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dr. langdon doesn't necessarily approve of you, the new hire. that doesn't mean he won't drop everything to help when you stumble into the ER, bloodied and disoriented under the unforgiving light.
frank langdon x girly!wardclerk!reader
warnings/tags: reader is attacked but shes fine, hurt/comfort literally, langdon plays doctor, unidentified yearning, inappropriate workplace crushes being violently suppressed, Langdon in extreme denial, age gap but nothing has technically happened, blood duh hospital medical stuff Girl its The Pitt. wc 5k
a/n: I am fucking crazy..... but I am free
Frank Langdon didn’t think that they needed another ward clerk. Lupe was more than adequate, splitting her duties with that older woman—the one with the gray ponytail and the purple framed glasses—and then there was that balding, lanky young gentlemen… Harold, maybe? Harlan? Hardy?
Point being, he’s not sure why anyone felt the need to stretch the already sheer budget by onboarding someone who looks too young to have any relevant work experience. Nurses, is what they need. More nurses. Or better paid nurses. Definitely more security. The luck they’ve had avoiding any assaults for the past few months is sure to wear off soon.
So yeah, it irks him a little when he comes in through chairs in the mornings and you’re already there behind your plexiglass shield, typing on Lupe’s computer in Lupe’s seat. Always with your hair done. Always in some new blouse you’d bought with a paycheck that could’ve gone toward, oh—another nurse, maybe? Frank begins to resent those little blouses of yours. Each polka dot, each cluster of ditzy flowers, every single stripe and every lacy neckline representing vital cents that Gloria might as well toss down a wishing well.
Today you’re sunshine, butter yellow and cream stripes curving down a fitted cap sleeve number. Mother of pearl buttons and the tiniest hint of sugar-white lace, bridging the gap at your sternum where you stopped buttoning the shirt up. Frank wonders how many stylets they could’ve ordered with the amount of money you paid for this top. Then he wonders how long it took you to get your hair like that, with the tendrils curling just so, complimenting the soft line of your jaw and the shape of your mouth. The hair in question is pushed behind an ear as you look dutifully between your computer screen and a sour-faced man with a turgid beer belly, on whom your charms are entirely lost. He’s already taking up an attitude with you, at seven in the goddamn morning, and you’re utterly serene. That’s another thing you ought to work on—the way you look at these people, so openly, so receptively, as if it is your greatest, most earnest desire to get each and every one of them seen as quickly and attentively as possible. With your lips slightly parted, and your brows almost imperceptibly raised. It’s just a little too kind. You give these people an inch, and they’d be happy to use you as a rug between here and those all-powerful double doors.
Frank eyes the man, assessing for any hint of aggression in his body language, and then looks back to you. Only sets his eyes squarely ahead when he’s sure you’re not going to look away from your charge and in his direction—in which case he’d be forced to offer a flat little smile and an indifferent nod of greeting. That happens some mornings. Most, probably. Other than that, and some brief parlay when he’s needed in chairs and you have the relevant patient information, the two of you don’t often have occasion to speak. And so he doesn’t have occasion to think about you. Or how whoever hired you was practically setting you up to fail. To be emotionally scarred for life, at the very least, and to have your confidence slashed in a million different ways. Ward clerks don’t need to be especially kind, or accommodating or pretty, or make every patient feel singularly special with that solicitous look in a set of sparkling eyes. In fact, they should be more like drill sergeants. They should lay down the law, and never take any bullshit from anyone. Frank has seen what scorned patients do to even the most hardened hospital staff given the chance. Putting you in chairs and saying manage these lunatics is like setting up a lightning rod on a roof and expecting it to clear up a storm.
It’s irresponsible. And, mostly, an egregious waste of money. But he clears the double doors, and the antiseptic fluorescents embrace him like a weary partner, and there is no more cause to think about you.
Not for a while, anyway.
Not for a few hours, until he’s peeling off a pair of soiled gloves and absently catching a handful of sanitizer, and someone opens the doors to the waiting room and someone else’s angry words slide through the gap.
His feet are moving before his brain has made any logistical decrees.
Instead of the double doors, Frank takes the direct route to your little box office. It feels smaller than he remembers, and smells a whole lot sweeter, which is very odd until he realizes that it’s you, and then he’s inexplicably embarrassed at having considered what you smell like. And by taking note of the fact that it is rich vanilla and an almost arresting hint of lavender. It gets worse when he leans over your shoulder—the scent gets warmer, and a little disarming, the way a good fragrance always does when it sits flush to the skin and invites you to come closer, to try and parse the difference between synthetic and organic. He braces a hand on the desk next to you. No way you should be allowed to wear such a distracting perfume to work. It’s out of place. It’s just not what a hospital is supposed to smell like.
This whole thought process unfurls in a matter of about three seconds before he’s cutting off the man who’d been yelling at you—the same one from earlier, he realizes with distaste.
“No yelling in the waiting room. It’s distressing to the patients.”
“I am fucking distressed. I am a distressed fucking patient!”
“Sir, lower your voice or you’ll be removed by security. We have a zero tolerance policy for aggressive behavior.”
For good measure, Frank points to the sign by the nearest pillar. You look in that direction too, like you hadn’t know it was there. Seriously, did nobody fucking train you? Did you wander in off the street? Or maybe out of a perfume commercial?
“Are you going to treat me or is she just going to keep giving me the same bullshit line?”
You begin: “Sir, there are people ahead of you who need—”
“I wasn’t fucking talking to you!” the man explodes, hitting the glass with a meaty palm. Frank looks around for security, but there’s nobody to be found. Fucking budget cuts. Fucking ward clerks.
“Dr. Langdon doesn’t decide who goes back. I decide who goes back,” you shoot, and while it’s not entirely truthful, Frank is caught off guard (and a little impressed) by the quick, clean jab. “Have a seat or I’ll call security and you’ll have wasted everybody’s time here today.”
The man looks at you, dumb and red as a brick. Then, he chuffs under his breath. That laugh does little to set Frank at ease—in fact, it has him tensing up. It’s a reckless laugh. Like this guy might be about to do something stupid.
But he just turns around, shaking his head as he walks down the aisle of chairs toward the exit.
“Unbelievable,” he laughs again. Langdon is pretty sure he’s actually burning holes through the back of this guys jacket as he tracks his flight path, still not quite believing that he’ll leave so peaceably.
He’s proved right, at the very last moment, when the man is at the threshold of the door. Clearly a coward who knows he’s on the precipice of escape, he looks over his shoulder and yells: “Dumb fucking bitch!”
Frank immediately straightens, rigid with an innate impulse to chase this fucking guy down—but ultimately, is bound in place. Just barely. Just by nature of knowing dealing with assholes is a part of your job, and beating them up is not a part of his. Violence is not exactly endorsed in the Hippocratic oath.
“Dr. Langdon?”
“Hm?”
He’s aware that he sounds disinterested, that he hasn’t looked away from the rectangle of bright midday light which beckons him in search of retribution. He’s also aware that he might break off a piece of this desk with how hard he’s gripping it.
“Should I call security?”
“Uh…” he’s drawn back to you, briefly distracted by your proximity when he looks down. You’re expectant looking, eyes clear and wide as usual, combing for information and ostensibly unrattled—but your lips are pressed together somberly. Like you’re keeping something in. “Uh, no. No, if we had security chase down every disgruntled patient there wouldn’t be any left. I’m sorry about that, though. Guy was an asshole. You okay?”
A little nod. One of your earrings catches a drop of light, twisting and arcing brilliantly. Distractingly.
Jesus, he’s out of it today.
“I’m good.”
Unconvinced, he does another quick scan of the room.
“Are you sure? How about you take a break, where’s, uh…”
He draws a blank.
“Honald? He’s on lunch, I think he’ll be back soon.”
“Okay, why don’t you take yours when he gets back? Just, you know, take a beat. Relax for a minute.”
It’s ridiculous for him to be telling you how to take your break, and he has no idea why he’s doing it, but you nod.
“Yeah, okay. I will.”
“Good.” Frank straightens fully, pats your shoulder even as he’s already turning around to leave and immediately wonders if that’s something he usually does with his coworkers. “You’re doing great.”
The door is closing behind him before he has a chance to hear your reply.
Frank is visibly shaking his head and muttering to himself as he walks past central, where Robby is consulting over some files with Dana. He feels Robby’s eyes catch on him and follow his path for a moment before calling out, “Alright?”
“Alright,” Frank mutters uselessly, and goes to make himself useful. Hopefully someone is on the precipice of death via massive internal bleed. That, at least, would make sense to him. There’s an area in which he can demonstrate absolutely competence.
-
No internal bleeding, but a couple of burns and concussions need dealing with. He handles them quickly and is sauntering up to Dana for something a little more challenging when the door opens again—and there you stand, cradling one limp arm against your chest, and Frank can’t quite make sense of what he’s seeing at first, but he’s aware that Dana is exclaiming in that jaded way of hers, already making her way toward you.
You—looking out of place as you blink against the white light, dazed, glancing around furtively, uncertainly.
Blood, oozing from your cheek and arm, matting your carefully styled hair to your face and ruining your brand new sunshine-yellow shirt. Frank is in action, beats Dana to you, calling over his shoulder for assistance as he takes you by the shoulders and guides you to a nearby chair before kneeling in front of you.
“I don’t need—I can walk,” you insist, a little breathless. He sees your gaze drop to the floor as you speak, and your brows furrow a little—surprised by your own pain.
“What happened?”
“Um, that guy—” you wince as Mattheo, who seems to have materialized out of nowhere, dabs at your bloody cheek with gauze.
“Hey, woah, no,” Frank interrupts. “Don’t touch her face. Look at the arm, I got her cheek. Which guy?”
“The guy who was yelling at me earlier, I guess he waited in the staff parking lot, and, um, I went out to grab my lunch from my car, and I saw the tires were slashed, and then, like, he just—I don’t know, someone just grabbed me, I don’t even know what he was holding—”
“He attacked you with a blade? Did you call—”
Frank is forgoing his own sentence, rising up and shoring in a sturdy breath to yell for security, but your hand catches on his forearm and it jars him enough to stop him clean in his tracks.
“It’s fine, Orlando was right around the corner smoking. I think he got the guy, I don’t know, I just turned around and came right here, I didn’t know—I wasn’t sure what I supposed to do.”
“No, you did great. You did good, you did the right thing. Did you at any point hit your head?” He takes your face in his hands and turns you this way and that, searching for any signs of head trauma.
“No. I don’t think. I mean, I staid on my feet.”
“Ooh, making me look bad,” Dana mutters, fussing in her way as she sets up makeshift first aid station.
“What?” you ask.
“Nothing,” Frank insists as he very carefully slides your sticky hair off your cheek and smooths it out of your face. “You didn’t see what he used?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Woah, ward clerk,” Robby says, and Frank is inexplicably annoyed by his presence. “What we got?”
“A low patient satisfaction score, I guess.” You wince even as you say it, and Frank grimaces in sympathetic pain, hand darting back from where he’d been trying to assess the wound.
Any humor melts from Robby’s voice. “Are you serious? Where the fuck is security?”
“I’m wondering the same thing,” Frank murmurs to himself, impossibly gentler this time as he dabs away the blood.
“They got him. Right away. It was my fault, I—”
Frank cuts you off. “No it wasn’t. That’s all on me. I should have taken that asshole seriously.”
“Arm lac is superficial and clotting,” Mattheo reports. “How’s the cheek?”
“Ah… can’t tell. We need a bed.”
“What? No, we don’t, I’m genuinely fine.”
“South 15 is open,” Dana barks. “You’re gonna want that bed, Scarface.”
Robby slams a folder on the counter. “I’m going to find Gloria.”
“Gloria?” You frown, twisting to look at him.
Frank gently redirects your head and puts a square of gauze in your palm. “Right here, just look forward. Can you hold this to the wound?”
“What does he need Gloria for?”
He’s up and wheeling you with purpose toward the south wing. “How’s the pain?”
“It’s fine. It’s not a big deal.”
“When was the last time you received a tetanus shot?”
“Uh… I don’t… remember?”
“Okay, we’re going to need to administer one just in case. Mattheo—”
“I’ll put in the order. Analgesics, too. Any allergies?”
“Not to medicine.” You slump fractionally in your chair, still holding the gauze dutifully to your head. “Fuck.”
“Still doing okay?”
“Yeah. Pretty embarrassed.”
“Don’t be. This happens all the time.”
“What—patients attacking staff?”
“Absolutely.”
“Shouldn’t we have more security, then?”
We should, Frank thinks as he wheels you into South 15 and cranks the bed up to 45 degrees before guiding you to lie down. But we have you instead.
“I think Dr. Robby is on his way to make that case as we speak. Can I see?”
Carefully Frank pulls your hand from your face, taking the bloodied gauze with it and does a quick visual examination. The bleeding has stopped and all signs point to a shallow wound. He begins configuring the setup for a quick irrigation and primary closure. Realistically, he doesn’t need to be the one handling such a simple case—in fact it would be a better utilization of resources to have a nurse handle the whole thing so he remains free if he’s needed—but Frank can’t help but feel a little responsible for the whole thing. It was him who said you didn’t need to call security, he who sent you on your ill-fated lunch.
“Fairly clean job,” he mutters as he irrigates the wound. “Almost incised.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means the wound edges are straight enough that we can use glue instead of staples or sutures. Better outlook in terms of scarring, too.”
“Oh, god. I didn’t even think of that. Is that gonna happen?”
“No damage to the dermis, and it’s a low tension area. I can’t make any promises, but scarring should be minimal.”He sets the irrigation tub and syringe on the cart before patting your cheek dry with sterile gauze. “No foreign material in the wound. Cut and dry.”
“Is that a joke?”
“Only if it was funny.”
Frank allows himself to examine the rest of your face for any cue that he might’ve offended you, just in time to watch as you huff a quiet laugh. The corner of his own mouth tugs in response and he focuses on the cut once more—setting aside the shimmer on your eyelids, and the way you haven’t totally eliminated all the stray hairs around your brows. He wonders for no particular reason if you matched your blush and lipgloss on purpose.
Up close and personal, he finds himself searching for indicators of age. Crow’s feet? Smile lines? The working theory is late twenties. Not that it matters. But it could clue him into how much work experience you might have. If you’re in school, and this is just a job to pay for ramen, or if you’re an over-qualified graduate trying to afford downtown rent.
Probably he could just ask, he realizes as he breaks open an ampoule of skin glue. It might even be appreciated—the silence is getting increasingly sticky.
“Alright, we’re gonna do three coats of Dermabond with thirty second intervals for drying. It may tickle a little, but no glue is getting in the wound itself. This method should minimize scarring. Sound good?”
Frank has the applicator poised above the cut and is about to begin before he realizes you haven’t responded. He leans back to catch your eye, and notes the vacant gaze, set astray at a waxed tile floor.
“You okay?”
Finally you stir, eyes widening as they meet his and you realize you’d tuned out. “Sorry. Yeah, that sounds great. All good.”
“You heard what I said?”
“Yes. Three layers and it’s gonna tickle.”
“More or less.” Satisfied, he straightens once more, and very carefully, begins applying a thin layer of adhesive over where he’s pinched the wound shut.
More silence. Adrenaline crash, probably. Someone will have to bring you a juice box.
“Remind me. How long have you been here?” Frank asks, more in an attempt to make sure you’re not internally spiraling over the moral failure of humanity than because he wants to know.
“About a month.”
Frank whistles. “Didn’t make it very long, did you?”
“Yeah. Wasn’t really expecting to be attacked, period.”
His hand pauses, and it’s good a time as any to let the first layer dry. Most normal people are pretty upset by witnessing violence, let alone experiencing it. Especially ones who haven’t worked in the field long enough to anticipate the accrual of a few battle scars.
“I’m sorry this happened to you. For what it’s worth, I can guarantee that guy is already on his way to jail if Orlando caught him at the scene like you said.”
You pick at your white nail polish without moving the injured arm. “Mhm.”
Another silent beat. Frank is about to apologize for not doing more to prevent the whole thing when there’s a knock at the open door. Without looking, he’s sure it’s Dana.
“How you doing, Doll? Langdon’s taking good care of that pretty face?”
“Yeah, thanks. We’re all good.”
It could be his imagination, but he’s pretty sure he feels your cheek heat under his gloved hand.
Probably a physiological reaction to pain.
He swallows. “Where’s Mattheo, Dana? We need those painkillers.”
“Backup at the ADC. Shouldn’t be much longer. The cops want to talk to you.”
You hesitate. Langdon chances a peek at the rest of your face as he brushes on the second layer of glue.
“Do I have to do it right now?”
“No,” Frank interjects, though he doubts Dana would’ve pushed you on it either. “We need to finish this, get to your arm, and then administer your tetanus shot. After that you’ll need at least fifteen minutes of observation in case of any adverse reactions. Dana, can you get someone to bring her a drink?”
“You got it.” Then, very obviously aimed toward you: “Do you need anything else?”
“I’m okay. Thank you.”
“Of course. Keep me posted.”
“Always,” Frank assures, and Dana moves along.
A quiet moment.
“Does this actually happen all the time?” you ask without warning. “You guys seem really chill about it.”
“Not really, no. But pretty much everyone has a story.”
You hum absently, and Frank senses something about his answer needs amending.
“It’s rare for clerks. You guys get that fancy plexiglass.”
“Have you been attacked?”
Memories stir loose, and Frank huffs a quiet laugh. No sense in scaring you with horror stories involving scalpels.
“It’s pretty easy to win a fight when you have a syringe full of heavy duty sedatives.”
“Maybe I should keep one of those up front.”
“You won’t need it. Today was…” he swallows back ‘my fault’. “Atypical. Lupe’s been here longer than I have and I’ve never seen her get hurt like that. It won’t happen to you again.”
Because I will personally start beating asses if these people want to keep it up, is what he doesn’t say. Anyone who picks on the twenty-something glorified secretary at the front desk is a bully, and there’s no room for that in an ER.
Frank carefully, unblinkingly watches the final layer of glue set. Wonders what would drive anyone to attack you. You, with your cheerful yellow shirt and that delicate necklace—the dragonfly pendant that dips into the hollow of your throat. The way your hair curls at the ends and dances when you move. Everything about you seems engineered to elicit positive reaction. No, not engineered—that connotes some sort of farce, or mistruth. The pleasantry that you inspire is one hundred percent you. All the pretty trappings just signal your expectations for how you’ll be treated, and consequentially, your inherent nature.
Or—he assumes. He doesn’t actually know you.
Regardless, you didn’t deserve the attack. Nobody would’ve, of course. But seeing your shirt all ruined, and the even finish of your face contorted by this long cut, drains Frank of a little of his belief in the goodness of humanity. There wasn’t much to begin with.
Somewhere in this wash of pointless musing, he’s begun work on your arm. He’s distantly aware of your watching this work, and that you’re holding yourself a little differently with the pain. If Mattheo doesn’t come back soon, he’s going to have to get to the cabinet himself and find you some acetaminophen.
Suddenly, you’re speaking: “I don’t know if…”
And just as quickly, the sentence tapers off. Frank looks up at you as he works, and then back down. It’s pretty easy from the pensive look on your face to determine your train of thought.
“I promise you it’s not going to happen again. You don’t have to worry about that.”
“Yeah, but… I don’t even like getting yelled at.”
“You are on the wrong career path, then.”
“I was waiting for it to get easier.”
He risks another glance. You’re fixedly watching rust-colored saline trickle from your arm into the collection tub.
“It will. If you stick around.”One last push of saline gurgles from the syringe and into the tray. Clear, now. He sets the tools aside and finds more gauze to pat the wound dry. “Are you thinking of quitting?”
“Can’t afford to,” you say, all too quickly, like you had pursued the idea and run into this immovable wall minutes ago. “I’m very much in debt and looking to get into more.”
“Oh, yeah? Considering med school?”
“Maybe. Or a PhD. Not sure if I want to get into psychology or psychiatry. Now I’m wondering if this is, like… a healthy environment for me.”
Frank half-smiles. “Well, if you did go the med school route, you could probably avoid rotations in emergency medicine. Or—hey, you could come back here. Barring death, I’ll still be around in four years. It’d probably be less intimidating if you knew your attending.”
“Alternatively I’d be so preoccupied with trying not to look like an idiot that I’d accidentally kill a bunch of people.”
“I’m confident that you’re not an idiot. In practice or appearance.”Frank can hear you swallow as he dispenses a small amount of antibiotic ointment into his gloved hand and carefully goes about working it into your skin. “Sorry. Tender?”
“A little.”
“Mattheo should definitely be here by now. If he’s flirting with that intern again I’m going to kill him.”You laugh half-heartedly. Frank smooths a 4x4 over your arm, tapes it in place, and leans back, peeling off his gloves. “Should be good as new in a few weeks. When do you work next?”
“Monday.”
“I’ll find you Monday for a check-in. Until then keep it clean and dry. Princess or Perlah will put together a kit with everything you’ll need, and Mattheo will be here eventually with that other stuff. You’re not afraid of needles, are you?”
“Uh—”
An intern sticks his head through the door—evidently one who hasn’t made an impression on Langdon.
“Code blue in chairs.”
“Then you should get to chairs.”
“Right.”
The intern disappears and Frank stands, taking longer than he should to walk to the door and grab some hand sanitizer.
“All good here?” he asks, giving you a once over as his hands rub together. With an air of self-consciousness you smooth your skirt. It’s a nice skirt. Untainted by blood, as far as he can tell.
You nod once, decisively. “Yup.”
“Good. I’ll make sure someone calls a tow truck and a car so you can get home. But don’t leave until you get that tetanus shot, okay? I’m serious.”
“I won’t.”
Frank nods slowly, and feels like there’s something he should say. He skims his teeth with the tip of his tongue. Nothing comes to him. He knows he’s wasting time. And probably making you uncomfortable—you, just sitting there, back rod-straight and ankles crossed, hands folded politely in your lap. He’s been told he has a tendency to stare.
In the end, all he can think to say is, “Take care of yourself.”
Again you nod, and Frank is pulled by duty down the hall, leaving you there in your ruined sunshiney shirt, and with your hair streaked in drying blood.
A strange image threatens to stop him in his tracks—one he hadn’t thought about in the moment, but now sticks to the inside of his retinas at half-opacity. Blooms in full, violent color when he blinks.
A drop of your blood, tracing its way down the dip in your cheek, clinging to the hollow beneath your jaw. Tracing slowly, all the way down your throat. Catching on the dragonfly pendant, as had the quick, covert trail of his gaze.
That’s weird, he thinks. An odd image to fixate on.
Frank shakes his head like he could dislodge the memory. Snaps the edge of a fresh glove extra hard against his skin as he comes up to the edge of the heart attack’s gurney and someone fills him in.
Yeah—the last thing they needed was another ward clerk. Broader, wiser coverage could’ve stopped the events of the day. More nurses. More security. Shit, you wouldn’t have been attacked if you weren’t ever hired.
The heart attack is caused by a complete blockage in the left anterior-descending artery. A widowmaker. They stabilize the man, and get him up to an OR without a hitch.
Afterwards, Frank finds himself passing by South 15. Casts a quick look inside, and finds the room completely empty.
Good—room for another patient. The whole thing shouldn’t have happened in the first place. Shouldn’t have taken up time and space.
We don’t need an extra ward clerk, he thinks for the millionth time.
Then remembers the way the dragonfly had collected blood and smeared it in impossibly fine lines across the expanse of your chest every time you moved, tracing linked and overlapping circles, like a Spirograph on your skin. The gentle rise and fall of you.
He comes to a standstill in the empty hallway, an unwilling hostage as something else hijacks his brain and projects the image onto the sterile white wall. Baffled and fruitlessly willing himself to move on. Flexing his hands in time with his own breathing.
A/N: why is it so difficult to find gifs of my fav ginger man? Sheesh! Always have to venture off to google if I can’t find what I need up here. I was looking for a more smiley gif but we have to work with what we got right? Gif belongs to its rightful owner ofc! Who else is excited for season two? We have six more weeks to go but I’m also excited to see what they do with Dominic Fike’s character although I know he’s only supposed to be in three episodes and he’s apparently tied to rue and Jules so that’ll probably be a mess. I also heard Lil Meech is supposed to be in it? If all goes well there might be some works about them too from me…but we’ll see!
Warnings: fluffy moments + reader being a slight cottage core whore?
Situational prompt: snowmen/snow angels + first snow/mittens
*************************************************
Fez was a city boy—a super trapper lmao so when you invited him to spend the weekend up at your godparents ranch he looked at you as if you said some outta pocket shit to him
“Whatchu about to feed me out there, y/n? bison burgers or sum and have me singing old Macdonald had a farm 24 hrs a day?” Fez teased as he brought his joint back up this lips
You rolled your eyes going to shove his shoulder, “I can’t with you! don’t knock it until you try it. Plus it’s actually therapeutic going up there so I thought I’d offer, if you don’t want to I can absolutely find someone else or just chill by myself—you know I don’t care.”
Fez snorted at you, “I’ll see if I can move some things around and make sure Ashtray can handle it and get back to you, ma.”
Usually “I’ll see” when it came from YOU meant go on about your business because you wouldn’t be doing it or attending but with fez he usually always meant that he would get back to you
He ended up letting you know that he was down for the ride that Thursday night and the both of you left the city Friday afternoon with you driving
Fez offered to drive as long as you had the GPS on since he had no idea where tf any ranches where located (also he wasn’t sure how you managed to get a license with the way you drove but you weren’t backing down from being in charge on this weekend trip)
The ride was a solid two hours up in the mountains and fez knew this was a whole different vibe with snow already on the ground and colorful spread out houses
You stopped at a general store with you announcing that the house was another ten-fifteen minutes away while fez got out to stretch his legs
Eventually he made his way inside while you socialized with an older indigenous woman who looked more than happy to see you
This store wasn’t that big but it was packed with all antique items and snacks
From the corner of his eye he already saw you with a basket with some items in it as you chatted with the woman up front, fez found himself shaking his head at you since you only stopped to get some gas—yet you were buying other shit you probably didn’t need
He picked up a baby skeleton that honestly creeped him out but he knew ashtray would probably like something like this. He wasn’t buying that shit tho as he placed it back down on the cloth covered table and saw some weird photos that looked like a butcher man, and some witches…
He found himself looking over at you again, he silently hoped you didn’t bring him up here to kill his ass or sacrifice him or some shit. He already unwillingly watched the new paranormal activity with you, ash, and rue the other day and this is exactly what this mountain town was giving him
“Who’s the lucky fella that keeps looking at you?” The woman at the counter didn’t bother to keep her voice down
Your eyes met fez’s and smirked, “oh that’s just my—
“Boyfriend? You make a very cute couple. I can already tell from his aura he’s much better than the last one.” The woman rambled on as she began ringing up your items
Fez made his way over, his signature small smile appearing on his lips as he greeted the woman who sent the two of you a knowing smile
You nudged his shoulder with yours earning a laugh from the freckled face boy with the royal blue beanie sticking up on top of his head
He took most of the bags for you while you carried one and made your way back outside to the car
Fez rested his bomber covered arms on top of the car as he looked over at you watching as you began pumping the gas
“Damn, y/n. I didn’t know we were a couple?”
You bit back, “we could be but you keep playing like you don’t want this.” You flicked your hair back
“Is this whole trip your way of persuading me?”
You shrugged, “yeah I might buss it open on the lake for you, watch out.”
Fez let out a laugh, licking his bottom lip as he shook his head at you pulling the car door open as the wind picked up, “you a whole trip, y/n.”
“That’s why you love me.” You sang turning back to watch the numbers start to slow down
And off the two of you went to your godparents ranch
The drive just to get to the actual farmhouse was insane, the pathway seemed to carry on forever as the both of you rocked to side as the car rolled through the thick of it
“Home sweet home,” you sighed staring at the home you had many memories inside of and would be sharing with your bestie
Fez was ready to get inside of the house, personally not being a fan of road trips or anything of that nature. He was used to staying where he was used to so the whole rural area was new to him
You moved around the empty house in ease while Fez was standing around unsure what exactly to do while also eyeing the house
Eventually he met you in the kitchen after he saw you messing with the thermostat
“What’s that?” Fez asked leaning against the island as you pulled out your purchases
Glancing over your shoulder you smiled, “canning. Preserves: we have strawberry, raspberry, peach, spicy pear, and apple butter jam.” You explained
Fez dipped his head sticking his tongue into his cheek, “so you couldn’t pick anything simple like blueberry or grape? We’re really gonna be out here eating berries and snow huh?”
Laughing you closed the cabinet and spun to rest your hands back on the counter, “maybe you’ll stop complaining once you put that sweater I bought for you on so we can go have some fun.”
Fez felt his brows furrowing a bit as he grabbed one of the bags and dragged it over to him. He pulled the black and white horizontal fleece up and smiled, “this jawn thick. I didn’t expect nice clothes in that creepy store.”
“You’re gonna stop trash talking my girl Dyani’s place. Her selection of antiques are unique, okay?”
Fez shifted his eyes to the side and nonchalantly said, “okay sure whatever if you like staring at baby skeletons for fun.”
“There was not a baby skeleton there! You made that up.”
“I know what I saw, y/n.”
“You sure you weren’t a little too fried?”
“I didn’t even light up—aight you got it. Thanks for the sweater.” Fez ended the rising disagreement in which you grinned in satisfaction
You tapped your nails on the counter before you nodded your head, “there’s a half bath around the corner if you want to wash up or whatever. I’m going to get started on dinner.”
“Coo.” Fez replied as he took the sweater with him and went back around the house to collect his bags that sat by the sitting room before carrying on to the said half bath
Fez made himself busy in the living room catching up on black ink Chicago while you tended to the kitchen. He knew to stay out of your way and honestly hoped you were whipping up some fried salad or something
He was pleased to enter the kitchen the third time to see you lighting up some colorful candlesticks, you turned to him hearing his footsteps and pressed a fist into your hip with a look
“You can sit, everything’s ready now.”
Fez rubbed his hands together in excitement as he plopped down on one side of the square table in front of the window
“It’s beef stroganoff.” You announced placing the candle lighter back on the island as fez began to dig in before he lifted his head to ask with him mouth full
You presented the sprite cranberry bottle with a knowing smile before pouring it into a ridged martini glass you found and then poured some into your own before plopping down in front of fez
He was all smug as he took the glass and held it out to clink against yours, “real king and queen shit.”
“The first compliment of the evening, woo!” You winked placing the glass down to dig into the meal you prepared
The both of you fell into comfortable small conversation just enjoying each other company and half way through the dinner you heard it before you pulled the curtain back to confirm it
Fez followed your gaze to see some thick snow tumbling down and your whole entire frame was beaming
Scrapping your chair back you shoved more food into your mouth before jogging out of the kitchen
Fez looked over his shoulder at your disappearing frame before he shrugged and went back to finishing the rest of his own meal
You caught him off guard as you came back into the kitchen snatching his hands and shoving some mittens that fit just right over his freckled hands, “um…??”
“Let’s go.” His eyes met yours to see you all dressed up for winter war and he leaned toward to look back at out the window
“Naaah, I’m straight.” Fez drawled out.
“I’m not asking.” You began pulling on his arm
Fez kissed his teeth, “you’re not about to bully me to go outside in that! I don’t know much about snow but I personally don’t think I’d be a fan.”
“Again. You don’t know unless you try it, expand your horizons, fezzy.”
And that’s when fez sighed taking in your expression. He had to take it all into consideration, you did invite him out here for the weekend and you were being so kind with your hospitality so the least he could do was go out into the snow war and do whatever the hell it was that you wanted to do
He regretted that the moment he stood on the porch and that wind slapped him across his face
Fez wasn’t used to this snow. It barely did any of what he was experiencing back home, maybe a coating or flurries was the least you all got. This was something else and he was a little shook
However you were a sight to see spinning around in the front yard so carefree with the snow almost making it hard for him to keep his eyes on you
The snow was getting in his long eyelashes and he had to keep wiping the flakes away but ofc they melted before he could do so
Suddenly you stopped and held out a mitten covered hand out for fez, waving him forward and he puffed out a breath that swirled out into the air in response
Cautiously he stomped down the thick snow covered steps and made his way over to you, hands shoved in his pockets before he got over to you
He pulled his hand back out knowing you wanted to be cute and hold his hand
As soon as he placed his mitten hand in yours, you threw the both of you back into the snow
“Yo! Are you serious?” Fez tried to glance at you while you laughed and go of your hand to start waving your arms and legs creating a snow Angel
Fez shook his head at you in disbelief and then let out a small laugh before slowly doing the same
“Mine’s better.” You announced when the both of you got back up after some time of laying there together
Fez scoffed, “whatever? Can we make a snowman?”
You grinned over at the ginger, “of course we can, Fezsa! And mine will still be cuter than yours. I’m gonna wash you!”
Fez rolled his eyes at the new nickname silently begging you not to start singing that shit and stepped back taking the threat, “see me then!”
And the competition began trying to build your own snowmen while the snow continued to accumulate above your heads
Ofc this didn’t go without the both of you trying to sabotage each other’s snowmen until you both were pleased with your work
You sniffed and snapped a pic for your poll on ig for your followers to judge the better one without letting them know who was who’s
Fez was the one to drag you back into the house saying you’ll both get hyperthermia and rested your wet clothes in the designated room to dry
You announced you would make some tea while fez went off to take a hot shower
When he came back downstairs you weren’t around but he silently listened to hear some water running which meant you went to take your own shower too
“Y/n got me out here drinking tea too.” Fez breathed out a laugh as he brought the set back into the living room and tossed some blankets on the ground
He wrapped one around his head and shoulders as he waited for you, not bothering to turn the tv back on. The deadly silence was actually nice and he could see why you liked coming up here to get away from the rush back at home
“Boo.” You whispered making fez flinch while you laughed as you sat beside him, snatching up another blanket to wrap around your shoulders too
“Always playin’.” Fez laughed as he took a sip from the fine China
You pressed your nose into fez’s shoulder for a moment before resting your head against his shoulder
“Thanks for bringing me out here for real.”
“Of course. I knew we both needed it.”
Fez nodded as he took another sip the both of you sitting in silence, “…You know my snowman is winning right?”
Your head snapped up to meet Fez’s marble colored eyes, “bullshit.”
“I told you your head was too lopsided. You didn’t roll it right. It’s giving more cracked out polar bear than snowman.”
You snorted, “idc yours is still ugly. It doesn’t even have a nose.”
“That’s not the people are saying.” Fez teased dipping his head towards yours
“Fuck them. You’re no snowman expert.” You fanned your hands ready to get up and check to see how they were holding up in the snow
Until you realized fez was looking at you like he was in love and you smiled softly at him, “fez…”
Before you could say more he collided your lips together and you melted against him tasting the tea from his lips
You suddenly pulled away searching his eyes and was smug, “Finally! I knew you love me, wanna wife me.”
“Shut up, I’m not done.” He pulled a free hand out from underneath the blanket he had securely wrapped around his frame and guided you by the chin by to his lips
You couldn’t help but to laugh some more while you reached around to take the tea and place carefully on the dining table while keeping your lips together
Fez welcomed you into his lap, holding you tightly against him as you carried on stealing each other’s breath through your kisses
It took you to break the kiss for fez to continue peppering kisses along your neck making you shudder with each kiss and suck
You realized you should’ve invited fez up here a long time ago…shout-out to the snowmen tho!
•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*
Continue along with my anthology December prompts here.
i know i haven't been perfect, but give it some time; 'cause not a single day goes by where you don't cross my mind
pairing: dexter morgan x f!reader
warnings: fluff, injuries (burns and cuts), louis greene, and you know... dexter's dark passenger
summary: requested: "dexter being super protective of you and when he finds out someone hurt you he immediately starts hunting him to kill him"
w/c: 5.5k
a/n: spoiler alert? it made me sad that dexter didn't get to kill louis, so here we go.
Louis is taking me to the hospital. Don’t freak out. Lab mishap.
You pressed send and the text appeared in a blue bubble, under it, there was a Delivered sign that quickly turned into Read.
Which hospital?
Jackson Memorial.
I’m on my way.
You didn’t really like it when people fussed over you. It felt unnecessary and only brought you discomfort most of the time. But this time, you couldn’t deny the relief knowing Dexter would meet you at the hospital.
“Who are you texting?” Came the voice from the driver’s seat.
You cleared your throat and shifted uncomfortably in your seat. “My boyfriend.”
“Dexter?” Louis asked with a feigned curiosity.
You couldn’t stand him anymore; he was such a fake asshole it was physically hurting you. And today was honestly the last straw.
You’d spent the better part of your morning setting up your experiment, testing your final samples. The data was supposed to solidify your findings and allow you to finish your thesis.
Everything was in place, your samples loaded into the centrifuge as you triple-checked everything. Everything. The protocol, the settings on the centrifuge, spinning the rotor with your hand, ensuring that it was balanced and the lid was closed tight.
Louis had been hovering all the fucking time. You had tried to ignore him, but you couldn’t exactly tell him to go fuck himself. The lab at your school was a shared space.
“You really think you’re going to finish today?” He’d mocked you. But that didn’t throw you off. You knew you were, because you were prepared.
But then you stepped away from the centrifuge for just five seconds to retrieve your laptop. When you returned, you put the laptop next to the machine and pressed the start button on the centrifuge, causing it to whir to life, the rotor spinning faster and faster. Then suddenly, a sharp, metallic clunk echoed in the room, followed by a horrific screech. The centrifuge rattled violently and the lid flew open. Glass shards and liquid shot out like shrapnel and you barely had time to shield your face with your arm.
The pain was instant. A jagged piece of glass sliced across your forearm, and a burning sensation spread where the liquid splashed onto your skin.
“Shit!” Louis exclaimed, rushing forward with exaggerated concern. “Are you okay?”
You just clutched your arm, blood seeping between your fingers. The burn on your forearm throbbed, angry red splotches already forming. Your vision suddenly became blurred with tears of pain and frustration combined, but you held them back. You were not going to cry in school.
The commotion drew others into the lab, including your supervisor. And of course, Louis was quick to throw you under the bus. And, okay, you weren't wearing your lab coat, but nobody really was if they did something as simple as loading samples into a centrifuge.
Your supervisor sent you to the nurse, telling Louis to escort you in case you got dizzy. The nurse bandaged your arm and sent you to a hospital for further treatment. Louis chimed in, playing the part of a kind and worried colleague, and driving you there himself.
“Yes; Dexter. He’s on his way, so you can just drop me off and head back to the lab.”
“Nonsense. I can't have anything else happen to you.”
Bullshit. He wouldn’t even blink if the shards had hit your carotid artery and you bled out right there. Who knows, maybe that had been his plan all along. Louis had it out for you and Dexter, his petty vendetta against you couldn't be more transparent.
“Louis, please.” You closed your eyes in exasperation, your eyes still burning from the tears that tried to push their way through. “I know that you messed with the centrifuge. I don’t have proof, so don’t worry. I’m not gonna do anything. But at least have the decency to stop pretending that you’re innocent.”
You saw his jaw flex and his knuckles get white from how he clutched the steering wheel, but he didn’t say anything. Frankly, you were getting uncomfortable being alone with Louis in the car, but luckily, the hospital came into view.
You tried to convince Louis to go, but he wouldn’t budge. He knew you hated his presence, and he reveled in the feeling that he was making you uncomfortable. You also had a hunch he waited for Dexter so he could provoke him too. He was like a lurking predator, leaning against the far wall, as the nurse gave you a sympathetic smile, adjusting the bandage on your arm. The burn cream was cool against your skin, but the sting of the injury sent vibrations through your whole arm.
The door opened, and your muscles finally relaxed. Dexter stepped in, his focused gaze sweeping the room. His eyes landed on you first, taking in the bandage on your arm and the nurse’s careful work. Then, his gaze flicked towards Louis.
Louis straightened up, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Dexter, hey! Don’t worry, YN’s alright. I made sure she got here safe.”
Dexter ignored him. If he hadn’t, he might have done something… nobody here needed to see. There was going to be time for that to do it right. Instead, he made his way straight to you.
“Hey,” you said with a tired smile.
His hand reached out to cup your head, his thumb brushing your temple and over the edge of your eyebrow in a soothing manner as his other hand hovered over your injured arm, as if to make sure it was still attached. His brows were furrowed, his shoulders and chest stiff as if he was holding his breath.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Getting burned by an oven hurts more.” You tried to lighten the mood, but humor wasn't exactly his way of coping.
“What’s he still doing here?”
“I think he wants to steal you away from me.”
“YN…”
“I don’t know, Dex. He’s a fucking vulture, you know that. I told him to leave, but he wouldn’t.”
You weren't even joking anymore; it wouldn’t surprise you if Louis had done this to get Dexter’s attention. Or get back at you for having Dexter’s attention. Louis had probably been obsessed with him long before you started coming to the Miami Metro’s forensics lab to work on your thesis. Louis, as a graduate and now a lab tech at your university as well as a senior intern at Miami Metro, was supposed to be your guide, to help you acclimate.
You had known Louis from school, and ever since he’d started working at Miami Metro, his ego had been bursting through the roof, so you hadn’t been so psyched when you’d found out you’d have to share a working space, but hey, what could you do. At least, he was genuinely eager to assist, proudly showcasing his knowledge of the lab’s high-tech equipment and Miami Metro’s most famous cases. But his favorite thing to do was name-dropping Dexter. Louis had never said it in those words, but Dexter was like a god to him.
“He’s a genius. Everyone here knows it. Stick with me, and you might even learn enough to impress him.”
You’d fought the urge to roll your eyes. “I’m here to work on my thesis, Louis. Not to waste my time.”
Louis had always been too loud, too close and most importantly, too self-important for your liking, and you’d thought back then already, that his admiration for Dexter bordered with obsession.
And when you finally met the famous Dexter Morgan, you were surprised how underwhelming it was. You actually expected another loud and arrogant scientist, but he was the exact opposite.
One morning, while you were struggling with the calibration of a piece of equipment, a calm and monotone voice spoke behind you.
“You’re off by a millimeter.”
You jumped out of your skin, closing your eyes to regain composure before turning around and finding Dexter with his hands in his pockets, just standing there. You hadn’t met, but you knew what he looked like.
“Fuck, thanks. Were you trying to give me a heart attack to keep me from using it? Jesus Christ.” You were still shaking off the jumpscare you just received.
“Sorry.”
“You’re good. Dexter, right? The guy who specializes in puddles.”
“Blood spatter analyst,” he corrected with a nod, and for a moment, you were taken aback by the lack of reaction to your joke. You introduced yourself and shook his hand, before he left without another word.
To him, you were just another in a parade of visiting academics, someone he’d forget as soon as your project ended.
Well, apparently, you liked to talk, making it hard for him to ignore you. It's not like you were targeting him specifically, you were just a naturally friendly person.
Vince's attention wasn't exactly hard to earn, especially if you were a woman, but Dexter noticed how you laughed even with Angel. Not that Angel was a touch-me-not, but it was still surprising to see you navigate the station with such ease, like a newcomer staking a claim in unfamiliar territory. You didn't force yourself into conversations; you didn't even have to. You had your own gravity around you, and people were magnetized to it.
“If you need something, Louis is your liaison.” He tried to brush you off one time, gesturing vaguely towards the open lab door.
“Oh, I know,” you replied, undeterred. “But Louis is busy explaining to someone how he’s basically the second coming of Einstein, so I figured I’d ask the real expert.”
But you didn’t wait for him to respond, taking the hint and leaving him alone. For now anyway. It made the corner of Dexter’s mouth twitch, but he caught himself and got back to his work. He thought about it for a moment before deciding that it would be suspicious if he was the only one ignoring you.
Over the next few weeks, you made a habit of dropping by his desk. At first, he found your presence… perplexing. You asked too many questions – some of them genuinely insightful, others just… so absurd. You often hovered just enough to be noticeable, but not enough to be intrusive. And your sense of humor seemed to exist solely to see how far you could push him before he reacted. And to create a bond with his sister.
You and Deb shared that bark, and he didn’t know what to make of it. The sarcasm often rang through the breakroom, and while he wasn’t one to eavesdrop, one time he heard a mention of his name.
“Does your brother ever smile?” you asked Deb, leaning against the counter.
“Well, you know, occasionally.”
“Yeah, what’s the occasion? Winning the lottery? Accidentally putting sugar in his coffee instead of salt?”
His brows furrowed in confusion. Why would I put salt in my coffee? But unlike him, Deb laughed.
“More like when someone's bleeding out somewhere. You don’t even wanna see that, it’s creepy as hell.”
“He’s fascinating actually,” you said when you stopped laughing, taking another sip of your coffee.
Fascinating. Most people called him odd, socially awkward, or at best, smart. His victims called him sick or a freak. But fascinating was new. And unsettling. He didn’t particularly like being noticed, but he found himself not minding your attention. Dexter realized that when he came in on Louis scolding you for talking him.
“He’s not your friend or your assistant, okay?” Louis snapped at you, his voice rising in frustration. “I am. So, stop bothering him and do some actual work.”
Before you could respond, Dexter stepped in, his voice firm. “Woah, Louis. Thanks, but I think I can handle myself.”
“I’m just saying, she’s supposed to focus on her thesis—”
“And she is. I also don’t mind helping her.” He turned to you then. “At least, when she ends up working here, she’ll already know the ropes.”
Dexter wasn’t serious, he didn’t even know if you ever wanted to work in forensics. But to Louis, the words felt like a slap. For months, he’d bent over backward to gain Dexter’s respect, but he’d never earned more than a dismissive glance. And you just waltzed in, cracked a couple of jokes, and suddenly, you were like Dexter's personal pet.
It was clear he didn’t like how Dexter responded to you. You noticed how his behavior changed, becoming petty even at your university lab. It was like he was waiting for you to make a mistake while his jokes grew meaner, more passive-aggressive
However, Louis was still essentially a random guy. He wasn't your superior, so you didn’t let him scare you off. If he wanted to report you to your school, you had Vince's backing, and now Dexter's too, you hoped. You believed you hadn't done anything wrong, you still got your work done, so there was no reason to feel guilty.
That meant that you never limited yout contact with Dexter, who also grew more responsive over the time. You figured out that most of his laughter stemmed in ridicule, with his brows furrowed and looking at you like you were an alien which made a smile grow on your face, so you decided to lean into it. Did it make you look dumb? Yes. Did it make Dexter laugh? Yes in capital letters.
Deb was the one who finally pointed out what you had been trying to make painfully obvious for weeks.
“Jesus Christ, Dexter,” she said incredulously, smiling at him as if asking are you serious? “Are you blind, or just stupid?”
He looked up from the folder, his expression blank. “What are you talking about?”
“YN. The girl from the lab. She’s been flirting with you nonstop, and you’ve been staring at her like she’s a new blood sample. Do you even know how to human?”
His whole face scrunched up, going over your past interactions in his head. “She hasn’t been flirting. She’s just… talkative.”
Deb rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle she didn’t sprain something. “Oh my God. You’re hopeless. She’s into you, Dex. And honestly? I think she’s kind of awesome. She’s smart, funny, and she’s got this great thing where she acts like an airhead just to see your face do that confused frown thing. It’s hilarious.”
Dexter’s frown deepened. “She does that on purpose?”
“Yeah, dumbass. Seriously, ask her out before she gets bored and moves on to someone who actually knows how to crack a smile.”
Weeks passed, and to Deb’s disdain, Dexter completely ignored her amazing advice. But she wasn’t one to sit idly by and she had had enough.
One afternoon, as you were bent over a microscope in the lab, Deb stormed in with an unyielding grip on Dexter’s arm.
“Hey, YN!” she said, her voice unnaturally cheerful.
“Uh… hey, Deb. What’s going on?”
She didn’t waste any time, her hold on Dexter's arm tightening as she shoved him into the room.
“Dexter has something he wants to ask you,” she announced, crossing her arms and giving Dexter an expectant look.
Fiddling with the pen in your hand, your eyes darted warily to Dexter, not really sure what was going on. And from the looks of it, Dexter didn’t know either. He looked genuinely confused, his eyes wide and his mouth opening and closing as if trying to form words, but nothing came out.
“Uh…”
“For fuck’s sake,” Deb groaned. “He wants to take you out. On a date. There. It’s done. The cat’s out of the bag.”
You blinked, momentarily caught off guard. A warmth surged through you, a small flicker of happiness bubbling up, but then you saw the horrified look on Dexter’s face, and it fizzled just as quickly. You turned back to Deb.
“Wow, Debra. I didn’t know you moonlighted as a matchmaker.”
“I don’t. But someone has to get the ball rolling.”
“And the first step is holding someone hostage?”
“Hosta– are you fucking kidding me?” She turned to her brother, jabbing a finger into his ribs, making him flinch. “Dexter, tell her!”
But before he could say a word, you got up from your chair and headed for the door.
“I appreciate the effort, Deb, but can we discuss this later? I need to bring these to Louis before he has a meltdown.”
“Yeah, well, fuck him,” Deb said as she watched you leave.
“I’d rather not,” you quipped with a smirk, closing the door behind you.
But maybe Deb had a point.
Maybe he should ask you out.
It had been a while since he’d had a girlfriend, and perhaps it was time to change that. Saying no to you outright might be suspicious, and blending in was a cornerstone of his life. Besides, you weren’t so bad. Being around you wasn’t unpleasant. It made sense.
That's actually what he said when he finally asked you out: it makes sense. No fumbling over words or overly rehearsed lines. And you actually liked his reasoning. It was honest in its own way and you appreciated the lack of pretense.
That was one thing you’d learned about Dexter during your time at Miami Metro: he liked a logical approach, unlike most people who responded to emotion, whose actions were driven by feelings. He felt things, sure, just not in the same way, and he rarely expressed them outwardly.
It wasn’t like you were absolutely positive that it could turn into something meaningful or that a relationship with Dexter would last, but his way of interacting with the world was so unconventional that you simply felt drawn to it.
Dexter never really offered grand romantic gestures or gush over your presence in his life. But he noticed things you liked and made small accommodations for them. He listened with the intent to understand. And while he wasn’t exactly overflowing with emotion, you saw the quiet ways he cared.
You’d once mentioned in passing how receiving gifts made you uncomfortable, the pressure to perform gratitude leaving you uneasy. So when you joked that a specific brand of coffee was your lifeblood, he didn’t hand it to you wrapped in a bow. Instead, the next week, it simply appeared in the breakroom.
He wasn’t selfish about it, like most people were when they insisted on seeing your reaction. No, he just wanted to make you happy. And with that, he scored a double.
However, ever since you started going on dates, for the lack of a better word, because neither of you ever labeled it that way, he started second-guessing himself. He became more careful, often overthinking and calculating his answers. You suspected that Deb might have been partly to blame. She was too blunt sometimes, too quick to get into his head. But you made sure to let him know that he was more likely to scare you off by saying nothing rather than saying the wrong thing.
“You’re more confident about that than I am.”
You'd told him that he was the living embodiment of having a wall up. And not any wall. It was as if someone else had built it for him, and he was struggling to climb over it.
“You’re not even bad at climbing. You’re just trying to figure out where to put your hands.”
It was a strange way for your to put it, but you managed to create a whole think tank in his head which often left him with a dull ache between his eyes. He found himself admiring your honesty, the way you refused to put on a mask just to please the people around you or conform to societal expectations.
It’s not like you outright spilled your deepest, darkest secrets, but you gave him glimpses. You hinted at your own traumas that had shaped you, so matter-of-fact and so human.
It stirred something within him. For days, he debated whether to share his own scars, until he finally did, one night during a quiet walk along the beach. It felt as though a huge weight had been lifted from his chest when he told you about his mother, the blood, the screams everything. Well, almost everything. He expected recoil, but it never came. You didn’t judge, it didn’t scare you away; you just looked at him with the same attentiveness, maybe a joke on your tongue about how that explained his line of work, because that's how you coped. And somehow, knowing he knew that made it easier for him to breathe.
And that night was also the night he kissed you for the first time. He didn’t plan for it. He just simply looked at you and the moonlight twinkling in your eyes, and for the first time in a long time, he felt a different kind of urge. One he didn’t have to fight or wait to satisfy it. He let himself feel.
Later that evening, you also invited him to spend the night at your place.
He’d be lying if he said that he regretted a single second spent with you. Yeah, you never seemed to stop talking, never seemed to stop moving.
“It’s like you’re daring your neurons to keep up,” he’d said to you one day.
“Well, I need to keep my synaptic connections in shape, right?”
But still, you made the chaos seem… manageable. You were a walking paradox, bringing a strange sense of order to his life, a balance. He started to think that this was his final and definitive chance at happiness. And he wasn’t going to screw it up. Nobody was going to take you away from him. Nobody, and it was in his control.
Before you could discuss it further, the nurse came back with a new bandage.
“Your boyfriend, I presume?” she asked with a warm smile, glancing between the two of you. But Dexter barely looked at her, his focus was entirely on you.
“Was it him?” He tilted his head toward Louis, his voice low enough that only you could hear, but you saw the nurse make her way to you to apply the bandage.
“Not here,” you murmured, darting a glance toward Louis, who was still lingering near the door.
The nurse, oblivious to the tension, spoke up. “She’s going to be fine. The burn isn’t deep, and the cuts didn’t hit anything major. Could’ve been worse. You might’ve earned yourself a Nobel Prize for dedication to science, though.”
She smiled, and you saw Dexter’s lips twitch into a grimace that was supposed to look like a smile.
“What chemicals?” he asked.
“Phenol and chloroform mix,” you replied, and the nurse followed up.
“Not ideal for skin, but we got to it quickly. Keep the bandage clean and dry, and she’ll be good as new.”
“Thanks,” Dexter said shortly. Then, turning back to you, he added, “I’ll be right back.”
“Dex…” you began, knowing very well where his mind had taken him. And honestly, a part of you didn’t even want to stop him, because you wanted Louis to leave you alone.
“I said I'll be right back,” he repeated, his voice stern.
Dexter straightened to his full height and walked toward Louis, a predator closing in on its prey.
“So? How is she?” Louis asked as soon as Dexter approached him.
“How do you think, Louis? I suggest you stop fucking around or I’ll make your life really difficult.”
“What?” Louis laughed with faux confusion. “I was just trying to help.”
“Yeah, and I think you’ve done enough. You can leave now. And if I find out you had anything to do with this, anything at all, you’ll wish it was you sitting on that hospital bed. Do you understand?”
“Geez, Dexter, are you –”
Dexter took a step closer without raising suspicion from other people.
“I’m serious, Louis. Do you understand?”
Louis nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat.
“Good. Now get out of my sight.”
Louis turned on his heel, but before making his exit, he turned to Dexter one more time. “Well… Catch you at work.”
Dexter ground his teeth, closing his eyes as he tried to suppress his need to protect you from Louis right then and there. He’d started seeing crimson the moment you texted him about Louis taking you to the hospital. Now, it was spilling everywhere, the red taking over his body, causing it to shake and ring in his ears. He wanted to fucking kill him. Louis had been trying to provoke him for quite some time, but he just crossed a line. Nobody will ever hurt you without consequences.
“Are you okay?” A soft voice brought him back to the present, your hand lightly brushing over his back as you tried to comfort him, ground him.
“No. I think I’ll kill him.”
You snorted. “Okay, drama queen,” you said, and hooked your arm around his, making your way out of the hospital.
Dexter hadn’t said a word during the drive, not a single one.
He’d even turned on his marching music, which he rarely did when you were with him. That was a signal in itself. He was thinking. Hard.
Once you reached his apartment, he tossed his keys onto the counter with an unusual force, and without a word, he headed straight for the first aid kit.
“Dex, I just got it bandaged. You don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do. I want to see for myself.”
You weren’t entirely sure if this had something to do with the whole I don’t trust nurses thing or just general paranoia, but you decided not to argue.
“I know this isn’t your fault, but you should’ve worn your coat,” he said, his voice almost shaking as he held back from lashing out.
“I know.”
Dexter gestured for you to sit on the couch, taking a seat himself on the low table in front of you. He gently reached for your hand and began unwrapping the bandage.
“Tell me what happened.”
You described the incident in detail, including your suspicions that Louis might have been involved. Dexter gave you that Kubrick stare as his jaw tightened at the mention of Louis’ name.
When he uncovered the burn ringed by shallow cuts, he muttered a quiet Jesus.
“Once it starts blistering, you can’t scratch it, okay? It could get infected.”
“Yes, doctor,” you teased lightly, a small smile tugging at your lips. “That’s what the nurse said.”
It made his head twitch as he gave you a look. But he didn’t comment, instead gently placing your hand in his lap as he prepared a fresh bandage.
“Do you have any other samples left?” he asked, and it warmed your heart knowing that he cared about your lab work, too.
“Yeah, I should have some stored at the station,” you said. “Unless Louis decided to get rid of them too.”
“I’ll head back and check on them for you.”
“Well, I’m coming too. I need to get back to the lab, it’s not like I’m incapable of running the experiment again.”
That was a hard no. He didn't even have to think about it.
He didn’t like the idea of you being back at the lab, not when Louis was going to be there. But he also knew he couldn’t keep you away from the lab for long, so he needed to do this fast. He convinced you to stay at his place until the next day, at least. After all, you did feel tired from the burning pain and the pills that started to kick in. As Dexter stood to leave, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead, before kissing you on the lips, anchoring himself to you before heading back to work. And to take care of Louis once and for all.
It was easy. Louis was obsessed with serial killers, but he still lacked the skillset Dexter’s usual victims challenged him with. Now, he was going to give him the full-time experience.
He broke into his apartment and waited until Louis got home. A sharp prick to the neck and strapping him to a chair. Not his usual routine, but this wasn’t really to satisfy his urges. This was to protect you.
Once he was all tied up, Dexter broke a capsule of smelling salt under his nose and Louis' eyes shot open. Dexter wasn’t going to waste much time here, but he brought something to make it more enjoyable for himself.
“Wakey-wakey,” Dexter’s voice broke through the fog of Louis’s confusion.
He blinked, before he started thrashing against the rope. “What the hell?!” he shouted, panic rising in his voice. “What is this?!”
Dexter stepped closer to him, a faint curl of a smile appearing at the corner of his mouth. In his right hand, he held a bunch of vials filled with liquid.
“Do you know what chemical burn feels like, Louis?”
“What?” he asked, confused at first, but then it dawned on him. “Wait, wait, wait! I didn’t do anything! I was just looking out for her. A-Accidents happen! Labs are dangerous places if you’re not careful, you know that!” Louis rambled, making Dexter watch him with an amused smile.
“Accidents don’t usually involve sabotage,” Dexter said evenly.
“Sabotage? Jesus, Dexter, you're blowing this way out of proportion. You're doing all this for some chick? Does her pussy feel that good?"
Dexter lurched forward, his fist connecting with Louis's face before he could react, the chair creaking against the floor as it moved with Dexter's strength. He leaned down to Louis’ eye-level, pointing a finger at his face. Louis squeezed his eyes shut, his bloody face scrunching in fear.
“Don't push it, Louis,” he said through his teeth. Dexter was quick to recover, his calm mask slipping back into place. “Let's talk about the fact that accidents always seem to happen when you’re around.”
Louis coughed, spitting blood onto the plastic-covered floor.
“You’ve got a pretty vivid imagination.”
Dexter’s lips twitched. He rose to his full height and backed away just to put down one of the vials and take a piece of cloth instead. He poured the chemical on it as he talked.
“It’s called pattern recognition,” he said, coming around the chair to stand behind Louis. “You should be familiar with that by now.” And with that, he stuffed the wet rug into his mouth. Louis twitched and thrashed, but Dexter was stronger. He made sure the cloth didn’t fall out, that Louis got the exact taste of what you’d gone through.
“How is it, Louis? You have my full attention now! The only time I’m willing to listen to your bullshit!”
He tortured him some more, before pulling the cloth out. As soon as Louis’ mouth was free, he started coughing. Then, Dexter poured some of the prepared solution on his glove.
“Did I get the concentration right, or was it too strong?” Dexter asked, rubbing his covered fingers together, the rubber shining under the kitchen light. Louis’ breathing quickened.
“Please. I won’t go near her again. I swear!” Louis cried out.
Dexter leaned in close again, his face inches from Louis’.
“You’re right. You won’t.”
And without further explanation, he pressed the gloved hand against Louis’ arm, holding it there long enough for the sting to start. Before Louis’ scream got too loud, Dexter stuffed his mouth with the rug again as he writhed in pain, the burning sensation spreading.
“That’s just a fraction of what she felt. And you’re lucky I’m in a forgiving mood tonight. Otherwise, I would pour it right into your fucking eyes, your mouth, I would cut your skin open and fill it up before stitching it back together.” Dexter put his still wet hand on a different part of Louis’ arm, watching him squirm. “I would make you fucking drown in it.”
Dexter stepped back, watching Louis’ chest rise and fall with his heavy breathing, some tears sliding down his cheeks, mixing with his blood. Dexter closed his eyes, bathing in that satisfactory feeling as he breathed in, the smell of chemicals and sweat and fear tickling his nostrils. He made his way to the counter where his knives were splayed out, taking the sharpest one and making his way behind Louis again.
“Goodnight, Louis.”
And with that, he sliced his neck, blood spilling onto the plastic underneath the chair.
When he came home that night, he found you still on his couch. Safe and sound. Your bandaged arm rested on the book you were reading, and when you looked at him, you greeted him with that casual smile of yours.
It was so genuine, so automatic. Like it had been waiting just for him. He couldn’t let himself be the reason you’d ever lose it, couldn’t let his or anyone else's world dim yours.
Without saying a word, he approached you, pinched your chin between his fingers and tilted your head to kiss that smile, because he knew it would only make you grin wider, and that’s what he wanted. He was making a silent promise, to you and to himself, to keep it safe, because seeing you light up like that, illuminating his dark world was everything he needed. And he wanted it to last.
summary: you bring your elderly neighbor to the ER after a fall, only to be faced with your high school crush - who is hotter, more capable and just as charming.
pairing: frank langdon x social worker!reader
tags: afab reader, meddling elderly neighbor, just some flirting, vomiting is mentioned but not described, frank langdon was a problem child in high school truthnuke, shen & mel mention, hospital setting, small miscommunication, divorced frank langdon
word count: 5.0k
notes: frank langdon i love u. one day i'll be able to write a small fic.
please reblog if you enjoy!
also, check out my masterlist!
The emergency department is not where you thought you’d find yourself at four in the morning. Especially not after you had made such a fuss to your friends about getting home early and going to sleep immediately afterwards.
It had been such a nice night. You had had a nice dinner, ran yourself a hot bath for the first time in ages. Put on a matching pajama set that felt silky on your freshly-shaved legs, curled up beneath a fluffy freshly-cleaned blanket. Sleep had come easily. That is, until the vibrating of your phone woke you up.
Miss Robin had lived in the house next to yours for four decades. As soon as you had inherited the house you now lived in, she had waddled on over, a Tupperware of still-warm cookies in her hands and a bright smile on her face. You had returned the favor by bringing over some leftover lasagna and your friendship had only sprouted further and further.
She was widowed young, her husband passing away from cancer when they were in their forties. Her only son had grown up and moved out, now a lawyer in New York. He was only a six hour drive away, but his job and family seemed to keep him too busy to come and visit his mother. You thought it was bullshit, but Miss Robin had constantly reassured you that her son had reached out enough to keep her happy, so there wasn’t much more to say.
Over time, she had become a close confidant of yours. It was silly, especially with the drastic age difference between the two of you, but she was kind and had wisdom you couldn’t even fathom. It made the lonely nights in your large house just a bit less haunting.
Which is why her voice over the phone, wavering about how she had fallen and she didn’t believe she could get up, had immediately gotten you out of bed. You had slid a baggy hoodie over your pajamas, slid your socked feet into the ugliest pair of sandals you owned, and immediately raced over next door. Luckily, she had given you a key a couple of months ago when she had decided to go on a trip with some friends from her book club, so you were able to barge into her home and find her.
After sending her off in the ambulance, even as she had protested and ensured you that she was fine, you had jumped in your own car and driven to the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. Ruffled, still donned in the rattiest clothes you own and hair entangled in a rat’s nest, you had been brought back to her room to wait until she got back from a CT, whatever that meant.
Luckily, Miss Robin’s doctor seemed to be nice. A bit ditsy and attached to the coffee in his hand, but competent and kind. She couldn’t stop gushing about how handsome he was, anyway, so there was no time to question his doctor-ing between her trying to play matchmaker.
The clock on the wall now reads seven-thirty in the morning. Three and a half hours of sitting in this room after being woken up and you’re feeling it in every part of you, your elbow perched on the railing of Miss Robin’s bed and your chin in your palm. Every couple moments, your eyelids drift closed without your permission, only to be jerked open again a second later at the beep of the heartrate monitor attached to her finger.
You sit up at the sound of the curtain rustling, squinting at the extra bit of light that streams into the space. All of their rooms had been filled despite the early hour the ambulance had come in, meaning that you and Miss Robin were occupying a make-shift room made up of three curtains and a dream. It was loud, especially with the man on the other side of the curtain retching every few minutes.
How lovely.
“Hello, Miss Sheffield. I’ll be taking over your care from Dr. Shen so he can head home.” A voice hits your ears, perking up for more news. Hopefully, that meant you could leave soon and catch at least a few hours of sleep before work tomorrow. “I’m Dr -”
“Frank?” His name spills out of your lips before you can stop it, shoulders tensing as you sit straight up.
“Dr. Frank? What a silly name.” Miss Robin muses playfully. You pass her a look and watch as she mimics zipping her lips closed.
Frank Langdon. Dimpled chin, thick eyebrows, blue-eyed Frank Langdon. He realizes who you are the minute you speak his name into the air, lips parting in surprise as his eyes flicker between you and Miss Robin. He’s frozen for only a moment, recovering with a shake of his head.
The corners of his lips tilt up in an almost sheepish smile. “Dr. Langdon.” He gently corrects the older woman as he looks at her. Then, he finds you again. “It’s nice to see you.”
It almost irks you, the professionalism radiating off of him while your heart thuds harder in your chest. You squirm as a blush naturally creeps up on your cheeks, reaching up to run your fingers through your hair. Your fingers snag on a couple of tangles on their way through and you make a mental note to shift into a ponytail as soon as possible.
Miss Robin’s eyes flicker from the both of you as you sit in an awkward staring contest, your words caught in your throat. “Do you two know each other?” she asks.
“Yes.”
Langdon speaks at the same time as you, although his voice is way less squeakier than yours. He gives you a crooked smile before looking back at the actual patient. “I shouldn’t admit this as your doctor, but I used to get the answers to my math quizzes off of her.” He moves closer to the bed, pulling his stethoscope off of his neck.
With intense focus, he presses the bell to Miss Robin’s chest, situating the eartips into his ears. He murmurs a quick “breathe deep” as he slides it along her chest and then back. His gaze flickers from where his hand is placed to her vitals, taking mental notes.
You stay quiet as he works, not wanting to interrupt. It was odd, seeing him after all these years. Taller, more muscle curving along his arms from what you could see through his scrubs. His hair had been constantly quiffed up as a teenager, but now it was settled into a mess of a middle part, loose strands falling over his forehead. Just as handsome as you had found him in high school, although manlier.
“Your secret’s safe with me.” Miss Robin sweetly responds, practically beaming as he gives her a soft laugh.
You’re not the only one that has been swooned by his charm, it seems.
“I appreciate that.” Frank looks between the two of you as he grabs a tablet off of a cart, gaze constantly moving. “How do you two know each other, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Your throat feels dry as you swallow nervously, clearing it before you speak. “She’s my neighbor,” you answer.
A loose string at the edge of your hoodie has become the victim of your nervous fidgeting, tugging on it and feeling the sleeve constrict just a bit. “And my friend.” You add, suddenly bashful about your friendship with a woman decades older than you. What if he thought you were a loser who couldn’t make friends your own age?
Robin hums her agreement. “She’s a darling,” she gushes. You pretend to miss the pointed look and smile she flashes at you. “She’s the one who called the ambulance for me today. Ran in there like Superwoman, you should’ve seen her.”
The urge to sink into your baggy hoodie consumes you, but instead you finally snap off the thread and turn it over in your fingers.
“It’s nice that you have someone to help you out, Miss Sheffield. Although I doubt you need it most of the time.” One eye closes in a quick wink and you’re pretty sure you see a blush on her cheeks. “Now, Dr. Shen briefed me quickly on your case, but I’d like to hear from you what happened this morning.”
Your neighbor gets into a way-too-peppy ramble of everything that led to her fall and happened afterwards, clearly inflating your role in this story. Despite her hyperbolic storytelling, Frank listens intently, nodding in response.
Once she’s done, he gives her a friendly smile. “Alright. Looking at your vitals, you’re looking good. Your heartrate is steady, your blood pressure is stellar, and you look great to me. We are still waiting on your CT results, but I know you two have been here for a while, so I’ll see about getting a rush on them so you can get home before our morning rush.”
You’ve dozed off without closing your eyes as the two talked, eyes hazy as they try to focus on him. You’re brought back by his attention suddenly turning to you, sitting up straight and glancing away for a moment to cover up the fact that you had been staring. Not on purpose, of course.
“Do you want me to show you where you can get some coffee?” He offers, brows raising. That crooked grin blossoms again. “You look like you could use it.”
Miss Robin answers before you do. “She’d love some!” She chirps.
She looks at you, swatting her hands to shoo you out. “Go. You heard the doc. I’m fine.” Then she gives Langdon a look, one that says “this girl, am I right,” like they’re good chums now.
You must’ve slept through the part where they decided to team up against you.
“Thank you.” You mumble as you stand up, legs stiff from sitting for so long. Curling your arm around your waist, you press your thumb into the small of your back, hoping to ease the dull ache there.
Frank holds the curtain open for you to step out into the hubbub of the emergency department, shutting it behind you with a swish. His hand curls gently around your bicep to pull you out of the way of an incoming gurney, the touch disappearing as soon as it’s there. “Your back hurt?” he asks.
Taking a look around the sudden busy state of the ER, you shake your head dismissively. “It’s just from sitting down for so long. I’ll be fine.”
Your next breath comes out as a long exhale as you walk beside him, shaking your head. “I can’t believe you’re a doctor,” you blurt.
“Why? Because I copied off of you in high school?” It’s a tease, but his face doesn’t change much. His hands come up to wrap around his stethoscope, pulling it flush against the back of his neck and letting his elbows swing.
You scoff playfully, shaking your head as you round the nurse’s station with him. A couple pairs of eyes follow the two of you, but you ignore it. “I didn’t think you’d willingly choose to do more school, is all.”
His shoulders raise in a shrug, releasing his stethoscope to push open a door and duck inside. There’s cabinets lining one wall, a sink and a refrigerator. A table sits in the middle of the room, looking lonely with only four chairs. The rest of the room is bare, off-white walls and all.
You freeze in the doorway. “Am I supposed to be in here?” you ask. “This looks suspiciously close to a breakroom.”
“Doctor’s lounge,” he corrects. “And you’re VIP. No need to go all the way to the cafeteria when I can just make you a cup here.” The door clicks shut behind the both of you, your shoulders relaxing at the sudden quiet.
Noticing your relaxation, Langdon gives you another soft smile as he steps towards the coffee machine. “Take a seat. Enjoy the quiet while you can.” He nods his head towards the chairs.
Flashing him a grateful smile, you sit down, even if your body still ached from being next to Miss Robin’s bed all night. You balance your chin on the palm of your hand, watching as he places the coffee pot into the machine and presses start.
“So,” you start, desperate to fill the silence, “how have you been in the last decade?”
His arms cross over his chest as he turns to face you, leaning back against the counter. “You don’t have to say it like that, you know. Makes us sound ancient.”
“I feel that way,” you volley.
“Fair enough.”
Another crooked grin. He takes a deep inhale as he shuffles on his feet, looking up at the ceiling as if trying to remember everything that happened. “Well, I went to med school. Chose emergency medicine pretty quickly. I like the rush.”
You nod in response, eyes flickering down as he turns around to gather the coffee pot.
He carefully pours some into a singular mug as he continues speaking. “I married Abby.” He notes, octave raising as if waiting for your surprise. “We have two kids. Tanner’s four and Penny’s two. I got them a dog, too, which she wasn’t too happy about..”
Slight disappointment blooms in your chest at the idea of him being married. You’re not sure why you’re shocked, however, as Abby and Frank had been connected at the hip when they had started dating in high school. It had broken your little teenage heart to see them together, especially after pining for him all year and hoping that asking for answers would turn into more.
The two kids were definitely a shocker. You tried to imagine the Frank that you had known as a father, reckless and loose-limbed. Did his son have the same charm to him that made him get everything he wanted? Was his daughter as discreetly empathetic?
He gestures to the cream and sugar, in which you snap out of your imagination and nod.
“Abby and I officially divorced a few months ago, though.” He reveals as he pours, tongue darting out to stick between his lips in focus.
You can’t stop the unhinging of your jaw in surprise, his nonchalant tone throwing you off. Langdon looks amused as he sets your coffee mug down in front of you, settling into the seat next to you.
“Sorry. Uhm, I’m sorry to hear that.” The cup covers your blush as you bring it to your lips, taking a slow sip and trying not to wince at the sting on your tongue.
He shakes it off with a shake of his head, another strand of hair draping over his forehead. There’s no move to push them away from his eyes.
“It’s okay. It was for the best.” The reassuring smile he gives you doesn’t contradict his statement, so you allow yourself to relax again. After a beat, he speaks again. “What about you? Husband? Wife? Kids? Pets?”
A laugh bubbles out of you before you can stop it, fingers tightening around your mug as you shake your head. “God, no. Not even close.” Your tongue runs along your bottom lip to catch a stray drop of coffee, ignoring the way Frank’s eyes flicker downwards at the movement. “I inherited my grandmother’s house here in Pittsburgh when she passed, which is when I moved in next to Miss Robin. Since then, I’ve just been focusing on work.”
“What do you do?” He asks, sounding so genuinely curious that your heart skips one singular beat.
The good news is that if you end up having a heart attack, there’s a doctor right in front of you. Did they still do mouth-to-mouth these days?
You squirm nervously in your seat, stretching out that one taut muscle in your back. “I’m a mental health social worker. I work at a community health center.”
That seems to sit with him for a moment, an unrecognizable emotion flashing across his face before he settles it. His eyebrows raise as he leans back more, a hand sprawled on the table in front of him. “Really?” he asks. “That means there could be a world where we ended up at a hospital together.”
There goes that heart fluttering again. You press the heel of your palm into the middle of your sternum to try and calm it, reminding yourself that Frank Langdon was just charming, not the prince of Pittsburgh. “What a world that’d be,” is the only response you can think of.
Langdon grins at you again, quiet for a moment. He goes to answer when the door to the doctor’s lounge creaks open, his attention immediately turning.
“Dr. Langdon? I was wondering if I could get a consult on the toddler in South 15.” A blonde asks tentatively, poking just her head in. Her hair is tied back in a tight braid, thick glasses perched on her nose. She looks at you, eyes widening before looking back at the man across from you. “It can wait.”
His hand raises to stop her from leaving, pressing his palm into the table as he rises to his feet. “No worries, Mel, we were just catching up.” He takes a couple steps until just his fingertips are resting on the wood, looking down at you. “Do you think you’ll be able to find your way back?”
Not wanting to take up anymore of his time, you stand up abruptly, grabbing the cup. “Oh, yeah, no problem.” Your feet carry you towards the sink, ready to toss out the rest of your drink.
Frank’s fingers close around your bicep before you can do so, still sporting a soft grin. “Take it with you. I can grab it when I come to discharge your neighbor.”
He lets go of your arm before heading towards the door, spinning around and walking backwards when he gets closer to it. His hand reaches behind him to grab it handle, pushing it down and opening without looking. “If you need anything, tell one of the nurses to get me, okay? I’ll be around.”
The door shuts behind him before you can finish saying “thank you,” leaving you stranded in the doctor’s lounge with a lukewarm cup of coffee in your hands.
Once you find your way back to Robin’s makeshift room, after fumbling around for way less time than you thought you would, you’re immediately greeted with a knowing grin.
“What are you smiling at?” You accuse, pinching your eyebrows at her as you hover near the wall. The idea of sitting down again makes every ache pulse.
A girlish giggle leaves her lips. “You have a crush on my doctor.”
The crochet hook in her hands, produced from her stuffed purse, click against her wedding ring as she loops a green thread of yarn through a black one. Earlier, she had insisted that she was making you a scarf in exchange for helping her out this morning, but right now it just looks like a handkerchief.
An unattractive snort quickly spills out of you. “I had a crush on your doctor before he was even a doctor. Don’t act like you just figured out the secrets to the universe.” You tilt your chin up at her before pointedly looking at the project in your lap. “Get back to your crocheting, grandma.”
By eight-thirty, you’ve called into work with a lame excuse about how you were sick with some odd stomach bug. Still, the curtain doesn’t peel open until an hour later, Frank’s head popping through first before the rest of his body follows.
“Sorry for the wait,” he apologizes immediately. The muscles in his hand tense as he closes the curtain, the flex not lost on you. “We always get a morning rush from patients who forced themselves to push through their symptoms for the night.”
Unfortunately, the coffee from earlier hadn’t outweighed the exhaustion that stemmed from sitting in the emergency department longer than you had slept. You’re practically deadweight where you’re slouched against the wall, earning you an apologetic smile that you let yourself sleepily enjoy.
Pointer finger tapping away at a tablet, Langdon speaks without looking up. “Your CT shows no breaks or fractures. Your initial examination when you were brought in shows no signs that we should be worried for internal bleeding or head injury.” He glances up through his eyelashes at Robin, lips pulling into a friendly smile. “I’ll do one more exam just to make sure nothing’s shown up to surprise us, but we should be good to discharge you shortly.”
“God bless,” you grumble beneath your breath. It’s quiet, and meant to be private, however it’s obvious by the huff of a laugh Frank gives you that he heard.
Your focus is basically gone as he examines Robin, fingers gentle along her skin as he checks every spot she had banged and bruised. His hands press into her abdomen to check for sensitivity, those strands hanging in front of his face as he leans over.
You drift off to the sound of him and Miss Robin talking about what she was crocheting, your temple pressed to the cool wall.
An hour later, according to the clock on the wall, you’re roused by a hand on the shoulder. To your surprise, Robin’s standing above you, her other hand on her purse. “Sorry to wake you, but I do need a ride home.”
“Don’t apologize,” you rasp. You press your fingers into your eyes before standing up, jaw falling in a large yawn. “I’ll pull the car around for you.”
Glancing around at the emptiness of the room, the corners of your lips pull down for a moment. “Did I miss Fr - Dr. Langdon?”
She glances at you knowingly, lips pulled into a reassuring smile. “He hasn’t come back since he did my exam earlier. A nurse brought me the paperwork.” Her pointer finger pokes into your shoulder. “Guess he didn’t have much to come back for since you were asleep.”
You fix her with a grumpy scowl before swatting her hand away, rising to your feet with a soft grunt. “I’m letting you sit here alone next time.”
The older woman’s laugh echoes behind you as you step out from behind the curtain. You duck through the swarms of people that have suddenly flooded the place in the hours you had been there. Blinking through the sleepy haze over your eyes, you move towards the exit, stopped only by the sound of your name.
“Hey! Did Miss Sheffield get her discharge papers?” Langdon’s way too peppy compared to your exhaustion, a bright light in his blue eyes. “I meant to stop by to say goodbye, but then a trauma came in, and then my patient coded.” He trails off, obviously not wanting to bring the mood down.
He shoulders up beside you as you continue walking, an airy swagger to his walk. There’s no move to stop you from walking, just simply joining you in your stroll towards the exit.
“It’s alright,” you assure. “Apparently some nurse brought them by. She’s still in the room while I bring my car around, if you’d like to say goodbye now.”
Frank looks over his shoulder for a moment before back at you, head tilting thoughtfully. “I’ll walk you out first. I can get her situated in a wheelchair while you’re driving.”
Next to you, he’s the picture of nonchalance. Despite the crazy job he has and the lives that are constantly in his hands, there’s not a single wave of nervousness radiating off of him. His shoulders are down away from his ears, his arms swinging at his sides, each step sure.
He’s always been more confident. A chatterbox inside of class, sat next to the quiet students in hopes it’d quell his attention deficiency. The type to toss a wadded up piece of paper into a trash can and holler when it actually goes in, despite only being a few steps away. A loser covered up in a cloak of charm and confidence.
It’s odd to see it become useful professionally, for him to find the perfect place to turn that energy into something good. If someone had asked you what you thought his life-time career had ended up being before today, you would’ve guessed he had gone into real estate.
“It’s nice to see you again.” You repeat the same words he had said to you earlier, although there’s something gentler. “This job seems to really suit you.”
Frank’s head turns to pass you a grin, eyes flickering around at the emergency department like he’s looking at it in a different light. “I enjoy it,” he admits. “The rush of constantly moving, the ‘helping people’ aspect. There’s been more than a few bad days, but I try to remind myself that the good outweighs the bad.”
A smile plays on your lips without you even registering it there, chuckling lightly. “Never thought the day I’d see you serious about anything.” You note with a playful raise of your brow.
His lips part in a puckish gasp. “What? I was focused,” he insists.
“Yeah. Focused on Natalie Jefferson,” you shoot back.
That turns his mock surprise into his signature coprophagous grin, eyes rolling and head rolling with them. “I was not focused on Natalie.” His tongue touches the corner of his mouth for just a moment as he watches you, shifting around the people moving through the halls like it’s a second nature.
“You totally were!” Your energy has slowly returned, skipping your next step so that you could turn to face him more. “I’d turn around to look at you and you’d be staring directly at her when the board was in front of me. You stole her seat when she got up so that she’d talk to you when she came back.”
A laugh rumbles out of him, shaking his head again. He says your name with an emphasis, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. When he notices your pointed look, he exhales heavily, shoulders falling. “I wasn’t looking at her.”
You groan. “I may have worn glasses, Frank, but I could still see.”
“I wasn’t looking at her,” he insists. After a beat of you giving a blank stare, he tries to push down his smile. “I was looking at you. But then you’d turn around and look at me, so I’d look away. Usually at Natalie, who just happened to be sitting next to you.”
His focus moves to in front of him, giving a passing nurse a friendly smile. “And I’d sit in her seat so I could talk to you better.” Those blues return back to you, calmer and more knowing. “Because I liked talking to you, but could never find a reason.”
For a moment, you just stare at him, eyebrows pinched in confusion. You try to make sense of what he’s telling you, but can’t seem to find what he’s trying to bring up.
Finally, the two of you breach the doorway leading outside, right in front of the crosswalk heading towards the parking lot. His fingers curl around your bicep to stop you, turning you to face him. “Confession time?”
A bit dumbfounded, and definitely stunned by the feel of his hand still on your arm, you dazedly look up at him. Slowly, you nod.
“I didn’t need your answers.” Despite the confession, he keeps his bright grin. The only evidence of his bashfulness is the pink on his cheeks, slowly creeping to the tips of his ears. “I thought you were pretty, so I needed a reason to talk to you. I figured you assumed I was a stupid annoyance, which you were right, so I thought that asking you for answers to homework and tests would be the easiest way to get to know you.”
Frank shuffles on his feet, looking over your shoulder to ensure none of his coworkers were around. “But then nothing ever happened, so I thought you didn’t like me and I tried to move on.”
Your jaw has been dropped for the last couple minutes, taking in everything he was telling you. Disbelief crawls up your body like a hot flash, along with playful annoyance at the way he just keeps fucking smiling at you. Finally, your hand whips out to smack his bicep, scowling at him.
“Frank!” You scold, because you’re not sure what else to do. “I had a crush on you, you idiot! I didn’t talk to you outside of schoolwork because I thought that’s all you wanted to talk to me for! You idiot!”
You slap him again purely because you feel like it, only letting a smile grace your face when he takes a singular step back and laughs.
After both of you finish laughing at the absurdity of it all, shaking off the remnants of your giggle, he raises his hand to rub it along his clean-shaven. “Wow. Teenage Frank really messed that one up, didn’t he?”
Rather than assure him, you purse your lips, nodding. “He did.”
He sighs, eyes caught on your face like he’s unable to pull them away. There’s a moment of silence before he speaks again, softer. “Well, can’t repeat that, can I?” He shoves his hands into his pockets, shoulders still low and relaxed. “Can I take you out to dinner sometime?”
“Depends. Are you going to look at another girl every time I try to make eye contact?”
“I promise you that my eyes will only be on you. And the server.” Langdon holds up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
By the third hour of the meeting, scrolls were littered the long table and tea had gone cold hours ago. Ministers droned on about trade disputes and naval routes while the sunset bled orange through the palace windows and despite being the Fire Lord, Zuko had paid attention to almost none of it because his daughter was asleep on his chest.
She had started the meeting in your arms, warm and fussy after feeding, but the second Zuko held out his hands for her, she settled immediately. Now she rested against him in a tiny bundle of crimson silk, cheek squished against the dark fabric of his robes while her small fist clung weakly to his collar.
The sight alone had nearly killed you the first time you saw it months ago.
One hand supported her back while the other rested protectively over her tiny body, thumb absentmindedly stroking slow patterns whenever she stirred. The entire room stopped breathing when she made the faintest little whine in her sleep. Zuko gently bounced the baby once against his chest, his voice quiet and soft.
“It’s alright.” Once she settled again, he lifted his eyes back toward the minister.
“…Continue.”
You sat beside him quietly, watching him from the corner of your eye while pretending to listen to the meeting. Truthfully, you were exhausted. Motherhood has changed a lot. Your body still aches some days, sleep came in fragments now and you couldn’t remember the last time you’d eaten a meal without interruption.
But then moments where Zuko looked at your daughter like she hung the moon itself in the sky happened and it was all worth it. The meeting dragged on another hour before the final advisor finally bowed.
“That concludes today’s reports, Fire Lord.” Zuko nodded once dismissing them.
The room emptied out and you were met with silence finally. Zuko leaned back heavily in his chair with a long exhale.
“She survived her first council meeting,” he murmured quietly to the baby.
“I think she handled it better than some of the ministers.” You laughed softly, stretching your arms above your head as tension left your shoulders.
“Hm.” he looked down at her with ridiculous seriousness.
“She has better judgment.” You leaned toward him slowly, unable to stop smiling. The candlelight painted gold across his scarred face and his hair had come loose during the meeting, dark strands falling over tired amber eyes.
He looked exhausted but peaceful. You brushed your fingers lightly over the baby’s soft hair.
“She slept almost the entire time.” you cooed at her
“She likes being near me.” he responded
“She likes warmth.” you snorted.
At first, after she’d been born, he’d been terrified to hold her. You still remembered the way his hands shook the first time the midwives placed her in his arms.
“What if I hurt her?” he asked quietly.
You had almost cried hearing it.
Because he held her as if she was too precious to touch. And sometimes you caught him pacing the nursery in the middle of the night whispering little stories to her when he thought you were asleep. Your heart ached just thinking about it. He looks at you with a softened look in his eye.
“What?” you asked carefully.
His thumb brushed across the baby’s back once.
“We should have another one.”
You stared at him in disbelief.
“…Another what?”
“Baby.”
“You are currently holding a baby.” you blinked slowly.
“Yes.” he nodded
“And you want another one.”
“Yes.”
“Zuko.”
“I’m serious.” His lips twitched slightly at your tone.
You laughed in disbelief, “I just carried this one for nine months.”
“And you did beautifully.”
“That is not the point.”
“You’re a wonderful mother.”
Your face warmed. “That’s still not the point.”
“I didn’t know I could feel like this,” he admitted quietly.
You leaned your head against his shoulder gently, exhaustion melting into warmth, your daughter sleeping peacefully between you both. Zuko turned his head slightly, pressing a lingering kiss against your temple.
“One more,” he murmured again.
You groaned and rolled your eyes.
“Oh my spirits, you are unbelievable.”
“I think she needs a sibling.”
“She can barely hold her own head up.”
“She’ll learn,” he said, raising his brow.
“That is not how this works.” you breathe out.
Zuko’s shoulders shook slightly with quiet laughter before he looked at you again with a more serious expression
“You know,” he said softly, “seeing you hold her for the first time… I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone the way I loved you at that moment.”
Your breath caught in your throat and your eyes burned with tears.
“You cannot say things like that after asking me for another baby.”
“Why not?” he asks while giving your daughter a kiss on the crown of her head.
“Because then I can’t argue properly.”
A grin tugged at his mouth. “Good."
Disclaimer: I don't own Rights to any Characters mentioned nor do I consent to plagiarism of any kind. Thankyou ;)
Tags: @strangeprincessblog @cinnamongirlkisses @amethyst09 @skyavyel @butterflygirlblogg @ayannasinterlude @uchihabbynic @annichka
Line Divider: @cursed-carmine
ᦏ 🐏 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐄 𓏵 ₊ in which , dean sees his first grey hair 𓈒
𝒑𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 ꒰ older ! dean winchester x fem ! reader
𓃮 ﹗ fluff ◟ angst ? ◟ age gap ( reader is a few years younger , no age precised except mid-thirties ) ◟ established relationship ◟ able - bodied ◟ black ! fem ! reader ◟ reader has curls ◟ s14-15 ! dean ✴︎ 𝒎𝓲𝗻𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁
⠀ 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 !
⠀𓊈 ♰ 𓊉 ⠀݁⠀⠀⠀˖⠀⠀ 𓃭 ⠀゛⠀𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐒 𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐓 . He knows you like that too, his older features added maturity. Something Dean never suspected until Sam and you pointed it out a few weeks ago when he declined going to the bar, saying he was way too tired and wanted to go home to finally catch some hours of sleep he wasted during your last hunt.
However, he hadn't expected to see silver hairs scattered here and there among his beard. It was way too soon for him to be called and seen as an old man. It was something he used to call John, Bobby. Anyone, really, older than him. It was affectionate in his own way. But now he has to be designated as a middle aged man ? Hell no.
What would you think ? The thought wasn’t meant to bloom but it did anyway and that got the older Winchester to sweat a little, lean forward the mirror and take a better look at the grey hair in his three days beard under the champagne light drowning the bathroom. You were younger than him, only a few years. You looked great in your thirties, letting your hair grow longer, finally taking care of your damaged curls - you never had time to properly treat them.
He was being self conscious about it, he knew that. Dean always made sure to look good, treat himself whenever he could. Even when it was some junk food bought on the road, sided with milkshakes or beer.
“ Dean ? “ Hearing your voice , he straightened and casually reached for the sink, opening the running water to splash some on his face. “ I thought you were tired.”
You padded into the room still wearing your clothes from today, a pair of jeans and a lavender baby-tee. The golden pendant you’re wearing glittered faintly under the light.
“ Yeah.” He turned off the water, emerald eyes lancing at you through the glass. You walk up behind him and circle your arms around him. You craved him just enough for you to tighten your embrace and nuzzle your cheek onto his back.
“ You good ?”
“ Always am.” He feels you leave his back for a few seconds then your chin dips in his shoulder blade.
“ We both know that’s not always the truth.” And you are right. Dean ? It was easy for him to act foolish when it came to his well-being. He would brush it away with a shrug, go back to whatever he was doing. It was like words left your lips only to disappear into thin air, as if they never existed. Here, he was quiet. Too quiet, too still. Something occupied his mind. You don’t want to press him yet you are desperate for him to talk to you.
He never wants you to shut down, to feel bad, to get hurt. When it’s his turn ? Oh, everyone acts as if he’s gonna die because the truth is that he actually risks his life. Lord knows he was lucky enough to be saved from rotting six feet under many times.
“ You remember about that time I told you I got old ? ”
A smile forms on your lips. One you can’t refrain. You remembered that story very well. It was a long time ago and you weren't in the picture yet. It was about a year after he died and came back from hell , you were told by Sam and Dean — as well — on a random night while the three of you stayed in the unique motel room you could afford.
“ Oh yeah. Why are you asking me if I remember it ? Got something you never told Sam ? Me ? ” You question.
“ No it’s—something else sweetheart. ” You don’t move or say anything for a few seconds. The silence stretches between you two until he finally talks again. “ I’m getting old. ”
“ Like…me , ” your chin leaves his shoulder blade. Your hands slid from his soft tummy to hold his arms between your limbs. “ Like everyone. ”
He says your name in a way that feels painful for him. “ No. I’m really getting old. ” Despite knowing you can’t see his face , he lowers his head. Your brows met atop your lids.
You decide to step from behind him and place yourself at his side. He turns his head in your direction, meets your eyes then quickly snaps them away. That’s when you finally see it too. A small silver hair surfacing right there on his cheek. “ Now what , those scare you ? ”
“ Yeah—fuck. If it wasn’t just that. ”
You tilt your head on the side. He stays quiet and that’s enough for you to acknowledge his silence.
“ You checked down there , too ? ”
“ No. Not yet. I don’t want to, though. ” He exhaled. “ I’m just thinking, I’m getting old and you might not—”
You interrupted him , knowing what was about to exit his pretty lips. “ I might not, what , hate it ? You know it ain’t gonna happen. Dean , I genuinely fucking love you. I wouldn’t mind anything about your looks. Even if you get a dad bod. ”
He frowns. The fuck is a dad bod ?
“ If so , I think that adds…a little extra. ”
“ What extra ? ” He looks at you while you decrease the distance between you , your hand hovered over his shoulder until it set on his bicep. The same you liked to be wrapped in and belonged to the man you loved whom you find ridiculously cute getting worked up over his first grey hair.
“ I dunno…the DILF kind of extra. ”
He huffs , amused by your attempt at flirtation. “ I’m not even a dad , sweetheart. ”
“ Not yet. ” Your chirped , standing on your toes to leave a kiss on his cheek. He smirks and turns fully to catch your hips and bring you against him.
“ That sounds like a threat. Should I be scared ? ”
── You don't like crowds. That's alright, 𝑆𝘩𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑜 doesn't either. In fact, he wishes he could spend all of his time with you instead of forcing himself to socialize. It's just... so much better. Hitoshi has been a solitary person since childhood. He used to believe that it's due to the isolation he experienced because of his quirk — that he learned to live without the help of others. However, some of it must lie in his character already. For even now, despite being surrounded by people who don't judge him for his abilities, who go so far as to admire him for them, he prefers his dorm over their presence from time to time.
Sure, it's nice to know that they care about him and some chaos can be fun, too. However, he found that the perfect balance is you. You in his room, preferably. Isolation feels good, feels incredible when you're there with him. Hitoshi hasn't ever felt as seen as he does with your observant eyes on him and no conversation ever came close to those you share in the quiet hours away from everyone else. Frankly, to say he has fallen for you would be an understatement. He needs to be alone with you because that's where he can concentrate completely on you, without the distractions of company. Your mind is brilliant and your words seem to sparkle. He wants to know your every thought, and he desires to be for you what you are for him... someone who cares. Because he does, deeply.
Whenever you're sitting on his bed next to him, telling him whatever passes through your mind at the moment (unfiltered, because you don't feel the need to hide away with him) his lavender eyes lock on you, glued to your lips. He focuses on the smallest of facial impressions to gauge your feelings, the shadow hushing over your face when you speak about something that worries you and the excited smile when you ask for his opinion on a topic. It makes him want to kiss you. You fascinate him.
Hitoshi is glad that you prefer shared solitude over company as well, because those cherished hours shut off from the outside are his favorite in the whole world.
sleepy!hitoshi who isn't really an insomniac. people usually tend to assume that because of his appearance. he can't blame them, it's true that he doesn't get a lot on sleep with school and all the extra training. however, that doesn't mean he doesn't get tired.
sleepy!hitoshi who suffers from quirk side-effects. his mind always works on highspeed, rarely keeping quiet enough to allow him to fall asleep. sometimes he wishes he could experience brainwash himself, emptying his consciousness.
sleepy!hitoshi resembles a cat. curling up in comfy spaces, sunlit and so, so warm.
sleepy!hitoshi who feels strangely at ease in your presence. comfy spaces soon becomes anywhere close to you.
sleepy!hitoshi who once fell asleep on your shoulder without meaning to. but he was so tired and your breathing so calming... when he apologizes afterwards, you tell him that you don't mind. you're friends, after all!
sleepy!hitoshi develops a habit of seeking you out when he has to take a nap. the common room, your dorm, wherever. he used to have difficulties falling asleep if not under special circumstances (like his bed, when the room was dark and completely quiet). now, his racing mind becomes all soft and as soon as you're present.
sleepy!hitoshi who sometimes purrs at you in his sleep. one time, after studying together in your dorm and talking for a while, he got tired and you let him put his head in your lap to rest. he was already almost asleep, on the brink of entering dreamland, but then you began running your fingers through his hair. he has never felt this comfortable! you thought it was cute, how he purred like a happy cat. didn't tell him when he woke up an hour later, lest he get embarrassed.
sleepy!hitoshi who is grateful that you don't find it weird of him to nap in your presence. his sleeping schedule is so disturbed that he can really use the extra energy, and nothing fills up his social battery like this.
sleepy!hitoshi who isn't sleepy in the sense that he doesn't take notice of the outside world. it's his default state — he manages. in fact, he's very observant. he notices everything about you, especially. probably because he pays it special attention.
sleepy!hitoshi who doesn't hesitate to have you join his nap when you're overworking yourself. aizawa had announced a test for next week. you didn't even need to worry about it, in his opinion, since you were very well prepared and one of the best students of class 1A. you still did, sitting at your desk the whole afternoon, trying to fill your head with knowledge you'd already stored. he'd been watching you from his favorite spot on your bed for a while now. when you absentmindedly massage your neck to relieve the pressure that had accumulated while you tensed up over this stupid test, he decides it's enough.
sleepy!hitoshi who gets up and takes the pen out of your hands, giving you a look. you protest at first, but he insists that no matter how much more you study, you won't get any better because you're already best. he gently reminds you of your achievements and claims that rest is just as important so the knowledge will settle. you can't argue with that and let him pull you into your bed.
sleepy!hitoshi who covers the two of you with your favorite blanket, keeping his distance to ensure that you're comfortable (even though the bed is way to small for two people).
sleepy!hitoshi who is a little relieved when you paw at his shoulder, signaling for him to come closer. he would have been perfectly fine with just watching over you, paying the price of a stiff neck tomorrow if it meant you could get some well earned rest — but this is better.
sleepy!hitoshi who holds you close to him, letting you bury your face in his worn out sweatshirt (your favorite of his) and tries to not fall asleep instantly but wait for you to do so first.
sleepy!hitoshi who is happy he did, because sleepy you is very cute. you're snoring faintly, holding onto his arm unconsciously as if you're scared he'll leave. he won't. instead, he presses a gentle kiss on the top of your head. pulls you a little closer and then surrenders to sleep as well.
sleepy!hitoshi who thinks sleeping in each others presence is one of the most intimate things in the world. he feels so comfortable with you, comfortable enough to do this and apparently, it's the same for you.
sleepy!hitoshi who loves falling asleep next to you... because he always dreams of you when he does.
A/N- this can be found in the spare keys section of my shop!
enter my shop ♡
Obsessed photographer boyfriend ! Choso who just can’t stop taking pictures of his beautiful girlfriend when the sun hits her melanin skin just right
Cws: mature themes, suggestive content, established relationship, light dom/sub dynamics, obsessive behavior (affectionate), photography, Black reader, admiration of melanin, sexual content.
Choso swore he was gonna stop.
He even said it out loud once—half serious, half distracted.
“Okay… no more pictures...”
That lasted maybe thirty seconds.
Because you stepped into the sunlight again.
“Wow,” he mutters, already reaching for his camera.
“Choso,” you warn, not even turning around.
“Wait, wait—don’t move. Or do move, actually. That’s kinda the point.”
Click.
He’s sprawled across the couch— high outta his mind, hoodie riding up a little, one arm hanging off the side like gravity personally offended him. The window’s open, soft breeze coming in — But his eyes?
Locked. On. You.
Always.
“You’re glowing,” he says, voice slow and low like he’s just realized something important.
“I’m literally just standing here.” You look at him, confused.
“No, you’re like…” he squints slightly, trying to find the words, “reflecting light.”
You blink. “…What does that even mean?”
He shrugs, completely unbothered.
“I don’t know. But it’s true.”
click.
You spin around this time. “Give me your camera.”
“No,” he says instantly, pulling it to his chest like it’s something sacred.
“You have enough!” you pout
“I don’t,” he replies, dead serious. “I thought I did, but then you moved your head like—” he gestures vaguely “—and now there’s a whole new situation happening.”
“A whole new situation??”
“Yeah.”
Click.
“Cho!”
He starts laughing—quiet, a little breathy, like everything is just slightly funnier to him right now.
You try to stay mad, but it’s hard when he looks like that—completely relaxed, completely fascinated, like you’re the only thing his brain is focused on today.
“Come here,” he mumbles.
“I’m not coming over there if you’re just gonna take more pictures.”
“I’m definitely gonna take more pictures.”
“…Choso.”
“But you should still come here.”
You still make your way to his lap.
Big mistake.
Because now you’re closer—and somehow that makes it worse.
He leans in slightly, tilting his head, studying your face like he’s trying to memorize it piece by piece.
“You have like… a million different versions of the same face,” he says softly.
“That is literally how faces work.”
“No, but yours does it better.”
You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch.
He notices.
Of course he notices.
Click.
“You didn’t even warn me!” You pout
“I didn’t wanna mess it up.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I know.”
He says it so easily that it takes the argument right out of you.
For a second, neither of you says anything.
He just looks at you — really looks, eyes a little heavy, but focused in that quiet, intense way that feels way more intentional than it should.
Then his gaze drops slightly.
He tugs your shirt up, trying to show what he wants.
“Hold on,” he murmurs.
This time, he’s slower.
More carefully, he lifts it up and over your head and looks at you with this look.
Like it actually matters.
Click.
He doesn’t check the photo right away. Just stares at your chest for a second longer… then back up at your face.
His eyes drag slowly, deliberately, like he’s taking his time because he can.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, thumb absently tapping the side of the camera. “Knew it.”
You shift a little, suddenly hyper-aware of the way you’re sitting in his lap. “Knew what?”
“That you’d look better like this.” His gaze flicks back down to your chest
“Should’ve done it earlier.”
Your face heats. “You’re unbelievable.”
He smirks, lazy. “You’re the one who crawled into my lap, sweetheart.”
The hand not holding the camera comes up, fingers brushing the underside of your breast. He doesn’t ask this time—just watches your face as he touches you, testing, gauging.
“You can tell me to stop,” he says, voice low. “But you’re not going to, are you?”
Your breath catches, and that’s all the answer he needs.
His fingers spread, palm cupping you properly now, thumb dragging over the fabric covering your nipple. It’s not an accident, not a brush. It’s intentional.
The sharp little sound you make has his mouth curving.
“There it is,” he mutters. “You sound so pretty.”
Click.
Your head jerks at the sound. “Choo!”
“Relax,” he says easily, like he’s not palming your chest and hard under you. “I told you. I’m not wasting this.”
You shift, meaning to pull away, but all it does is grind you down against him. His grip on your waist tightens instantly, fingers digging in just enough to keep you there.
“Stay,” he says, a quiet command.
You freeze.
He laughs under his breath, eyes going half-lidded. “Yeah. Just like that.”
“You’re the worst,” you breathe, but your hands are already curling in the fabric of his hoodie to steady yourself.
He tilts his head, studying you. “You’re shaking.” His tone is almost amused, but there’s a darker thread in it. “You that worked up from a few pictures?”
“From you touching me,” you snap, flustered.
“Mm.” He sounds satisfied at that. “Good answer.”
The camera strap is looped around his wrist; he shifts it, bringing the lens up close, angling it so it catches the curve of your chest, your flushed throat, the dazed look in your eyes.
“Look at me,” he says.
You do.
Click.
“Perfect,” he murmurs.
His free hand slides under your bra now, no hesitation, thumb brushing over your nipple, skin to skin. Your back arches before you can stop it, pressing you into his touch.
“There she goes,” he says softly, like he’s been waiting for this. “Knew you’d give it to me.”
You gasp. “You’re so—” your words break on a moan when he rolls your nipple between his fingers, “—full of yourself.”
“Someone has to be,” he says. “You clearly don’t get what you do to me.”
You feel him, thick and hard under you, his hips shifting up just enough to make sure you notice.
“What I—” You snap. “What I do to you?”
He hums, pleased you picked up on it.
“Look at you,” he says, voice dropping. “Half naked in my lap, clinging to me, dripping all over my sweats—”
“I am not—”
He drags his hand down your stomach, over the front of your shorts. His palm presses firmly, knuckles nudging your clit through the fabric. You jolt.
“Yeah, you are,” he says calmly. “You feel that?”
Your thighs tense around his hips.
“Thought so.”
Click.
“Choso.” Your voice cracks on his name.
He just laughs quietly, breath warm against your jaw as he leans in. “Keep saying my name like that, and I’m not gonna make it through this sober.”
“You’re already high,” you manage.
“Exactly,” he says. “I’m fucked either way. Might as well enjoy it.”
He abandons the camera for a moment, letting it hang from his wrist, both hands coming to your waistband. He tugs once, testing.
“Up,” he says.
It takes your brain a second to catch up. “Up?”
“Lift your hips for me, love.” His tone leaves no room for argument.
You do.
He pulls your shorts and underwear down in one smooth, unhurried drag, knuckles brushing your thighs on the way. The cool air hits you, and you shiver.
He notices. Of course he does.
“There she is,” he murmurs, eyes dropping between your legs with open hunger. “Knew you were gonna look perfect everywhere.”
You go to close your thighs on instinct, but his hands are already there, thumbs pressing into the soft inside skin, guiding you open again.
“Nah,” he says quietly. “Let me see you.”
Your face burns. “You’re so—”
“Obsessed?” he offers, not even pretending otherwise. “Yeah. I am.”
Click.
You glare weakly. “Did you just—”
“This one’s non-negotiable,” he tells you, eyes not leaving the way you glisten for him. “You’re wet enough to wreck me from looking, and you think I’m not taking that?”
Your whole body pulses at his words.
He finally sets the camera aside—within reach, always within reach—but his focus is on you now, entirely.
“C’mon,” he says, voice soft but sure. “Come closer.”
You shift forward, and he drags you in that last inch, seating you fully over his lap, his cock nestled right against your slick heat through his sweats. Both of you breathe a little harder.
“Fuck,” he exhales, eyes fluttering shut for a second. When he opens them again, they’re darker. Sharper. “Yeah. That’s it.”
His fingers slide between your thighs, finding you easily. The first slow drag of his fingertips through your slick has your head tipping back.
“There you go,” he says, almost praising.
“Shut up,” you whine, clenching around nothing.
He laughs, low. “You keep telling me to shut up, but you keep doing what I want. Which one is it?”
He circles your clit with his thumb, not teasing—just the right pressure, the right speed, like he’s already mapped you out in his head.
You choke on a moan and grab at his shoulders.
“There you go,” he repeats, satisfied. “Hold on to me.”
Two fingers slide into you, filling you in one smooth push, the stretch sharp for a second before it melts into molten heat.
“Fuck—” you gasp.
“Yeah, I know,” he says, like he’s the one being done to. “Tight thing, aren’t you?”
Your walls flutter around him, and he groans, dropping his head to your chest for a second like he has to breathe through it.
“Careful,” he mutters against your skin. “You keep squeezing me like that, and I’m gonna forget the camera exists.”
“Good,” you manage. “You’re—ah—annoying with it.”
He pulls back just enough to look up at you.
“Yeah?” His thumb finds your clit again, rubbing tight, precise circles that have your thighs shaking. “Funny, you don’t sound annoyed.”
You’re already close, the coil in your stomach is wound tight — your body rocking helplessly into his hand.
He feels it.
“There you go,” he says, voice going soft and intent. “You gonna cum for me?”
“Y-yeah,” you breathe.
“Say it.”
Your brain sparks white for a second. “I’m—fuck—I’m gonna cum.”
“Good girl,” he says, and the words punch the air out of your lungs.
Click.
You snap your eyes open. “Did you—”
“Needed that one,” he says calmly. “Don’t worry, it’s mine. No one else gets to see you like this.”
His fingers curl just right, thumb grinding down, and that’s it—that’s all it takes.
The orgasm hits hard, ripping through you in waves, your whole body tightening around his fingers. You hear yourself moan his name, loud and wrecked, feel your nails dig into his shoulders.
He watches you fall apart like he’s been waiting his whole life for this.
“Fuck, look at you,” he groans, thrusting his fingers through your aftershocks, drawing them out. “That’s it. Ride it out for me. There you go.”
You collapse against him, shaking, breathing hard. He presses a slow kiss to your shoulder, then your neck, like he’s grounding you back in your body.
“Still with me?” he asks quietly.
You nod weakly.
“Good,” he says, voice dropping again. You feel him shift under you, the hard line of him pressing more insistently against your slick heat. “’Cause I’m nowhere near done with you yet.”
His hand leaves you just long enough to grab the camera again.
“Choso,” you warn.
He just smirks
“Relax,” he says, angling the lens down as his other hand grabs your hip, guiding you over him.
His eyes roam over your body like he owns every inch.
“This,” he murmurs, finger tightening on the shutter, “is the good part.”
Click.
A/N- I hope this long ahh fic is enough to feed u guyssss
Hear me out Husband!Zuko with a wife and daughter who love his hair, like he'll always have a cute clip or hairtie in it that were obviously and messily put there by a little girl or his wife always braiding or brushing his hair always touching it and the 2 of them freaking out if Zuko as much as jokes about cutting it :p
The clip was crooked, again.
Zuko sighed as he reached up, fingers brushing against the little butterfly-shaped hair accessory that had been jammed..somewhat violently, into his topknot. One wing was tilted at a sharp angle, the other threatening to slide free entirely. He could already hear the indignant squeak his daughter would make if he dared fix it. "No, Daddy! That's how I put it!"
"Daddy, you moved it!" Izumi’s voice cracked like a whip from across the kitchen, her tiny feet slapping against the tiles as she charged toward him. Zuko froze, hand still hovering near his hair. The five-year-old skidded to a stop in front of him, arms crossed, her pout so severe it made her cheeks puff like an offended turtleduck. "I told you! It’s supposed to look like that!”
Zuko lowered his hand slowly, the way one might retreat from an agitated badgermole. "I was just... checking if it was secure," he lied, resisting the urge to touch the lopsided clip again. From the stove, You snorted without turning around, your shoulders shaking slightly as you stirred breakfast. Traitor.
Izumi squinted up at him, clearly unconvinced. "You always that," she accused, tiny fingers prodding at his knee. "Then you fix it when I’m not looking, and it’s boring after." Her lower lip jutted out further. "Daddy, boring hair is just sad hair."
You chose that moment to abandon the stove, drifting over to inspect Zuko’s topknot with exaggerated solemnity. You tilted your head, humming thoughtfully. "Hmm. You’re right, Koala-Bear. The chaotic aesthetic does suit him." You reached up, deliberately nudging the clip another half-inch off-center. Zuko groaned.
Zuko could feel the butterfly clip listing dangerously to the left now, its position defying gravity and common sense. Izumi clapped her hands in delight, jumping around. "Now it's perfect!" she declared, as if she'd just orchestrated some grand artistic triumph rather than ensuring her father's hair looked like it had survived a windstorm.
The soup bubbled ominously on the stove, forgotten in your momentary betrayal. Zuko shot you a look—half annoyance, half pleading—but you merely arched an eyebrow and reached up to pluck a loose strand of his hair, twisting it absently around your finger. "You know," you mused, "there's a certain charm to Fire Lords who look like they've been mauled by enthusiastic badgerkittens." You say as you giggle.
"Please don't call our child a badgerkitten," Zuko muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched despite himself. Izumi, meanwhile, had already scampered off toward the low dining table, where she was now attempting to balance another hairpin—this one shaped like a tiny flame, on the edge of her rice bowl.
Your fingers lingered in his hair a moment longer, your touch light but deliberate. "Remember when you tried to cut it last year?" You murmured, your voice low enough that Izumi wouldn't overhear. Zuko winced at the memory—the sheer, undiluted horror on both their faces when he'd casually mentioned maybe trimming the ends. Izumi had burst into tears, and you had calmly confiscated every pair of scissors in the palace for a week.
Zuko exhaled through his nose, watching Izumi’s tiny fingers wobble the flame-shaped pin precariously over her bowl. "I still maintain," he muttered to you, "that it was just a thought. A hypothetical."
Your fingertips trailed down to his shoulder, squeezing lightly. “A thought that nearly caused our daughter to declare a strike until you promised to keep your hair forever.” Your lips quirked. "Which, for the record, you did."
Across the room, Izumi’s pin clattered onto the table. She gasped, then immediately scooped it up and brandished it toward Zuko like a tiny sword. "Daddy! Hair time!"
Before he could protest, she'd scrambled onto his lap, her knees digging into his thighs as she stretched upward, pin clutched in her determined little fist. Zuko leaned forward obligingly, years of fatherhood had trained him to anticipate these sudden hair emergencies, and felt the cool metal slide haphazardly into his topknot beside the butterfly.
A/n: It took me longer than I'd like to admit to get these screen shots for my thing cause Tiktok is a pain.
The first time you see it, you genuinely think it’s a rock.
Not even a nice rock. It wasn't smooth or polished or even remotely symmetrical...just… a lumpy, uneven piece of stone hanging from a leather cord that looks like it lost a fight with a dull knife. One side is thicker than the other, the edges are jagged in places, and there’s a very obvious crack running through what was probably supposed to be the center.
You stare at it.
Then you blink.
Then you look back up at Sokka.
He’s standing there in the middle of your shared apartment in Republic City, shoulders squared like he’s about to go into battle, hands awkwardly shoved behind his back like he doesn’t trust them not to betray him, and his face. His face is so serious it almost makes you laugh.
Almost.
“…what is that?” you ask carefully, tilting your head.
Sokka immediately bristles. “Wow. Okay. Great start. Love the enthusiasm. Really feeling the support here.”
“I’m asking,” you say, stepping closer, squinting at the object in his hand. “Because it looks like something you dug out of the street...."
“It is not from the street,” he snaps, offended. “I went all the way out past the lower ring to find that rock.”
“…you’re not helping your case.”
He huffs, dragging a hand down his face before thrusting it toward you with a kind of stubborn determination. “It’s a betrothal necklace.”
You freeze then suddenly the air shifts, just slightly but it's enough that everything suddenly feels heavier, quieter, more real.
Your gaze drops back down to the necklace in his hand, and this time… you look properly.
Really look.
The uneven carving suddenly makes sense. The shallow grooves, too shallow in some places, too deep in others, form a pattern you don’t recognize at first… until you realize it’s meant to be flames. Crude, messy flames curling around the center.
Fire.
You swallow.“…you made this?” your voice comes out softer than you meant it to.
Sokka exhales sharply, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Yeah. I mean...obviously. You think I’d buy one? That’s not how it works.” He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly unable to meet your eyes. “The guy’s supposed to carve it himself. Tradition.”
You step closer.
Carefully, like approaching something fragile, even though the stone itself is anything but delicate.
“It’s…” you pause, choosing your words very, very carefully. “…very handmade.”
“Wow,” he deadpans. “I’m framing that compliment.”
“I’m serious!” you protest, though a smile tugs at your lips. “It’s just....Sokka, this is terrible craftsmanship.”
“I KNOW,” he blurts, throwing his hands up. “Do you think I don’t know that? I broke three tools, I almost lost a finger, and some old guy tried to charge me extra because I was ‘butchering the art of stone carving.’ I get it, okay? It’s not perfect.”
You’re laughing now, unable to help it, but there’s something warm blooming in your chest, something that makes your eyes sting just a little you had to blink a few times.
Because you can see it.
Every uneven line.
Every mistake.
Every stubborn attempt to keep going anyway.
“You made this,” you repeat quietly.
“Yeah,” he mutters, glancing away. “Spent like… two weeks on it. Which, for the record, is two weeks of my life I will never get back.”
Your heart squeezes, a few tears slip free.
“And,” he continues, voice dropping just slightly, “you don’t have to take it. I mean...obviously. No pressure. It’s just a thing. A tradition thing. Cultural. Symbolic. Not a big deal.”
You step into his space, close enough that he finally looks at you again.
“It is a big deal,” you say softly.
His breath catches.
You reach out slowly, taking the necklace from his hand. It’s heavier than you expected, rough against your fingers, warm from where he’s been holding it.
“The design,” you murmur, tracing the uneven carvings. “It’s supposed to be fire, right?”
He nods, a little sheepish. “Yeah. I figured… you know. Firebender. Flames. Symbolism. I’m very deep like that.”
You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head.“It’s crooked,” you add.
“I know.”
“And uneven.”
“I know.”
“And I think this side is thicker than the other.”
“I—yes, okay, thank you, I’ve noticed—”
“And I love it.”
He stops, completetly still now. “…what?”
You look up at him, smiling softly, eyes bright, tears gathered in the corner. “I love it,” you repeat, more firmly this time. “Because you made it. Because you tried. Because you kept going even when it was hard.” Your fingers tighten slightly around the stone. “Because it’s yours.”
Sokka stares at you like you’ve just hit him with a brick.
Emotion flickers across his face. Shock, disbelief, something softer underneath that he doesn’t quite know how to handle. “…it’s still really ugly,” he says weakly.
“Yeah,” you agree immediately. “It’s awful.”
He lets out a strangled laugh.
You step closer, lifting the cord slightly. “Put it on me.”
His breath hitches, eyes wide watching you.“Are you sure?” he asks, suddenly serious again, searching your face. “Because once I do this isn’t just....this means—”
“I know what it means,” you interrupt gently.
Silence stretches between you, thick with everything unspoken and then slowly he nods his head.
His hands are careful, so much more careful than you expected from someone who just admitted to nearly losing a finger as he reaches behind your neck, tying the leather cord securely into place. His fingers brush your skin, warm and a little rough, lingering for just a second longer than necessary.
When he pulls back, the stone settles against your collarbone.
Heavy.
Real.
Yours.
You glance down at it, then back up at him.
“Well?” he asks, suddenly nervous again. “How does it look?”
You tilt your head thoughtfully.“…like a rock.”
He groans. “I walked right into that.”
You grin, stepping forward and grabbing his tunic, pulling him down just enough to press a quick, firm kiss to his lips.
When you pull back, his brain is very clearly not functioning.
“It looks perfect,” you murmur.
And this time, he believes you as he leans down to pull you in for another kiss.
zuko kept thinking to himself with the way you were pressed to his back. the swell of your round belly crowding his space, little baby kicks hitting the middle of his back here and there, your face was pressed flushed against his back in his hair.
twirling a few pieces of his hair through your fingers as you waited for him to be done with his fire lord duties.
if he knew you’d change so much getting pregnant with his baby he would’ve done it sooner.
before it all you never approached him on your own even when you clearly wanted to be around him, keeping distance in fear of getting in the way when he seemed to be working.
staying to yourself almost all the time, going off on your own whenever he was away and when he got back you wouldn’t rush to him.
now you’re on the verge of tears when he takes too long to come back, following him everywhere, even in places you shouldn’t. always touching him in some way.
somehow forgetting what personal space is, though he isn’t complaining too much. he finds it sweet, it’s partly why he does things in your shared chambers now. things as in signing scrolls, or writing important letters and little things.
he still has to watch you poke your lip out when he has to deal with the council, pressing soft kisses to your cheek and promising he’ll be back soon.
“zukooo.” your face sat in a pout. he hums in response, fingers still moving to write on the scroll sitting on the table in front of him.
you let go of his hair, hands coming around and slipping into his robe, the fabric smooth against the back of your hands. “pay attention to me. us.”
“just a moment, i’m finishing up.”
letting out a small huff of frustration, “you always say that!” your hands move around on his chest, using his pecs as stress balls, lightly squeezing here and there. cheek squished on his shoulder in a mean pout.
he smiles to himself, actually finishing up his work so he could pay you the attention you need. he turns his head slightly, hand coming up to cup your jaw, he presses a soft lingering kiss to your lips. “okay, I’m finished.”
he pulls back, eyes narrowing softly, watching the way yours light up.
“good. come rub my belly.” you demanded, crawling around to climb into his lap. your head leaning back against his chest, his eyes widen a bit at the sudden adjustment. slow smile curving at the corner of his lips, he felt like he was watching a cat waiting to be pet. “as you wish my lady.”
he hums leaning forward, chin resting on your shoulder, his hands wrap around your belly. the palms of his hands warming instantly, melting into his touch a small content sigh leaves you, your hands covering his, eyes closed in bliss.
a/n: the edits, the fics. im so happy for the new atla content.
“and then he—zuko, honey, stop for a second,” you laugh, though the sound comes out softer than you mean it to, already dissolving into something fond the moment your hands slide up around his neck. your fingers curl there, warm against his skin, trying—failing—to hold him still.
zuko only hums in response, the sound low and pleased, like he doesn’t quite believe you mean it. his smile presses into your skin, barely there but unmistakable, and he leans in closer instead of pulling away. his nose brushes along your pulse, slow, deliberate, like he’s mapping you out by touch alone, like he’s reacquainting himself with something he’s been away from too long.
“i’m not doing anything,” he murmurs, voice warm and rough in that quiet way that always undoes you. his hand slides along your side and then—light, teasing—he pokes at your waist, right where he knows it will make you react.
you gasp a little, a soft, startled giggle slipping out before you can stop it, your grip tightening around him as if that might ground you, might stop him from continuing.
it doesn’t.
he looks at you, just for a second, lifting his head enough for you to catch it properly—the way he’s softened. there’s no tension in his jaw, no crease between his brows, no weight sitting heavy behind his eyes. his hair is loose, falling around his face in dark, easy strands, catching the low light like ink touched by gold. he looks like a patch of sunlight filtered through warmth, something gentle and alive, something that belongs to quiet evenings instead of council chambers.
it hits you all at once, that contrast.
this is the same man who sits on a throne carved from history, who listens to advisors and generals, who carries treaties and reforms and the future of a nation in his hands. the same man who spends long hours in rooms filled with expectation, who wears his crown like it’s both a duty and a promise. you’ve seen him tired lately—more than he lets on. seen the way his shoulders hold tension even when he thinks no one is looking, the way his voice dips just slightly at the end of the day, worn but still steady.
but here—
here, he is just yours.
and soft.
and so, so warm.
his forehead brushes your jaw, his lips following after, slow and unhurried as he presses small, lingering kisses into your skin. your neck, your cheek, the corner of your mouth—each one like he’s reminding himself you’re real, that you’re here, that this moment belongs to him.
“just… i missed you, my darling,” he murmurs, and there’s something quieter beneath it now. something honest, almost fragile in its simplicity. his arms come around you more fully, pulling you in until there’s no space left between you, like he needs the closeness, like he’s been without it for too long.
your heart stutters, then steadies, then blooms—warm and full, like a flame catching again after being left to dim. you tilt your head slightly, giving him space, letting your hand slide up into his hair, threading through it gently, holding him there as much as he holds you.
“i missed you too,” you whisper back, your voice softer now, matching his, meeting him in that same quiet space.
he stills just enough for you to find his lips.
the kiss is gentle at first, almost tentative, like he’s savoring it, like he doesn’t want to rush something he’s been craving. his hand comes up to cradle your face, thumb brushing lightly along your cheek, grounding himself in the moment. and then he leans in just a little more, deepening it—not urgent, not overwhelming, just… present. warm. steady.
like him.
when he pulls back, it’s only by a breath, his forehead resting against yours, eyes half-lidded and soft in a way that makes your chest ache.
and for a moment, the world outside doesn’t exist.
no throne. no council. no weight of anything waiting for him beyond this room.
just him, and you, and the quiet warmth he’s been holding onto all day—
pairing: ঔঌ firelord! zuko x fem! fiancé! reader
જ⁀➴ sypnosis: You forgot that you didn’t just say yes to Zuko—you said yes to the Firelord.
Now you’re stuck in wedding planning chaos, palace politics, and expectations you never asked for, all while trying to hold onto the pieces of your old life before they slip away completely.
mentions: established relationship, engagement, soft angst but pure fluff at the end
He says it so simply you almost miss it.
For a second, all you can do is stare at him.
Zuko doesn’t look away. He never does when it matters. There’s something steady in his expression—uncertain, maybe, but certain about this.
Your brain doesn’t catch up.
Your body does.
You step forward and throw your arms around him before you can even form a proper answer, gripping him tight like if you let go too soon the moment might disappear.
For half a second, he goes still in surprise.
Then his arms come up around you, slower, careful but firm.
“Was that—” he starts, slightly muffled against your shoulder, “—a yes?”
You let out something between a laugh and a breath.
“Yes!"
If you had known what it really meant to marry the Firelord, you might have taken a second longer before saying it.
“—the ceremonial procession must follow Fire Nation tradition precisely—”
“—and the guest list will require approval from multiple councils—”
“—you will, of course, need to be briefed on appropriate conduct as Fire Lady—”
You blink.
Once.
Twice.
There are too many voices.
Too many people telling you so many things at the same time.
Scrolls are spread across the table in front of you—thick, official, important. Every single one seems to carry expectations you didn’t realize you had agreed to.
You nod at something someone says.
You’re not sure what.
“—the symbolism of the ceremony is deeply tied to Fire Nation history—”
“Right,” you say automatically.
“—and your role will be observed not only domestically but internationally—”
“Of course,” you hear yourself respond.
“—as Firelady, you will represent—”
You stop listening. Not because you want to. Because suddenly, you can’t.
Firelady.
The words don’t sound like you.
They something distant. Fixed. Something people look at.
Judge.
Expect things from.
“—and we will begin etiquette training immediately—”
You stare down at the scroll in front of you.
At the neat, precise ink. At the life that’s already being written out for you in careful, deliberate strokes. Just a few months ago, it had been simple. Just him and you.
Now—
“—there are also expectations regarding public appearances—”
“—and your presence during council gatherings—”
“—and diplomatic responsibilities—”
You swallow. Smile. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a quiet thought slips in— soft, but impossible to ignore.
You’re not just getting married.
You’re becoming something else.
You keep nodding all along with what the advisors are telling you because what else are you supposed to do? Somewhere between saying yes and sitting in this room, the responsibility had… shifted. Not officially. No one had said it outright. But it was there.
Zuko was Firelord.
That meant council meetings, political disputes, rebuilding a nation that had spent a century at war. It meant decisions that couldn’t wait, problems that didn’t pause for something as small as a wedding.
So the wedding—
fell to you.
Not entirely. Not technically.
There were advisors. Planners. Servants. Entire groups of people whose job was to assist.
But every decision still circled back.
Every question still landed in front of you.
Every expectation quietly settled on your shoulders like it had always been meant to.
“—the final approval will, of course, be yours.”
Of course it will. You force a small smile. “Right.”
Because Zuko trusts you. And that should feel reassuring. It does feel reassuring.
…doesn’t it?
“—additionally, there are several traditions you will need to familiarize yourself with as Firelady—”
Firelady.
Again.
You inhale slowly.
Before you can respond, the doors to the chamber swing open with enough force to make half the room flinch.
“GOOD NEWS—!”
You don’t even have to turn around.
Relief hits before you can stop it. “Sokka,” you say.
“—we got your letter!” he continues, striding in like he owns the place, waving a slightly crumpled scroll in the air. “Well—his letter, technically, but I’m counting it as yours because this is clearly a joint life decision—”
Katara is right behind him. “We came as soon as we could,” she says, breath a little rushed but smiling.
Toph walks in last, hands in her pockets. “Took you long enough,” she says.
The tension doesn’t disappear, but it shifts, like someone opened a window and let actual air in.
The advisors look… concerned.
Confused.
One of them clears their throat. “This is a restricted—”
“They’re with me,” you cut in immediately.
And for the first time since this meeting started, that feels like something solid. Something yours.
Sokka makes it two steps into the room before stopping short, staring at the table. “…Why are there so many scrolls?”
You look at him. Then at the table. Then back at him. “Wedding planning,” you say flatly.
He narrows his eyes. Then, slowly, like he’s recognizing a battlefield layout: “…Oh no.”
Toph snorts.
Aang tilts his head. “It looks… organized?”
“It’s not,” you and Sokka say at the same time.
Katara steps closer, scanning the papers, her expression shifting as she takes in the details. “Oh,” she says quietly.
Not overwhelmed. Not confused. Understanding. And somehow that’s worse. Because now it’s real.
All of it.
You glance down at the scroll in front of you again. Then at your friends. And for a brief second, something tight in your chest loosens.
Just a little.
“…So,” Sokka says, rolling up his sleeves with way too much confidence, “where do we start?”
You let out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Honestly?” You gesture vaguely at everything.
“I have no idea.”
“Alright,” Sokka says, clapping his hands together like he’s about to lead a war council. “New plan. We divide and conquer.”
“No,” you say immediately.
“No?” he repeats.
“No.”
“Well, that’s unfortunate because I already divided things,” he says, gesturing to the table. “Seating arrangements, ceremonial flow, decorative symbolism—”
You blink. “Why would there be emergency backup scenarios for a wedding?”
Sokka gives you a look. “Have you met people?”
“…Fair.”
Katara steps in before he can escalate further. “Maybe we should start with something simple,” she suggests gently, picking up one of the scrolls. “Like the ceremony layout.”
“Great,” you say. “Simple. I like simple.”
One of the advisors immediately leans forward. “The layout must follow traditional Fire Nation alignment, of course—”
“Of course,” you echo weakly.
“—with the Fire Lord positioned at the eastern axis to symbolize renewal and—”
“Or,” Sokka cuts in, grabbing a brush, “we make a better system.”
He starts sketching something aggressively onto a blank sheet.
Toph tilts her head. “That looks stupid.”
“You can’t even see it!”
“Exactly,” she shoots back. “And I still know it’s stupid.”
Sokka gasps. “This is tactical brilliance!”
“Pretty sure you just invented a traffic problem,” Toph says.
Aang leans over the table, trying to follow along. “Maybe we can combine both ideas? Keep the tradition, but also make it… flow better?”
“That’s what I’m doing!” Sokka insists.
“That’s not what you’re doing,” Katara says, not even looking up.
Meanwhile, you’re staring at two different scrolls that both say completely different things about where you’re supposed to stand during the ceremony.
“Why are there three versions of this,” you ask no one in particular.
“Because the Fire Sage council hasn’t finalized their recommendation yet,” one advisor replies.
“Of course they haven’t,” you mumble.
Sokka suddenly grabs two fabric samples from the side of the table and holds them up.
“Okay, important question. Red or darker red?”
You stare at him. “Those are the same color.”
“They are not the same color,” he says, offended.
He turns to Toph. “Which one looks better?”
Toph doesn’t even hesitate. “I don’t know, Sokka. I’m blind.”
A beat.
Then—
“…Right,” Sokka says.
Toph smirks. “Glad we cleared that up.”
Aang lets out a small laugh before catching himself. “Okay—okay, let’s stay focused. This is supposed to be a happy thing.”
“IT IS A HAPPY THING,” Sokka says, still holding the fabrics. “It’s just also a complicated thing.”
Katara finally sets down the scroll she’s been reading and looks at you.
“Hey,” she says softly. “We’ll figure it out. One step at a time, okay?”
You nod.
Because that’s the right response.
Because she means it.
Because you want to believe it.
Across the table, two advisors start quietly arguing about ceremonial timing.
Sokka is now somehow negotiating with them like this is a war council.
Toph has abandoned her spot and is leaning back in her chair, clearly entertained.
Aang is trying—really trying—to keep everyone calm.
Katara is reorganizing the scrolls into something that almost resembles order.
And you—
you’re still standing in the middle of it all.
Watching. Listening. Trying to keep up as the voices start overlapping again.
“—the Fire Lord’s entrance must precede—”
“—no, the sequence requires—”
“—if we adjust the timing here—”
“—that disrupts the symbolism—”
“—what if we just move the chairs—”
“THE CHAIRS ARE SYMBOLIC—”
Something tight pulls in your chest.
You inhale. Then exhale.
Slowly.
It’s fine. It’s just planning. It’s just one day.
Just a wedding.
…right?
Your gaze drifts down to the scroll in front of you again.
Firelady.
The words sit there, unmoving. Heavy. Permanent. And for the first time since everyone burst into the room, the noise doesn’t feel funny anymore.
You find Zuko in a corridor that definitely wasn’t meant for stopping and talking.
He’s mid-step when you call his name.
He turns immediately anyway.
That alone does something to your chest that you don’t have time to examine.
“You’re busy,” you say, already knowing.
“I can be unbusy,” he replies, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
It makes you smile before you can stop it.
You fall into step beside him. “No, you can’t.”
He glances at you. “I can.”
“You literally have three council meetings and whatever that thing is with the northern delegates.”
He pauses. “It’s not a thing.”
“It’s a thing,” you say.
“…It’s a thing,” he admits.
You both walk for a few seconds in comfortable silence. Then you clear your throat.
“So,” you begin carefully, “about the ceremony—”
Zuko slows slightly. “What about it?”
You hesitate. Suddenly it feels stupid. Small. Like you’re interrupting something important—which, technically, you are.
But he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the hallway that matters, so you continue anyway.
“I was thinking… do you care about the seating order? Because Sokka is trying to redesign it like it’s a battle strategy and I don’t think the Fire Nation is ready for whatever he’s doing.”
A faint flicker of something like amusement crosses his face. “I trust you,” Zuko says simply. “Do what you think is best.”
That should feel like pressure. Instead, it feels like warmth. You exhale a little laugh. “That’s not helpful.”
“It’s honest.”
“I know,” you say softer.
He slows to a stop, just briefly, and looks at you more directly now. “If it’s too much,” he adds, voice quieter, “you don’t have to handle everything alone.”
For a second, the noise of the palace fades.
Just him. Just that steady tone like he’s trying to hold the world still for you, even for a moment.
“I know,” you repeat, but it comes out softer this time. And you almost lean into him properly.
Then—
“Your Majesty!”
Of course. A messenger appears at the end of the corridor like a curse given form.
Zuko straightens immediately. “Yes?”
“Council emergency meeting has been moved forward. They require your presence immediately.”
Zuko closes his eyes for half a second.
Then he looks back at you. Something apologetic flickers there, but it doesn’t change the fact that he has to go. “I’ll come back,” he says.
“You always say that,” you mutter, but there’s no real bite in it.
“I always do,” he replies.
That earns you a small, helpless smile.
He reaches out briefly taking your hand just long enough to squeeze it once.
Then he lets go. And is gone. Just like that.
You stand there for a moment, staring at the empty space he left behind.
Somewhere far down the hallway, you hear another door open, another problem being born.
You inhale slowly.
“…I am going to hit someone,” you say quietly to no one.
Behind you, a voice calls out.
“Who are we hitting?” Sokka asks eagerly.
You turn your head slightly.
“…Everyone,” you answer.
Toph snorts somewhere off to the side.
Katara sighs. “Don’t encourage her.”
Aang, gently: “Maybe we should take a break?”
You close your eyes. Yeah.
A break sounds nice. Unfortunately, a royal wedding planning does not believe in breaks.
The room is quieter than it was earlier.
That’s the problem.
The chaos didn’t end—it just split into smaller conversations, softer voices, scribbling pens instead of shouting arguments.
And somehow that makes it worse.
Because now there’s space to think.
You sit at the edge of the table, staring at a stack of scrolls you didn’t ask to exist in your life.
Fire Nation etiquette. Royal protocols. Ceremony sequences. Diplomatic expectations.
You try to focus on Katara’s voice as she gently organizes something beside you.
“Okay,” she says carefully, “this part isn’t mandatory. It’s more traditional than required.”
“More traditional than required,” you repeat faintly.
“Yeah,” she nods. “So if it feels like too much, we can—”
“It’s all too much,” you say before you can stop yourself.
The room pauses. Not dramatically.
Just… subtly. Like everyone heard you, even if they’re pretending they didn’t fully register it.
You force a breath in. Then out.
“It’s fine,” you add quickly. “I just—yeah. It’s fine.”
Katara watches you for a second longer than necessary, but she doesn’t push. That’s the thing about her. She understands without making it louder.
Sokka is arguing with an advisor about banner placement again. Toph has moved chairs around “for fun” and refuses to elaborate. Aang is trying to mediate a disagreement about ceremonial timing like it’s a philosophical debate about peace.
And you—
you’re suddenly not really there.
Because your eyes land on one of the scrolls again.
Firelady.
Not your name. Not really you. Just a role. A position.
Something you step into and never really step out of. You swallow. Hard. It hits you slowly at first, like a thought you almost don’t let finish forming.
This isn’t just a wedding. This is the point where everything changes and doesn’t go back.
No more just being part of Team Avatar.
No more disappearing into the world without consequence. No more being just… you. You stand up so abruptly your chair scrapes back.
“Hey—” Katara starts.
But you’re already shaking your head.
“I need—” Your voice catches. You clear your throat. “I need air.”
No one stops you. You don’t think they even realize how serious it is until you’re already halfway out the door.
You don’t go far.
Just far enough that the noise disappears.
A balcony. Stone cold under your hands as you grip the railing, staring out at the palace gardens like they belong to someone else.
Because soon, they kind of will.
Your reflection in the glass panel is faint, warped by lantern light. You look… the same. And not at all. “I’m not…” you start quietly. Then stop. Try again.
“I’m not ready for this.” The words feel ridiculous the moment they leave your mouth. Like you’re admitting something you’re supposed to have already accepted.
You don’t hear the door at first.
Or maybe you do—you just don’t react.
Because your hands are still on the railing, and your thoughts are still somewhere far too loud to compete with anything else.
Footsteps follow after a moment. Not rushed. Not loud. Careful in a way that already tells you who it is. Zuko doesn’t speak immediately.
He just stops a few steps behind you, like he’s trying to understand the shape of the silence before interrupting it.
Then, quietly: “They told me you came out here.”
Of course they did. Katara. Or Aang. Or both. You let out a breath that almost turns into a laugh but doesn’t quite make it. “Of course they did,” you repeat flatly.
A pause.
Then Zuko steps closer, just enough that you can feel him there without needing to look.
“You don’t have to talk about it,” he says.
It’s not avoidance. That somehow makes your chest tighten more. You shake your head once. “I just… I thought I could do this.”
“You can,” he says immediately.
So simple. So certain. It almost hurts.
You finally turn your head slightly, just enough to glance at him over your shoulder. “That’s not what I meant.”
Zuko’s expression shifts—not confusion, exactly. Recognition. He understands more than he’s saying. He always does.
You swallow. “I’m becoming something else,” you say, quieter now. “And I don’t know how to do that without… losing everything I was before.”
That lands between you both. Still.
Zuko doesn’t rush to fill it. When he finally speaks, his voice is lower.
“You’re not losing it.”
You let out a small, humorless breath. “It feels like it.”
He steps closer again, slowly, like he’s giving you space even while moving in.
“I felt that too,” he says.
That makes you look at him properly now.He meets your gaze without hesitation.
“When I became Fire Lord,” he continues, “I thought I had to become someone completely different. Someone perfect. Someone who made up for everything that came before.” His jaw tightens slightly. “But that doesn’t work.”
You should respond. You should say something. Anything. “I don’t know if I can do this,” you say. Your voice is thinner than you meant it to be.
Zuko doesn’t interrupt.
That alone almost undoes you more.
You let out a shaky breath, staring out at the gardens because looking at him feels too hard right now. “It’s not just a wedding,” you continue, words starting to spill now that they’ve finally found a way out. “It’s not just…just us. It’s everything. It’s being watched, and expected, and judged, and—”
Your throat tightens. You swallow hard, trying to push through it anyway. “I keep hearing it,” you say, quieter now. “Firelady. Firelady. Like it’s… like it’s already decided what I’m supposed to be.” Your fingers tighten on the railing.
“And I keep thinking…what if I’m not good enough for that?” You laugh once, but it breaks halfway.
“What if I’m just… wrong for it?”
That’s when your voice finally wavers for real.
Not planned. Just… gone.
“I’m trying,” you whisper, frustration creeping in now, sharp and exhausted all at once. “I’m really trying, but there’s so much and everyone just keeps talking like I already am this person and I’m not…I’m not there yet and I don’t know if I ever will be—”
Your breath stutters. You don’t even notice the tears until your vision blurs slightly. You blink. Hard. “…I can’t mess this up,” you say, quieter now, almost like you’re confessing it to yourself more than him. “I can’t. Not for a whole nation. Not for you. Not for—”
Your voice breaks. And you stop.
Because suddenly it’s too much to keep talking.
Too much to hold together. Your shoulders shake once, small and involuntary, like your body is reacting before your mind can catch up.
You don’t even fully realize you’re crying.
Not at first. It just feels like pressure finally finding a way out.
Zuko doesn’t say anything immediately.
Your fingers tighten against the railing like you’re trying to hold yourself together by force.
“I just need a second—” you start, but your voice betrays you again, cracking right in the middle.
You don’t get to finish.
Zuko moves. No pause. No hesitation.
One second there’s space between you—
the next, his arms are around you.
Firm and certain. He pulls you in close, one hand coming up to the back of your head, pressing you gently against his shoulder before you can turn away, before you can hide, before you can pretend you’re fine.
“I’m fine,” you mumble into his shoulder, voice muffled, unconvincing even to yourself.
“Sure you are,” Zuko says. Flat. Dry. Blatantly sarcastic.
You let out a weak, offended sound against him. “I am—” Your voice wobbles again halfway through the sentence.
Zuko doesn’t even let you finish.
“Mm,” he hums softly, like he’s acknowledging something that is absolutely not true, his tone gentler now despite the sarcasm. “Completely fine.”
You huff, trying to pull back just enough to argue with him, but his hand at the back of your head keeps you right where you are. Not forceful.
“Zuko—”
“Stay,” he murmurs quietly. And something in the way he says it, soft, but certain, makes you stop resisting.
His other hand shifts slightly, coming up to your face. Careful. Slow.
Like he’s giving you time to react.
His thumb brushes along your temple, just lightly at first, tracing small, absentminded circles against your skin. The motion is so gentle it almost distracts you from everything else.
Almost.
“You’re shaking,” he says under his breath.
You didn’t even notice that either.
“I’m not,” you try again, weaker this time.
“Right,” he replies, that same faint, dry edge still there—but softened now, wrapped in something warmer. “That must be my imagination.”
You let out a quiet, frustrated sound, pressing your face further into his shoulder like that might hide the fact that he’s completely right.
Zuko’s thumb keeps moving, slow and steady against your temple. Grounding.
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he adds, voice lower now. No sarcasm this time. Just honest.
You swallow, your grip on him tightening again despite yourself. “I’m not pretending,” you mutter.
Another pause.
Then, gently: “You are.” Not accusing though.
Your breath catches again. Because yeah.
You are.
Zuko shifts slightly, just enough to tilt his head so his forehead rests lightly against yours when you finally look up, his hand still cupping the side of your face. His thumb brushes just beneath your eye now, catching the dampness there.
“…You’re crying again,” he says quietly.
You blink, like that’s news to you.
“Oh,” you manage, a little dazed. “I—”
You don’t even finish.
Zuko’s expression softens further—if that’s even possible at this point. “There it is,” he murmurs, almost like he’s talking you through it. “You don’t have to hold it back.”
“I’m not trying to—” you start, but your voice breaks again immediately, ruining the attempt.
His thumb traces another slow line along your temple, then back again, unhurried, patient.
“I know,” he says softly. And he does.
That’s the worst part. Or maybe the best.
You let out a shaky breath, your forehead dropping forward until it rests against his again.
“I hate this,” you whisper.
“I know.”
“I feel like I’m failing at something I haven’t even started yet.”
Zuko’s hand stills for a second. Then resumes, just as gentle as before. “You’re not failing,” he says quietly.
“It feels like it.”
“Yeah,” he admits. “It does.”
You glance at him, a little surprised by that.
He doesn’t look away. “But that doesn’t make it true,” he adds.
Your lip trembles again, and you look away this time.
Zuko doesn’t push. He just leans in slightly, pressing a soft, brief kiss to your temple—right where his thumb had been tracing circles moments before.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your skin.
Your eyes close without you meaning them to. Your shoulders finally drop, just a little.
“…You’re annoyingly calm,” you mumble weakly.
Zuko huffs the faintest breath of a laugh.
“I’m trying very hard,” he admits.
That pulls the smallest, broken smile out of you. And without thinking, you lean back into him again.
His arms settle around you like they were meant to be there, steady and warm, one hand still resting at your temple, thumb brushing slow, absentminded circles like he’s memorized the motion already.
Then, softer now: “It’s going to be okay,” he murmurs.
You don’t respond right away.
“I mean it,” he continues, a little more certain this time. “We’ll figure it out. I’ll… try to be there more. For the planning. Not just the important parts—the annoying parts too.”
A faint pause.
“I don’t want you doing all of this alone.”
That makes something in your chest shift again, less heavy this time.
“And…” he hesitates slightly, like he’s choosing his words more carefully now, “it’s not all bad.”
You huff quietly against him. “That’s a bold claim.”
Zuko’s thumb pauses for half a second, then resumes its slow tracing. “You’re not just gaining responsibilities,” he says. “You’re gaining… influence. A voice people will actually listen to. You can change things. Help people. Make things better.”
You go quiet, because that part, you hadn’t really let yourself think about.
Zuko shifts slightly, just enough to look at you properly again. “And you won’t lose everything you were before,” he adds. “You’re still you. Just… with more reach.”
There’s a small pause. "…At least I get to wear three outfits.”
Zuko blinks. Once. "What?”
You pull back just enough to look at him, still sniffling a little, but there’s something lighter in your expression now. “The ceremony. There are, like, three outfit changes. That’s something.
Zuko stares at you. “Ah,” he says slowly. “Yes. Of course.”
You nod, very serious now. “It’s important.”
“Clearly,” he replies. Then, suspiciously calm: “You’ll look gorgeous in—” He stops mid-sentence. His eyes narrow just slightly. “…Wait.”
You blink at him.
Zuko tilts his head a fraction, studying you like he’s trying to solve a very confusing problem.
“How is that your number one priority,” he asks slowly, “when I thought the best thing about this was that we’re getting married?”
You stare at him. Deadpan. “Nevermind—"
Zuko doesn’t even let you finish.
“Of course,” he says immediately, completely serious.
You blink.
He keeps holding you, thumb still tracing slow circles at your temple like nothing in the world is more normal than this conversation.
“The outfits are way more important.”
You squint at him. “Excuse me?”
Zuko nods once, very firm. “Yes.”
“…You’re joking.”
His expression doesn’t change. “…I am,” he says.
But the corner of his mouth twitches.
And that’s how you know. You let out a weak, disbelieving laugh that still has a little leftover shakiness in it, and Zuko finally relaxes a fraction more, like hearing that sound did something for him too.
“There it is,” he murmurs quietly.
You lean your forehead against his chest again, this time not collapsing, just… resting.
“Idiot,” you mumble.
“Mm,” he agrees softly. “But I’m your idiot.”
That earns him a small, real smile from you this time. His arm tightens slightly around you, just enough to pull you closer without forcing anything.
The palace, the scrolls, the expectations—everything still exists.
But for a moment, it’s all just… far away noise.
And Zuko’s voice, quieter now, settles above you like something steady. “I’ll make sure it’s not too much,” he says. “The planning. The advisors. All of it.”
A pause.
“And if it is,” he adds, “you tell me. Immediately.”
You hum faintly. “Immediately?”
“Yes.”
You tilt your head slightly to look up at him. “Even if you‘re having a Council meeting?”
Zuko pauses. “…Especially then.”
That makes you laugh properly this time.
And Zuko, still holding you, looks like he’s decided that whatever the world throws at you two next, he’s already where he needs to be.
You’re still tucked against Zuko, the world finally quiet for once. Your breathing has evened out just a little, and for the first time in what feels like hours, your chest doesn’t feel like it’s actively collapsing.
Then—
“AH THERE YOU ARE!!” Sokka’s voice slices through the balcony like a thrown spear.
You freeze.
Zuko… does not. He just closes his eyes for a second. Like a man accepting his fate.
Sokka appears in the doorway with the energy of someone who has been personally wronged by inefficiency.
“Hello!” he continues, marching in like he owns the palace now. “We still have a whole royal wedding to plan?? No time for being lovebirds—”
He stops mid-step.
Finally noticing the situation properly.
You, still in Zuko’s arms.
Sokka squints.
Behind him, the rest of the Gaang is visible in the doorway: Katara immediately putting a hand over her face. Aang looking politely fascinated.
Toph already smirking like she knew this was going to happen.
“Sokka,” Katara says flatly.
Just his name. Nothing else. Pure warning energy.
Sokka ignores it completely. “Right,” he says, pointing between you two like this is a tactical briefing. “Romantic emotional support moment? Very nice. Very important. BUT—we have seating charts, ceremonial banners, three competing traditions, and I have NOT finalized the emergency contingency plan—”
“Sokka,” Katara repeats. Same tone. Now sharper.
You slowly lift your head slightly from Zuko’s shoulder.
Still a little puffy-eyed. Still very done with everything. “…Really?” you say.
Sokka nods vigorously. “Yes! Really! This is a national-level event!”
Zuko finally opens his eyes. Looks at Sokka.
“…It’s our wedding,” he says flatly.
Sokka points at him like that proves his point. “EXACTLY!”
Silence.
Toph snorts. Aang tries very hard not to laugh.
Katara just sighs, long-suffering. “Sokka.”
He turns. “What?”
“You’re taking this more seriously than the two people getting married.”
Sokka pauses. Considers this. Then: “That’s because someone has to.”
You stare at him. Zuko stares at him.
Even the wind feels like it pauses for judgment.
“…I hate that he might be right,” you mumble into Zuko’s shoulder.
Zuko exhales slowly, still holding you.
“I also hate that he might be right,” he agrees.
Sokka points at her. “You can’t even see the situation!”
“I don’t need to see it,” she says. “It’s loud and stupid.”
Aang finally laughs.
Katara pinches the bridge of her nose.
Zuko just tightens his hold on you slightly, like he’s silently choosing peace over violence.
And you bury your face back into his shoulder again. “…I’m never getting married,” you mutter.
Zuko, without missing a beat: “You are.”
Sokka: “YOU ARE AND WE ARE GOING TO PLAN IT PROPERLY—”
“Sokka.” Katara says again in that familiar annoyed tone in her voice with her brother.
Toph: “Sokka is the worst part of this wedding.”
Aang who tries to be peaceful: “I think it’s kind of beautiful how passionate he is?”
Everyone: “No.”
Sokka is still talking when Zuko finally moves.
He adjusts his grip around you slightly, like making sure you’re steady, then gently guides you out of the balcony with him.
“Alright,” Katara says immediately, already stepping in like she’s reclaiming control of reality. “We’re going back to the planning room.”
Aang floats along beside them like he’s just happy everyone is still breathing.
You let out a tired breath against Zuko’s shoulder as you walk. “I hate all of them,” you mumble.
Zuko doesn’t even hesitate. “No, you don’t.”
“…Okay, I hate one of them.”
“No, you don‘t” Zuko says immediately.
“Alright.”
Then, quieter, almost like it slips out before either of you can overthink it—
“…I do feel a bit better,” you admit.
Zuko glances down at you briefly. “I know,” he says simply. And that should’ve been it.
But then his hand finds yours with no hesitation.
Just fingers slipping into yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You look down for a second, then back up at him. He doesn’t look back immediately, just keeps walking like it’s normal, like it’s always been like this.
So you squeeze his hand once. Testing it.
He squeezes back immediately.
That does something to your chest.
Something soft. Something annoyingly warm.
As you reach the corridor, Sokka is already mid-sentence again about “optimal ceremonial efficiency.”
Katara is actively ignoring him.
Toph is walking backwards just to make fun of him. Aang is trying to keep peace like it’s his spiritual duty.
And you and Zuko?
You just keep walking.
Hands linked.
Swinging slightly between you as your steps sync without either of you trying.
Forward.
Back.
Forward.
You lean slightly into Zuko’s side as you walk.
Still overwhelmed. Still nervous.
Still absolutely not ready for whatever “Firelady” is supposed to mean.
But his hand is warm around yours.
And for now that is enough.
I hope y‘all liked it. I can write a part 2 of their wedding if anyone‘s down for that. Don‘t forget to support the leaked movie when it actually gets released (for Avatar Studios—the animators, and writers obv)💗
zuko didn't really know he had a size kink until he became yours.
he also didn't think he'd have a borderline obsession with how his hands fit around your body when he holds you. how he engulfs your entire frame with his broader one during hugs, how your hand just fits perfectly into the palm of his, and if he covers yours, your little fingers are hardly visible anymore...
and so when he's holding you down underneath him while you're in his bed, his perverse fascination with your size compared to his just dominates his thoughts.
one hand is gripping your waist while the other pushes down between your shoulder blades to keep you arched perfectly for him while he tries to fit his cock inside you. it's a little difficult, because your pussy's proportionate with your size, and the same goes for him. he's just huge in every sense of the word. zuko slides his cock between your folds a few times, coating it in your slick and getting it nice and wet before eventually easing himself in.
you tense up as his cock fits within your plush walls, your pussy throbbing and spasming around his length when he slowly bottoms out. your pussy's swallowing him whole at this point, and he exhales a heaving sigh, throwing his head back to groan at the heavenly feeling of you wrapped up wround him.
it's just so big. it feels like the first thrust just has your mind spinning already because he's fully inside you, his hands hot and demanding on your body as he keeps you in place, unable to wiggle away to relieve yourself from the stretch and sheer fullness of him stuffing your pussy to the brink.
you only stop spacing when he starts to move, having determined that you're ready to take him and that your pussy's been so accomodating to his big dick inside you. now you're ready to take all his love.
he guides your body back onto his dick while moving inside you, hips rutting back then pushing forward rythmically so that he can stay deep inside you while offering you some relief of said fullness. his cock rubs perfectly against your puffy walls, and his pelvis is grinding right up against your folds... you just can't help the little pitchy moans that leave your parted lips when he thrusts into you.
"yeah, 's good," he pants, also lost in his own head. "just like that, my love. you're taking all of me so well."
your broken up panting and whining grows more incessant when he shifts you upwards, lifting you into a kneeling position and gently wrapping his huge arm around your throat to keep you steady while he fucks upwards into you, his cock reaching deeper now and poking out in your belly obscenely. you can feel every little movement inside you, the head of his cock nudging again and again inside you in a way that would usually have you whimpering and squirming, but when he reaches down and pushes his palm flat against that bulge, all you can do is moan and leak more sleak onto him. around his chubbed dick.
"its so big zu," you babble, tears of pleasure and overwhelm clouding your vision and make your moans sound more watery and needy since you can just feel you're getting close. he relishes in the way your voice sounds when you're whining his nickname like that, and he moves his free hand to place your hand on your belly, entwining his fingers with yours so both of you can feel his cock indenting your stomach, the same you would if it was a baby in you, not just his cock.
the thought had his mind swimming, and he picks up his pace, feeling your slippery pussy splatter juices on his thighs and balls each time he pushes his hips forward.
zuko can feel his balls tightening and throbbing as his release starts ti bubble up to the surface, and he squeezes you tighter, now moaning, not just grunting, your name, how good you feel, how he could live in this pussy. your pussy. his pussy to breed and fuck. he slips his hand out of yours just so he can play with your clit, squeezing it gently and rolling the nub between the pads of his fingers. that, his cock hitting your weak spot again and again, and the filth that spills past his lips and straight into your ear has you crying out for him as you start to cream around his cock, tightening around him and squirting pearlescent, watery liquid all over the bed.
he made you squirt.
"atta girl," he breathes, chasing his own release while helping you ride out your own. "oh fuck, love, you soaked me. made a mess everywhere and squeezed me like that... i'm gonna fill you up with my cum and make you a momma, you want that?"
he can't shut up, and he keeps rubbing your poor swollen clit as your pussy stays clamped around him, his cock dragging slow and sloppy against the the pudgy walls of your cunt that makes your pussy spasm around him, massaging his cock and milking the cum right out of him.
zuko pushes his cock into you a few more times, deep inside you, then pushes his body snug against yours, falling against your back and snuggling you tight as he spills his hot cum inside you, sticking to your walls thickly and pouring into you in masses. with his fat cock plugging you full, there's nowhere for it to leak out. he mouths at the nape of your neck and shudders as the last of his load spills straight into your womb.
you feel zuko cuddle you tightly for a minute before he lets his cock slip out of you, cum leaking down your thighs. he tuts at how you're so sleepy already, and carries you into his bath chambers so he can clean you up after fucking you so good.
`ঔঌ. never did you expect, in all your years married, for your husband, firelord!zuko to have a breeding kink? | 18+
the supporting council of the fire nation, and even several of zuko’s advisors have been adamant on one thing since your marriage to your childhood lover: producing an heir.
“yes… i know. even my ladies in waiting are asking,” you replied. the both of you were in his study, with you lounging on some cushions while he clearly was distracted from his paperwork considering the turn your conversation went.
zuko appeared hesitant, almost antsy. “really? they’re a bit annoying, aren’t they?”
you shrugged, until you just kept talking mindlessly. “it’d be nice though…wouldn’t it?”
your words made your husband furrow his eyebrows in confusion. “what would?”
“having children?” you walked over to him, sitting on his lap as his arms snaked around your waist and held you. “being pregnant…”
“you’d be a great daddy… so why don’t we try?”
“really?” his tone changed, almost laced with a bit of amusement. “are…are you sure?”
“why not?” you leaned towards him and you swore you saw the tips of his ears go red and his face slightly appear flushed.
it was a clear fact that your husband was a fast man, but before you knew it, you were naked before him, warm skin pressed against his cold desk, quills, ink, and paper scattered. he had undressed you quickly—as if you were going to run away.
“you’re sure about this?” zuko asked, beginning to align his cock to your entrance the moment you nodded, and rubbing your arousal around his length before slowly pushing in.
fuck, you really should’ve taken to account just how your husband is… because when he’s serious about something, he’s dead serious.
“mmm—zuko-! please—fuck!”
you felt almost lightheaded, with your cunt squeezing your husband’s cock almost uncontrollably while your clit throbbed immensely. the two of you have been at it for hours, going at it like damn rabbits all over his study. on the desk, the cushions, against the wall. and now? you’re riding him while he’s sat on his chair.
“you—hahhh—said you were sure,” he replied, hands squeezing at your ass and slapping it teasingly.
you could feel his loads of cum spill out of you with every harsh thrust of his hips, with your husband groaning loudly from how tight you felt around him.
it was all too much—so. damn. much. he fucks you so mean…
your arms around his neck only tightened around him the faster you went, pulling on his long hair slightly and eliciting a whine? from your husband.
“you’re gonna—shit—look so damn pretty… so fucking pretty pregnant…” he gazed up at you, almost intoxicated with how you looked riding him, rocking your hips back and forth on his cock while you whined so cutely. your maw was slack while your eyes were glued to the ceiling, and your grip on his hair only tightened (again).
until the two of you heard a knock on the door, and he covered your mouth quickly.
“fire lord zuko, your presence is requested—“
“i’m busy.”
zuko’s hips continued, slower yet still so torturous on you. he bounced you slowly yet harshly, slamming you on his cock. then came that obnoxiously loud squelch! you could cry of embarrassment… but it seemed that your lover was enjoying this.
“w-what was that?” the advisor asked.
and it wasn’t until zuko lifted your hips and slammed you onto him one last time, where you cried out in a octave you’ve never hit ever.
“gotta make sure we have that heir, right?”
.
.
.
had to… i just had to… #leastcanonthingever anyways IM CRINE THIS IS SO OOC BUT ITS OK!! also wtf is it with me and zuko smut in his firelord study
