firelord zuko and his royal advisor 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓
༄ 𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐒 coworkers(?) to lovers, he fell first AND harder, first kisses, too many marriage proposals for the fire lord, happy ending, lowkey power imbalance cause he’s technically her boss, sever angst in ch.3, fluff in all other chs, political concerns, unc iroh is alive idc, more to be added as i write!
༄ 𝐜𝐡.𝟏
when avatar aang’s letter accidentally outs firelord zuko’s feelings for his royal advisor.
༄ 𝐜𝐡.𝟐
under the moonlight, feelings become more apparent but uncle iroh interrupts an intimate moment between you and the Fire Lord.
༄ starr's p.s. hi! i was not planning on this and i highkey suck at consistently posting series’ [ahem regency jason ahem] but by popular demand of 30 ish people in comments, i will be doing this!!! the number of chapters might change a little but this is what ive outlined for now!! stay tuned!!! i’ll probably post properly starting 29th-30th after my exams!!
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potential triggers: flashing lights, cancer, drugs, medical equipment
Pairings: Dean Winchester x female!reader, dad!Dean Winchester x mom!reader
Warnings: fluff & smut (mostly fluff) each fic will have their own warnings, however, I will be classifying each fic with the emojis I use in my main masterlist
❕Also I don’t mind spam likes! If you find this series whenever you find it and decide to read the parts that are published, I don’t mind spam likes <3
The bed beside you is empty — cold in that way that tells you he’s been gone a while. You blink into the dark, the soft red glow of the alarm clock slicing through it: 3:04 a.m.
You sigh, dragging your hand across the empty space where Dean should be. The sheets are twisted, the pillow dented deep. It’s not the first time he’s gotten up in the middle of the night. You know it won’t be the last.
Still, your chest aches as you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, tugging on one of his worn T-shirts. It smells like whiskey and gunpowder and something warm you can never quite name.
The bunker feels huge when it’s dark like this — every footstep echoes, every shadow looks like it’s watching. You pass the library, the war room, all silent. Until you see the faint, flickering glow under the kitchen door.
You already know.
Dean’s sitting at the table, elbows on his knees, a bottle half-empty beside him. His head’s bowed, hands clasped tight like he’s praying, but his eyes are open — bloodshot, rimmed with red. The haunted kind of red.
“Dean?” you whisper, voice small in the big room.
He flinches like you just yanked him out of something deep. Then he straightens fast, scrubbing at his face with both hands. “Hey. Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t.” You cross the room, stopping in front of him. “Couldn’t sleep without you.”
His eyes flick up, guilt flashing hard. “Yeah, well. I’m not great company tonight.”
You study him for a beat. He looks wrecked. Not physically — no fresh cuts, no bruises. But his face says he’s been fighting something anyway. “Nightmare?” you ask softly.
He exhales through his nose, like it hurts to admit it. “Yeah.”
You reach for the bottle, pushing it a little farther away. “You wanna tell me what about?”
He hesitates — you can see it, the battle behind his eyes. But then something in him cracks. His voice goes rough, low. “You. You were—” His throat tightens, and he can’t even say the word. “Gone.”
Your stomach drops.
He stares down at his shaking hands. “It felt real. Like, too real. You were bleeding out, and I couldn’t—” His voice breaks. “I couldn’t do a damn thing.”
You kneel in front of him, your hands resting on his knees. “Dean…”
He laughs bitterly, wiping at his face again. “I’ve seen a lot of death. Caused a lot of it. But watching you—? That’s not something I can do. Not again. Not ever.”
“Again?” you ask, even though you already know. He’s lost too many people to count.
He swallows hard. “Every time I close my eyes, you die in some new way. And every time, it’s my fault. Because I wasn’t fast enough, or smart enough, or just—because I’m me. And I can’t—” He drags a hand over his mouth, voice breaking on the last word. “I can’t keep putting you in danger just by being near you.”
Your breath catches. “Dean, don’t.”
He shakes his head, eyes shining. “No. It’s the truth. You’d be safer if you left. Hell, I should’ve never let this happen.”
You stand, anger flaring hot under your ribs. “You think you get to decide that for me?”
“Someone has to,” he snaps, too fast, too defensive. “Because you won’t! You keep saying you’re fine, you can handle it, but one of these days, it’s not gonna be true, and I’ll be the reason you’re—” His voice cracks again. “I can’t lose you like that.”
Your voice wobbles, but you force it steady. “You think pushing me away will stop it from hurting if you lose me? You think I don’t know what I signed up for?”
He doesn’t answer. Just stares at the floor, shoulders tight, every inch of him a coiled spring.
“Dean,” you say softly, stepping closer, hands resting on his shoulders now. “I chose this. You. Every monster, every nightmare, every danger — I knew it came with the package. And I still said yes.”
He lifts his head, eyes glassy, searching your face like he’s begging you not to mean it. “And if you die because of me?”
You smile sadly. “Then I die loving you. And there’s worse ways to go.”
He exhales sharply, shaking his head, jaw tight. “Don’t say stuff like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s killing me.”
You cup his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you. “Then stop fighting me. Stop pretending that pushing me away is noble. You don’t get to love me halfway, Dean Winchester. Not you.”
For a second, he just stares at you — broken, torn, bleeding from places no one can see. Then, finally, he folds.
His arms wrap around you in a desperate, crushing hold, his face buried against your shoulder. His breath comes in ragged shudders. “I can’t lose you,” he whispers. “I just can’t.”
You hold him just as tight, fingers threading through his hair. “Then don’t. Just stay. Right here. With me.”
He nods against your neck, a choked laugh slipping out — half misery, half relief. “You drive me crazy, you know that?”
You smile against his temple. “So I’ve heard.”
He leans back just enough to see you, his eyes red but clearer now. “I’m sorry.”
You shake your head. “You don’t have to be sorry. Just don’t shut me out when it gets bad.”
He nods, slow, solemn. His forehead drops to yours, breath trembling. “I’ll try.”
“Good.” You whisper it against his lips before closing the last inch between you.
The kiss is soft — not desperate, not fiery — just steady. Certain. Like both of you are trying to remind the other that you’re still here. Still alive.
And for now, that’s enough.
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; support my work .ᐟ
content warning: smut, sexual inexperience and exploration, masturbation, masochism
notes: initially reader was going to be wearing a skirt but then i thought to myself it would be more pathetic of him this way… like a victorian man seeing an exposed ankle. virgin isaac on my mental, thanks @arquiiva for plaguing me with these thoughts. don’t forget to reblog, comment and like.
preview: The irritation flares, but his body doesn’t care. It’s always worked against him.
Isaac always nurtures an almost pathological affection for his craft, regarding idleness not as the human necessity it is, but as a moral failing: a peccadillo for which he bore no mercy, least of all toward himself. He spirals off into soliloquies about whatever venture had seized his imagination this week, you bear witness in tolerance, used to his particular brand of monomania, his disinterest in the conventional rituals of conversation, and the fact that he regards your attention as optional, at best.
The lab scarcely qualifies as a workspace; it is more accurately a mausoleum of clutter, where paper towers buckle under their own ambition and indecipherable contraptions crouch in the corners like house pets no one remembers acquiring. You had been gone all of ten minutes, yet in Isaac’s orbit, entropy is not so much a gradual decline as a competitive sport. Your bag has already vanished into the morass, absorbed without ceremony. The table groans under an indiscriminate scatter of papers: aborted sketches, algebraic graffiti, and hieroglyphics you had no interest in decoding. “Ten minutes,” you say, “and it already looks like a tornado hit. You knew I would be back.”
Isaac doesn’t bother to lift his head. “I know exactly where everything is. And where it belongs.”
“And my bag?” you push.
A beat, then the subsequent grin — smug, odious: “can’t expect me to be responsible for your misplacements.”
“You just can’t help yourself,” you intone flatly. “I’m meeting up with Eli and I’m already late.”
“And what a loss, to be deprived of the profound insights of your boyfriend. I’m sure you’re missing out on a riveting conversation,” he jibes, his hand hovering lazily in mid-air while, beneath it, the pencil skitters across the page in precise counterpoint.
“Not my boyfriend,” you say. “Besides, we don’t do much talking.”
That makes him glance up. The smile is hollow, but tight around the edges. “Figures,” he says. “Conversing implies the existence of something worth saying. In that idiot’s case, I can see why you’d skip it.”
He then proceeds to articulate the rudiments of his latest contraption. “If I can devise a method to stabilize it,” he begins, “then the rest is a matter of trial and error.” Without so much as a glance in your direction, he pivots to the next phase: “There’s a vial on that shelf.”
“Y’know, for someone who loves showing off his telekinesis, you make my life unnecessarily hard,” you say, but there’s no bite to it, only an exasperated amusement as you begin to thread through the cluttered shelves, rifling through glass bottles and chemical apparatus.
“The cryogenic fluid is the sole element capable of salvaging this. I’ve—” He glances up for a moment; a mistake on his part. He falters, mid-sentence, the cadence breaking as his eyes land unexpectedly on you stretching to retrieve the vial, your shirt inches upward to reveal a narrow expanse of skin at your stomach. His throat tightens. A momentary lapse, but one swiftly veiled with the same level of cohesiveness from before. “…begun formulating my own variants. It should keep the core below critical temperature.”
You return to the table and hold out the vial. “Here. You’re welcome. Now hand it over.”
He makes a vague motion at the table without any further acknowledgment, preoccupied with his instruments. A perfunctory wave in the table’s general direction and from beneath the layers of lab detritus, your bag launches itself into the air.
You snag the bag, abandon the vial, and collapse into the chair. The search for your things is methodical, almost clinical: lipliner, gloss, each motion familiar, rehearsed, a private liturgy you enact with practiced ease.
Isaac, subsumed in his work, takes one glance at the bag through his periphery and uses a hand to angle a concave mirror toward you, unthinking, as if this were his reflex. Your hands falter mid-rummage.
Then you smile, small, clandestinely, and lift the lipliner to your mouth.
*
After your departure, Isaac grew restless, unable to force his mind to the task at hand. He paced, from one machine to another, coat billowing behind him theatrically. He tinkered without conviction, fiddling with half-finished contraptions, shuffling through the dregs of earlier designs as though some abandoned sketch might jolt him back into coherence. Nothing took. The harder he pushed, the more barren his concentration became, his so-called inventions reduced to busywork.
When he yields to it, it’s not a full relenting: there’s no actualization of anything, just a tightness coiling in his stomach. He doesn’t concern himself with the removal of clothing, just shuffles and lets his unbuttoned pants sag low on his hips, his hand gripping himself with the grim intention of dispatching it quickly. Just friction, a quick release and then he can move on. He works at a punishing pace, as if masturbation could be itemized on his itinerary between soldering and recalibration. The point is expedience, not pleasure. He needs it finished, he wants the clutter in his head scrubbed clean.
You knew I would be back.
He gasps as though you’ve already breached the doorway. You could return at any time, the knob turning, your voice cutting through the thick air of the lab. The danger of it should kill the urge. Instead it worsens it. You have already invaded his space; worse, you have infiltrated his mind and now the equations won’t stop getting entangled.
And the image is persistent in its refusal to leave: stretching for the vial, shirt riding high, that flash of smooth, bare skin. He thinks back to when you’d lean over him to retrieve something, your breath hot on his skin. It needles into him, slows his wrist, alters his rhythm until what was perfunctory begins to spiral into something else. The irritation flares, but his body doesn’t care. It’s always worked against him. His palm drags, tighter now, strokes unspooling into a rhythm meant to prolong, not end.
At the back of his mind there’s a scintilla of annoyance but he lingers. Your presence barges in, insolent, like you were the first time you had stumbled into his space, and impossible to get rid of. He envisions the heat of your breath when you lean close, the shape of your mouth forming a retort, the warmth of skin revealed so casually it brands itself into his memory. His strokes deepen, a rhythm forming despite himself, his body treacherously savoring what his mind condemns. He should be vexed by the ease with which you occupy his mind. Instead, he accommodates you, his hand matching the shift in tempo, slow and more deliberate.
An unsolicited thought intrudes with the shift in pace: how would you touch him? At first he conjures up your manicured fingers grazing, the practiced tease. But the fantasy collapses almost immediately. The pressure mounts, grip hardening, nails scoring flesh; whatever softness there was curdles fast into something relentless and sharp.
His fist works over the head, smearing it, precome thick enough to string between knuckles and leave his cock shining. Each drag of his palm only coaxes more, dribbling down the underside, slipping into the dark curls at his base. It spatters onto his thighs, obscene in its persistence, wetting him beyond function. The mess clings sticky and translucent, dripping steadily with each jerk until it slicks the heel of his hand, until his strokes become sloppy, sliding over the length with no restraint.
His head tilts back, mouth falling open. “Fuck,” he hacks, throat rough. “Fuck.”
Experimentally, Isaac reaches down with his free hand to grip into his thigh, nails gouging in to hurt, to draw blood. The sharp sting only fuels him, making his strokes jerk and stutter. He presses his teeth into his lips, nose scrunching into a sneer and tugging at his own flesh until a sharp trickle of blood slides down his chin, a taste that makes the heat spike harder, his lip twitch. Pain and pleasure fuse together, cloying and messy, like an experiment gone wrong and every slick, clumsy stroke drags him deeper into the chaos of need.
His breath grows ragged, filling the cramped room with the sound of him straining against his own restraint. He imagines your warmth, your voice close enough to graze him, the way your mouth would part if you noticed the hunger in his eyes. His hips lift, chasing sensation, no longer controlled, no longer detached.
Do you think of him at night? The question rings through but he refuses to delude himself, you and him were nothing more than friends and you had a repertoire of paramours. He knows this degeneracy only exists in the aberrant confines of his mind, but your voice drifts through so vividly, curling through his head. “Isaac…” He shudders violently, cock slick in his fist, precome running down the underside, pooling at the base. His strokes jerk and falter, sloppy and desperate.
“Do you like that I’m thinking of you?” you whisper, almost teasing, almost patient, and heat flares through him like fire. Hips jerk, chest heaving, nails pressing into the tender curve of his thigh, every flare of pain sharpening the wet friction in his hand.
“Look at you… just can’t help yourself, can you?” The words curl through him, coiling around every nerve, making his grip sloppy, desperate. Precome glistens thick and sticky, dribbling down his thighs, clinging to the slick already there. Sweat mixes in, hot and wet, running over chest, stomach, collarbone, and into the mess already coating him.
There’s a wavering grin that comes from him at the question you pose, fondness permeates his clockwork-heart. His tongue peeks out to wet his lips.
“Do you want me to touch you?” The whisper lands like a lash, making him tilt, trembling, but he clamps down, impelling a control he does not feel. His hips lift and jerk anyway, nails rake into thigh, each flare of ache feeding the wet slick on his hand, every movement sloppy and ragged, every pulse of heat unbearable.
“Looks like you’ve got that covered,” you hum, sharp-edged. “I’ll have to take care of myself.” His eyebrows pull together, almost in dissent, though dissent is meaningless; his body has long since abandoned his reason. “I’ll just make myself come—” The thought truncates because your eyes flick to his throbbing length, then to the dark smear of his own blood along the curve of his thigh, and back up to meet his gaze.
“It’s okay,” your whisper curls through his mind, intimate, teasing. “It’ll be easy, because you’ve already helped.” In his imagination, your fingers lift, and he sees them coated in his come and blood.
He does not think his body could get any hotter, but it does, ribs tightening, hips twisting instinctively as your hand vanishes beneath the band of your clothing, glossed mouth parting, each contrived motion driving him insane and all he can think of is how you’re touching yourself with his come, his blood and the possessiveness he feels, sets his nerves aflame and it’s enough for his release to overtake him, it wrenches through hot and ungoverned. A low, harsh grunt escapes him, your name leaving his lips, clipped and urgent. He spills over his hand, his stomach, the tremor in his thighs betraying how hard it hits. A muffled curse escapes, unplanned, before he can bite it back. He shudders through the aftermath, chest heaving, hand sticky with the evidence of how far gone he let himself get.
In Maggie’s original mission for the movie that I definitely connected to, there’s this idea of presenting women that were badass, super beautiful, and glamorous. But also weird and funny, food-loving, and silly and wearing their pajama pants. That’s the thing where I’m like, “God, this is so long overdue!” We just kept trying to make them kind of fabulous and amazing, but also human and silly and flawed.
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