, the usual shuffle of boots on mat slowing for a beat. everyone’s already warming up: cass stretching, duke rolling out his shoulders, steph braiding her hair back. and damian. the picture of discipline. the picture of someone who expects the world to follow his timing, his pace, his order. his eyes find you the second you cross the threshold like he’s been watching the door, waiting for the exact moment you appear.
your stomach twinges—annoyance, maybe. or pride. or something else you clamp down hard on. but before he can speak or gesture or frown or do anything remotely damian-like, tim steps in beside you. casual. comfortable. like the two of you walked down together because you chose to.
damian’s expression falters. only for half a second. a millisecond, really. the narrowing of his eyes goes rigid, the line of his mouth tightens. confusion flickers across his face, the kind he never lets anyone see. you can almost hear the thought:
why are you with him?
he masks it quickly, molding his face back into something bored, unimpressed, aristocratically above caring. his chin tilts, imperious, but the damage is done. you saw the break in the armor.
you force yourself not to look at him again. instead, you move toward the mats with tim, mirroring his relaxed pace. you kneel to tie your laces, fingers steady even though you feel heat gathering at your throat. tim shoots you a sidelong glance—see?—but doesn’t say the words aloud.
damian’s attention doesn’t leave you.
you can feel it. not just watching, tracking. cataloging. analyzing the shift in your routine, your placement, your partner choice. you don’t seek his gaze, but your peripheral vision catches him anyway, expression carefully blank in a way that only highlights how not blank he is. he’s thrown off. deeply. visibly. and he hates it.
you settle into your warm-up stance, letting the distance hang like a boundary. tim rolls his neck, glancing at damian with an oh-this-is-gonna-be-fun kind of smirk.
bruce claps once, sharp. “pair up.”
tim steps forward towards you without hesitation, and damian’s whole expression fractures.
it’s subtle, if you didn’t know him, you might miss it. but you do know him, or at least you’re starting to. he looks, honest to god, like he wants to rip tim’s head off and mount it on the trophy wall. tim doesn’t notice. or he pretends not to. he just tosses you a lazy, half-smile, equal parts encouragement and chaos.
duke glances up, sees you and tim pairing off, and his eyebrows climb high. he shoots tim a look—oh, I see what’s happening—then shoots you another—damn, you’re just abandoning me like that? you can’t help the faint shrug you give him. move first, consequences later.
duke sighs dramatically, theatric betrayal dripping from every syllable when he mutters, “wow. okay. guess I’m with demonspawn today.”
damian snaps, “I heard that.”
“meant for you to hear it,” duke replies, already walking over. “don’t stab me.”
“don’t give me cause.”
steph and cass pair without a word, steph chattering, cass smiling quietly at her enthusiasm, and the room settles into its new formation. you turn to tim and it hits you how different this feels. sparring with him isn’t effortless—tim is good, annoyingly good, and precise in a way that keeps you on your toes—but it’s… kind. respectful. there’s give-and-take. room to breathe. no sharp edges meant to cut you down even when you block them. tim ducks under your swing, taps your rib with the blunt end of his staff, then backs up with a soft, “good—again.”
across the room, damian sees every second of it. he’s barely paying attention to duke—who, to his credit, is doing his absolute best to keep the session from becoming a murder attempt. damian’s strikes are clean but rushed, sharp but distracted, eyes constantly cutting back to you and tim like he’s waiting for one of you to call time-out and say the universe glitched. his stare is blistering. betrayal. irritation. confusion. something fierce lodged right behind his eyes like he hasn’t decided whether he wants to fight you or throw a tantrum or drag you back by the wrist.
he misses a parry—damian, missing a parry—and duke yelps, “bro, focus!”
“I AM FOCUSED,” damian snarls, not even looking at him.
he’s not. he’s zeroed in on you. tim taps your elbow lightly—not a “you messed up,” but a “don’t look now.” you look anyway. damian’s chest rises and falls too fast, and duke is standing there with both palms up like he’s trying to pacify a rabid, extremely judgmental raccoon. you try to go back to sparring, but your eyes keep pulling toward damian against your will, and every time you glance over, he’s already watching.
training ends with far less form than usual. steph is sweaty and laughing, cass serene, tim steady as ever. duke looks exhausted, wiping his face with his shirt like he’s survived something unspeakable.
damian? still scowling. still thundercloud-dark. still furious in that tight, brittle way that means he’s trying very, very hard not to be obvious. tim leans in as you grab your water bottle, voice pitched low. “told you so.”
you elbow him lightly, because you hate that he’s right. bruce steps forward then, silent in that way that means he’s been watching everything, and says, “damian.”
damian stiffens and he pretends he didn’t hear.
“damian.”
this time he can’t pretend. he stalks over, irritation radiating off him. bruce pulls him aside and directs him a few steps away. you can’t hear the words, but you don’t need to. bruce stands with that immovable calm only he can pull off, arms loosely crossed, expression carved from stone. the kind of look that means disappointment, not anger, far worse, at least for any of his kids.
damian’s posture goes tight. not his usual arrogant, chest-forward confidence. this is different. smaller in a way he’d never allow you to see if he could help it. chin tipped down just a fraction, arms stuck rigidly at his sides like he’s fighting the instinct to cross them. his brows pull together, a deep line forming between them. bruce speaks quietly, but every line of his body says lecture. damian refuses to look directly at him. he keeps glancing off to the side, mouth pressed thin like he’s biting back words he wants to say but knows better. you can read him: annoyed. cornered. and trying very, very hard not to be disrespectful.
bruce lifts a hand and whatever he says with it makes damian’s shoulders lock up, he shakes his head, frustrated, practically vibrating with the effort of holding himself together under his father’s scrutiny. you’ve never seen him so… contained. then he turns, too fast, too sharp, and storms out. not dramatically, but with that fury that means he’ll explode the second he’s alone.
you find him hours later in the kitchen just after sundown, standing stiffly at the counter like he’s been there and hasn’t moved in an hour. he’s just… standing there, hands braced on the counter, staring at nothing. he doesn’t acknowledge you when you come in. he doesn’t speak. just the faintest tightening of his fingers on the marble, like he can hold himself together with sheer force of will. you take a breath. be patient. tim’s voice nags in the back of your mind. he’ll never make it easy.
“…hey,” you try, keeping it gentle. “long day?”
nothing.
you take a few steps in, slower, giving him space to bark at you if he wants to. “i didn’t see you the rest of the day. thought maybe you were—”
“busy.” the word is clipped, flat, and icy enough to sting. “i was busy.”
okay. that’s… something.
“i wasn’t asking for your schedule. just… checking.”
nothing. not even a twitch. you try again. “you left pretty fast earlier. bruce looked—”
“father always looks like that.” cold, immediate. “he has perfected the expression.”
“did he… say something?”
“he lectures. that is his specialty,” he answers, still not looking at you. “discipline, focus, what is expected of me, what i failed to meet. it’s nothing new.”
the tone is so deceptively calm that it almost hides the tension buried under it. almost. you can hear the shame, anger, something like hurt, compressed into a perfect, emotionless blade. “he wasn’t mad at you. he was just worried—”
“don’t.” the word is soft but sharp. “do not attempt to explain my father to me.”
you swallow that down. he’s not trying to be cruel, he just is right now. “i’m trying to understand,” you say. “you’ve been… really shut down with me. and i want to know why.”
“i am not shut down.” he says it instantly, defensively, like the idea itself is an insult. “i simply have nothing to say.”
you study him, really look at him: the rigid posture, the unreadable face, the way he’s keeping his gaze fixed anywhere but on you. he’s angry, yes. but he’s also embarrassed. frustrated. disappointed in himself. and, if you read him correctly, hurt that you didn’t go to him today.
you take another tiny step closer. “is this about training?”
“it’s about many things,” he mutters. “none of which concern you.”
“i think they do.”
his jaw flexes. finally, finally, he looks at you, just a flicker of eye contact, before he tears his gaze away again. “father believes i allowed myself to be distracted,” he admits, voice almost too controlled. “that i let something… personal interfere with my performance.”
“was he wrong?”
damian’s nostrils flare. “i do not get ‘distracted.’ i do not falter. i do not—” he cuts himself off. “i should not have been affected.”
“but you were,” you say softly. he doesn’t deny it. he doesn’t confirm it. he just stands there, breathing tight, shoulders drawn toward his ears as if the world is trying to crush him inward. you try again. “you don’t have to shut me out.”
“then stop trying to read me. i didn’t ask for your concern.”
you let that roll off. “you’ve been upset all day. i’m not trying to fight—”
“you always try,” he snaps, too quickly. “you push. you demand answers. you demand space in places you haven’t earned.”
you flinch at that. “i’m trying to talk to you.”
“and I said stop.”
“whatever bruce said clearly upset—”
“it doesn’t matter what he said.”
“then why won’t you look at me?”
he freezes. and when he speaks again, his voice has changed, aimed right at the softest part of you. “you don’t belong in this life.”
you go still.
he continues. “you weren’t raised for this. you weren’t trained for it from birth, or forged by necessity. you came into this world by choice, not by blood or war. and you think a few late nights and bruises make you ready?” you stare at him. he doesn’t stop. “you’re not suited for it. you’re just some nepo vigilante. you’re not… shaped for it. you hesitate. you question. that gets people killed.”
your breath shakes, just a little. “is that really what you think of me?”
he doesn’t answer. he doesn’t have to. you blink hard, because suddenly your vision blurs at the edges. stupid. pathetic. you promised yourself you would never let him see you unravel like this, but his words hit every fault line you’ve tried to seal. you don’t belong here. you weren’t made for this. you’re not enough. echoes of fears you’ve carried since the day you put on the suit. echoes of what you sometimes wonder your parents would think if they saw you stumbling through a legacy built on grief. would they be proud? or would they see exactly what damian sees, someone trying too hard, someone always two steps behind, someone who can’t keep up?
your throat locks. your chest tightens. one more breath and you might crack in half, so you don’t say anything. you don’t trust your voice. you just turn and head for the doorway. you need to leave before the heat in your nose becomes tears. before he sees you break. before you embarrass yourself any further. your foot hits the threshold— and a hand closes around your wrist. almost… startled.
“hang on—”
his voice is strained. you freeze, staring at the floor because you can’t look at him, not right now. damian’s grip tightens, not enough to hurt, enough to say don’t go, not yet. “i…” he starts, then stops. the words jam in his throat. he’s staring at the floor between your feet, like he can’t bear to lift his eyes. “i didn’t mean to say that.”
you don’t turn back. you can’t. your wrist is still held in his hand. he tries again, quieter this time, the words sounding dragged out of him. “why did you… partner with drake?”
you blink. that’s what he’s asking? now? his shoulders are tight, ears slightly pink like he hates the question even as it escapes him. you exhale, slow and shaky, not because of him, because you’re still stung. your voice comes out sharper than you intend. “maybe i just wanted to train with someone who can actually stand being around me.”
for a second, he looks like he’s trying to speak, like something is clawing its way up his throat, but nothing comes out. then he goes still. too still. the kind of stillness that means he’s thinking so hard it might shatter him. you tug your wrist lightly. “if that’s all, i’m gonna—” you jerk your arm, breaking his hold—
“wait.”
you barely have time to register the word before he moves. it’s fast, a clean strike of motion tied to training and desperation and something he refuses to name. he catches your waist just enough to spin you, guiding you backward until your spine meets the cold edge of the kitchen counter. your breath stops. his hands plant on either side of you, caging you in without touching you, one palm braced on the countertop, the other hovering close enough that you can feel the residual heat of his skin. you look up, and there he is. damian wayne, inches from your face.
and god, up this close he’s almost unreal. the overhead light is dim, warm, turning the sharp lines of his face into something sculpted. his skin, smooth, warm-toned, unblemished, catches the light like polished bronze. no shadows under his eyes, no imperfections, his lashes are stupidly dark, stupidly long, the kind of lashes people pay for. they cast shadows across his cheekbones every time he blinks.
his hair is slightly mussed from training, still perfect, somehow, but one curl brushes his forehead. he smells like soap and whatever expensive detergent alfred uses. you’ve fought beside him dozens of times, but you’ve never seen him like this, never been close enough to catalog the exact shade of green in his eyes. it’s darker up close. deeper. flecked with gold that catches in the light. he’s tense, as if he’s wrestling with himself, wrestling with you, wrestling with the space between you that feels suddenly, impossibly charged.
you swallow. “what are you doing?”
he doesn’t answer. he just stares at you, eyes too intense, too alive, like you’ve cracked something open in him without meaning to.
“you are maddening.”
your heart jumps in your throat.
“i— what?”
his eyes flicker down to your mouth for half a second, then back to your eyes with ruthless discipline. “i cannot breathe when you are upset with me.” the confession is sharp, bitten-off. “i cannot think properly when you ignore me.” damian looks furious with himself for saying it. furious with you for making him say it. furious with whatever emotion is tearing through him with too much intensity for someone raised to kill, not feel. “i do not want you training with drake,” he adds, breath brushing your cheek, “i do not want you choosing anyone else.”
your fingers curl against the counter because you suddenly don’t know what your legs are doing. “damian…”
“you frustrate me,” he scoffs, eyes flickering between yours. “you infuriate me.” a beat. “and i cannot stay away from you.”
you don’t know if you want to shove him or pull him closer. your thoughts tangle, snarl, crash over one another in a way that makes your pulse jump unevenly. this—whatever this is—was never part of the equation. the two of you exist in a constant cold war: distance, irritation, bickering. you built your expectations around that. around him being the brat who can’t stand the sight of you. the one who corrects your form too sharply and watches your mistakes with thinly veiled disdain. not this. not him, inches away, admitting—something. something dangerous. something you don’t have the training or composure to identify.
is this a confession? is this what it looks like when damian wayne tries to say he cares? you don’t know. no one prepared you for the possibility that he might want something other than superiority and distance. your heart lurches, a painful, disbelieving twist. it makes you angry. it makes you burn. because if this is real—if this tension, this jealousy, this intensity is real—then why the hell has he been so cruel?
you think of tim earlier. his accuracy.
“he acts like this when he’s conflicted.”
“he never learned how to express anything.”
you didn’t want that to be true. you didn’t want to give damian that benefit of the doubt. it was easier to armor yourself with irritation, easier to convince yourself he hated you. that he saw you as an intruder, a burden, a pretender wearing a legacy he thought you hadn’t earned. but standing here, pressed between the counter and his braced arms, with his breath mixing with yours, tim’s words ring uncomfortably, painfully true. beneath the arrogance, the discipline, the superiority, he is terrified. he is inexperienced. he is trying so hard to act unaffected that he’s hurting everything in his path, including you.
resentment. confusion. longing. anger. all of it, stacked so thick you can barely breathe. you find your fingers curling against the counter, grounding yourself before you do something stupid like lean in. “you can’t— you don’t get to say things like that after the way you treat me.”
his eyes flicker, that dark, molten green sharpening. you see confusion flash first. then indignation. then something like guilt, so brief he tries to bury it immediately. you shove at his chest. not enough to move him, because he’s a literal wall, but enough to break the trance, to remind yourself you still have a spine. “you’ve been awful to me,” you snap. “you insult me, you belittle me, you… you act like i’m a mistake bruce brought home.”
his jaw tightens. “i have never—”
“you have,” you bite. “constantly. every time we train, every time i’m in the same room, every time you so much as look at me. and now you’re suddenly— what? jealous? possessive? whatever this is?”
he flinches, the smallest betrayal of emotion, and his fingers curl tighter against the countertop. “i did not mean—” he swallows. “i do not wish for you to feel—”
“hurt?” you finish for him, voice rising. “belittled? unwanted?”
there’s a pause, long, heavy, almost unbearable, and you realize he’s leaning in. not carelessly, not with arrogance, but with this strange, hesitant deliberation, like he’s testing the air, testing you, testing himself. his body shifts forward, closing the space between you until the edge of the counter presses against your thighs, and your arms feel trapped, pinned not harshly but insistently. his hands hover for a moment near your sides, the faintest brush of his fingers against your waist. his lips hover above yours, close enough that you can see the catch in his breath, you can feel the heat radiating off him, the sheer intensity of his stare as if he’s daring you to respond. and god, he smells impossibly clean.
then, impossibly, he closes the gap. it’s slow. nervous and commanding all at once. your breath hitches in surprise, in disbelief, in the way your body reacts before your mind even catches up. his lips are infuriatingly soft, warm, and insistent, brushing against yours with the faintest pressure before pulling back. he’s almost fragile in that hesitation, like he’s afraid if he tries too much, you’ll reject him, and he can’t bear that thought.
you don’t even think. you kiss back. your lips move against his, initially uncertain, and then with a force born of every frustration, every harsh word, every moment he’s pushed you to the edge. he tilts his head, searching for the right angle, softening where he can, hardening where he must. his arms cage you against the counter, claiming this moment with a possessiveness that leaves your pulse hammering. your hands find his chest, you notice the rise and fall of his shoulders, the way his messy dark hair brushes against his forehead, how impossibly perfect everything about him seems in this suspended, stolen second.
he pulls back just enough to breathe, just enough to let you process the fire in his eyes, and you can see it, the flush in his cheeks, the flash of vulnerability he’s desperately trying to mask behind that familiar scowl. you can’t believe, for the first time, that this—this utterly impossible, maddening, beautiful boy—is leaning into you like he wants, no, needs, you just as much as you need him.
you can’t believe what just happened. you kissed damian wayne. damian wayne. the damian wayne. the boy you’ve sparred with, argued with, wanted to strangle and run away from in equal measure. the boy who has made mornings unbearable, nights restless, your every day a calculus of irritation and fascination. and now his lips had been on yours, shy and tentative at first, almost apologetic, like he didn’t quite believe he could do it, but gentle in a way that made your chest ache. that was a good kiss. better than you imagined. infuriatingly perfect and infuriatingly shy at the same time. you pull back slightly, trying to collect yourself, and you see him do the same.
it’s almost laughable how long it took to get here. you glance up at him, and he’s staring at you too, eyes impossibly earnest, betraying every ounce of his usual composure. then, almost instinctively, you reach up, fingers threading into his hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. he catches your movement in an instant, and his hands find your waist, just enough to let you know he wants this too. your lips meet again, this time slower, hungrier. the first kiss had been tentative; this one is more insistent, deeper, exploratory, and it shocks you with how much it says without words.
he’s surprisingly capable. his technique is precise, careful, controlled, but not without feeling. he’s not the most experienced, not in the sense of someone who’s practiced this kind of intimacy, and yet every motion, every press of his lips against yours, every gentle tug of your hair, speaks to a kind of instinctive perfection that leaves you dizzy. he’s learning, adapting to you, and you feel it in the way he shifts, the way his hands move, the subtle urgency in his breath. when you finally pull back for air, cheeks flushed and chest heaving, he doesn’t let go. you can’t help a small laugh. “what was that for?” you whisper, trying to catch your breath and your thoughts at once.
he doesn’t answer immediately. instead, his lips brush yours again, soft, testing, insistent. “you… are not unwanted.” he admits.
your chest tightens with disbelief and warmth, and you almost can’t stand it. the way he sounds, the way he looks, the way he is—perfect and infuriating and wholly him—leaves you breathless. he pulls back slightly, just enough to see your reaction, and you see that glint of mischief in his eyes return. “we should… probably sleep,” he says, voice more controlled, formal, but the flush in his cheeks betrays him.
“bedtime already?”
he doesn’t answer, just gives you a brief, almost imperceptible nod, and that’s enough. you let him slip away, and you retreat to your room, closing the door softly behind you. the quiet hits like a wave, and you collapse onto your bed, heart still hammering, tingling where his hands had held you. you stare at the ceiling, the way the light catches the dust motes in the air, and you replay it, every detail, the brush of lips, every infuriating way he had pressed against you. you think about his hair falling into his eyes, his lips parting slightly, the way he smelled, the way he looked so impossibly perfect, so … damian.
you bite your lip, a shiver rolling through your chest. your mind refuses to let it go, twisting it over and over: the way he had held you close and yet seemed to want to apologize with every movement. you can’t quite believe it happened, can’t quite believe that it felt so right. just as your thoughts threaten to spiral, your phone buzzes on the nightstand. you groan, too tired, too flustered, too wrapped up in your own pulse to check it immediately, but eventually, curiosity wins.
you blink. one second later, another notification. an image. your stomach twists, both mortified and amused: a photo of you and damian kissing in the kitchen, taken from just far enough to look stealthy. damian’s arm is braced against the counter, your hands tangled in his hair, and both of your faces are flushed. you throw the phone onto the bed, groaning. “tim,” you mutter, voice half-laugh, half-exasperation. “you little creep.”
even as you say it, you can’t help smiling. tim is definitely a little weirdo. but as your eyes finally drift closed, heart still fluttering, you can’t help thinking: he was right.
@cinnamon-girl-writes @froggibus helped me write some parts of this ❤︎
HAL JORDAN
now there is no way that this man would be "violent" in any way towards you. especially after his trauma... now however? a light spanking? i can see. light bruises, is more so what i can see him leaving on you. heavy and dark painful bruises? nope. hickies absolutely.
but mafia daddy dom tiktok bf? no way. this man would be a gentle dom. little bit of a brat tamer, but like i said— he would be dominant but sweet. he'd hold you after, and make sure you're okay.
consent king. he's not going to fuck you unless you beg him.
with his issue with authority. i can either see him being a submissive brat during sex, or a dominant.
his questionable taste in women & men. i can see him with crazy 20 somethings, it'd be a fling— but no doubt, he'd still go back to Carol. he likes the crazy dominant figures— Carol, Sin, & Barry (sometimes) but he also likes the sweet and comforting types— Eve, Barry.
oh also, i see him being written with a breeding kink, which i can see him loving the aspect of breeding, but freak out if you were to actually get pregnant— love creampies hate pregnancy.
needs his hands on you. doesn't matter where. just needs to touch you.
so that being said, i can see him being written as a gentle dom, or a brat. but most importantly he's a PERVERT!
BARRY ALLEN
fluffy smut maybe a little kinky but just like hal, he's on the gentle dom side.
definitely mention breeding kink and/or mommy and daddy kink — as in "c'mon mommy, let's give daddy another baby?" or "yeah, i want a baby? lemme cum in you, please?"
i feel as though he's not as crazy for the puss like wally is, but he can still eat you out like a last meal. also could deepthroat your cock.
eat his ass, he deserves it. also suck on his balls, it'll make him cum embarrassingly fast
he would wash your hair after a good fuck.
pull on his hair, and call him a good boy
you could have a one night stand with this man, and immediately you're his girlfriend. he's showing up with flowers, chocolates anything you mentioned that you like.
you can either ride him and let him whimper, or you can let him bend you in half and hear him whimper while he begs to put a baby inside
ROY HARPER
this man is a perverted FREAK he can be the mafia daddy dom tiktok bf.
this man has a breeding kink. that is crucial.
everyone writes jason as the mafia daddy dom tiktok bf, he's not. it's roy.
you wanna write ab a piss kink? roy. bdsm? roy. cnc? roy.
this man shares a toothbrush with you, he's gonna put every part of you in his mouth, or he's gonna put his dick in every hole.
when lian isn't around, he's naked. he's a nudist.
this man is a wild card
WALLY WEST
this man is also a perverted freak. less than roy. but he's still up there
ride this man's face. let him bury his face in your pussy, let him suck your cock.
let him vibrate his whole body when he's too excited
humps the bed while he sucks/eats
possessive. he'd leave you full of cum just so that everyone knows that you're taken. hickies all over your neck. he'd get you pregnant.
pain. pull on his hair, maybe some cock and ball torture.
acts like an angel in the streets, deviant in the sheets
if you try and make him jealous he's gonna fuck you into the sheets over and over again. THIS MAN IS POSSESSIVE and OBSESSIVE! especially if you try flirting with kyle, you're done for. you're gonna be a boston crème donut.
bats his eyelashes and his plethora of freckles at you, and acts like the sweet boy next door— once your alone you'll realize what a menace he is
KYLE RAYNER
i feel like out of all of them kyle is the most vanilla.
Isagi Yoichi – He has every intention to make you feel just as good as he does, so when you don't cum? When he doesn't feel your pussy clench and unclench like it normally does. He's asking you about it. Much to your humiliation.
Isagi holding the back of knees, keeping them steady on his shoulders, while his cock is buried deep inside of you, pelvis grinding against you each time he hits rock bottom in your pussy, causing the perfect amount of pressure against your clit each time.
But what you couldn't understand is why this time it isn't making your orgasm reach its peak. I mean usually this is enough to make you cum. Why not this time?
Your train of thought is interrupted by Isagi's cracked, shaky voice and his jaggered thrusts, "Fuck–... m'close. You close, baby?"
You nod weakily, not wanting to ruin this moment for him.
"Yeah? Cum with me then, baby.."
He groans, thumb rubbing your clit in harsh circles causing your cunt to clench harder around him. He lets a choked moan, orgasm rushing over him along with his cum spilling into you.
You put on a weak act, slightly exaggerated moans falling from your lips and making sure to make your pussy clenches and unclenches around his cock like it normally would when you're having an orgasm.
Isagi doesn't say anything. He just stares until you're done with your pathetic excuse of an act. Then he speaks up, "Babe."
"Hm?"
"Don't lie to me." He says – disappointment all over his tone, already starting to pick up the pace again, "What?"
"You lied to me about cumming. You didn't. Don't say anything. I'm gonna make you cum now." He looks up at you, face blank and serious.
Meguru Bachira – Would get suuuuper offended and would look at you like you just stabbed him or something. Would take it personally, too, like you faking your orgasm is an indication that he doesn't please you enough.
Two fingers part your folds so his tongue can lay flat against your clit, but you're nowhere close, and every time you were, your orgasm will just suddenly fade away.
Bachira has been at this for more than thirty minutes. and you are starting to feel bad about it – his jaw must be aching by now. You had to do something about it.
So, you faked your orgasm, putting as much as a good false act as you can – trying to make your moans sound accurate, but Bachira didn't buy it for a second.
He pulled away from your pussy with a frown, slick coating his chin, "Am I not making you feel good or something? Why'd fake your orgasm? Why'd feel the need to?"
You stare at him wide-eyed. It isn't a surprise he found out that you faked your orgasm. You acted it out poorly, but you still are shocked about it.
You panic, waving your hands frantically, "Nonono!! It isn't that! It's just that my body is being a bitch and wouldn't let me cum no matter how good your mouth felt, and you were done there for wayyyy longer than you should've been and I felt bad because your jaw must've been achi–"
"Should've told me. I'ma fix that problem right now, 'kay? Let's try with my dick instead of my mouth this time. I'm sure that'll make you cum. I promise!" He says with a huge smile on his face. A little too eager and confident for his own good.
Hyoma Chigiri – Kind, but he'll also be very offended, but he's more tame with it. He pretends it doesn't sting, and he'll ask you why you felt you need to fake your orgasm. When you tell him, he will try and find a solution to the problem.
His pace is fast – too fast, but it's overall perfect.
His dick hitting all the sweet spots inside of you. His tip hitting your cervix with the perfect amount of precision, so why can't you cum?
You should be able to, especially with his finger rubbing your clit in eights, so why is your body refusing that bliss from you?
Guilt builds up inside of you. Chigiri already came, and he's still going to make you feel good, overstimualtion with him must be unbearable. So, you came up with the decision to fake your orgasm.
You tell him your cumming, legs locking him in and putting all your effort into it, pretending to cum. You put on a show, trying to make your legs shake and trying to make your moans echo off the walls, but it just doesn't sound as good as it usually does, so of course he didn't believe you.
You pretend to come down from your orgasm, panting like you actually came. "Faking your orgasm? Why's that?"
You knew there wouldn't be a point in denying that you didn't cum with him, he'll shut you down in a heartbeat.
You chew on your inner cheek and shrug, "Felt bad. We've been at it for basically an hour now and I can't cum. Pussy's being a bitch and not helping me out."
He chuckles, "It's alright. Let's just try a different angle? Then if that doesn't work? I'll just get on my knees."
Reo Mikage – Tries to make the best out of the situation but is definitely offended. He'll crack a joke, but then when he notices you're not laughing with him, he'll definitely stop and to find a way to fix the issue, theeeen he'll make another joke to make you laugh properly.
His fingers push in and out of you. Each thrust of his two fingers cause the white ring around them to be more recognisable. They curl inside of you – right up into your g-spot, while his thumb works against your clit.
Reo's been at it longer than he should be, and you could feel how hard he is. His bulge pressing against your back while his fingers work inside of you.
But the thing is, Reo hates fucking you if you haven't came once beforehand, but at this point, with you and the repeated cycle of teetering on the edge and then not is going to make his hand fall off, plus, you know he's probably desperate for that sense of relief, and keeping him waiting is the worst thing you can imagine.
Faking your orgasm is the best idea you can think of, and you do.
Fake whimpering and moaning as loud as you can and making your pussy pulsate over and over again like it does around his fingers whenever you came.
Reo looks at you, slipping his fingers out of you, "Did... did you just fake your orgasm?"
You freeze on the spot, sitting up and turning around to face him. You tried to explain yourself, but he wasn't listening.
"What all the porn getting to your head? Is your poor boyfriend not good enough? Is my aura rubbing off?" He laughs, but then it turns into more of a nervous laugh when he notices you're not laughing with him. You are embarrassed. You don't even feel like laughing, and he could tell. "Hey, look, why'd you fake it in the first place?"
"I felt sooo guilty cuz you've been at it for ages and I still wasn't able to cum. I dunno what's up with me today? Plus, you're hard! You shouldn't have to wait that fucking long for me."
"Ah. Okay. Fuck my fingers then? Let's get down to business." He moves in front of you, spreading your legs, "Let's try my cock, alright?"
"Mkay.."
Reo smirks, thumb swiping your clit side to side, "Hey, maybe if I'm lucky, my little man will activate the super squirter mode."
That makes you laugh, and that makes him feel so better that you're more relaxed now.
Nagi Seishiro – Very lazy about it, but when you fake your orgasm, it takes him a moment to clock that you did – like actually take it in that you actually faked it because you've never done it before. He's dumbfounded, but he'll ask a question or two before saying that you faking your orgasm is a 'hassle'. Wow. What a surprise.
You both were having one of your lazy days, but you both were feeling kinda needy, so you took it open yourself to ride him.
The problem is that halfway is that you got tired, practically forcing your hips to move so you could at least make him feel good. You would feel guilty to just suddenly stop just to ask if he can take the lead when you offered to ride him in the first place.
But the thing is, you aren't even enjoying it anymore. Tiredness is taking over the whole pleasurable experience for you, but you knew Nagi is close, and telling him to switch positions will surely just put him off, right?
So you let him cum first, letting him bury all his cum inside of you before you fake your orgasm. You make your hips stutter and dig your nails into his chest.
He just gives you a look up and down, confused and annoyed, then he sighs, "Why did you fake it?"
"What–"
"What's the point of faking your orgasm? Seems like a hassle... isn't the whole point of sex to feel good. Why fake shit like that? How odd."
His words leave a raw feeling in your chest. "I got tired, Nagi, but you were so close. How could I just ruin the moment to tell you to switch positions. That's just irritating."
Again, he's doesn't budge, staring at you with confusion, but the annoyance isn't there anymore, "Eh? No. You not asking me is more of a hassle. Should've told me. Would've saved sooo much more time. Whatever, bend over."
Rin Itoshi – Death stares you. He literally just death stares you when you fake your orgasm. That sweet, slow pace he waw going at before? Gone. Vanished. He's going to make you cum over and over again until the thought of you feeling the need to fake your orgasm is gone from your head.
Today, you both just wanted pure intimacy, or so you thought until the intimacy actually was happening. You didn't even know that your body needed that extra push today. The extra sense of roughness.
But you didn't want to be a total mood killer for your boyfriend, so you let him keep going, letting his hips move at a slow pace, occasionally grinding them so his cock can hit all the precious spots again your gummy walls, pelvis adding friction to your neglected clit, "Fuuuck, baby. 'M close? You gonna cum?"
You don't know why, but you nodded. It was a reflex. A stupid one.
"Yeah? Cum with me then..." He grumbles, a thumb moving between your sweaty bodies to swipe lazily against your clit. Your pussy clasp harder around him in response.
He whimpers, that little harsh clench causing him to cum, rubbing your clit faster to also bring you to your 'orgasm'.
You panicked – scared for his reaction, quickly making up a fake orgasm. You make a pathetic effort to do so, even if you are bucking your hips and moaning like your cumming.
And Rin didn't believe it for a second.
Sure, he might be a little dumb from post-nut clarity, but he isn't that dumb.
You open your eyes, planning to act fucked out only for the idea to completely demolish when your eyes meet his.
They're cold and dark.
Your heart sinks.
He doesn't say anything. He just flips you over so you're face down ass up. You can't protest or anything. His hips are already slamming against your ass, making you choke on your words. His tip slamming against your cervix with such brutality, it's bound to bruise it later.
"You think you can just fake shit like that? Thinking I won't notice? If you needed me to go harder, could've just fucking asked."
"Ah– Rinnie– fuck! I'm sorry! Ahh– slow down!"
"Nah. You clearly need this. I'ma fuck the idea that you need to fake your orgasm with me outta your stupid head."
Batboys with a reader that bites them :3c for fun and out of affection!!! Love your writing 🩷
THE BITER?!?!?!
A/n: sorry this took so long anon!! But here you go.
Warnings: none
Contains: Richard G, Jason T, Tim D, Duke T, Damian W, Bruce W, Extras (Wally W, Roy H)
Dick G.:
Unfazed king genuinely
Dick works with a bunch of weird kids that have issues.
If you think he hasnt been bitten by one of them at least once youre wrong. (Garfield has definitely just bit him sometimes, little creature he is)
(Was also a biter as a kid this is personal hc)
Probably doesnt even notice when you do unless you actually drawn blood or take a chunk of him with your bite.
It was a Sunday , one of those golden, slow Sundays where the light comes through the apartment windows at that particular perfect angle that makes everything look warmer than it is. Dick was sprawled on the couch with his feet hanging off the armrest, scrolling through the absolutely catastrophic backlog of TikToks Wally had sent him over the last 48 hours. Wally's sendrate during his days off was genuinely a public health concern.
He was wearing that shirt. The black one from the Titans Christmas party , best dick in town (my name is dick) printed across the chest in letters that had faded and chipped from washing but that Dick would apparently die before throwing away. It was too small for him now, had been for a couple of years, stretched across his shoulders and biceps in a way that was frankly distracting. Last time Donna had visited she'd plucked at the hem with two fingers and given him a look and he had clutched it to his chest with both arms like a man shielding an orphan from the rain.
"It's from the team," he'd said, voice going just slightly snotty. "Wally picked it out."
Donna had looked at you over his shoulder. You had shrugged. It was staying forever. You had both accepted this.
Right now though, honestly? The too-small shirt was doing you favors. The sunlight was catching the side of his face and doing something unfair to his cheekbones, the slope of his nose, the little scatter of beauty marks across it you loved to trace with your thumb. His lashes were fanning against his cheek every time he blinked and his bicep looked absolutely-
You didn't make a conscious decision. Your brain simply sent a signal and your body followed it. You leaned over and bit down on his arm, teeth sinking into the muscle of his bicep through the thin fabric.
Dick paused mid-scroll.
He glanced sideways at you, not moving his arm, not moving the phone. You looked back at him with your teeth still planted in him, blinking serenely.
His free hand came up and ruffled your hair with the same energy a man uses to pat a cat that has just knocked something off a shelf. Fond. Completely unsurprised.
"Love you too, babes," he hummed, already looking back at his phone.
You hummed back around his arm.
He sent Wally a voice memo about the TikTok he was watching. You heard Wally's distant screeching response through the speaker. Dick snorted. The Sunday continued.
Neither of you mentioned it. There was nothing to mention.
.
Jason T.:
Baffled.
Dont get me wrong jason has been around people with violent love languages but that usually means getting a punch to the shoulder or a slap on the back. I mean biz put him through a wall once cause he loved jason too much.
Biting though?
What are you? An untrained puppy?
The incident happened on a Wednesday evening when Roy had gone home to Arsenal's place and Jason was still on it. Roy had said something , something dumb and probably half joking and long since forgotten by the man himself , and Jason was still rotating it in his head three hours later, hands moving as he paced and ranted, voice escalating with every lap of the living room.
You were on the couch watching him pace with your chin in your hand. You had tried to redirect him twice. You had offered food. You had offered to call Roy and yell at him yourself. Jason had declined all of it in favor of continuing to prosecute the case against Roy Harper in the court of your living room.
He didn't think about it when you grabbed his hand mid-pace, pulling him toward you. He was still talking. He was mid-point.
He thought about it when you bit him. Flat teeth pressing into the meat of his palm, not hard, not breaking skin, just , present. There.
Jason stopped talking.
He looked at his hand. He looked at you.
"Did- did you just fucking bite me?"
"Yes," you said pleasantly, and did it again.
"Don't , stop , what-" He pulled his hand back holding it to his chest and staring at you like you'd just grown a second head. "Don't do it again, you beast."
"Come sit down," you said.
"You bit me."
"Come sit down," you repeated, patting the cushion next to you.
Jason stood there for another three seconds , visibly wrestling between continuing to be offended and the fact that you had, actually, successfully interrupted the Roy rant. He dropped onto the couch next to you with a heavy exhale and the defeated energy of a man who knows he's been outmaneuvered and can't figure out how.
"Roy still said something dumb," he muttered.
"I know."
"I'm not letting this go."
"I know that too." You leaned your head against his shoulder. He grumbled. After about thirty seconds his arm came up around you.
He texted Roy at midnight. you said something dumb and my partner bit me because of it. you owe me.
Roy sent back a thumbs up emoji.
Jason threw his phone onto the bed.
.
Tim D.:
You dont do it often to tim because the man bruises way too easily (personal hc that tim has an iron deficiency due to constant blood loss during fights and poor diet)
Hes always startled when you do it
But similarly to dick rather unbothered about it
He is friends with probably one of the most impulsive people to live (bart, bart definitely does love bites)
Hes less likely to just ignore it though and way more likely to whine about it.
This particular incident was a Tuesday night, 11pm, and Tim had been at his computer for six hours. You had tried every card in the book. Food: ignored. Threatening to call Dick: he called your bluff, correctly identifying that Dick would take his side about finishing the case. Cassie was off-world with Conner and Bart, which meant your most reliable Tim-whisperers were unavailable. Bernard had his own gallery event. You were out of options.
You approached quietly. His eyes were fixed on three separate screens, fingers moving over the keyboard, coffee going cold at his elbow for the third time tonight. He didn't look up. He didn't register you at all.
You leaned down and bit his forearm.
Tim screamed.
Not , not a scream born of pain, exactly, more the scream of every neuron in his body firing simultaneously in complete system shock. He jerked back from the desk, knocking the cold coffee, clutching his arm to his chest and staring at you with an expression that suggested you had briefly and completely overwritten his entire operating system.
"Seriously, what is wrong with you?" He looked down at his arm. Back at you. "What is , why would you-"
"Come eat dinner," you said.
"You're insane."
"Dinner's getting cold."
"You bit me!" He held up his arm as evidence.
"It wasn't even hard."
"That's not , that's not the point, the point is-"
"Tim." You looked at him. "When did you last eat."
A pause.
"...Lunch," he said, in a much smaller voice.
"What did you have for lunch."
An even longer pause.
"...Half a granola bar," he admitted.
You looked at him.
He got up from the chair.
Later, halfway through dinner, he looked up at you with the expression of a man piecing together a sequence of events. "You could have just asked."
"I did," you said. "Twice."
He had no response to that. He ate the rest of his dinner. At some point under the table his knee pressed against yours and stayed there.
.
Damian Al Ghul W.:
Baffled.
Bewildered.
Offended.
Annoyed.
(He definitely liked it a little bit)
You had been trying to get proper cuddle time for a solid week. Damian's schedule had been chaotic, patrol had run long twice, and the one night you'd managed to pin him down he'd fallen asleep within ten minutes sitting upright against the headboard. (You'd taken a picture. He'd confiscated your phone for three hours when he found out. You had a backup copy on cloud storage he didn't know the password to.)
Tonight he had , grudgingly, magnanimously, in a way that suggested he was doing you a great favor , agreed to actual cuddling. He was lying with you, one arm behind your head, your face tucked close to his neck, and it was almost perfect except for the fact that his other hand was holding his phone above both your heads.
He was texting Jon. You could tell by the way he was typing , faster, slightly less formal, the occasional pause where you could practically hear him trying to figure out how to be casual about something. Damian communicating with Jon was like watching someone try to speak a second language they were determined to learn through sheer force of will.
You watched the ceiling for about ninety seconds.
Then you bit him. Right at the junction of his neck and shoulder, through the collar of his shirt, just enough that he could feel it.
Damian dropped his phone directly onto his own face.
He grabbed it, sat up slightly, and looked down at you with an expression of pure architectural offense. You looked back at him with great innocence.
He flicked you on the nose. Not hard , it barely stung , but with the precise energy of a man correcting a dog who has bitten the furniture.
"Stop that," he said.
"You were on your phone," you said.
"I was responding to Jon-"
"You said you'd cuddle."
"I am cuddling-"
"Damian."
He looked at you. His jaw was doing the thing where it went slightly tight because he was trying to be annoyed and it wasn't fully working. "He was asking if we were free tonight. I was telling him no."
Something in your chest went a little soft. "Oh."
"Yes. Oh." He looked deeply smug about this in a way that only Damian could pull off while lying down. "So if you feel so strongly about it, I could always tell him i am in fact free this-"
"Don't you dare," you said, grabbing his phone.
"Then don't bite me," he said.
A pause. He looked at the ceiling. You looked at the ceiling.
"...I didn't say I minded," he said, very quietly, to no one in particular.
You smiled into his shoulder and said nothing.
He did not pick his phone back up.
.
Duke T:
Thinks he did something wrong
Big puppy dog eyes.
Absolute menace when he realizes you did it out of love
He'd been down in the cave doing a workout , one of those long, focused ones he does when patrol has been slow and he needs somewhere to put the energy. He came up still warm from it, still in the obnoxious highlighter-yellow compression shirt that you had opinions about but that he wore with complete confidence because Duke Thomas does not have a self-conscious bone in his body.
You were horizontal across the couch in the way of someone who had been there a while and intended to stay. You watched him walk past and something about the way he moved , the post-workout easy looseness of it, the way his shoulders were set , looped some wire in your brain and before you'd made any real decision you'd caught a finger in the waistband of his sweats and pulled.
He came to you willingly, laughing a little, turning to face you as you pressed your face against his side.
"Miss me or-"
You bit the strip of skin at his hip that was peeking out under the hem of the shirt.
"YEOUCH-" Duke jumped, looked down at you, and his face immediately did the thing. The soft brow-furrowing. The lip-dropping. The large sad eyes of a man quietly taking inventory of what he might have done wrong. "Did I work out too long?"
"What? No," you said.
"Was it the shirt-"
"Duke."
"Because I know you have thoughts about the shirt-"
"I bit you because you looked good," you said. "That's it. That's the whole reason."
He blinked at you. Looked down at his hip. Back at you. Slowly, the worry unwound from his face and was replaced by something much more delighted.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"So you're saying the shirt works."
"I didn't say that."
"You implied it."
"I implied no such thing, please remove the shirt from this conversation-"
He was already grinning. He dropped onto the couch next to you, pulling you sideways into him. "The shirt stays," he said happily.
You buried your face in it in defeat.
.
Bruce W.:
Another unbothered king.
Have you met his kids?
Also was a biter when he was a kid so.
He had come back from patrol with a pulled muscle in his leg , jumped a rooftop gap about two feet wider than he'd gauged and landed wrong , and was currently in the manor sitting room letting you work through the tension in his calf with the focused efficiency of someone who has done this before. His head was tipped back against the armrest, jaw loose, eyes closed, letting out those low involuntary exhales of someone feeling genuine physical relief.
Eventually the muscle released. You stayed where you were with his calf in your hands, the solid warm weight of him, and the thought arrived in your head fully formed and unhesitating.
You bit him. Gently. Right into the muscle.
Bruce's eyes opened. He looked down at you with no particular expression. The same way he might look at Alfred appearing in the doorway to tell him something mildly administrative.
"I love you too," he said.
You grinned against his leg.
From the doorway, Dick's voice: "Are you guys-"
"Don't," Bruce said, not looking up.
"I was just going to say-"
"Richard."
"Cool. Great. I'm leaving. This is normal. Everyone's normal here." The sound of retreating footsteps. Then, quieter, muttered to himself down the hall: "I literally do that and he looks at me like I'm feral but when—"
Bruce reached down and ran his thumb across your knuckles. You bit him again, lighter this time.
"He's going to talk about this for weeks," Bruce said.
"Probably," you agreed.
.
Extras!!
.
Wally W.:
WHINER
He likes it dont get him wrong
But you would think you fatally wounded this guy.
Will cry and pout and then pout more when you dont do it again.
He had been on the phone with Donna for , you'd lost count , at least forty minutes, pacing in the way he does when he's on a long call, covering the length of the apartment in a kind of endless loop. You'd been watching him from the couch. He'd passed you four times.
On the fifth pass you moved.
You launched from the couch. Arms around his neck, legs locking over his hips, chest flat against his back, and you sank your teeth into the spot where his shoulder met his neck before he'd fully registered you were airborne.
Wally let out a sound that genuinely startled the pigeons outside.
"AHHHH , VAMPIRE ," He dropped his phone. You dropped off him. He spun around, one hand clamped to his neck, face a mask of theatrical agony. "Baby. Baby-you- that hurt-I'm dying, I think I'm dying-"
"You're not dying," you said.
"I can feel my heartbeat in my shoulder-"
"Wally-"
"Donna," he called mournfully toward the dropped phone, "she attacked me. You're a witness."
Donna's voice floated up from the floor: "Is this the biting thing again?"
Wally pointed at you. "She's dangerous, is what she is."
"Okay I won't do it again," you said.
The theatrical suffering stopped. Immediately. Wally's hand dropped from his neck. His expression shifted to something approximately panicked.
"Wait-"
"You said I shouldn't-"
"I didn't say , I said it hurt, I didn't say stop-"
"Those are contradictory-"
"Baby, please, I'm asking very nicely-"
Donna could be heard laughing in the background. Wally shot the phone an aggrieved look.
"This is very funny to you," he called down to her.
"Incredibly," she confirmed.
.
Roy H.:
Bites you back?
Think of two dogs biting eachothers tails. Thats what happens to the two of you.
Lian also has developed the habit.
The current incident was a Saturday afternoon. Lian was on the living room floor surrounded by approximately one thousand pieces of a toy set, deeply focused on whatever world she was building. The cartoon she watched religiously was on. You and Roy were on the couch behind her, which meant you were both also watching the cartoon because turning it off was not an option anyone wanted to explore.
Twenty minutes in, you could feel Roy's brain slowly turning to static beside you. You looked at him. His face had the expression of a man staring into a void.
You bit his thumb.
He looked at you. Two seconds. He bit your shoulder.
You didn't let go.
He didn't let go.
Lian looked up from her toys. "Daddy, can we watch something else?"
Roy released immediately, reaching for the remote with the energy of a man pardoned. "Thank god."
You released. He changed the channel. He scrolled past something and Lian pointed. "That one."
Roy looked at the screen. Looked at you. His expression suggested the cartoon had simply been replaced with a different equally mind-numbing cartoon.
— Wally does the 'seeing if my boyfriend melts into the kiss' trend but with his girlfriend.
!!: fem!reader. blurb (751 words). Grumpy x sunshine. very fluffy and cheesy, you have been warned. Wally calls reader baby. ooc (?). Not proofread. English is not my first language.
[dc masterlist]
Wally left the phone recording in a bookshelf of your living room, perfectly angled so his entire body could be seen. It was not hidden, and you would totally see it, but he wasn't trying to hide it either. Was he going to post the video? no. He just wanted to have proof that his grumpy and sarcastic girlfriend was actually a softie for him.
“Baby, can you come here for a second?” Wally shouted.
You, who had been doing some work in the master bedroom, stood up and went to the living room, from where your boyfriend had called you. Wally was standing up in the middle of the place with a big smile on his face. He was plotting something, you could sense it.
“Why did you want me to come?” You asked.
“I want to try something. Come here.”
You walked past the sofa and stood in front of him. His smile was bigger than usual, and he had his hands on either sides of his waist.
You knew that look, he had something going on. It could be either good or bad, knowing Wally, it was a complete mystery.
“What are you going to do?” You narrowed your eyes, suspicious. Wally just shook his head.
“It’s not bad, don’t worry.”
You raised an eyebrow and he made a move with his hand to tell you to get closer. You, slowly and carefully, stepped closer into his space.
“I need you to raise your arms.”
“No.” You said. crossing your arms in your chest, shielding yourself of whatever Wally was going to do. “Why would I do that?”
“Baby, I swear it's nothing.”
“No. You're going to tickle me.” You said letting out a nervous laugh, and taking a step away from Wally. He tickled you often because he knew you hated it. He was like that, tickling you and then covering your entire face with kisses, because he loved seeing you annoyed at him.
“I swear I won't. Lift your arms.”
You didn't move, your arms still crossed. Wally pulled you closer to him, his big smile now softer.
“Come on! Trust me, I swear it's nothing bad.”
You relaxed your arms, still a bit unsure about your boyfriend's intentions, but you let him lift your arms over your head.
“See?” He smirked.
“I still don't trust you.” Once he moved closer and you saw his arms reaching for you, you flinched.
“Baby!”
“You promise you're not going to tickle me?”
“I promise, pinky promise. Now, put your arms up and don't put them down.”
With an expression of distrust you put your arms back up. Wally smiled. Slowly he reached to place his hands on your waist, hugging you tightly against his body and kissing you.
Soft and sweet, you could get drunk from Wally's kisses. You gave in to the kiss. Your arms relaxed but stayed up.
When Wally pulled away he tickled slightly your side.
“YOU PROMISSED NO TICKLING!” You shouted, trying to sound mad, but the kiss had left a smile on your face that couldn't get erased easily.
“But you didn't melt into the kiss!” He complained, defending himself. For Wally, you deserved the tickle. He really believed you were going to give in completely and hug his neck the second he kissed you.
“What? I- what?” You were confused. What was he talking about? Melting into the kiss? You did melt, you always did, you just stayed with your arms lifted, like he had asked.
“It's a trend.” Wally explained.
“Oh, I'm sorry Wally ‘chronically online’ West, I was not aware of it.” Your sarcasm was sharp,
“At least you know that term.”
You didn’t have socials, that's why you didn’t know about the trend. And Wally thought it was adorable how confused you sometimes were whenever he made a reference to some online meme you were not aware of.
“If you wanted me to ‘melt into the kiss’ you should have told me!” You argued.
“No, that’s the deal, you don’t have to know!” Wally argued back.
“Why!? I don’t get it.”
“You know what? Fuck it.” He pulled you into his chest again giving you another kiss. This one longer and rough. Unlike the first kiss, you wrapped your arms around his neck for this one, and he tightened his grip on your waist.
“I love it when you try arguing with me.” Wally said with a smirk once he had pulled away from the kiss.
“You’re weird.”
“You love me.”
All this had been recorded and was even better than the interaction that Wally thought he was going to capture.
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