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Summary; Tom Riddle was born hungry, his stomach churning for food, his chest aching for comfort, his eyes burning for love. he grows up learning to stop asking for any of it. but he meets someone that gives it to him without having to be asked.
Tom angst, i have alot of feelings for Tom when he was young, he fascinates me. OOC Tom, maybe, who knows. Tom gets to enjoy comfort and food and gets spoiled.
Tom had grown up hungry.
Tom had grown up ravenously hungry, and alone, and without comfort.
He’d grown up without a mother, who died the day she gave birth to him, without a father—who ran the moment he could, without any care beyond feeding and changing him from the orphanage caretakers.
Once he was old enough to learn there was no point in asking for any sort’ve affection, he stopped. Stopped hanging onto skirts, or holding his arms up for a hug—because that’s what he saw other little boys do.
It was always the same; a shove, a glance, and neglect.
They only fed him because they were paid to do it, only housed him because they got money from the government per child. Tom grew up starving, for more than just food. Starving for affection, starving for comforts beyond his itchy thin bed, starving for anyone to look beyond his oddities and see a boy who still needed a guiding hand, even if he didn’t act like it.
Tom gave up on asking for affection when he was 6 and thrown into the basement for breaking a vase over Billy’s head. He hadn’t meant to do it, he just got so angry at Billy—who’d ripped up Tom’s book that he’d gotten for his birthday. The vase had moved on its own, Tom had repeated—over and over—begging for anyone to listen.
No one did, and Tom spent the night in the dark damp basement with the rats, who didn’t care about him either—and nibbled at his clothes and hair as he slept curled up in a corner near the boiler.
He stopped trying after that night. There was no point. There was no comfort in the halls of Wool's orphanage, no love for a devil child like him, as they called him.
Tom grew up cold, and alone. Many nights wondering if he wouldn’t wake up as the winter chill pierced the walls—the thin blanket Tom wrapped around himself not doing much. He wondered if it would be the end as bombs dropped from the sky and rattled London, sitting huddled in a shelter with so many others, his hair dusted grey from debris.
He feared it. Death. Because what if he died before getting to feel warmth? What if he died before feeling full? What if he died before ever lying in a warm comfortable bed? What if he died unknown, just another body in the piles that he was forced to help dig through.
He didn’t want to die.
=
The first glimmer of hope, of a different life, a better one, came when a strange man came to the orphanage. Tom was on the defensive as always, fearing it to be another doctor to take him away from the orphanage and throw him into a cell to spend his days in a madhouse.
They’d tried it before, the caretakers, to have doctors come diagnose him with madness, it never worked. Tom knew how to act.
But this strange man said he was a professor, from a school for witches and wizards. Tom hadn’t believed him, not until the man set his closet on fire—with no lighter or even movement. Tom watched with wonder, his mood dimming as the man told him that stealing was prohibited at Hogwarts.
Tom didn’t steal. He took things from those who didn’t deserve it, took from those who were mean to him without reason. But he returned the items, scared he’d not be allowed to Hogwarts if he didn’t.
He needed to leave, to escape, to find a path to greatness.
And so, he went on his own to Diagon Alley—he didn’t need any hand-holding—feeling awe for the first time as he stepped into a world all his own. Everything on his list for school cost something however, so he crept into Gringotts, handing over his note from the headmaster of Hogwarts, allowing Tom to take a stipend from the Hogwarts fund vault to buy his wand, textbooks, cauldron, and new robes.
Well, new was being generous. Everything he bought had to be second-hand just so he could afford everything, though he stared longingly at the golden cauldron that sat inside the potions shop. He couldn’t get himself an owl, he couldn’t afford it and knew the orphanage wouldn’t let him keep it, nor could he get any other pet.
Tom stepped into the final shop, Olivander's Wand shop, he sneezed, dust falling over his face as a stray spell hit the shelves above him and made wand boxes and dust fly.
“Sorry!” a squeal came from ahead, and Tom squinted open his eyes to see a girl, who looked to be around his age, eyes wide as she held a wand—which was quickly taken back by Olivander(Tom could only assume that’s who he was.)
“Definitely not that one,” Olivander said quietly as the girl pouted. Tom sneezed again, and when he looked up—the girl was offering an apologetic smile and a handkerchief.
He narrowed his eyes at her, untrusting of such a…kind action, but when the girl does not give up, and he sneezes again, he takes the handkerchief and cleans his face. “thanks,” he mumbles, handing the soft square of fabric back to her.
The girl smiles brightly. “you’re welcome! You’re new to Hogwarts too, right?” she asked, striking up conversation all too easily and Tom shuffles on his feet, his eyes darting from side to side.
“Yes,” he strains out, unused to such…positive attention. This girl was magical, like him. she wasn’t going to think he was a devil, or strange, weird maybe, but not evil. She smiled at him, turning as Olivander handed her another wand and it was taken from her before she could even try it out.
Tom frowned—why did the old man keep taking wands from her? he thought before the girl seemed to know why he was frowning and spoke. “Wand chooses the wizard apparently,” she grumbled as Olivander went to find a different wand for her to try.
Tom let out a short hum, watching as the girl went through several wands before she took one that seemed to hum with her. She beamed, holding her new wand close. She grabbed her wallet, handing over 5 galleons and skipping out of the store—but not before wishing Tom luck.
He watched her leave the wand shop, she did not reunite with any parents, but continued down the angular street on her own. Tom turned back, meeting eyes with the strange old man named Olivander, who began the usual routine of matching new young wizards with their wands.
=
He meets the girl again on the train; she was alone, like him, pushing the trolley full of baggage and a cage of an owl through a solid brick archway—going right through. Tom’s eyes went wide, he double-checked to make sure no one saw that, and somehow, no one had.
Tom swallowed hard, looking down at his ticket. Platform 9 and 3/4ths, and he stood in front of the archway between the two platforms. Tom took a breath, taking his trolley and running forward towards the brick, clenching his eyes shut as he met the wall—and passed right through.
“Woah,” Tom murmured, looking behind him at the brick wall, and then back at the newly appeared platform, seeing all the wizarding families around, and the grand scarlet train; the Hogwarts Express.
He follows another families lead to have his luggage loaded onto the train, and hops on—walking down the train corridor alone until he finds a compartment, sitting alone for maybe only four minutes before the girl from the wand shop pops in, smiling.
“Hi! Uh, can I sit with you?” she asks, nervously, and Tom slowly nods, one of his new textbooks in his lap—watching the girl intently as she sits in front of him, smiling still.
They stare at each other for a long moment, before she speaks. “I'm (y/n), by the way,” She said, holding out her hand. Tom stares, before taking her hand, responding quietly.
“Tom, Tom Riddle,” he muttered.
(y/n) smiled, so unguarded and in such a way Tom had never been smiled at before…
That it made him uncomfortable.
=
(y/n) lingered even after they’d been sorted and the chaos of school made itself known, somehow she’d been sorted into Slytherin with him, even if—with her personality—she was more of a Hufflepuff, but as the weeks went on, Tom had a feeling stereotypes of each house didn’t ring true.
Gryffindors could be cruel to anyone of the Slytherin house; Slytherin house was quite cruel to anyone of ‘lesser blood’ as Tom had overheard while holding back a scream as fake trolls blood mixed with gravy dripped over his head and down his back.(he spent hours scrubbing the blood out of his 2nd hand robes, holding back tears.)
Hufflepuffs were fine, he barely interacted with them, and Ravenclaws were haughty—in the way Tom was, self-assured in their mind and hungry like him.
He liked the green, but perhaps he would’ve been better suited in blue.
And (y/n) lingered.
She smiled at him when he was sorted a little bit after her, sitting two spots down from her, she sat beside him in all their classes and sat beside him in the common room when he sat in the comforts of the giant plush chairs by the lake windows.
He didn’t talk much at the start. (y/n) did that for him, chattering away about how wonderful everything was, how cool magic was, how fun potions was and so much more. Tom stared over the edge of his book, still wearing his uniform even if everyone else had changed out into their casual wear.
Tom only had his orphanage uniform, and if his second-hand robes had caused some bullying, he could only imagine what his shoddy, all-grey-colored uniform would bring.
Impossibly, (y/n) noticed his lack of wardrobe, how his book bag(stolen from Billy) was straining to keep together even with all the repair charms Tom tried to cast on it—desperation pulling at his throat as the threads plucked apart by the hour and threatened to break completely with each book piled into it, and how starved he always seemed, hording anything and everything he could get his hands on and keep.
It was weeks before Christmas, during the chaos of holiday exams for the end of terms, when Tom’s bag broke at the strap and seam—his books and papers flying everywhere in the chaos of the hallway. Many didn’t notice; a lot just walked around him as Tom dropped to the ground and frantically tried to grab everything—yelping as his hand was stepped on.
He glared up, watching as a 4th-year Hufflepuff kept walking on, not even caring he’d stepped on a 1st year. A blur of someone joins him on the floor, and he turns his burning eyes to (y/n) as she sets her pout to his books and papers, helping him pick everything up, yelling at anyone that steps too close—and surprisingly everyone listens to the 11-year-old girl that isn’t very scary but is very loud.
She hands him his papers and carries his books to their next class, and does this for the next two classes until Slughorn takes pity and gives Tom an old but not bursting-at-the-seams bag to keep carrying his stuff.
“Thank you,” Tom grumbled beneath his breath to (y/n) as she carefully slides his papers into his bag, making sure nothing was crushed—he doesn’t know why she's being so detailed, but he knows this is genuine kindness. He doesn’t understand it, but he sees it.
(y/n) smiles—bright and wide.
He gets a new, not fancy, sturdy bookbag for Christmas, and he holds back the ache in his throat. His first Christmas gift, and its thoughtful. The bag is detailed, rich dark leather with dragon embroidery all over and its dorky and sweet and Tom hugs the book bag.
Its his, all his, his first gift, something meant for him with thought put into it, and Tom holds it close—his hair a mess, he woke up 10 minutes ago; he hadn’t expected anything for Christmas but some other first year had yelled across the room for him as the rest sat under the tree.
He had a present, and he loved it.
His eyes caught (y/n)’s, she smiled at him and he—for the first time—offered a wobbly smile back. She’d gotten him a gift, for no reason at all beyond childish kindness and too much money that one would know what to do with.
He sits with her at Christmas dinner, and they both talk for the first time since (y/n) had begun to hang around him.
=
By 4th year, they’re attached at the hip. (y/n) was an orphan like him, but she was half-blood, like him, but she’d ended up with wizarding relatives and a massive inheritance after her parents died from the black cat flu. She shared everything with him and he was…still getting used to it.
He stopped needing the Hogwarts stipend by the start of 2nd year, (y/n) was determined to take care of him for some reason, and Tom was nothing but hungry and greedy, thankful still, but greedy.
Even if most of the time—he had no clue how to respond to her generosity.
But he craved it, for the first time—since he was born—he was being fed. More than just the comfort of warm food, more than just a warm bed and thick bedding, more than just the warmth of magic.
No it was the comfort of another person, the warmth of her beside him, that he felt full for the first time.
=
He got sick in 3rd year, he didn’t have any vaccinations for any sickness, so he went down with a scarlet fever for weeks on end, delirious, feverish, and locked away in a private room to make sure it didn’t spread.
He caught it early on, a mere week after 3rd year started, probably got it from some kid at the orphanage and now Tom was miserable in a medical bed, unable to even focus on reading as classes went on and he was stuck in the damn hospital wing.
Tom coughed, harsh and rough, groaning as his throat burned with relentless pain, sluggishly reaching out to grab the numbing honey tea Madam Tegner had given him. It helped, as much as it could; he was just glad he was at school sick—where potions and spells kept him comfortable and the risk of him passing in the middle of the night wasn’t possible.
(y/n) was vaccinated and wore a mask to visit him every day, teaching him everything from their shared classes—she even took the same electives as him, minus care for creatures—he didn’t care for that.
Her hand in his was a welcome distraction as he listened to her read to him from their 3rd year DADA textbook, notes piling high on the beside table as he sniffles and breathes though the heat in his throat while (y/n) stubbornly makes him a cup of tea that her grandmother swore by was best for scarlet fever—or as the wizarding community called it, phoenix fever.
He understood the logic, he felt like he was going to burst into flames from his fever.
(y/n) doesn’t get sick, and she takes care of him every day.
He saves her some tiramisu, her favorite—yet rare—dessert that only appears once a month when a particular house elf felt especially happy. Everyone always devoured it too quick for (y/n) to get a slice, leading to pouting lips and heavy tears that made Tom feel out of balance.
She hugs him, and Tom cannot explain the warmth in his face and the feeling in his belly that’s hungry for more of that.
=
He starves for her.
He starves for her hand in his, her head on his shoulder, her hair tangled in his fingers, he starves for her warmth. The way her laughter curls in his chest and makes it easier to breathe, the way her smiles loosen the noose around his neck that has been there since the day he was born, the way she somehow fits beside him like a missing puzzle piece.
The way she sneaks into the secret student kitchens within Hogwarts and makes him a warm plate of homemade pasta when he’d gotten sick of the same Hogwarts meal every day.
He nearly cries; it's flavorful and warm, the pasta so full of love that he didn’t know one could imbue into it.
“Are you crying?” (y/n) asks with a laugh. It's 5th year, she's wearing a flour-dusted apron, yolk smeared on the back of her hand, staring at him with an incredulous gaze as his eyes water and his mouth is tasting the best thing it's ever had.
“Shut up,” Tom croaked, hording over his plate—devouring the meal she so lovingly made. He didn’t know how much he was craving something like this, not just food, but food made with the intent to be for someone adored. He wipes his eyes as he finishes the plate, asking weakly; “Can I have some more?”
(y/n) smiles and makes him another plate of alfredo tortellini, and makes garlic bread a week later when he ‘subtly’ asks for more handmade pasta.
Tom discovers he loves Italian food. Especially when it’s made by (y/n), who tells him her grandpa taught her how, her family was from Italy, and had immigrated to England and America a generation back.
He spends the summer with her, at a beach villa her grandparents own, and Tom’s cheeks are bruised by the end of the first day. Her grandma loves him, and Tom gains weight for the first time in his life since starting Hogwarts.
Tom doesn’t starve anymore, he’s still hungry, he’s still greedy, he still wants everything owed to him and so much more—he wants to hoard and protect and carve a place for himself in the world.
But he doesn’t starve, not when (y/n) feeds him. not when she holds his hand, not when she plays with his hair during late night study sessions in the common room, not when she spoils him with new dress robes for the Malfoy yule ball that he gets invited too after his Slytherin ancestry is revealed, not when she kisses him beneath the mistletoe and he devours her whole.
Tom was born starving, born without comfort, born to starve to death.
Tom no longer starves, he hungers still, for everything he was deprived of when he was young, but he’s no longer grasping for the smallest things, he’s no longer afraid to take and ask and receive.
He kisses (y/n), eats her food full of love just for him, and feels full.
Tom Riddle, finally felt full.
-End-
Yaaaaaaaay, I finished it! My mom flew down from Georgia so I really wanted to finish this before I lost access to my computer, and we’re going to Disneyland on Friday!(which I have no money for…yaaay :c)
Uh, I hope you guys enjoooyed, I just really needed Tom, starved for everything, to finally feel full. byyye
⤿ঌ 𝑰𝑵𝑪𝑨𝑵𝑫𝑬𝑺𝑪𝑬𝑵𝑻 — someone who glows with intense passion, brilliance, or joy, or conversely, someone burning with extreme rage.
⤿Content : Plot & build up. Pregnancy. Nudity. Wounds & bruises. Kissing. Suggestive. Intimacy. Heavily Implied sex. Fluff. Drizzle of angst. Scene inspired by Pursuit of Jade. The most self-indulgent a self-indulgent fic can get.
⤿Word count: 7.7k
⤿ Authors note: Sokka is vital to the plot of every fic! Zuko loose hair and back muscles when they're flexed *drools*. Last last thing, I suck at content/warning tags sorry ://
Once again... balance has been restored to the world, peace revived to the united republicans, and a dawn on the horizon to mark it's arrival.
But the suns awakening did not remove the cinder from the air nor the scorch of the city from below—a new day had not meant a forgotten yesterday—the damage was done and much was to be rebuilt.
Birdsong returned to the skies. And a memory stirred of all the mornings he had spent on the terrace overlooking the flourishing expanse of his nation, a whiff of cider musk breathing from his silk robes.
Zuko set aside much of his concerns for the time being and embraced the kindred fire of first light as they braved the clouds. He had not wanted to—he felt he did not deserve to—yet was unable to stop himself from succumbing to relief, for what a long arduous battle it had been.
"This marks another win for team Avatar!" Sokka exclaimed breathlessly as he landed unceremoniously beside Zuko. He threw his arm over the railed edge of Appa’s saddle and deflated from the aftershock of nearly free-falling to his death.
"And what exactly did you contribute?" Toph queried.
"O you know, brains and brawn. Saved yalls butts twice! Not forgetting how my spectacular no bending invention single-handedly restored peace and balance to the world"
"You think you could use that no bending skills to save me from the wrath of my wife?”
Silence.
Sokka's head whipped toward Zuko whose face had shifted in an instant from calm serenity to petrified realization.
“I didn’t tell her I was leaving,” he muttered under his breath, staring into the sun as if it might offer him mercy.
Toph chortled, “Goodluck with that”
Sokka furiously shook his head. “Don’t drag me into this”
Aang, perched atop Appa’s head, looked back, glad he had not been in Sokka’s—or, worse yet, Zuko’s—stead because he, like the rest, had known your fiery temperament and had been subjected to its terrifying nature before, close enough to understand it wasn’t just talk or a joke passed over lightly.
Even Katara who could silence a room with a glance had never made him feel quite like this: that uneasy awareness of having already chosen the wrong side of a coming conversation.
He swallowed, suddenly very aware of his torn clothes, and looked away from Zuko. He was taken back to that one time during a stealth mission when Sokka and Zuko’s simple bantering had turned a quiet mission into near disaster.
It was a few years after Firelord Ozai’s defeat, when the plans for Republic City were still ink on paper and the world was trying to stitch itself back together.
They ran on exhaustion more than certainty, moving between rebuilding efforts, negotiations, and the precarious work of keeping the nations—set in their ways of war—from tearing at each other again.
The group had split in two. Probably not the smartest of plans. Aang was to take Sokka and Zuko, stake out a camp, trace patrol patterns, count soldiers, gather whatever intel they could, and await the signal.
But with three hours gone and still no sign of movement, Zuko, who wasn’t even supposed to be there in the first place, shifted from stillness into irritation. And with Zuko, irritation never stayed small for long.
Sokka noticed, of course. And Sokka—well, Sokka had never met a tense situation he couldn’t make worse on purpose.
“We’ll age out here before we see a single soldier. Look, Zuko’s already balding,” Sokka said, poking at a branch at Zuko’s feet with his boomerang.
“If you would stop talking, we might actually hear something useful.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Sokka shot back, louder, “I didn’t realize Fire lord grumpy here was conducting a listening ceremony.”
The air tightened.
Aang had glanced between them, already sensing the shift before either of them fully committed to it. “Guys... maybe—”
And just like that, their bickering grew harsher, loud enough to have alerted an unseen passing patrol. “It’s the Avatar!!”
“You guys did it again!” Aang snatched up his staff in one motion. Air lifted him upward as he rose above the bushes, frustration flashing across his face. “Every time you argue, someone shows up and I'm always the first one noticed!”
Troops had plunged from the canopy of trees, emerging one after the other from the dark crevices of the forest with no end in sight.
Aang landed to help Zuko and Sokka.
But they were steadily driven back into a position where the enemy had gained the upper hand.
Like fury incarnate, earth had suddenly surged up in twin walls from the ground, folding the attackers in and cutting off every escape, and then water followed—an erosion, swift and precise washed through the space, locking every step in place as it hardened around their feet.
Every threat was flattened in a single, controlled strike.
The chaos gone as quickly as it had escalated.
You stood there afterward with a flat, unreadable expression, sweat clad and breathing heavier from the strain of such coordinated yet strenuous bending, your disappointment settling over them like stone.
Aang visibly shivered, his body reacting as the memory surfaced.
He could still feel it: the pressure of your words pinning them in place more effectively than any Earth Kingdom soldier ever had.
Since then, he had avoided anything even remotely reckless within your orbit. If something looked like it might spiral, he was already halfway out of it.
If Sokka started arguing, Aang found air.
If Zuko started pacing, Aang found distance.
If a plan felt even slightly like it might become “that kind of situation again,” Aang was suddenly, urgently needed somewhere else. Anywhere else.
He let out a small breath, rubbing the back of his neck as if it could ease the memory away.
“Yeah,” he muttered to himself, glancing off toward the horizon. “Not doing that again.”
Katara had heard the whole thing.
She didn’t feel sorry for them. Not really. They made their choices, and choices had consequences, therefore they should own up to it. Simple as that. Still, there was something faintly amusing about the way they spoke of you, like your presence alone had rewritten the rules of survival.
Katara had seen real fury before. Water crashing, storms breaking, emotions spilling over in waves.
And you…you were rational. That was all.
You were control. And control when it turned toward them felt like standing still in deep water as the current decided where one would go.
You were calm, collected, even when you reprimanded them. Somehow, that was exactly what made it worse. Because you didn’t raise your voice. Like every situation wasn’t an emotional mess to be shouted through—but a problem to be solved, with consequences carefully considered.
She sighed, shaking her. “Deserved.”
Toph nodded in agreement. Boys were stupid. Brainless. Rash. They had tendency to ruin most of what they touched… and didn’t touch.
Sokka spoke first, very carefully. “She once looked at me like I had personally offended the concept of intelligence.”
“You did,” Toph and Zuko replied in unison.
Sokka glared.
“You’re all ridiculous.” Then, almost absently, Katara added, “She doesn’t scare me.”
“And me,” Toph raised her hand.
Aang blinked. “Really?”
Katara rested against Appa. “She’ll be angry—and it's within her right to be. You left without telling her.”
Zuko looked toward the horizon, where messengers and rumours always seemed to travel faster than wind.
“And after what just happened,” she added, quieter now, “news of the scale of the wreckage will reach her soon.”
Sokka patted Zuko’s shoulder with forced sympathy. “You're going to have to deal with this one yourself buddy”
Zuko’s expression didn’t change. “You’re coming with me.”
“Nope.” Sokka's leg hooked lazily over the other, letting the slight breeze catch him as if he had already emotionally checked out. “This is a royal problem. Fire Nation business. Husband wife stuff.”
Toph snorted, pointedly removed from the conversation in the exact way Sokka had hoped to be.
“Sokka”
“What Katara? I value my life.”
Aang shifted uncomfortably as Appa readied to land. “In her… condition. I don’t think she’s going to just—focus on one person.”
Zuko’s eye twitched. He clearly caught the implication, but swallowed it down with visible effort. “…You’re all coming,” he said flatly.
Sokka pointed at him. “That’s not how protection works!”
Appa touched down near the city center with a thud that rippled through the streets below.
“It's been a while. We could do with a visit” She smoothed a hand over Appa’s fur, a smile written across the corners of her mouth.
With Katara and Toph in agreement, the decision was already made.
Zuko would be returning home regardless, so his vote counted for nothing.
As for Aang and Sokka…they weren’t given a choice.
With much still to be done in the wake of the destruction left behind, Sokka suggested they remain in Republic City for the day, where they would clean up, rest, and handle a few lingering matters before setting out for the Fire Nation the following morning.
This time, his opinion had been heard and agreed upon.
Zuko was grateful, albeit hesitant. He told himself it was better to return home fully rested and composed than to arrive in torn clothes, injuries half-healed, and every weakness laid bare for scrutiny.
•.‿︵˖⤿🐦🔥 ঌ˖︵‿.•
Steam curled lazily along the stone walls.
Zuko submerged himself under the hot water longer than necessary. When he resurfaced, it ran over his shoulders, down his arms and chest as if it could rinse out more than just soot and sweat.
The day replayed itself in fragments. Then went further back to when his hope for redemption sparked and brought him to this point. Then even further back—deeper into the memories of his childhood when he'd been taught the history of his Nation, their climb to dominance and success…to the demise of the Air Nomad. Aang's people.
He exhaled slowly, tilting his head back against the tub, his arms resting along its curved edges.
His chest rose with the steam, then eased back down—steady as the flicker of candlelight in a still room.
“What troubles you, My Lord?”
A ghost of a touch brushed his shoulder where a deep incision had been healed to a dark bruise. Another sensation had followed shortly, a softer collision against his shoulder.
“Why? Do you plan on kissing my troubles away?”
He had found himself smiling.
“Oh, I can do a lot more than that…” you replied, voice warm with that familiar spark—the kind that didn’t burn outwards so much as it simply refused to dim.
His hand had rested on your hip, fingers idly tugging at the absurd amount of layers in your dress as if grounding himself in something real.
“Thank you…”
“I haven’t even done anything yet,” you mused, tilting your head to capture his lips in a simple kiss before tucking his hair behind his ears.
But Zuko had meant it in all honesty. “For being here”
“Even when it got hard. Even when everything changed… when it was an upheaval and adjustment for you.”
You had become his calm, the push and pull of water, steadying him when everything else felt uncertain.
And yet, despite the water that flowed through your veins, making you strong, composed, and grounding, there was a fire breathing beneath it.
It was obvious in the way you moved through the world—quick to flare, quick to speak, quick to challenge anything that stirred too comfortably around you.
“Those eyes look as if they could do no wrong,” your finger traced the slope of his nose, slow and unhurried, like you had all the time in the world to map him out, to revitalize the memory of him.
It lingered there for just a moment too long—enough to blur the line between thought and touch—before drifting down, over the heat of his cheek, across his jaw to pinch his chin.
His breath caught, subtle but sharp.
He didn’t move at all, caught between the instinct to step back and the more dangerous urge to stay exactly where he was.
“But it’s not enough to get you out of trouble,”
His body jolted upright.
The bathwater around him swayed at the suddenness. The illusion broken instantly, like heat breaking through glass.
He dragged a hand down his face. Once. Firm.
Exhaustion. That was all it was. A tired mind pulling shapes out of absence just to fill the missing and overexertion and the hunger.
Nothing more.
He pushed up through the water, muscles tightening as cold air met damp skin. Heavy droplets clung to him, sliding slowly down his shoulders and legs, tracing paths to corners touched by your heat.
For a moment, he stood there letting the realization settle back into something he could control. Then he stepped out of the tub.
The towel came around his waist in practiced motion. Water hit tile in uneven rhythms behind him as he dried his hair, wringing it out before clipping it back and walking into the room he'd been given.
Soft bedding, muted light, walls too clean to feel familiar. Comfortable, but not home. Not anything that could anchor the feeling he’d just shaken off. He crossed it anyway.
He dressed in silence, awkwardly folding each movement into the next like he'd long forgotten how to do it himself.
By the time he lay down in bed, at last, the room was dark except for the faint spill of city light through the window.
Sleep didn’t come quickly, and so he stared at the ceiling, listening to the distant ensemble of Republic City—too alive to feel entirely restful. His mind drifted anyway: plans, routes, conversations yet to happen, versions of tomorrow that all ended in the same place.
Zuko closed his eyes. And eventually, after a long stretch of misery—sleep finally took him.
•.‿︵˖⤿🐦🔥 ঌ˖︵‿.•
The sun wasn’t even up yet. Sokka stared into oblivion with a bag slung under his arm, blinking slowly like sleep itself was personally refusing him entry.
Toph flicked a pebble at him. It struck him square in the forehead.
“OW—hey!” Sokka yelped, stumbling sideways and nearly taking himself out on a crate. “What was that for?!”
“Keeping you awake,” Toph said. “You were starting to look peaceful. It was disturbing.”
Zuko stepped past them, passing Aang the last of the supplies before climbing up onto Appa with the efficiency of someone ready to get back home.
“I feel like I should’ve been consulted on this,” Sokka muttered, rubbing his eyes.
Katara didn’t even turn around. “You were.”
“I would remember being consulted.”
“You were informed,” she corrected. “Then you complained.”
“I am not whining—this is strategic concern for my continued existence.”
Katara was unimpressed.
“I hate when the group consensus is ‘we suffer together.’”
“Oh, don’t be such a dramatic shrimp fry. You’re the only one acting like this is a funeral march.” Toph laid down and pulled a blanket over herself and lay down.
With the long journey ahead, she might as well catch up on sleep
“I’m not being dra—” he yawned mid-word, staggering slightly, “matic.”
“Sure.”
Aang tightened his cloak against the early morning chill. “Everyone ready?”
Zuko nodded. “Let’s go.”
“Appa, yip yip”
Appa shifted beneath them with a low rumble, then launched into the air.
︵ঌ︵
The flight home filled with an anticipation Zuko had yet to process.
It was not the first time he'd been away from you this long.
Between diplomatic missions, routine territory checks, and military assessments, distance had become a familiar part of his life. But this time was different.
This was the only time he had left without telling you where he was going. And that sat with him miserably.
There was much to think about—beyond the worry for you and his children. It was what lingered beneath that, something he had long claimed to have moved past. And yet, still kept him awake.
Years had passed. He had healed. He had… He had tempered those stubborn irrational flames that drove him. Gained loyal allies, true friendship, married the love of his life, named his first born through strength and legacy.
Why couldn’t he forget the years shaped by hate and obsession?
He had once believed capturing the Avatar would prove his worth. That it would earn back his father’s love, his respect. But somewhere along that path, his ambition had twisted—and the that which he hunted had turned, and hunted him in back.
His honour had never known the golden glory of which existed so strongly today, at the same time, his heart sunk unbearably beneath the guilt such honour carried.
As a full day passed since they left Republic City, Appa flew as though time itself were pressing forward.
Aang could feel the anticipation build in the air surrounding Zuko, he and his bison shared the same understanding—faster was better. The sooner they arrived, the sooner everything could finally settle.
With the second sunrise creeping over the horizon, Sokka and Toph snored their way through the early hours in complete disregard for dignity or altitude.
Katara and Aang sat closer together, speaking in low voices, their conversation soft enough to fade into the wind. Zuko remained near the edge of Appa’s saddle. He looked away from them.
He traced the familiar shapes of mountains and rivers as they passed beneath him, each landmark drawing him closer to home—closer to you, and he counted the minutes.
Quite literally.
Though how accurate he was, he couldn't tell. Only that home was getting closer.
When they crossed into Fire Nation territory, the land was scarred by craters of old destruction, softened now by layers of green grass and scattered wildflowers.
Time had not erased them—only made them appear less frightening.
Sokka stirred at last.
He sat up, squinting at the light. He took in his surroundings, let out a long yawn, then moved closer to Zuko who watched as shapes began to form in the distance.
The roads grew more ordered. The settlements more structured. A different world unfolding as they neared the capital.
“Amazing,” Sokka breathed, genuine admiration softening his voice.
Things had changed since he was last there.
Zuko felt pride swell in his chest. It had taken all of them… but most of all, it had taken you. The Fire Nation was no longer something to fear. It was thriving.
By the time they arrived at the palace, the sun was high overhead, drawn near its peak.
They were all momentarily pulled from their grievances, awestruck by the bright banners stretched across the streets below, and the sound of voices rising in organized waves—chants, cheers, a welcome that rolled through the capital.
Their arrival had been expected, it seemed. Likely your doing.
They offered their waves in return, Sokka a little more enthusiastic once he realized this wasn’t a public execution.
Toph tilted her head. “What’s happening?”
“They’re cheering,” Aang said.
“Yeah, I got that. What does it look like?” she shot back dryly.
“Cheerful… alive,” Katara answered, an understatement to the welcome they received.
Appa stuck his landing with heavy force, wind rushing outward with a strong gust that sent he robes and banners snapping.
The members of court straightened immediately, then bowed in unison as their Fire lord stood to his full height.
And there he saw you. At the forefront, fury that rivalled his flames—no smile, no softness, nothing but your gaze focused squarely on him.
Zuko descended from Appa, his feet meeting cold concrete, his shoulders poised.
He approached.
Even with a scowl firm upon your face, you were—without question—the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
"My love" his voice lowered, tone of command gone, replaced with reverence of worship.
Behind him, Katara felt her chest tighten just slightly, warmth blooming as she watched it unfold—this quiet, undeniable proof of how far he had come from the boy who once burned too quickly for his own good.
But all good things must meet reality eventually—or in this case, a wife reminding her husband he was still in trouble, and no victory or sweet tone would get him out of it.
“Welcome home, Fire lord Zuko”
His breath hitched for the smallest fraction of a second, not enough for anyone to call it out. Composure followed a half-beat late.
Behind you, his Advisor and Chamberlain stood rigid, guilt practically written into every wrinkle on their faces.
The court, usually so accustomed to political tension, held a bated breath for an entirely different reason now.
It wasn’t fear of their Fire Lord that alerted them, it was the controlled fury of their Lady that unleashed when she saw her husband.
"Do you care to explain yourself, or shall I have the divorce papers drafted?"
Zuko’s collar suddenly felt tighter than it had any right to be. The fabric pressed against his throat like it had shrunk in the heat of the moment. His posture stayed upright out of habit, but something in him had clearly faltered.
“Aang needed my help,”
The courtyard seemed to forget how to breathe.
The attendants stiffened altogether; one advisor’s scroll slipped slightly in his grip before he caught it too late, the rustle sounding far too loud.
Katara’s stifled her amusement while Sokka made a small, strangled noise like he was deciding whether to laugh or pray.
Toph smirked faintly, head tilted as if listening to the emotional damage in real time.
Even Aang, somewhere in the group, looked personally betrayed by his own name being used as justification.
And at the centre of it all, the air between you and Zuko sweltered.
"Is that an excuse I hear?”
“No—”
“Someone’s in trouble.” Sokka said with a grin that suggested he was enjoying this far too much.
It lasted exactly until Katara struck him lightly on the back of the head, silencing him mid-smirk.
“I was going to tell you—”
You side-stepped your husband mid-sentence. No hesitation.
They had all frozen, the Fire lord reduced not by battle, but by the displeasure of his wife.
“Katara”
Your voice noticeably changed first. The warmth returned like nothing had happened. Like it had all been folded away in an instant and replaced.
Katara didn’t hesitate as she crossed the space and pulled you into a tight embrace. Sisters through water, war, and everything that came after it.
Sokka, who had been raving in fear of your reaction was pulled into a hug too, which surprised him.
“Wow. Pregnancy has changed you" he said before he could stop himself.
Katara immediately pinched him.
“Battle wounds? No. More like survival wounds from you violent people.”
Sokka barely had time to finish before Katara pinched him again, harder this time.
“OW—okay, okay!” he yelped, recoiling and rubbing his arm. “I’m kidding! Mostly kidding!”
You laughed softly, shaking your head. “It’s fine. Pregnancy has been messing with me, but I’m in a good mood.”
“You're lying” Toph chuckled.
“I'm trying to be in a good mood,” you corrected. “I haven't seen you guys in a while… A visit must've fell from your list of priorities”
Toph gestured to Appa. “Not all of us have a flying bison or a fleet of airships, you know.”
“Mhm.” You looked sideways. “Zuko won't have an airship for a while either.”
That earned a quiet exhale from him.
He stepped closer toward you, but you moved away anyway.
A beat passed. Then Aang stepped forward last, a smile that hadn't truly reached his eyes.
You embraced him tightly.
“You look worse for wear" you said.
“Getting better” he breathed out.
That seemed to ease something in you.
You stepped back, one hand resting over your stomach as your eyes moved across them—taking in all of them at once.
The whole mess. The whole family. Back in one place, even if briefly.
Above you, Momo suddenly darted in a tight circle, chittering excitedly around your head.
“Hello to you too, Momo,” you said, amused. “And Appa as well.”
You motioned once, and your lady servants quietly withdrew. “I've had someone prepare your rooms. I'm sure you'll want to rest. The kitchen has prepared a light meal—we can meet for dinner tonight”
Zuko exhaled halfway then stopped when you turned to him, and the breath he’d started to release stalled completely in his chest.
“And you…”
“The Avatar needed my help. I didn't know things would—”
“You had the whole court lie for you!”
A beat.
The officials shifted first. Then the attendants. Then the guards.
Zuko raised a hand.
The courtyard moved. Footsteps scattered and scrambled. Armor clinked. Doors shut too quickly.
“He lets them run but tells me to face my death with honour.” Sokka whispered to Toph.
“That makes you less of a coward.”
Katara didn’t hesitate when she grabbed Sokka by the ear and Toph by the forearm.
“Aang!” she called sharply.
Aang blinked then hurriedly followed, leaving you and your husband alone in the courtyard.
“Are you really mad?” He asked softly, catching your face and tilting so your eyes met his.
“Oh rest assured, Honourable Fire Lord—” you swat his hand away, “I am furious!”
You walked first. And he shadowed your every step.
No argument. No pride. Just footsteps behind you, matching your pace through the palace halls, through archway and past carved pillars.
When you finally reached the bedroom, the door shut behind him with a firm click.
You pulled the headpiece from your hair—the one he had given you—and set it down onto the vanity harder than necessary.
“I am not some weak women who can't handle knowing her husband is needed for some greater purpose,” you said. “I do not need constant coddling for every matter you think might cause even the slightest negative reaction. I will not fall apart and I will not beg you to stay when Aang needs you…
But I am your wife!”
His arm came around you carefully, folding over your swollen stomach first, grounding himself there as if that was the most honest place to start. His hold was warm, steady, deliberate.
"You are..." he affirmed with pride—with certainty, submission and subservience that wasn’t defeat but devotion.
He leaned his forehead briefly against your shoulder. “You are my wife. And I know that.”
You slapped his hand. It stung, but he just refolded then into place again.
“Let go”
“No”
You looked one sentence away from losing patience entirely. For a brief second, you even looked like you might hit him again.
Zuko, infuriatingly calm, smiled like he could read the thought forming. Then he pressed a light kiss to your shoulder, unbothered.
“I’ll let go if you stop being angry.”
“Not a chance”
You elbowed him in the gut, easily manoeuvring out of his hold, slower but no less familiar with the way your body had been trained to move.
“Feisty woman,” he rasped, hunched over.
He said your name. No answer. Repeated it again.
You slammed your hands down on the table. “What were you thinking!?”
“I'm sorry”
“You hear that, little one? That’s what we call a half-hearted apology. A lie. Your father pulled that one straight from his ass.”
He was sincere—not just because he knew he’d upset you, or because you deserved an apology, but because he knew better. He knew better… and still doubted himself.
“I am sorry… but I—”
“Left. You left. With lies. With people keeping me in the dark because you thought it was best.
Where is your honour in that, Zuko?”
Your voice cracked.
The baby, as if sensing your distress, delivered a series of sharp kicks to your abdomen. You pressed your palm over your stomach, trying to soothe the movement, but the ache lingered.
“What if you died? You would’ve left without a proper goodbye. I would’ve known nothing. Nothing.”
Zuko finally moved—like he was forcing himself not to recoil from the hurt in your voice. “…I didn’t think further than what had happened last time”
The memory surfaced, uninvited. A civil war breaking out across the Nation. Smoke on the horizon. Orders lost in the collision. And you—pregnant, close to term, already carrying more weight than anyone should have had to.
There had been a complication then. One that had nearly forced him into a choice that still didn’t feel real even years later—he was on the ground mid-battle when they told him. A decision he had never forgiven the world for making him consider.
So when Aang’s summons came—impossible to ignore—he had hesitated.
He had told himself he was protecting you by not telling you. By leaving quickly. By avoiding panic, avoiding stress, avoiding anything that might tilt the balance again.
But standing there now, watching your hands press into the table, watching the anger that came from love rather than distance, he understood what he had actually done.
He hadn’t protected you.
He had repeated the mistake in a different way.
His throat tightened.
“I thought—” he started, then stopped. Because there was no version of that sentence that didn’t fall apart halfway through.
“…I was wrong,” he said instead. “I should have told you. I should have trusted you with it.”
A pause.
“It was foolish to leave. It was even more foolish to think I could have the entire court lie to you… keep you in the dark until things blew over… I was foolish.”
"You were."
"I was…"
No deflection. No attempt to soften it.
You hated him. But you couldn't deny him. He had tried, but he was still only human. Human in his mistakes, human in the way he carried them, and human in the way he sometimes let fear speak louder than trust.
Neither of you moved. But then you stepped forward.
Zuko raised his arm, and you walked into his embrace, your forehead pressing into his chest as your breath caught like you’d been holding it in for too long.
“I’m here,” he murmured, meant only for you.
His hand brushed along your jaw as he leaned in—slow enough to give you time, to let you pull away if you wanted to.
You didn’t.
Your breath met his first. Then your lips.
Zuko left soft, lingering pecks along your bottom lip, unhurried, testing, like he was relearning something he had no right to rush.
Then, slowly, he deepened the kiss.
His hands came up to cradle your neck, warm. Always warm.
You swore he ran hotter than any fire bender alive. Not just heat, but presence.
Something constant, something that pressed into you without burning—unless you let it.
He was warmth in every sense of it. Like the thick summer air that clung to your skin, heavy and inescapable…
And like a fire in the dead of winter, steady, consuming, offering comfort the moment you stepped too close to the cold.
He stroked your earlobe while his other hand found the inner corner of your robe, easing it from your shoulder.
Zuko hummed, pleased by the way you inclined toward his touch.
But you sooner pulled away, telling him to go ahead to the bath chamber.
When you joined him, towel set aside, your fingers found his belt, undoing the knot with practiced ease.
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
His eyes traced your every move while you carefully avoided his gaze.
You pushed his robes from his shoulders, letting the fabric fall away and onto your forearm.
Zuko he stepped back to remove his boots then the rest of his clothing, until nothing remained between him and you.
“Could you…” you gestured toward the water.
“Of course,” he mused.
Zuko lifted his hand, and with an effortless breath, flame sparked to life in his palm. The water responded instantly, steam rising in soft curls with a gentle hiss, the surface rippling before it settled.
You sat on the low stone slated edge of the bath as he lowered himself into the water.
“…You’re not joining me?” he asked.
“Waters too hot for me," you replied, reaching for a cloth.
You dipped it, then dragged it gently over his chest, over the bruises no water could heal.
Zuko had eased almost instantly under your care, the tension in his neck and shoulders unwinding as he rested his head against the stone.
His eyes closed, letting you take care of him.
︵ঌ︵
His face sank into the plush mattress, inhaling the faint trace of your scent that lingered in every crease of the sheets.
A low groan escaped him as his body finally registered how tired it was. His arms stretched out loosely, then went still, like even moving felt optional now.
“Where’s Atsumi?”
“Asleep. She’s been running a terrible fever.”
Half-lidded eyes shot open. Halfway through getting up, you pressed a hand firmly to his chest and pushed him back down.
Zuko's breath hitched.
“She hasn't slept well in two days. She needs rest…”
“Then I should—”
You didn’t let him.
“Carry on,” you said flatly.
Zuko exhaled through his nose, tension easing in reluctant stages. His shoulders sank back into the mattress, the fight draining out of him.
“She’s going to hate that I didn’t check on her immediately,” he muttered.
“I spent two nights consoling her cries all while dealing with this little Firestarter in my stomach kicking and acting up. You’re not going to wake her.”
He cupped your thigh as you came to straddle him, thumb rubbing circles.
“I should’ve been here,” he said quietly.
“You are here now.”
“That’s not the same.”
“No,” you agreed. “It’s not. But because of you, we're still here”
“…Is she really alright?”
“As alright as any child with your temperament could be” you said.
That earned the smallest, tired curve at the corner of his mouth.
“She’s more like you…”
She was. But she looked exactly like him.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” you replied softly, running your fingers through his hair… a little insecure of it.
Zuko kissed your clothed inner-thigh before he smoothly flipped your positions.
He lifted your leg to wrap around his waist, lowering you into the position he was just in. Then, like he couldn't help himself, he face invaded your personal space—no such thing existed between you.
A kiss to your cheek, your forehead, then the bridge of your nose. His hand found yours, fingers threading tightly with yours against the sheets before he raised them above your head.
“You have nothing to fear,” he whispered.
“Beside my husband sneaking off on suicide missions.”
“Aside from that…”
Zuko caressed the back of your hand, his touch slow and deliberate, before lifting your joined hands to his mouth.
Your leg tightened around his waist. He made a low sound in the back of his throat, half a grunt and half pleading. He looked at your through his eyelashes—in worship… with unveiled devotion.
You skimmed your fingers up the column of his throat—over the thick pulsing vein—pausing at his scar.
He went still as you kissed it.
The heat flourished in his cheeks, not just embarrassment or shyness, but something far more vulnerable—enough to bring him to tears.
He kissed you before they ever fell—before he could retreat into his pain instead of his heart.
•.‿︵˖⤿🐦🔥 ঌ˖︵‿.•
The last remnants of the day had begun to flee when you, flushed and exhausted, pulled yourself out from beneath the blanket and sank back onto your pillow. Zuko's insatiable hunger followed instinctively—too close, too heated.
You pushed at his shoulder before he could hover over you completely.
He laid a kiss onto you stomach, the gesture reverent. The baby kicked which warmed his heart.
Lowering himself until his ear rested against it, nuzzling his nose against the stretched skin.
Endearments whispered his love—the ache in your bones a testimony to it.
“We should get ready for dinner…” you mumbled weakly.
“Not obliged to attend,” Zuko replied, unmoving, still half-lounged against you like he had no intention of letting go.
“Courtesy…” You sat up.
He muttered something incomprehensible under his breath before sitting up properly, dragging a hand through his hair to reset himself into something resembling a Fire Lord again.
But the softness didn’t fully leave his face. Not when he stared at you.
You rolled your shoulder with a wince, working out the tension still lingering there.
Without a word, he crossed the space between you.
His silk robe draped over your shoulders, adjusted it gently, fingertips brushing briefly as he made sure it covered well.
“As you wish.”
And so he did.
From the bath to the cloth, from lifting you in and out and carrying you about, from laying out your dress and seeing you fit for the hall—Zuko had done it all.
By the time you entered the dining hall, the others were already seated.
Zuko led you in with your hand set light upon his forearm. His hair bound up neat and proud, the Fire Nation emblem set through it, gold catching the lamp-light and casting a warm gleam over the room’s high beams and carved stone.
You took the first step in. Then, just as you had almost reached the table, a small blur sprang from Aang’s lap and darted across the room in a flash of light and laughter.
Zuko dropped at once to one knee, swift as a striking hawk, and caught the child with ease before she could collide with his legs.
“Papa!” she cried, laughing so hard it came out like a squeal.
At the sound, Zuko’s heart was pried open with joy.
His arms closed around her small body without hesitation, his entire composure shifted in an instant to her father.
Katara’s face softened at once, and Aang watched her with a look that held both warmth and wonder. You saw it.
And you smiled just slightly as you took your seat.
Sokka, already halfway through pouring a drink, slid a glass toward you with exaggerated seriousness.
“For the Lady of the Fire Nation,” he said, trying—and failing—not to look smug about the chaos he was witnessing.
Zuko lifted her with ease as she tugged at his collar and pointed at nothing in particular with the absolute certainty of a child who believed everything belonged to her.
“I found him,” she announced proudly to no one and everyone.
“You always do,” Zuko said, almost amused, pressing a brief kiss to her hair.
Zuko sat beside you, his daughter in his lap. But she stayed no longer than a minute before she was up and dangling onto Sokka's shoulder.
With everyone seated and settled, though “settled” was a generous word for it. You began to eat.
Your daughter—who by all means should have been limp and fever stricken—had decided otherwise.
She clung to Sokka’s shoulder one moment, nearly toppling over into his plate of food the next. He yelped, simultaneously catching her and his plate.
“Hey, hey… tiny tyrant, sit down!”
But she had slipped from him like water, already darting after Momo, who chittered in alarm and delight as he took flight just out of her reach.
Aang winced. “Momo, don’t encourage her—!”
Too late.
She spun again, quick as a spark, and made her way to Toph’s side. A small hand reached. A piece of food vanished.
Toph didn’t even move.
“You’re lucky I like you,” she said, chewing slowly, though the faintest smirk tugged at her mouth.
Zuko watched her with a mix of disbelief and quiet awe, like he couldn’t quite decide whether to intervene or admire the sheer force of her will.
“She was sick?” he murmured under his breath.
You shrugged.
Atsumi, after several laps around the dining table, finally slowed and squeezed her way between Katara and Aang, picking up the little bison stuffed toy she had left in their care earlier.
Conversation had found its rhythm. Old friends catching up. Distant family telling tales.
You listened. You replied. You added where needed.
But eventually, almost without noticing, the conversation had deepened.
“…And the damage?” you asked.
Zuko’s hand stilled slightly beside yours.
Aang glanced up. Katara’s posture straightened just enough to be noticed. Even Sokka quieted, though he tried to hide it behind a bite of food.
“Later then,” you glanced at Zuko.
Sokka, ever the first to recover, leaned back on his hands. “Great. ‘Later.’”
Toph snorted. “You act like you’re the one in trouble.”
“I am in trouble,” Sokka shot back. “I was there. I participated. I enabled—”
“If anyone’s in trouble… it’s Zuko,”
Zuko shot her a look of warning immediately—but there was no real bite to it.
He was just grateful you were currently occupied with redirecting your daughter away from Momo’s tail before she discovered yet another way to test the limits of her mothers patience.
“…She shouldn’t have this much energy.”
You huffed, sitting down with her.
Aang smiled faintly at that. “I remember someone else who didn’t know when to stop.”
Zuko pursed his lips.
“…You chased me across the world.”
Sokka pointed between them. “Everyone here has a history of making questionable decisions but I’m always the liability?”
“You are the liability,” Toph said flatly.
“I am the glue of this group.”
“You’re the gum that gets stuck under my barefoot,” she shot back.
You and Katara shared a laugh.
“So what will happen now?” you asked, looking over your daughters head as she climbed into your lap without permission and then dove into her fathers lap when he sat.
He was breathing heavy.
Atsumi had made him chase her around the room, laughter echoing between the tables until even the guards had started pretending not to watch.
You argued it was dinner and he had already eaten half of his meal, but Zuko didn’t know how to say no to her—especially not when she looked at him like that.
Aang set his bowl down before answering, his tone thoughtful, already a step ahead in planning. “We’ll head back to Republic City. There’s still work to be done”
Sokka groaned softly. “Ah yes, more work. My favourite.”
“You don’t do the work,” Katara said.
“I supervise the work.”
“You eat during the work.”
“I fuel morale.”
Toph flicked a raisin at him.
Ignoring them, Aang concluded. “After that… I’ll be taking the new Acolytes to the place Sonan mentioned.”
Zuko glanced between them before speaking. “I can have airships prepared by morning, if you'd need it.”
Aang nodded in quiet appreciation. “That would help.”
Katara glanced at him. “You’re sure about this?”
“It’s time,” Aang said simply.
Zuko considered that. “Let me know what you need. Supplies. Support. Anything.”
Aang met his gaze and nodded once.
“I will.”
Eventually, you had the table cleared and replaced with light desserts and tea because no one seemed ready to head to bed yet. The atmosphere was warm. Unrushed. The company welcomed.
And in that small pocket of noise, you leaned slightly toward Zuko.
Your voice dropped—low enough that it belonged only to him.
“You should go with them.”
He stilled.
“You want me to leave again?” he asked quietly.
You smiled, faint yet certain. “I want you to see there’s still hope.”
Your words sunk in—finding places within his soul that had learned to never complain again. The past was not something he spoke of often, but it lived in him all the same.
The Fire Nation had taken everything from Aang’s… and even now, it still kept him up at night—haunting thoughts that never went away no matter how much time had passed or how much he had tried to make right what could be made right.
It was part of the reason he had moved so quickly when Aang’s message arrived.
And though he had not been the one to begin it, he had once chased its ending for all the wrong reasons.
That guilt had never quite left.
Your hand brushed lightly against his beneath the table.
“That isn’t yours to carry alone, nor is it his” you added, looking across the table.
Aang laughed boisterously at something Sokka had said.
“You think I can help with that?”
You didn’t hesitate.
“I know you can.”
Zuko’s eyes flicked toward him.
Toward the future being built in small, stubborn pieces.
“Uhm… guys— just letting you know… she's really hot," Sokka said, wide-eyed as she clung to him with alarming determination.
“Atsumi” Zuko called.
Her fever must be returning.
At once, she looked up. And just as quickly—faster than she ever listened to anyone else, faster than when you called—she broke away from Sokka and returned to her fathers side.
No hesitation. No protest.
“I’ll take her to get her medicine”
Zuko stood for the hundredth time that night.
He bent down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. There was still too much left unspoken behind his eyes, too many thoughts he hadn’t yet sorted into words.
He lifted your daughter carefully into his arms as if she were the most natural extension of himself.
Then he turned—already halfway gone in his mind. Tethered only by habit, by love, by everything he had built and still didn’t quite believe he deserved.
Wow wow wow wow WOW. It’s been a hot minute since I’ve read ATLA or consumed its content, yet every character is characterized so perfectly, exactly as I remember them. I love the banter among the Gaang, love how sokka is great comedic relief as always, and love how the relationship between reader and zuko is laid out. This also feels like a love letter to zuko’s character, I love your analysis of his feelings, ties to his past, and how you show that it influences his present behaviors. Zuko hiding his activities from his wife and her being mad out of love versus discipline, is such a beautiful line as well! T_T your imagery is so beautiful, your jokes are hilarious, and your dialogue is so freaking good. Also loved the intimacy in the bath scene and when they were in bed. So sensual without being outright explicit. Holy shit I could go on for hours about how good this was, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR SHARING AUTHOR!!!
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synopsis: when your boyfriends james and regulus rush to the infirmary after you knock yourself out, they’re relieved to see you awake… until they realize you don’t remember them and instead start flirting with them, completely unaware you’re already dating them.
tags: minor injury, concussion, mentions of being drugged due to a medicine, light angst, playful banter, angel imagery, temporary amnesia. (3k words)
The minute Remus had barged in and told James, who was lounging beneath a tree with Regulus, that you were knocked out in the infirmary, both of them were on their feet before he had even finished the sentence.
James moved first, which was not surprising considering the way his entire body had gone rigid with alarm the moment your name left Remus’ mouth.
One second he had been sprawled comfortably in the grass with his glasses sliding down his nose and the next he was halfway across the courtyard already, hair disheveled from running his hands through it as he demanded, “What do you mean knocked out? What the hell happened?”
Remus barely had the opportunity to answer before James was off toward the castle.
Regulus followed a moment later, though unlike James he was not panicking aloud, which did not mean he was calm; the fear coiled beneath his ribs, gnawing at him with the knowledge that something might have taken you before he could reach you. The image had arrived uninvited and vivid in his mind before he could stop it; you lying somewhere on cold stone, injured, alone, hurt because someone had been careless, and all he could think, over and over, was Remus’ words: knocked out, knocked out, knocked out, knocked out, knocked out—
He had already noticed something was wrong long before Remus appeared. You were always punctual when it came to your Thursdays with them, sometimes arriving early simply to irritate James by stealing his spot under the tree or tugging his hair loose just to annoy him. The fact that you had been thirty minutes late was unusual enough to make Regulus fucking anxious.
So now he was striding through the corridors of Hogwarts with long impatient steps while James practically barreled ahead of him, knocking past startled students and muttering frantic curses under his breath.
They pushed through the infirmary doors with enough force that they slammed against the wall, startling Madam Pomfrey who looked up with immediate disapproval.
“Mr. Potter,” she began sharply.
“Where is she?!” James demanded before she could continue.
Poppy sighed with weary patience. “Bed six,” she said, gesturing across the room. “And before either of you begins shouting, she is fine.”
James was already halfway across the infirmary.
Regulus followed more slowly, though the tightness in his shoulders betrayed how little he appreciated the situation.
Poppy continued explaining as they walked. “Apparently she was practicing a charm during class with Barty Crouch,” she said, her tone carrying particular disapproval, “and the spell went rather wrong.”
Regulus stopped walking. Slowly, he turned his head. “Wrong h0w?”
“The charm caused her to levitate far higher than intended,” she explained briskly, “she drifted all the way to the ceiling of some empty classroom before Mr. Crouch panicked and cancelled the spell entirely.”
“He dropped her?!” James said faintly.
“In short, yes.” Pomfrey confirmed.
(Regulus was already plotting the most violent methods to fucking murder him.)
“She struck her head on the way down,” Pomfrey added, “which resulted in a minor concussion. Nothing serious, though she has been unconscious for about forty minutes.” she explained as they had reached the bed.
James froze.
You were lying there beneath the pale infirmary sheets with your hair spread across the pillow, looking deeply asleep except for the faint crease between your brows that suggested the headache waiting for you when you woke. There was a small bandage near your temple and the sight of it alone was enough to make Regulus’ stomach twist unpleasantly.
As for James, he looked like someone had drained every drop of blood from his body.
“Oh, love,” James murmured.
Regulus stood at the foot of the bed, arms folded tightly across his chest as his gaze swept over you with sharp precision, assessing the situation the way he assessed everything.
You were breathing normally.
No visible injuries besides the bandage.
No sign of distress.
Still, his jaw tightened.
James sat carefully on the edge of the bed, reaching out to brush a strand of hair away from your face with surprising gentleness. “She looks fine,” he said quietly, though the words sounded like he was trying to convince himself.
From behind them Madam Pomfrey gave a patient sigh, clearly accustomed to the dramatic tendencies of Hogwarts students when anyone they cared about so much as sneezed.
“Oh, don’t fret so terribly, dear,” she said, her tone warm but practical as she approached the bedside. “As I mentioned earlier, it is nothing more than a minor concussion. I have seen far worse injuries walk out of this infirmary without so much as a lingering headache.”
James glanced over his shoulder as he and Regulus exchanged worried glances.
Pomfrey adjusted the edge of the bandage at your temple with practiced ease before continuing.
“She may appear a little disoriented when she wakes,” she added calmly. “I administered a mild draught to help with the pain, so it would not be surprising if she seems somewhat… hazy for a short while. A bit sluggish, perhaps even slightly drugged.”
Regulus raised one eyebrow faintly. “Drugged,” he repeated.
Pomfrey waved a hand dismissively.
“Oh, nothing alarming. Just the temporary effects of the potion settling in her system. In a few hours she will be perfectly herself again.”
She gave James a reassuring smile.
“So truly, Mr. Potter, there is no need to look as though the world has ended. Your sweetheart will be as good as new before the evening is out.”
Regulus hummed quietly as Madam Pomfrey moved away to tend to another student. Both of them had prepared themselves for something far worse than the sight that greeted them in the infirmary, yet the reality of you lying there motionless had still settled heavily in the room.
James continued pacing.
“—and what if she wakes up and her head still hurts? What if she’s dizzy? What if she—”
“James.”
He kept walking.
“What if she can’t—”
Regulus stepped forward and caught James firmly by the shoulders, forcing the taller boy to stop moving altogether. The sudden interruption startled him enough that he actually looked up. Before James could launch into another frantic thought, Regulus leaned in and pressed a brief, gentle kiss to his mouth.
“James, mon beau,” he repeated quietly.
He blinked, clearly caught off guard.
“Reggie,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair, “I’m just worried.”
“Stop panicking and pacing,” Regulus continued calmly. “She’s fine and she’s gonna wake up soon, yeah?”
James dragged a hand down his face and nodded, attempting to convince his own brain.
“Yeah. Okay. Right. She’s okay,” he said, the words coming out slightly uneven as he forced himself to breathe properly again. “I just… her head.”
James huffed out a quiet laugh despite himself. “Right. Yeah. Okay.”
“When she wakes up I am going to have a very unpleasant conversation with Crouch.”
James snorted weakly. “Get in line.”
For a few minutes the infirmary settled into a strained quiet.
James remained seated beside you, leaning forward slightly with his elbows braced on his knees while he watched your continued breathing. Every so often his hand drifted back to yours or brushed another stray piece of hair away from your face, small restless gestures that betrayed the nervous energy he was doing a very poor job of containing.
Regulus stood near the foot of the bed, his posture remained perfectly straight, arms folded, expression cool and unreadable. Anyone who did not know him well might have assumed he was entirely unaffected (which would have been very incorrect; he was one breath away from fucking collapsing, but if he did that then James would lose it, and Regulus refused to have both partners unconscious).
Neither of them noticed your fingers twitching against the sheets.
You stirred slowly, your body shifting beneath the blanket as the fog inside your head began to thin just enough for awareness to creep back in.
James straightened so quickly his chair scraped softly against the floor.
“Hey,” he said at once, his voice dropping instinctively into something gentle and reassuring. “Hey, sweetheart. Easy.”
Your eyelids fluttered open.
For several seconds you did nothing but blink up at the ceiling, your gaze unfocused as your brain attempted the slow and rather uncooperative task of catching up with reality. The infirmary lights were painfully bright, the air felt strange in your lungs, and your thoughts drifted sluggishly through your head as though someone had filled it with cotton.
The first thing you noticed was that there were shapes hovering above you.
Two of them.
Tall silhouettes standing close enough that their outlines blurred together against the light behind them.
You squinted harder, attempting to bring them into focus, but right as your vision began clearing both figures leaned in at the same time.
One of them came very close.
Very, very close.
You noticed messy dark hair first, then glasses sliding down the bridge of a nose as the taller one leaned directly over you with such obvious concern that he was practically breathing the same air.
From somewhere beside him another voice spoke, irritated and sharp.
“Give her some fucking space, James.”
“Oh—sorry—”
The tall one jolted back slightly.
“Oh shit. She’s awake. Reggie, she’s awake.”
Your lips curved into a slow, dazed smile.
“Wow,” you murmured hoarsely.
You were quite certain you had died.
Admittedly you could not remember the exact moment of death, but the evidence in front of you seemed fairly convincing. You were lying somewhere soft, the air felt pleasantly weightless, and hovering above you were two very beautiful men who looked so unfairly perfect that they could only belong to heaven.
They were angels, obviously.
You shifted slightly, squinting as your vision cleared enough to properly take them in.
One of them leaned closest to you, tall and broad-shouldered with dark hair. A pair of glasses rested crookedly on his nose and his expression held the sort of open warmth that made his face almost painfully easy to look at. He looked like the embodiment of sunlight.
The other stood just behind him, pale and elegant in a way that felt almost ethereal. His dark hair fell neatly across his forehead, framing eyes so striking they looked unreal against his pale skin. Where the first angel looked like sunlight, this one looked sharper, cooler; something beautiful carved from the galaxy.
If that was the welcoming committee waiting for you in the afterlife, you must have been doing something very right in your life without realizing it.
Your smile widened with dreamy satisfaction.
“Well,” you said slowly, your voice still thick with sleep and whatever potion was currently drifting through your bloodstream, “this is nice.”
The taller angel blinked.
“Nice?” he repeated, clearly offended by that assessment. His mouth pulled into the most ridiculous pout as he leaned closer again. “Oh, not so nice. You scared the hell out of us.”
Oh, those lips; so dreamy and soft looking. You suddenly had the overwhelming urge to kiss them. (You weren’t entirely sure if kissing angels counted as blasphemy, but honestly… what you would do. Heaven really did hold treasures.)
“So,” you continued thoughtfully, “I’m dead, right?”
Because honestly there was no other explanation that made nearly as much sense as waking up on what felt suspiciously like a cloud while two ridiculously attractive angels hovered nearby looking concerned about you.
And if this truly was the afterlife, then frankly you felt rather lucky about the arrangement.
“Hiii,” you said slowly, the word stretching out as though it had to travel a long distance to leave your mouth.
For a moment neither of them said anything.
The pale one tilted his head slightly, dark hair slipping across his forehead as he regarded you with something very close to amusement. “Oh, amour,” he said gently. “No. You are very much alive.”
You relaxed instantly. “Oh good.”
A dreamy sigh escaped you as you stared between them. “I’m so glad I was a good person.”
The taller angel blinked, seeming confused.
“Well,” the black-haired angel (and really, a very pretty one at that) said dryly, “when you’re no longer concussed I will be lecturing the absolute fuck out of you for whatever idiotic stunt you pulled with Crouch.”
You frowned at him, still floating somewhere between dream and reality. “But… I thought I was good.”
The curly-headed angel laughed quietly beside you, a soft, warm sound that made your chest feel a little too full.
“You are, sweetheart,” he said, the words rich with reassurance, almost teasing in the way he said them.
You pouted slightly.
“Well,” you reasoned slowly, eyes drifting between them, “I must be good if I’m going to heaven.”
The curly-headed angel immediately burst out laughing, a loud, joyful sound that made the air feel lighter.
“Oh, she’s absolutely high as a kite right now,” he said, still laughing, eyes sparkling with mischief.
You ignored him completely, captivated by the pale angel who seemed to embody a cruel kind of perfection, as though the universe had spent too long sculpting him.
“You’re so pretty,” you informed him softly, almost in awe.
The pale angel froze. A deep red flush crept up his neck, spreading across his ears like fire.
The curly-headed angel’s eyes widened immediately, and he grabbed the other by the shoulders with delighted amusement.
“Oh my god,” he said, laughter bubbling over, “look at you—Reggie’s blushing.”
“Ja—” the pale angel muttered sharply, but was interrupted.
“—;ook how cute you are when you blush!” the curly-headed angel continued, pinching his cheeks gently, still grinning like a fool.
The pale angel looked like he might actually bite him, and you couldn’t stop yourself from laughing softly, utterly enchanted by the display.
Oh, how desperately you wanted them both, impossibly radiant and impossible to resist, each one a forbidden fruit in flesh and breath. You had no idea if humans (even dead ones, since clearly that was your current status) were even allowed to court two angels at the same time.
The temptation felt almost biblical, like Eve reaching for the forbidden apple, except you were far greedier; you did not crave one, you wanted both apples, whole and sacred and forbidden, and you wanted them all at once.
You frowned and tilted your head staring at them while you wished to steal a fragment of the perfection they radiated. “I wish I could have two.”
They both blinked in unison.
“Two what?” the curly-headed angel asked, genuinely confused.
You shrugged lazily, hands trailing over the blankets. “I don’t know. Just… wanna have two. But I can’t.”
The curly-headed angel immediately went wide-eyed, offended by the concept. “Well, that’s tragic,” he declared, puffing out his chest. “You ask, and you shall receive, ma belle,”
You turned toward both of them again, suddenly curious. “Are you dating anyone?”
The paler angel raised an eyebrow, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “Who,” he asked slowly, gesturing between himself and the other angel, “me or him?”
“Both of you,” you admitted, voice soft.
They exchanged a glance, a flicker of something private passing between them, before answering simultaneously: “Yes.”
And they smiled at each other.
You deflated immediately, pulling the blanket over your head. “Oh.”
The curly-headed angel leaned over with a laugh, his warmth filling the space around you. “Oh come on, why are you hiding, baby?”
Your muffled voice emerged from under the blankets. “Was gonna ask you out…”
He snorted softly.
“But too late,” you continued, tone heavy with mock despair. “You have someone.”
He chuckled, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face with a gentle hand. “Well maybe you should ask us out when you’re actually awake.”
The blanket shifted as you peeked back out. “I can ask you both out?”
The pale angel’s smirk lingered, faint but unmistakable. “Well, if you want two,” he said smoothly, “why settle for one, right?”
You considered this carefully, closing your eyes briefly as you imagined the impossible, the weightless air around you, the dizzying thrill of having them both so near.
“Hm,” you murmured, still dreamy, still half-lost in the impossibly bright, soft space you were convinced was heaven. “As long as I’m not kicked out of heaven…”
The curly-headed angel laughed, “Oh, you won’t get kicked out, don’t worry. Not for thinking you can have two angels. Besides…” He leaned closer, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Heaven’s really just about giving you what you’ve earned.”
You let out a small, sleepy giggle, feeling the lightness in your chest. “I suppose that makes sense,” you murmured, still half-lost in the soft, impossibly bright air.
He grinned, shaking his head slightly. “See? Nothing to worry about.”
Your eyes drifted between the two of them. “Y’know… you’re both very pretty,” you said thoughtfully, “but you must already know that if your partner tells you.”
He scoffed, shooting the pale angel a pointed look. “Yeah, actually,” he said, “I barely hear it.”
The pale one’s glare sharpened immediately, lips pressing together in a mock scowl that barely hid the blush rising to his cheeks.
You frowned, sleepy sympathy softening your expression. “Well, they suck.”
The pale angel choked on a laugh. James wheezed beside you, nearly falling off the edge of the bed with his amusement.
“I don’t want to be a homewrecker,” you continued, voice drifting with drowsy honesty, “but if I was dating both of you, I’d definitely remind you how pretty you are every single day.”
“Well, that’s enough angel talk for now.” the curly-headed angel leaned closer, whispering, “Come on, sleepyhead, you’ve got to rest.”
The pale one bent down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Rest now, amour. You’ve worried us enough for one day”
You let out a contented sigh, curling deeper into the blankets between them. “Okay…”
Wrapped between them, feeling impossibly safe, impossibly lucky, you allowed yourself to sink fully into sleep, two guardian angels holding the space around you as the world outside melted away.
****
You had been asleep for a good two hours, long enough for a lot to happen in the background, when Sirius suddenly barged in with Remus close behind.
Sirius pretended to sob as he enveloped both his brother and best friend in a dramatic hug, all while thrusting a ridiculously oversized bouquet into the bedside infirmary—flowers from Merlin knows where. (“Idiot. What the fuck is she supposed to do with these?” “Reggie, he’s trying to be nice, say thank you!”)
By the time Regulus had given Sirius and Remus their marching orders (though he was far nicer with Remus) with the excuse that you were still out of it, the room immediately felt calmer.
You stirred awake for the second time, blinking as clarity returned, and immediately noticed Regulus at your side. You reached out with both hands. “Oh, Reg, c’mere.”
He stepped closer, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face before pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. “So… you’re conscious now,” he murmured.
You hummed, smiling faintly. “Yeah. I think I’m good, just a little lighthea—”
Before you could answer, the curtains were abruptly pushed open again. Regulus stiffened immediately, jaw tightening as he muttered under his breath, “Not Sirius again…”
You turned your head, only to find Barty standing there, noticeably paler than usual, eyes wide and nervous.
Standing there, wide-eyed and panicked, was Barty. His hands twitched awkwardly. “Oh—Regulus, y’know, I didn’t mean—”
Regulus’s head snapped up, eyes locking onto Barty with a glare so sharp it could have dug a grave.
“You!” he pointed a sharp finger at his friend, “Outside. Now. We need to talk.”
James let out a soft, mischievous giggle, burying his face against your shoulder. “Oh,” he murmured, shaking his head, “he’s so gonna kill him.”
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Next up someone is going to claim that the Narnia series isn't kids books.
Kids books is probably not the best way to word it, you can enjoy them at every age, including your childhood, as you get older you may find new truths in them, but they're still good for any age.
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there’s very few things that drive me up the wall in fandom as much as this weird new assumption that fandom is primarily a space for younger people that older folks are only accepted into in a trial basis if they promise to centralize and accommodate younger fans, and further, anything else is creepy and predatory. IT’S OKAY FOR ADULTS TO PRODUCE CONTENT FOR OTHER ADULTS.
if I have to read “women in their 30s” used as an insult one more time I swear I’ll - step away from that user and just hang out with the other grownups who consistently create good content because I’m also an adult and too busy comparing car insurance to fight with teenagers on the internet, but goddAMMIT I’ll be annoyed
