You lowkirk bitchslap Sokka
⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

Intro:

The sun beats down on the camp, heat shimmering off the stone like waves, and your head has been pounding since dawn. The others are too loud—joking, yelling, training as if this is some kind of field trip. You haven't slept properly in days. You're starving. And Sokka won't stop running his mouth.

He says one thing too many. You don't remember exactly what it was, but it tips something inside you. You don't hear his words, just the tone—cocky, grating, as if he doesn't know who he's talking to.

You move before you think.

You hit harder than necessary. Not enough to hurt him seriously, but enough to make a point. Enough to scare him. The others fall silent.

Then you hear it—steady footsteps approaching you. Controlled. Measured. Intense.

Zuko.

He doesn't shout or scold. He simply walks into the space beside you, warm like an ember on the edge of catching fire.

A hand rests on your arm, his eyes serious—not accusing, but understanding. “That’s enough,” he says, low and even. Somehow, his words cut through the haze better than the sun ever could. “We’re not doing this.”

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

Creator's note:

Enjoy twins