DVinci (Dva)

She/Her • Brazilian • Yes, I'm a magical cat and I love writing stories! ✨️🐾✏️

[adast3ria]

I write imagines; I accept requests via message or comments on this post!

[fyeahbnha]

"This is why we can't drink alcohol."

[adast3ria]

Fire Beneath the Earth - Imagine Zuko x Earthbender! Reader, Part II (Final)

Synopsis/Request: I liked the dynamic between Zuko and Kyoshi, an earthbender; they remind me of a princess x knight vibe with genders swapped. I'd love another story about them, please?? Her discovering she's a lavabender (I find that sub-bending very incredible).

The heat found you the instant your hands touched the ground.

It was not the simple, direct sensation of bringing skin near a flame. There were no visible tongues of fire licking at your fingers, no dancing blaze before your eyes to avoid. It was something more invasive, deeper, harder to name. The heat rose through the stone and entered you through your open palms, passing through flesh, racing along your wrists, climbing your arms as if searching for shelter inside your bones.

You inhaled sharply.

The surface beneath your fingers vibrated with a restless force, almost furious. It did not possess the massive stability of ordinary rock, nor the solid stillness that had always defined earth to you. It did not rest. It did not remain. It did not accept fixed form.

It moved.

It ran.

It transformed without ceasing.

It was stone in the exact instant it stopped being stone.

Your fingers curled reflexively against the hot surface. Your entire body answered the primitive urge to recoil, to move away from what burned before fully understanding it. Your shoulders tensed. Your jaw locked. The muscles of your back drew tight like ropes pulled to their limit.

But you did not move.

Kneeling before the fissure opened in the shattered courtyard, you kept your knees firm against the black rock and forced your breathing to find rhythm between the heat and the chaos.

Behind you, Zuko did not look away.

He stood several paces back, alert as an unsheathed blade. His entire posture was ready to act at the smallest sign of disaster. Small lines of fire pulsed between his half-open fingers, short compressed flames tense as restrained animals. They lit his hands in flashes of gold and orange.

He knew that expression on you.

Pride facing something greater than pride.

That was when you became most dangerous.

“Talk to me,” he said, voice steady, closer than you had realized.

The sound cut through the haze of heat beginning to surround you.

You turned your head just enough to answer, brow drawn tight with concentration.

“I’m trying to decide... whether this is listening to me or wants to swallow me whole.”

Even under strain, the answer came dry.

Typical.

Zuko exhaled through his nose.

“It would be great if we chose the first option.”

“It would be great if you discovered silence for ten seconds.”

“Impossible under stress.”

Despite the pain climbing your arms, the corner of your mouth almost moved.

Almost.

You closed your eyes.

If you tried to impose force on it the way you did with ordinary earth, you would lose.

You had always controlled stone through stability, weight, axis. You find the base, determine the vector, apply intention. Rock understands firmness. Mountains respect constancy.

But this was not constancy.

It was transition.

If you tried to freeze it into solid form, it would explode.

If you tried to shove it like inert mass, it would escape.

If you tried to confront it, you would be dragged with it.

You needed to change.

You drew a deep breath, filling your lungs with hot, harsh air.

Loosened your shoulders.

Unlocked your fingers.

Instead of commanding, you listened.

Instead of resisting, you followed.

The world beneath you opened.

Subterranean currents rose in your mind like thick rivers of light running through the island. Some flows moved slow and deep, carrying liquid tons through ancient channels. Others forced themselves through narrow passages with violent speed, searching for release. Pockets of heat gathered in inner cavities. Newly formed veins broke through weakened barriers of stone.

Everything connected.

Everything moving.

Everything alive.

You gasped and opened your eyes suddenly.

“I can see.”

Zuko frowned.

“See what?”

The answer came in a thread of voice, crossed with genuine astonishment.

“The paths.”

You lifted your hands a few inches above the stone without losing the connection.

Your arms moved slowly, almost cautiously, like someone testing the weight of something colossal for the first time.

The fissure answered.

Below, the main current of lava shifted direction with a visible jolt through the orange glow. The flow struck an inner wall, scattered liquid sparks, and recoiled into another underground passage. Lines of light raced through new cracks in the courtyard, igniting like exposed nerves.

Zuko took half a step back before checking himself.

His golden eyes fixed on you.

“You did that.”

You were still staring at the ground, disbelieving.

“I know.”

Even your own voice sounded foreign to you.

Another gesture.

Another response.

The ground trembled differently now—not like blind threat, but like force reacting to imposed direction. New glows appeared between the surrounding stones. The air grew hotter. The ruins cracked beneath redistributed pressure.

And then came the price.

A brutal wave of heat surged through the open connection and struck your chest like physical impact. It was not only temperature. It was pure intensity, liquid density, burning weight compressed against your senses.

The air left your lungs.

Your arms faltered.

Your hands lost precision for one second.

It was enough.

The fissure erupted.

A jet of molten lava burst from the opening in a violent arc, hurling incandescent drops across the courtyard like deadly rain.

Zuko reacted before he even thought.

His hands cut through the air in one quick, precise motion. A curve of fire shot from his arms, intercepting the projection and altering its path upward. Heat collided with heat in a blinding flare.

At the same instant, he moved.

His left hand seized your shoulder. His right arm wrapped your waist. He tore you away from the edge of the fissure with enough force to throw both of you off balance.

You hit the black stone side by side several steps away.

The lava struck where you had been kneeling less than a second earlier.

The ground hissed.

Bright scars burned across the surface.

You coughed, turning your face to recover air through clouds of steam and hot dust.

Your hair had come loose around your face. Soot marked your temple. Your chest rose and fell too quickly.

Even so, when you managed to speak, your first words were:

“That was humiliating.”

Zuko, braced on one knee beside you, stared as though he could not believe you.

“That was nearly fatal.”

“You dramatize everything.”

“You almost turned into charcoal!”

You propped yourself on your elbows and looked up at him, exhausted and insolently calm at once.

“And yet I’m still beautiful.”

The reply hit him with absurd effectiveness.

Zuko opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Looked away for one brief second.

Fatal mistake.

You noticed instantly.

Even breathless, even covered in ash, the sideways smile appeared.

“You hesitated.”

“I was irritated.”

“You hesitated because you agreed.”

“Get up.”

“You agreed rather quickly, actually.”

“Get up now.”

You let out a short laugh, roughened by the heat, and held out your hand.

He took it without comment.

His fingers closed around yours more firmly than necessary. He pulled you upright in one continuous motion. When you steadied yourself, you were close again.

Too close.

The mountain’s heat surrounded both of you, but there was another kind of temperature there now, smaller in scale and infinitely more dangerous.

Your breathing was still short. His was heavier than it should have been.

Zuko let go of your hand first.

“Focus.”

You tilted your head slightly.

“You distract me.”

His eyes snapped to yours immediately.

You held the serious expression for exactly two seconds.

Then smiled.

Small. Cruel. Victorious.

“That was revenge.”

“You are impossible.”

“And yet you brought me here.”

Before he could answer, the mountain roared.

This time the sound came louder, closer, reverberating through the ruins with enough violence to shake dust from the remaining structures. An entire section of the central platform gave way at once, collapsing inward with a brutal crash.

When the cloud of debris partially cleared, a wide channel of lava ran beneath the new opening.

Thick.

Fast.

Glowing white-orange at the center.

The ruins were literally opening over the island’s heart.

You turned to the sight, and all provocation vanished from your face.

Now you understood.

This was not about raising walls or throwing stone.

It was about redirecting pressure. Guiding underground rivers. Convincing the mountain to break where it was safe, and not where it wished.

If you failed, the island would choose for itself.

And you would die on it.

“I need time,” you said, without taking your eyes off the flow.

“You have seconds.”

“Then stop wasting all of them talking.”

You stepped to the edge of the new tear in the ground.

The orange glow lit your face from below, turning shadows into severe lines and making your eyes look lighter, almost metallic.

You knelt again.

This time without hesitation.

Both hands lifted for one brief instant.

Then slammed onto the stone at the same time.

The impact echoed through the shattered courtyard.

Your arms tensed until the muscles stood out beneath the armor.

Your eyes closed.

And for one single terrifying second, it seemed the entire mountain answered your command.

The impact of your hands against the stone echoed as though you had struck the chest of the mountain itself.

It was not only sound.

It was command.

You felt the vibration race through the shattered ruins, pass through cracked stairways, broken columns, unstable platforms, descend through buried foundations, and dive into the deep layers of the island, where heat had lived compressed for far too long. Where pressure had gathered in silence, waiting for the exact moment to destroy everything.

The island answered.

The entire ground trembled beneath your knees in broad, measured pulses. No longer the chaotic quakes from before, but deep beats, almost organic. As if something colossal had awakened beneath the stone and was now adjusting its own breathing.

Ancient dust fell around you in thin curtains. Fragments of rock leapt across the ruined courtyard. The fissures split through the ground burned brighter, orange lines winding between broken blocks like exposed veins of fire.

And you felt all of it.

Every underground river of lava running through the island.

Every hidden curve beneath tons of rock.

Every pocket of pressure compressed between walls about to rupture.

Every possible path between balance and disaster.

The knowledge came all at once, too vast for any ordinary person to endure. And still, your body found room to receive it.

Your arms trembled.

Not from fear.

From effort.

Heat rose through the palms of your hands, passed through wrists, forearms, shoulders, and spread through your chest like liquid metal. Veins stood subtly beneath your warmed skin. Sweat ran down your temples and evaporated almost at once. Your fingers, pressed against the black stone, had already reddened.

But you did not pull away.

Behind you, Zuko remained only a few steps back.

Still only on the outside.

You did not need to look to know. You felt his attention as clearly as you felt the volcano. The weight of golden eyes fixed on your every movement. The rigid tension in his posture. The almost physical instinct he must have been fighting not to surrender to — tearing you away from there before you burned alive.

And still, he stayed.

Trusting.

Even worried.

Even clearly hating every second of it.

“Tell me what you need,” his voice came over the growing roar of the mountain.

You kept your eyes closed.

“Silence.”

There was a short pause.

“You have terrible timing for sarcasm.”

“That wasn’t sarcasm.”

Your reply came short, tense, too occupied for jokes.

He fell silent immediately.

The cracks in the ground spread quickly, racing toward the stairways of the old sanctuary. The main flow of lava beneath the courtyard was pushing against the stone walls, searching for the shortest route to the surface.

You felt the danger before you saw it.

If that current broke beneath the foundations, it would drag everything down the mountain.

Your arms rose in one abrupt, sweeping motion.

For a second, nothing happened.

Then the island obeyed.

A side wall of the ruins exploded outward in a violent rain of rock and dust. Entire blocks were hurled into the void. Between two natural formations, an uneven corridor opened, wide enough to receive the internal pressure.

At the same instant, the underground river changed course.

The sound came like muffled thunder racing beneath the earth. Lava shot through the new route and burst down the slope in an incandescent cascade, far enough away to spare the sanctuary.

You heard Zuko’s breathing change behind you.

Rare surprise.

Even rarer admiration.

“You opened an outlet...” he murmured.

Your voice came between heavy breaths.

“I convinced the mountain to prefer another one.”

The effort demanded a steep price.

Your knees sank into the dark dust. Your shoulders burned. Small spasms ran through your fingers. Every second connected to that force demanded more from you than any fight ever had.

And it was not over yet.

Deeper below the courtyard, another pocket pulsed under compression.

Larger.

Hotter.

More unstable.

You felt it like pain inside your own chest.

If it rose all at once, there would be no time to flee.

“We’re retreating. Now.” Zuko’s voice came firm, leaving no room for argument.

“Not yet.”

“That was not a request.”

“And I am not your soldier.”

The ground cracked between you with a brutal snap.

A bright orange line split open in the stone, alive and glowing.

Zuko moved instantly.

He lunged forward, seized your shoulders, and hauled you upward with force, dragging you away from the newly opened fissure before the ground could fully collapse.

For one second, your connection broke.

The pocket below roared.

The pressure surged.

Without thinking, you grabbed his forearm to steady yourself and slammed your other hand into the ground.

It was pure instinct.

Pure birth.

The stone before you softened.

It did not crack.

It did not split.

It melted.

The black slabs of the courtyard yielded like wax before absolute heat, and a thick wall of lava rose before you both in an ascending curve. The movement was brutal and magnificent at once — like watching the heart of the earth take shape.

The flare bathed everything in red and gold.

The heat struck Zuko like a physical wave.

He did not retreat.

One hand remained firm at your waist to steady you. The other rose by reflex before his face.

But his eyes were on you.

Not the lava.

You.

On the way your arms guided liquid tons with growing precision. On the tiny movements of your fingers controlling the tilt of the wall. On the way your body, exhausted and yet unshaken, refused to yield.

You felt it without needing to look.

His silent awe.

His worry.

His disbelief.

The wall took the impact of the underground blast. Liquid sparks flew into the dark sky. Incandescent fragments rained around you. The entire structure shook, rippled, threatened to break.

You held it.

Teeth clenched.

Breath failing.

Arms burning.

Held it.

Then slowly turned your hands.

The wall followed the motion like an obedient colossal serpent, curving to the left and pouring the excess flow through the newly opened corridor down the slope.

Bright rivers descended between the rocks in controlled paths.

The trembling lessened.

The cracks stopped growing.

The mountain’s inner roar weakened.

The currents below finally began to stabilize.

You let out your breath in a rough sound.

And nearly fell.

Zuko caught you first.

This time with obvious care.

One hand braced your back. The other wrapped around your arm, keeping you steady against him while your legs tried to remember how to function.

“Did you burn yourself?” he asked immediately, already searching your hands, your wrists, any sign of worse damage.

“Only my pride... from almost falling.”

“Bad answer. Let me see.”

He took your hands with unexpected gentleness and turned your palms upward to inspect them. They were red, marked by heat, but intact.

Even so, the hard line of his mouth did not soften.

“That was reckless.”

You lifted your face, tired and satisfied at once.

“It worked.”

“It was still reckless.”

“It worked very well.”

He let out a breath through his nose, half irritation, half surrender.

Around you, Roku Island glowed with distant rivers of lava now disciplined into new paths. The ruins still stood. The volcano breathed calmer now, reduced to deep grumbles and occasional columns of steam.

The night felt larger after the chaos.

Zuko was still holding one of your hands.

His eyes turned to the illuminated slope and then back to you.

There was concern there, too clear to hide.

But there was something else too.

Raw admiration.

Almost disbelief.

“I’ve seen bending masters my whole life,” he said, voice lower now. “I’ve never seen anyone do something like that.”

You raised an eyebrow, even exhausted.

“Was that a compliment?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.”

The corner of his mouth threatened to rise.

This time, he did not hide it completely.

You leaned into him for a moment, only until your legs stopped shaking. And while the mountain cooled around you, one thing became far too clear even to him:

Fire had always impressed him.

But watching you command the fury of the earth itself... was something else entirely.

[adast3ria]

Fire Beneath the Earth - Imagine Zuko x Earthbender! Reader, Part I

Synopsis/Request: I liked the dynamic between Zuko and Kyoshi, an earthbender; they remind me of a princess x knight vibe with genders swapped. I'd love another story about them, please?? Her discovering she's a lavabender (I find that sub-bending very incredible).

The ship moved through the dark sea with the steadiness of a blade slicing through fabric. Its prow cut through the deep waves in clean motions, leaving behind white trails that vanished almost the moment they were born. The late afternoon slowly dissolved across the horizon, staining the sky with burnt copper, ancient red, and violet shadows scattered between the clouds. It was a severe kind of beauty — the kind that did not invite admiration, only respect.

The wind blew damp and cold from the ocean, yet beneath the salt it carried something unexpected: the dry scent of old ashes, heated stone, and distant sulfur. As if the island, still many minutes away, was already announcing its presence before it could even be reached.

Ahead, Roku Island emerged through the sea mist like a memory made flesh. Dark, jagged against the blazing sky, with the volcano rising at its center like a sleeping sentinel. Motionless only to those who did not know how to listen. Because even from afar, there was a silent threat within it — a promise of restrained power.

Zuko stood alone at the bow.

Arms crossed, posture rigid, his weight distributed perfectly to withstand the rocking of the ship without even thinking about it. It was the kind of balance born from years in combat, years on the run, years spent living as though the world might demand a reaction at any moment.

His red cloak snapped behind him in sharp bursts of wind. The dying light of dusk carved shadows across his face and deepened the mark of his scar even further. Whenever he thought too much, his expression hardened like that — as if his mind pulled every muscle inward.

And he was thinking too much.

About the council he had left behind in the capital.

About the problems waiting for him upon his return.

About peace, which demanded more effort than any war.

About you.

The sound of your footsteps came behind him across the deck.

Neither hurried nor hesitant.

The footsteps of someone who never asks for space before entering it.

Zuko did not turn around.

You walked the way you fought: with precision. Every movement seemed simple until truly observed — then it revealed absolute control. Shoulders aligned, chin lifted, spine straight, center of gravity always steady. The green and gold paints of your Kyoshi armor emphasized your presence rather than softening it.

There was no crown on your head, no title accompanying you on that ship.

And yet there was something about you that resembled royalty more than many nobles could ever hope to convey.

Natural authority.

Elegance built through discipline.

The kind of presence that never needs to announce itself.

You stopped beside him, turning your eyes toward the island.

For a few seconds, only the sea spoke between you.

Then Zuko broke the silence without looking at you.

“You’ve been staring at me for five minutes.”

Your answer came immediately, smooth as polished stone.

“Four and a half.”

He let out a low sound, almost an irritated sigh.

“Strangely worse.”

“I’m glad to exceed expectations.”

You crossed your arms, mirroring his posture — fully aware of it, and choosing to do it anyway.

Your eyes traveled to the distant volcano.

“Do you always get this dramatic near burning mountains... or is that reserved for special occasions?”

Zuko turned his head just enough to glance at you.

“Only near irritating people.”

“I see.”

You nodded with false solemnity.

“Then today you’re surrounded by danger on all sides.”

The corner of his mouth almost lifted.

Almost.

A minimal movement, nearly invisible.

But you saw it.

You always did.

You saw when he tried to hide exhaustion behind rigid posture.

You saw when anger was only poorly translated concern.

You saw when silence meant internal war.

And especially, you saw when he was about to smile and abandoned it at the last second out of sheer pride.

On the outside, you seemed carved from polished stone. Cold at the surface. Steady. Impeccable. Everything about your body suggested discipline and restraint.

Inside, however, there were geological faults no one could see.

Ancient pressures.

Buried memories.

Affections compressed until they became too dense to touch.

Heat kept hidden for so long that you no longer knew whether it could ever escape without destroying something.

Maybe that was why Zuko irritated you so much.

He had the terrible, insufferable, and dangerously rare habit of noticing cracks.

Even when you had spent your entire life trying to hide them.

You looked away toward the horizon.

“There’s still time to order the captain to turn this ship around.”

“You were the one who insisted on coming.”

“I insisted on leaving the capital.”

You paused, watching the thin smoke rising from the top of the volcano.

“There’s a difference between seeking rest and agreeing to spend days on an island haunted by memories of dead Avatars.”

“Dramatic.”

“Realistic.”

“Cowardly?”

You turned your face toward him slowly.

Slow enough for the gesture to seem deliberate. Fast enough for him to understand the warning.

Your eyes met his without wavering.

“Are you trying to provoke me, Fire Lord?”

The way you used the title made it sound like an insult and a flirtation at the same time.

Zuko raised an eyebrow.

“Is it working?”

The wind passed between you, tugging loose strands of your hair and throwing the hem of his cloak backward. The ship groaned beneath your feet. The sea struck against the hull.

You held his gaze for too long to be casual.

The kind of second that stretches.

That gains weight.

That asks for a decision.

Then you answered, voice lower:

“A little.”

Zuko felt his chest tighten in a profoundly inconvenient way.

Before he could reply, a shout came from the stern announcing the approach to the makeshift dock.

Ropes were prepared. Men ran across the deck. The captain barked orders.

The island now filled the entire horizon.

Black stone. Thick vegetation. Steam escaping from natural cracks in the earth. The volcano watching everything from above as if it already knew exactly who was arriving.

You stepped forward first.

“If there are hostile spirits here,” you said, adjusting one of your war fans at your belt, “I sincerely hope they choose you.”

Zuko uncrossed his arms and followed.

“If there are intelligent spirits, they’ll ignore both of us and run from you.”

“Fear suits you.”

“Stubbornness suits you.”

You smiled sideways.

This time without hiding it.

“Then we’re dressed appropriately.”

The ship docked moments later.

And when the wood touched the stone pier of Roku Island, both of you felt the same thing — though neither of you would admit it.

As if something ancient, buried, and awakened by your presence had just opened its eyes.

The landing plank lowered slowly until it met the volcanic stone of the dock with a dry, heavy impact. The sound reverberated through the small cove in a strange way, as if the island itself had swallowed it and returned it in fractured echoes. For a brief instant, everything seemed suspended: the groaning ropes, the waves striking the hull, the hurried footsteps of the sailors. Even the sea, restless by nature, seemed to hold its movement before that dark shore.

Roku Island did not welcome visitors with warmth.

It welcomed them with presence.

The rock formations rose around the cove like natural walls, black and uneven, marked by centuries of heat and erosion. Between the stones, vegetation grew thick and stubborn, roots breaking through impossible cracks, broad leaves clinging to the rough ground as if defying fire itself. Higher above, nearly dominating the entire landscape, the volcano watched in silence.

A thin line of smoke rose from the summit and disappeared into the darkening sky.

Zuko was the first to disembark.

His boots touched the stone surface with controlled firmness, and he did not move forward immediately. He paused at the end of the plank for only a second, eyes sweeping across the terrain in one quick, precise motion.

Entrances.

Exits.

High ground.

Unstable areas.

Natural cover.

Distance to the tree line.

It was automatic.

Some people lost old habits when the war ended.

Others merely refined them.

The wind pulled the hem of his red cloak behind him as he moved forward a few steps, feeling the subtle heat rising through the soles of his boots. It was not intense. Not yet. But it was there, constant and quiet, like a fever the body learns to hide.

Behind him came the sound of your footsteps descending the plank.

You did not accept the sailor’s offered hand before he had even finished the gesture.

One glance was enough.

Polite enough not to be a direct insult. Sharp enough to make the man withdraw his hand instantly and decide, in the depths of his soul, never to repeat the attempt again.

You descended alone, posture impeccable despite the shifting wood. The plates of your Kyoshi armor moved with practiced restraint, making no unnecessary sound. Your face held the calm of someone who mastered their own body so completely that any ground became an extension of it.

Zuko watched the scene from the corner of his eye.

“Charming as ever,” he remarked, making no effort to hide the dryness in his voice.

You adjusted the wrap at your wrist, as though the comment deserved less attention than dust.

“And he still left unharmed. Clearly, I’m maturing.”

“The kingdom appreciates this historic progress.”

“Don’t thank me too early.”

You passed him without asking permission and walked several steps toward the edge of the black stone dock.

Then you crouched.

Your fingers touched the ground with almost reverent care.

From the outside, the gesture seemed simple. To any inattentive observer, it would have looked like an earthbender testing unfamiliar ground.

But for you, it was listening.

Your palm rested fully against the warmed stone.

The world reorganized itself.

The vibrations of sailors running across the deck came first: quick, light, disordered. The dragging of heavy crates created short, repetitive pulses. The waves striking the base of the dock throbbed in natural, cyclical, familiar intervals.

And beneath all of that...

Something deeper.

Something vast.

A movement too slow for eyes, too heavy for words.

Like a colossal animal sleeping beneath layer after layer of stone.

You opened your eyes slowly.

“She’s awake.”

Zuko turned immediately.

“Who?”

You rose without hurry and lifted your chin toward the volcano.

“The mountain.”

For a moment, only the wind replied.

Zuko looked at the dark summit, then at you, then back to the volcano.

“You know saying things like that in that tone does not help at all.”

“I’m not trying to help.”

“That much I noticed.”

Even so, his gaze lingered on the mountain’s peak longer than he would have liked to admit.

A thin column of steam escaped from the side, winding upward into the newborn night sky.

The captain approached soon after, holding his hat in weathered hands. The man had crossed storm seas and faced pirates, yet at that moment he looked as uncomfortable as a recruit before two generals.

“Fire Lord,” he said, bowing his head. “We’ll finish unloading the supplies and return to deeper waters. If you wish, I’ll leave two men to keep watch at the dock until dawn.”

Zuko nodded.

“Do that. And keep everyone away from the northern slope. If you feel any stronger tremor—”

“Run with absolutely no dignity,” you finished calmly.

The captain blinked, caught in the middle of the sentence.

You crossed your arms.

“Honestly, it’s an excellent strategy.”

The man decided silence was his greatest skill and retreated immediately.

Zuko exhaled through his nose, somewhere between irritation and restrained laughter.

“You take genuine pleasure in frightening people.”

“I don’t frighten people.”

You began walking toward the trail that climbed the coast.

“I reveal emotional limitations. The reaction varies.”

“That is a terrible sentence.”

“And yet accurate.”

He followed you.

The path narrowed between black rocks and low vegetation. The air grew warmer with every step, thick with the mineral scent of sulfur and damp earth. Thin threads of steam escaped from cracks in the ground, creating mist around your ankles.

Above you, the sky was already sinking into the dark blue of night.

“Sometimes I forget why I keep bringing you with me,” Zuko said.

You did not turn around.

“Because I’m efficient.”

“No.”

“Because I’m smarter than half your council.”

“That is a low standard.”

“Because I’m pleasant company?”

He let out a short laugh.

“Now we know volcanic activity affects your judgment.”

You stopped several natural steps above him and looked back over your shoulder.

“Then why?”

The wind carried light ash from the mountain, catching in the dark strands of your hair before disappearing.

Zuko held your gaze for far too long.

When he answered, his voice came low and unarmored.

“Because when you’re not nearby... everything gets too quiet.”

You remained still.

No sudden gesture. No obvious expression.

But he saw the slight delay in your breathing. The nearly imperceptible tension in your fingers near the fan at your belt. The way your eyes shifted away for a second before returning to his.

Impact.

Rare and precious.

“That was dangerously honest, Fire Lord.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

You turned and continued climbing before your face revealed more than you wished.

“Too late.”

They walked in silence for several minutes.

Not the uncomfortable silence of people who do not know what to say.

The other kind.

The kind that settles when two people listen too closely to each other.

The trail wound through ancient stone before opening onto a natural rise. From there, the ruins of Roku’s old sanctuary finally appeared ahead: broken columns, cracked stairways, stone blocks partially swallowed by roots and moss.

Memory surrounded by living force.

You stopped so suddenly that Zuko halted as well.

Your body changed.

Shoulders stiffened. Attention narrowed. Breathing grew shallow.

“What is it?”

You did not answer immediately.

Your feet felt something beneath the foundations.

Faster now.

Hotter.

Closer.

When you spoke, your voice was low enough to nearly vanish into the wind.

“The mountain isn’t sleeping anymore.”

Then, from the depths of the volcano, came a deep and prolonged sound.

It was not exactly a roar.

It was worse.

It sounded like something immense, ancient, and contained for far too long finally beginning to move.

The sound moved through the entire island like an invisible wave.

It did not come loud at first, nor explosive like the sudden rupture of an eruption. It began deep below, low and dragging, so deep that the body recognized it before the ears did. The vibration rose through layers of rock, passed through ancient foundations, traveled across broken steps and cracked columns, reaching you through the soles of your boots and your bones.

The stone beneath your feet trembled.

The ruins answered with a chorus of small, uneasy noises: sand slipping through crevices, fragments breaking loose, old beams groaning, chips of stone rolling down the stairs in dry clicks. A thin cloud of dust drifted from the top of a broken archway and hung in the air for a moment before being carried away by the hot wind.

After that, everything fell silent.

Not the ordinary silence that follows the end of a noise.

A different kind of stillness.

A pause heavy with intention.

As if the entire island had held its breath.

Zuko reacted before forming a single thought.

His body moved on pure instinct: one quick step forward, another to the side, drawing closer to you while positioning himself between the more open section of the ruins and the retreat path. His eyes swept the terrain with trained speed.

Unstable columns.

Loose stone.

Height of the remaining walls.

Distance to the slope.

Possible escape routes if the hillside gave way.

Years of war turned certain reflexes into second nature.

Even in times of peace.

Even here.

“Tell me that falls under the category of ‘normal volcano noise,’” he said, keeping his voice steady, though tension had hardened every syllable.

You did not answer immediately.

You remained still.

Feet planted on the black ground, eyes closed, face tilted slightly downward as if listening to an underground conversation only you could hear.

A strand of your hair moved in the hot wind blowing from the mountain. The rest of you stayed motionless.

When you finally spoke, your voice was far too calm to be reassuring.

“It does not.”

Zuko let out a short, humorless breath.

“Excellent. Always good to eliminate positive theories early.”

Another tremor ran through the slope, shorter this time but more concentrated. The ground vibrated as if something heavy had shifted beneath the surface. A narrow crack opened several yards below, cutting diagonally across the trail. The stone split with a dry snap, and white steam burst from the fresh fissure in uneven jets.

You opened your eyes.

Something in them had changed now.

More focus.

More sharpness.

And an unsettling gleam Zuko had already learned to associate with two possibilities: imminent danger or excessive curiosity in the face of imminent danger.

“It isn’t just internal pressure,” you said.

“Then what is it?”

You turned slowly toward the main structure of the ruins. The old sanctuary stood ahead in broken silhouette: shattered stairways, uneven platforms, columns toppled by time and fire.

“Something is shifting the stone beneath the foundations.”

Zuko frowned immediately.

‘Something’ as in animal?”

“No.”

You stepped closer to a cracked column and placed your fingertips against the darkened surface.

“Something as in structure. Mass. Ancient movement.”

“You somehow sound worse with every sentence.”

“It’s a neglected talent.”

The wind changed direction abruptly.

Until then it had come from the sea, damp and sharp. Now it blew from the mountain, hot and heavy with sulfur, ash, and that intense mineral scent of earth forced open. The torches the sailors had left at the base of the trail flickered in the distance, their flames bending as if trying to flee.

Zuko did not like the feeling crawling up the back of his neck.

It was the same one that came before ambushes, bad decisions, or fires too large to control.

“You do realize everything here is progressively getting worse?” he asked.

“I do.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

You cast him a sideways glance.

“It bothers me. It simply doesn’t disorganize me.”

He gave a small, disbelieving laugh.

“That may be the most irritating thing you’ve ever said.”

“Impossible. I usually try harder than that.”

Another sound rose from the island’s depths.

This time it came with a heavy crack, followed by the unmistakable sound of stone collapsing under its own weight. One of the sanctuary’s side platforms sank several inches. Dust billowed upward along the edges. Fragments tumbled down the staircase.

Zuko moved immediately.

“We’re retreating. Now.”

You did not move.

You only knelt enough to press your entire hand against the warmed ground.

Your fingers spread across the dark rock. Your breathing slowed. Your shoulders relaxed into absolute concentration.

To anyone watching from outside, it looked like stillness.

Inside, it was descent.

The vibrations came in layers.

The unstable surface of the ruins.

The compressed tensions beneath the foundations.

Veins of heat winding through the mountain.

Ancient cavities.

Freshly fractured rock.

And then...

Something answered.

You felt the touch returned.

Not a random vibration. Not natural movement.

Recognition.

As if the island had noticed your presence the instant you touched it.

Your brow furrowed.

“...That’s new.”

“What is new?” Zuko asked, growing less patient by the second.

You did not remove your hand from the ground.

“The island is listening back.”

He stared at you for a full second.

“I need you to understand how much I hate that sentence.”

You lifted your eyes to him.

There was no irony.

No provocation.

No pleasure in irritating him.

Only seriousness.

“I’m serious.”

That was enough to silence him.

Zuko knew your sarcasm. Knew the way you cut through conversations for sport. Knew the quiet satisfaction you felt whenever you managed to make him lose patience.

But he also knew, with uncomfortable precision, the difference between that and raw truth.

And in that moment, you were telling the truth.

The ground split without warning.

The tremor came brutal and direct, sending a violent shock through the ruins. A crack tore through the central courtyard in an uneven line, splitting ancient stone like dry clay. The sound was loud, sharp, aggressive. Entire blocks tore free from a side wall. One column tilted dangerously.

Zuko did not think.

He crossed the distance between you in two strides and grabbed your arm hard, pulling you backward at the exact moment the ground where you had been kneeling collapsed.

Stone exploded around you.

Fragments flew.

Dust rose in a thick cloud, swallowing the space for several seconds.

You lost your balance from the sudden force and collided into him. Zuko caught you by the waist before either of you fell, planting his feet on the unstable ground.

When the dust began to settle, you were far too close.

His arm still wrapped around your side.

His other hand still held your wrist by reflex.

Your fingers gripped the front of his tunic at his chest.

Both of you were breathing short and fast.

Your face was only inches from his.

Fine ash had settled on your lashes. A dark streak crossed the line of your jaw. Your usual scent of leather, weapon oil, and clean herbs had been overtaken by the smell of heated stone.

Your eyes met.

For one absurd and inconvenient instant, the mountain ceased to exist.

“Let go,” you said softly.

“You were about to be crushed.”

“Even so. Let go.”

“Do you always react badly when someone prevents your death?”

“Only when it starts becoming a habit of yours.”

He held your gaze for one second longer before slowly loosening his arm.

You stepped back, straightening your posture and adjusting your armor as if your body had registered absolutely nothing about the contact.

“Thank you,” you added dryly.

Zuko blinked.

“Was that gratitude?”

“Don’t risk hearing another one.”

Before he could reply, a new tremor moved through the mountain.

Longer.

Deeper.

Both of you turned at the same time.

High on the volcano, between cracks near the summit, orange lines began to appear beneath the dark skin of the rock. At first thin, almost subtle. Then brighter, pulsing red and orange like veins of light running beneath black stone.

The inside of the mountain glowed.

Breathed.

Awakened.

You felt the heat reach through the ground before it touched the air.

And with it, something inside you answered.

A sudden current ran through your arms to the tips of your fingers. Your chest tightened. Your breath failed for a second. The muscles in your hands contracted involuntarily, as if recognizing a forgotten language.

You had never felt that with ordinary earth.

Never with rock.

Never with sand.

It was different.

More intense.

More alive.

More dangerous.

Zuko noticed the change in you immediately.

“What is it?”

You could not answer right away.

You kept staring at the mountain like someone seeing their own reflection where they never expected to find it.

“I... don’t know.”

Another glowing line appeared at the summit.

Then another.

The volcano’s inner light was growing in rhythmic pulses, almost like heartbeats.

Beneath your feet, the stone called to you in a way no earth ever had.

You stepped forward without realizing it.

Zuko caught your wrist.

“Hey.”

His touch pulled you back to the present.

You blinked, looking first at his hand on your skin, then at his face.

Zuko’s fingers were warm. They always had been.

But now that warmth seemed to echo the same energy rising from the ground.

Almost too familiar.

“Are you hearing something?” he asked, alert.

You swallowed hard.

When you answered, your voice came low, disbelieving, and edged with something close to fear.

“The stone... is burning.”

Zuko did not let go of your wrist immediately.

His fingers remained closed around your skin for a second longer than necessary, firm without hurting, warm without realizing they were. The contrast between that human warmth and the growing heat rising from the ground sent something strange through your body — a tension you could not tell whether it came from the danger, the mountain, or him.

Perhaps all three.

The wind moved through the ruins carrying fine ash, which swirled around you before disappearing into the darkness. High above, the volcano pulsed with orange lines growing brighter by the moment, like embers hidden beneath cracked skin.

“The stone is burning?” Zuko repeated, quieter now, trying to understand whether he had heard correctly.

At last, you pulled your arm back.

Not harshly.

But fast enough to restore a distance that, for some reason, felt necessary.

“I know how it sounds.”

“Good, because it sounds terrible.”

You ran a hand over your wrist where he had held you, as though erasing the trace of his touch.

It did not erase.

“Earth has weight, density, direction. You feel pressure, faults, movement. Rock responds in a specific way.”

Your eyes returned to the dark ground.

“This... doesn’t respond like stone.”

“Then what does it respond like?”

You hesitated for a moment.

The truth sounded absurd even inside your own mind.

“Like fire trapped inside it.”

Zuko followed your gaze to the fractured ground between the ruins. Thin strands of steam still escaped the fresh cracks. The heat was increasing gradually, steadily, almost intelligently.

He knew heat.

He knew fire in all its moods: disciplined, chaotic, defensive, hungry, destructive, obedient. He had grown up trained to read flames the way others read human expressions.

That was not exactly fire.

But it was not only earth either.

“We’re retreating,” he decided, his voice returning to command. “Now. For real.”

You crossed your arms.

“You use that tone with me as if it works.”

“It works sometimes.”

“Name one time.”

“When you almost died two minutes ago.”

You opened your mouth to answer, but the ground shook again.

This time it was not a sharp impact.

It was a prolonged shift, as if something enormous rolled beneath the island’s inner layers. The ruins trembled all at once. A side staircase collapsed in sequence, step by step, throwing up thick dust. A column toppled and split in half with a crash.

Both of you moved at the same time.

Zuko raised his arms in a quick arc and sent a short, precise stream of fire to deflect stones flying toward you. The flames struck the larger fragments, changing their trajectory just enough for them to pass to either side.

You stomped the ground a heartbeat later.

A wall of black rock rose before you in a movement both brutal and elegant, catching the remaining debris before it could strike. The impact traveled through your arms like an echo.

When the dust partially settled, you stood protected behind the improvised barrier.

Far too close again.

“If you comment on the irony of me protecting you with stone while you protect me with fire, I’m leaving,” you said, breathing a little faster.

“I was thinking something more about how your dramatic timing is impressive.”

“Liar.”

“Perhaps.”

He lowered his guard first, but did not step away.

Behind the stone wall, the volcano’s orange glow reflected across his face in pulsing intervals. Light and shadow alternated over the Kyoshi paints of your armor. They made you seem less human and more like some ancient entity born from the island itself.

You noticed he was watching you.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You were staring.”

“That is not a crime.”

“Yet.”

The corner of his mouth nearly rose.

Nearly.

Another tremor came, more violent than all the others before it.

The barrier cracked in two dry lines.

You turned immediately, pressing both hands against the stone to hold it upright, but the next impact tore through the entire structure. Heat exploded upward from the ground just ahead.

A fissure opened in the central courtyard.

This time, more than steam emerged.

Bright orange light burst from the opening.

Both of you froze for an instant.

Thick, glowing, incandescent liquid moved beneath the crack like blood through an open vein. Molten rock bubbled slowly, pushing the edges of solid stone aside.

Lava.

You stared at it without blinking.

Something inside your chest answered violently.

Not fear.

Recognition.

Your hands tingled. Your arms throbbed. The ground beneath your feet ceased to feel like terrain and began to sound like music played too loudly.

Zuko turned to you.

“Hey.”

You did not hear him.

You stepped forward.

Then another.

“Hey!” he repeated, louder.

Nothing.

Your eyes remained fixed on the glowing fissure.

The air around it warped with heat. The edges of your armor reflected orange. Your breathing had gone shallow.

Zuko grabbed your shoulder and turned you toward him.

“Look at me.”

This time you blinked, as if waking.

Your eyes met his, and there was something in them he had never seen before.

Confusion.

Fascination.

And real fear.

“I can feel it moving,” you said, almost in a whisper. “Every current. Every weight. Every change of direction.”

“Then use that to get us out of here.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“That is usually your favorite phrase when you want to irritate me.”

“Zuko.”

The use of his name without provocation was enough to cut through the sarcasm.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself.

“If I touch that... I don’t know what happens.”

He held your gaze for a moment.

The mountain roared in the distance.

Another fissure opened several yards to the left, spreading orange light across the ruined courtyard.

The ruins would not hold much longer.

“Then find out,” he said.

You frowned.

“That is irresponsible advice.”

“I’m excellent under pressure.”

“You’re insane under pressure.”

“And you’re the best earthbender I know.”

You stood still for a second.

Even surrounded by heat, collapse, and chaos, that sentence struck you with dangerous precision.

Zuko stepped closer.

“Whatever this is... the island answered you. So answer it back.”

The world seemed to narrow.

Ruins breaking.

Lava pulsing.

Hot wind tearing through the night.

And him there, looking at you as though there were no doubt at all.

You swallowed hard.

Then turned toward the fissure.

Knelt before the cracked stone.

And placed both hands on the incandescent ground beside the opening.

[oxyintelligent]

A beautiful team still

[adast3ria]

If it's for you - Imagine Aang (Avatar) x Bloodbender! Reader

Synopsis/Request: When you disappear without a trace, Aang senses that something is wrong—not just in the world, but in you. Upon finding you, he discovers that you managed to save yourself, but not without cost.

Even when the streets emptied and the lights began to fade, there was still a kind of continuous breath running through everything — the distant creak of wood adjusting to the night’s chill, the soft echo of hurried footsteps that didn’t want to be noticed, the wind slipping through narrow alleys as if it knew every curve better than any of its inhabitants. It was a living organism, pulsing in subtle layers, impossible to ignore for anyone who knew how to listen.

And Aang had always known.

But that night… something in that rhythm faltered.

It wasn’t absolute silence — far from it. It was something subtler, more unsettling. Like a single note out of tune in a melody too long to interrupt. Something that didn’t shout, but didn’t fully hide either. Just… misplaced.

He felt it before he understood it.

At first, it was only a brief hesitation, almost imperceptible. One of those moments when the body reacts before the mind can catch up, as if something inside him had tilted slightly, alert to a change that still had no clear shape. He paused for a second longer than necessary in the middle of the street, his gaze drifting without settling on anything in particular, trying to pinpoint the source of that growing unease settling in slowly — but with no intention of leaving.

Then the thought finally took form.

You.

It wasn’t like you to be late. It wasn’t in your nature to disappear without a word, to let plans dissolve into thin air as if they meant nothing. There was a steadiness to you — not rigid, not mechanically predictable, but firm enough that any deviation became immediately noticeable to someone who knew you the way he did.

And Aang knew.

He tried not to react right away. He took a slow breath, letting the air fill his lungs with deliberate calm, as if that alone could reorganize his understanding of the situation. There were reasonable explanations — there always were. An unexpected delay, a change of route, a conversation that stretched longer than planned. The world was full of small variables, and he had always believed most of them carried no real danger.

But the feeling remained.

It didn’t grow explosively, didn’t spiral into panic — not yet. It was worse than that. It was constant. A quiet presence settling deep in his chest, refusing to be ignored, like an incomplete certainty that wouldn’t translate into words.

He started walking again, but something in the way he moved had shifted. His steps, once light and unburdened, now carried a clearer purpose — even if he wasn’t ready to admit it. His eyes stopped merely observing and began searching, connecting details, questioning small things that would have gone unnoticed before.

Time, which once felt flexible, began to harden.

Each minute that passed without any sign of you wasn’t just a delay — it was a silent confirmation that something wasn’t right.

And that was when the calm began to crack.

Aang stopped again, more abruptly this time, as if he had reached an invisible limit within himself. The air around him reacted almost instinctively, a faint current forming and dispersing just as quickly, mirroring the tension he was still trying to contain. His fingers curled slightly — not in anger, but in restraint, like someone holding back something not yet meant to be released.

“This isn’t right…” he murmured, more to himself than to the world.

And in that moment, something shifted.

It wasn’t a dramatic decision. There was no sudden snap, no grand realization. It was subtler than that — and precisely because of it, more dangerous.

He stopped waiting.

And he started searching.

The shift didn’t happen abruptly, nor did it come with any dramatic gesture that might reveal what was rearranging itself within him. To any distracted observer, Aang still moved with the same lightness as always, as if he were simply crossing the city on another ordinary night. But there was a quiet difference in the way he occupied space — a sharper precision in his steps, a narrower focus in his gaze, as if every detail around him had stopped being background and become a potential answer.

The doubt that had tried to hold itself together as a reasonable explanation for your delay no longer had room to stand. It hadn’t disappeared entirely, but it had been pushed aside, replaced by something more urgent, more direct, harder to ignore. It wasn’t panic — not yet. It was control stretched to its limit, like a cord pulled too tight, ready to vibrate at the slightest touch.

He started with what he knew.

The paths you walked without thinking, the places where your presence seemed to fit naturally, as though you were part of the city’s very structure. Aang passed through each one with heightened attention, letting his gaze linger longer than necessary, allowing his senses to catch what would normally go unnoticed. Small irregularities, subtle shifts — anything that might suggest something had interrupted the natural course of things.

But there was nothing.

No signs of struggle to suggest resistance, no trace of disorder to indicate haste, no detail out of place pointing to a moment of rupture. It was as if you had simply… ceased to be there, erased from the city’s flow without any visible transition.

And that was wrong in a way he couldn’t ignore.

Because the world didn’t work like that. People didn’t just disappear without leaving traces — not when something had truly happened.

Aang slowed as he entered a narrower street, where older buildings seemed to lean slightly into one another, compressing the space and muffling the sounds from outside. The air there felt different — heavier, less circulated — and the silence wasn’t absence, but containment, as if something had been kept inside, trapped between those worn walls.

His eyes scanned the surroundings with methodical care, analyzing the uneven ground, the closed doors, the dark windows that seemed to watch back. Nothing called for attention, yet everything felt… too cautious.

He didn’t like that.

He turned then to a small group still awake near a stall being hastily closed, as if that part of the night had already stretched beyond what was comfortable. His gaze met theirs with enough firmness to prevent any immediate attempt to look away.

“Have you seen her?” he asked, direct and to the point, but without open aggression.

They exchanged a quick glance — the kind of silent communication that happened too fast to fully disguise. A second of hesitation, maybe two, before the answer came.

“No…” one of them said, too quickly for it to be reassuring. “I don’t think so.”

Aang held their gaze a moment longer, reading not just the words but everything that came with them — posture, the slight stiffness in their shoulders, the subtle effort to seem natural. He could press, insist, force something more concrete out of them.

But not yet.

There was something bigger at play, and he couldn’t afford to get lost in uncertain fragments.

With a small nod, he stepped away, resuming his movement without looking back.

The search expanded like a wave that refused to lose momentum.

He crossed busier areas and others nearly forgotten, moving between light and shadow with the same fluidity, but with an attention that allowed no distraction. Guards were approached, merchants questioned, unfamiliar faces studied more closely than they would ever realize. Each interaction yielded something — a small detail, a vague impression, an incomplete memory.

But nothing that held.

The answers came fragmented, misaligned, unable to form a coherent picture.

Some claimed to have seen you earlier but couldn’t say exactly when. Others pointed in opposite directions, as if each memory existed disconnected from the last. There was always a margin of doubt, always an empty space where certainty should have been.

And that pattern began to trouble him deeply. Because it didn’t feel like coincidence.

It felt like interference.

Aang lifted himself to a higher point, carried by the air with the ease of someone who no longer needed to think to use it. The rooftop offered a wide view of the city, a perspective that, in other moments, often brought clarity. From there, he could observe the flow of things, identify patterns, find paths where before there had only been confusion.

But that night, even that wasn’t enough.

The wind responded to his presence almost immediately, circling him in soft currents that mirrored the internal state he was struggling to keep contained. Aang closed his eyes, letting his breathing slow gradually, despite the urgency still pressing inside him.

He inhaled deeply, holding the air for a moment before releasing it slowly, as if each exhale could carry away some of the noise beginning to build.

For a brief moment, he almost managed it.

Then it came — not as a sound, not as an image, but as a sensation. A fracture.

Something out of place in a way that couldn’t be explained as ordinary danger. It was deeper, more intrusive — a disordered, unstable energy, as if it had been forcibly torn from its natural flow, leaving behind a distortion too stark to ignore.

His eyes snapped open.

The wind around him stilled abruptly, as if cut off along with the thought.

This wasn’t normal.

It wasn’t natural.

And more importantly — it wasn’t random.

Aang didn’t hesitate.

His body reacted before any careful analysis could slow him down. The air condensed around him into a steady current, propelling him forward at increasing speed as he cut across the city in a near-straight line, dodging obstacles with instinctive precision, as if each movement had already been decided before it happened.

The lights blurred into streaks, the shadows merged with motion, and everything that once made up the city stopped mattering.

Because now there was a fixed point.

A destination.

Aang wasn’t searching blindly anymore.

He was heading straight for you.

The building offered no warning of what lay inside, and perhaps that was exactly what made it so unsettling. From the outside, it remained still, silent, blending into the surrounding decay as if it were just another structure the city had forgotten — one of those that remain standing out of sheer stubbornness of time, not usefulness. No light leaked through its cracks, no sound betrayed any presence, not even the kind of instability that would suggest something had been disturbed recently. And yet, as Aang crossed the threshold with a controlled, precise movement, it became immediately clear that the quiet outside was nothing more than a fragile illusion, far too weak to sustain what was truly happening within.

The air struck him first — not as a simple shift in temperature or scent, but as a physical presence, dense enough to alter the way he breathed, as if each inhale had to pass through an invisible resistance before reaching his lungs. The metallic odor was no longer just noticeable — it dominated, seeping into every space, mixed with something harder to define, something that wasn’t quite a smell but a sensation: accumulated tension, recent violence, the unmistakable impression that this place had hosted something that hadn’t ended when it should have. And that was what made him pause for a single moment — not hesitation, but because the space itself demanded acknowledgment before allowing any further movement.

That was when he realized the silence wasn’t absolute.

There was sound.

But it wasn’t continuous, nor predictable — it was irregular, fragmented, as if it only surfaced when it could no longer be contained. A faint dragging, a broken breath, the movement of something still in progress. Aang stepped forward, then another, each movement calculated with a precision that left no room for error, as his eyes began to adjust to the dim interior, absorbing the space in successive layers. Shapes slowly began to take form — volumes on the ground that didn’t belong to the structure, shadows too dense to be mere absence of light, marks that broke the natural continuity of the space — but none of it prepared him for what truly seized his attention.

You weren’t still.

And that shattered whatever expectation remained.

At the center of that space, among bodies that no longer moved and a silence that felt forcibly shaped, you stood upright — but not untouched, not distant, not detached. Something was happening — at that exact moment — something too explicit to be misread. Your arm was raised, not in a wide gesture, but in controlled precision, almost minimal, and yet the effect was absolute. A few steps from you, a man — the last one, it seemed — did not move of his own will. His body trembled unevenly, as if pulled by invisible threads that ignored his intent, his limbs reacting in delayed, disjointed motions, incapable of obeying any command not imposed from the outside.

Aang didn’t need an explanation.

Recognition didn’t arrive as a fully formed thought, but as an immediate, instinctive understanding, impossible to deny. He had seen this before, felt this before — even if from a distance, even if as something that belonged to stories that were never meant to repeat. And yet, there it was. Not memory. Not future threat. But a present reality, unfolding before him without any filter to soften its impact.

The next movement was small.

Almost imperceptible.

But enough.

Your fingers shifted slightly, and in response, the body before you lifted abruptly, unnaturally, as if ripped from the ground by a force that allowed no resistance. There was a sound — a choke, perhaps, or a failed attempt to regain control — but it didn’t last. There was no time for that. Because in the next instant, the body was forced into an impossible bend, then hurled to the ground with a precision that left no chance of recovery.

The impact echoed.

Dry.

Final.

And then—

Nothing.

The silence that followed wasn’t immediate, but when it came, it was absolute, filling the space as if it had always belonged there, as though everything before had been only a brief interruption of something that had never truly left.

You still hadn’t moved.

Not completely.

Your body remained tense, your uneven breathing betraying an effort that wasn’t visible in large gestures but lived in every restrained detail — in every muscle that hadn’t yet relaxed, in every second that took longer than it should to settle. And for a brief moment, before you even realized you were no longer alone—

You were still in control.

And Aang…

Aang stood still.

Not because he couldn’t act.

But because, in that exact moment, between what he expected to find and what he actually found, there was a chasm too vast to cross without something inside him changing along with it.

And it was there, in that precise point — where time itself seemed to hesitate before moving forward…

The silence that followed the impact wasn’t just the absence of sound — it was something denser, as if the air itself had been compressed by what had just happened and now refused to move naturally. The body on the ground offered no resistance anymore, the tension that had held it suspended completely gone, but your own body hadn’t caught up to that ending; your fingers remained slightly curled, as if still responding to a command that no longer existed, and your breathing came uneven, too short, like it was still trying to find a rhythm that refused to return to normal.

It was in that interval — in that space between the end and the acceptance of the end — that he spoke.

Aang didn’t approach. Not immediately. His voice crossed the space before his body did.

“…did I get here too late?”

The question didn’t accuse, nor did it carry urgency, as if he expected an immediate answer. It came low, restrained, almost too careful — like someone still deciding what exactly he was looking at… and what it meant.

You let the air leave your lungs slowly, as if only then realizing you had been holding your breath.

“No.” The word came out steadier than you felt. “You got here exactly when you needed to.”

There was a small pause after that — not long, but enough to make it clear there was more. Your throat moved in a dry swallow, and when you spoke again, your voice no longer carried that same automatic steadiness.

“They wanted you.” You said it plainly. “I just… happened to be the easier way.”

Aang’s expression shifted there — subtle, but unavoidable. It wasn’t surprise — not entirely — but hearing it out loud carried a different weight, more concrete, harder to keep at a distance.

“I figured.” he replied, though the words didn’t come easily. “I could feel something… off.”

He paused briefly, his gaze finally moving through the space around him — not with curiosity, but with understanding. When it returned to you, there was something firmer in it.

“This wasn’t improvised.”

It wasn’t exactly a question.

You didn’t look away.

“No.” Your voice dropped. “It wasn’t.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty; it was filled with mutual recognition, as if both of you knew exactly what needed to be said next… and at the same time, neither of you was in a hurry to get there.

But Aang got there anyway.

“You used it.”

Simple.

Direct.

No raised voice, no explicit judgment.

And still, impossible to ignore.

You closed your eyes for a brief moment, as if that sentence carried more weight than it should — not because of what it said, but because of who was saying it. When you opened them again, there was no denial.

“I tried not to.” Your voice came out quieter now, more honest. “I swear I tried.”

Aang didn’t interrupt.

He just… waited.

And that made you continue.

“But they didn’t want to hurt me quickly.” You swallowed, as if choosing the words required more effort than it should. “They were waiting for you. They were… keeping me there.”

Your breath faltered for a second — too small to break, but enough to betray what came before.

“And when I realized…” you continued, slower now, “when I understood what they were going to do when you showed up—”

You didn’t finish the sentence.

You didn’t need to.

Aang drew in a deeper breath, enough to show he was following every word — even the ones left unsaid.

“So you decided to end it first.” he concluded, not as an accusation, but as someone fitting the last piece into place.

You nodded, almost imperceptibly.

“I wasn’t going to let them use you.” The firmness returned, but different now, heavier. “Not like that.”

His expression softened for a moment.

Just one.

Because he understood.

He really did.

But that didn’t erase everything else.

His hand ran slowly over his head, a small gesture weighed down by restrained tension.

“You promised…” His voice came lower now, less steady than before. “Not to me. To yourself.”

That hit differently.

Because it was true.

And you knew it.

“I know.” The answer came immediately, without defense. “I know, Aang.”

A small space opened between you after that, as if the air itself needed to rearrange before allowing anything else to continue.

“I didn’t lose control.” you said then, slower, holding his gaze. “Not this time.”

Aang stilled there.

Not outwardly, but enough for something in his eyes to shift.

“It wasn’t… like before.” you added, almost cautiously. “I knew exactly what I was doing.”

And maybe that was what affected him the most.

Because it made everything more deliberate.

More… real.

He took a step forward this time — small, but meaningful enough to close the distance he himself had kept until then.

“That’s what scares me.” he admitted at last, plainly, but without harshness.

The word lingered between you.

Scares.

Not rejection.

But truth.

You didn’t step back.

“I was scared first.” Your voice didn’t rise, didn’t break. “Scared they’d hurt you. Scared you’d be too late. Scared I… wouldn’t be able to stop them in time.”

Your fingers curled slightly, as if they still remembered the control they had held.

“So I chose.”

Just like that.

Aang held your gaze longer now, as if trying to accept the weight of that choice exactly as it was — without softening it, without distorting it.

“And you put yourself in that place again.” he said, more as a statement than a judgment.

You took a slow breath.

“I put myself between them and you.” you corrected, calmly.

That made him stop.

For real.

Because deep down, he knew.

He knew exactly what that meant.

The silence returned, but it wasn’t heavy like before.

It was… different.

More human.

More fragile.

Aang let out a slow breath, and when he spoke again, there was something there that finally managed to exist alongside everything else.

“I don’t know what to do with this yet.” he admitted, honest, without trying to be bigger than he was. “I just know that…” he hesitated for a second, but continued, “you’re alive.”

His gaze softened, even if only a little.

“And so am I.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Aang was the first to move.

Not with urgency, nor with the restless energy that had brought him there, but with something more contained, more deliberate — as if each step needed to exist with intention. He looked away for a brief moment, scanning the space around him, not as before — not as someone trying to understand what had happened — but as someone who already understood enough.

And didn’t need to remain there any longer.

“We need to get out of here.” His voice came low, but firm enough that it didn’t sound like a suggestion.

You nodded.

Not because you wanted to go.

But because staying wasn’t an option.

You both began to move almost at the same time, but not in sync — there was a slight delay, a subtle hesitation, as if your bodies were still catching up to the decision your minds had already made. Your steps avoided looking directly at the ground, but even so, it was impossible not to feel the presence of what had been left behind, like a visual echo that insisted on following every movement.

When you crossed the doorway, the night air felt different.

Lighter.

Colder.

Still not enough to erase what lingered inside you.

Aang stopped just outside.

Not completely.

Just enough to create a brief pause between leaving and moving forward.

You stopped too.

Not because he asked — because you felt it.

There was a moment — brief, but heavy — where neither of you spoke. The world around you kept going, the city still breathing in its own rhythm, unaware of what had just unfolded inside.

But between the two of you, something was still being decided.

Then he did something that didn’t feel planned.

His hand moved.

Not fast, not impulsive — but not calculated enough to seem distant either. It was a simple gesture, almost hesitant, as if he wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed to, but chose to try anyway.

His fingers brushed yours.

Light at first.

Almost like a test.

As if he were confirming that you were still there in a way no words could accomplish.

And then they held.

Not tightly.

But with presence.

You didn’t pull away. You didn’t squeeze back either — you just didn’t let go.

Aang exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting for a moment toward the distant line of the city before returning — not fully to you, but enough for his voice to find space between you again.

“We’re going to have to talk about this.” he said, without the weight of accusation, but without softening the truth either.

A small pause.

“But not now.”

He squeezed your hand slightly this time.

Almost imperceptible. But intentional.

“Come on.” he murmured.

Aang still didn’t know whether he was more relieved to have found you… or more afraid of how far you had been willing to go to make that happen.

[adast3ria]

If it's for you - Imagine Aang (Avatar)

Even when the streets emptied and the lights began to fade, there was still a kind of continuous breath running through everything — the distant creak of wood adjusting to the night’s chill, the soft echo of hurried footsteps that didn’t want to be noticed, the wind slipping through narrow alleys as if it knew every curve better than any of its inhabitants. It was a living organism, pulsing in subtle layers, impossible to ignore for anyone who knew how to listen.

And Aang had always known.

But that night… something in that rhythm faltered.

It wasn’t absolute silence — far from it. It was something subtler, more unsettling. Like a single note out of tune in a melody too long to interrupt. Something that didn’t shout, but didn’t fully hide either. Just… misplaced.

He felt it before he understood it.

At first, it was only a brief hesitation, almost imperceptible. One of those moments when the body reacts before the mind can catch up, as if something inside him had tilted slightly, alert to a change that still had no clear shape. He paused for a second longer than necessary in the middle of the street, his gaze drifting without settling on anything in particular, trying to pinpoint the source of that growing unease settling in slowly — but with no intention of leaving.

Then the thought finally took form.

You.

It wasn’t like you to be late. It wasn’t in your nature to disappear without a word, to let plans dissolve into thin air as if they meant nothing. There was a steadiness to you — not rigid, not mechanically predictable, but firm enough that any deviation became immediately noticeable to someone who knew you the way he did.

And Aang knew.

He tried not to react right away. He took a slow breath, letting the air fill his lungs with deliberate calm, as if that alone could reorganize his understanding of the situation. There were reasonable explanations — there always were. An unexpected delay, a change of route, a conversation that stretched longer than planned. The world was full of small variables, and he had always believed most of them carried no real danger.

But the feeling remained.

It didn’t grow explosively, didn’t spiral into panic — not yet. It was worse than that. It was constant. A quiet presence settling deep in his chest, refusing to be ignored, like an incomplete certainty that wouldn’t translate into words.

He started walking again, but something in the way he moved had shifted. His steps, once light and unburdened, now carried a clearer purpose — even if he wasn’t ready to admit it. His eyes stopped merely observing and began searching, connecting details, questioning small things that would have gone unnoticed before.

Time, which once felt flexible, began to harden.

Each minute that passed without any sign of you wasn’t just a delay — it was a silent confirmation that something wasn’t right.

And that was when the calm began to crack.

Aang stopped again, more abruptly this time, as if he had reached an invisible limit within himself. The air around him reacted almost instinctively, a faint current forming and dispersing just as quickly, mirroring the tension he was still trying to contain. His fingers curled slightly — not in anger, but in restraint, like someone holding back something not yet meant to be released.

“This isn’t right…” he murmured, more to himself than to the world.

And in that moment, something shifted.

It wasn’t a dramatic decision. There was no sudden snap, no grand realization. It was subtler than that — and precisely because of it, more dangerous.

He stopped waiting.

And he started searching.

The shift didn’t happen abruptly, nor did it come with any dramatic gesture that might reveal what was rearranging itself within him. To any distracted observer, Aang still moved with the same lightness as always, as if he were simply crossing the city on another ordinary night. But there was a quiet difference in the way he occupied space — a sharper precision in his steps, a narrower focus in his gaze, as if every detail around him had stopped being background and become a potential answer.

The doubt that had tried to hold itself together as a reasonable explanation for your delay no longer had room to stand. It hadn’t disappeared entirely, but it had been pushed aside, replaced by something more urgent, more direct, harder to ignore. It wasn’t panic — not yet. It was control stretched to its limit, like a cord pulled too tight, ready to vibrate at the slightest touch.

He started with what he knew.

The paths you walked without thinking, the places where your presence seemed to fit naturally, as though you were part of the city’s very structure. Aang passed through each one with heightened attention, letting his gaze linger longer than necessary, allowing his senses to catch what would normally go unnoticed. Small irregularities, subtle shifts — anything that might suggest something had interrupted the natural course of things.

But there was nothing.

No signs of struggle to suggest resistance, no trace of disorder to indicate haste, no detail out of place pointing to a moment of rupture. It was as if you had simply… ceased to be there, erased from the city’s flow without any visible transition.

And that was wrong in a way he couldn’t ignore.

Because the world didn’t work like that. People didn’t just disappear without leaving traces — not when something had truly happened.

Aang slowed as he entered a narrower street, where older buildings seemed to lean slightly into one another, compressing the space and muffling the sounds from outside. The air there felt different — heavier, less circulated — and the silence wasn’t absence, but containment, as if something had been kept inside, trapped between those worn walls.

His eyes scanned the surroundings with methodical care, analyzing the uneven ground, the closed doors, the dark windows that seemed to watch back. Nothing called for attention, yet everything felt… too cautious.

He didn’t like that.

He turned then to a small group still awake near a stall being hastily closed, as if that part of the night had already stretched beyond what was comfortable. His gaze met theirs with enough firmness to prevent any immediate attempt to look away.

“Have you seen her?” he asked, direct and to the point, but without open aggression.

They exchanged a quick glance — the kind of silent communication that happened too fast to fully disguise. A second of hesitation, maybe two, before the answer came.

“No…” one of them said, too quickly for it to be reassuring. “I don’t think so.”

Aang held their gaze a moment longer, reading not just the words but everything that came with them — posture, the slight stiffness in their shoulders, the subtle effort to seem natural. He could press, insist, force something more concrete out of them.

But not yet.

There was something bigger at play, and he couldn’t afford to get lost in uncertain fragments.

With a small nod, he stepped away, resuming his movement without looking back.

The search expanded like a wave that refused to lose momentum.

He crossed busier areas and others nearly forgotten, moving between light and shadow with the same fluidity, but with an attention that allowed no distraction. Guards were approached, merchants questioned, unfamiliar faces studied more closely than they would ever realize. Each interaction yielded something — a small detail, a vague impression, an incomplete memory.

But nothing that held.

The answers came fragmented, misaligned, unable to form a coherent picture.

Some claimed to have seen you earlier but couldn’t say exactly when. Others pointed in opposite directions, as if each memory existed disconnected from the last. There was always a margin of doubt, always an empty space where certainty should have been.

And that pattern began to trouble him deeply. Because it didn’t feel like coincidence.

It felt like interference.

Aang lifted himself to a higher point, carried by the air with the ease of someone who no longer needed to think to use it. The rooftop offered a wide view of the city, a perspective that, in other moments, often brought clarity. From there, he could observe the flow of things, identify patterns, find paths where before there had only been confusion.

But that night, even that wasn’t enough.

The wind responded to his presence almost immediately, circling him in soft currents that mirrored the internal state he was struggling to keep contained. Aang closed his eyes, letting his breathing slow gradually, despite the urgency still pressing inside him.

He inhaled deeply, holding the air for a moment before releasing it slowly, as if each exhale could carry away some of the noise beginning to build.

For a brief moment, he almost managed it.

Then it came — not as a sound, not as an image, but as a sensation. A fracture.

Something out of place in a way that couldn’t be explained as ordinary danger. It was deeper, more intrusive — a disordered, unstable energy, as if it had been forcibly torn from its natural flow, leaving behind a distortion too stark to ignore.

His eyes snapped open.

The wind around him stilled abruptly, as if cut off along with the thought.

This wasn’t normal.

It wasn’t natural.

And more importantly — it wasn’t random.

Aang didn’t hesitate.

His body reacted before any careful analysis could slow him down. The air condensed around him into a steady current, propelling him forward at increasing speed as he cut across the city in a near-straight line, dodging obstacles with instinctive precision, as if each movement had already been decided before it happened.

The lights blurred into streaks, the shadows merged with motion, and everything that once made up the city stopped mattering.

Because now there was a fixed point.

A destination.

Aang wasn’t searching blindly anymore.

He was heading straight for you.

The building offered no warning of what lay inside, and perhaps that was exactly what made it so unsettling. From the outside, it remained still, silent, blending into the surrounding decay as if it were just another structure the city had forgotten — one of those that remain standing out of sheer stubbornness of time, not usefulness. No light leaked through its cracks, no sound betrayed any presence, not even the kind of instability that would suggest something had been disturbed recently. And yet, as Aang crossed the threshold with a controlled, precise movement, it became immediately clear that the quiet outside was nothing more than a fragile illusion, far too weak to sustain what was truly happening within.

The air struck him first — not as a simple shift in temperature or scent, but as a physical presence, dense enough to alter the way he breathed, as if each inhale had to pass through an invisible resistance before reaching his lungs. The metallic odor was no longer just noticeable — it dominated, seeping into every space, mixed with something harder to define, something that wasn’t quite a smell but a sensation: accumulated tension, recent violence, the unmistakable impression that this place had hosted something that hadn’t ended when it should have. And that was what made him pause for a single moment — not hesitation, but because the space itself demanded acknowledgment before allowing any further movement.

That was when he realized the silence wasn’t absolute.

There was sound.

But it wasn’t continuous, nor predictable — it was irregular, fragmented, as if it only surfaced when it could no longer be contained. A faint dragging, a broken breath, the movement of something still in progress. Aang stepped forward, then another, each movement calculated with a precision that left no room for error, as his eyes began to adjust to the dim interior, absorbing the space in successive layers. Shapes slowly began to take form — volumes on the ground that didn’t belong to the structure, shadows too dense to be mere absence of light, marks that broke the natural continuity of the space — but none of it prepared him for what truly seized his attention.

You weren’t still.

And that shattered whatever expectation remained.

At the center of that space, among bodies that no longer moved and a silence that felt forcibly shaped, you stood upright — but not untouched, not distant, not detached. Something was happening — at that exact moment — something too explicit to be misread. Your arm was raised, not in a wide gesture, but in controlled precision, almost minimal, and yet the effect was absolute. A few steps from you, a man — the last one, it seemed — did not move of his own will. His body trembled unevenly, as if pulled by invisible threads that ignored his intent, his limbs reacting in delayed, disjointed motions, incapable of obeying any command not imposed from the outside.

Aang didn’t need an explanation.

Recognition didn’t arrive as a fully formed thought, but as an immediate, instinctive understanding, impossible to deny. He had seen this before, felt this before — even if from a distance, even if as something that belonged to stories that were never meant to repeat. And yet, there it was. Not memory. Not future threat. But a present reality, unfolding before him without any filter to soften its impact.

The next movement was small.

Almost imperceptible.

But enough.

Your fingers shifted slightly, and in response, the body before you lifted abruptly, unnaturally, as if ripped from the ground by a force that allowed no resistance. There was a sound — a choke, perhaps, or a failed attempt to regain control — but it didn’t last. There was no time for that. Because in the next instant, the body was forced into an impossible bend, then hurled to the ground with a precision that left no chance of recovery.

The impact echoed.

Dry.

Final.

And then—

Nothing.

The silence that followed wasn’t immediate, but when it came, it was absolute, filling the space as if it had always belonged there, as though everything before had been only a brief interruption of something that had never truly left.

You still hadn’t moved.

Not completely.

Your body remained tense, your uneven breathing betraying an effort that wasn’t visible in large gestures but lived in every restrained detail — in every muscle that hadn’t yet relaxed, in every second that took longer than it should to settle. And for a brief moment, before you even realized you were no longer alone—

You were still in control.

And Aang…

Aang stood still.

Not because he couldn’t act.

But because, in that exact moment, between what he expected to find and what he actually found, there was a chasm too vast to cross without something inside him changing along with it.

And it was there, in that precise point — where time itself seemed to hesitate before moving forward…

The silence that followed the impact wasn’t just the absence of sound — it was something denser, as if the air itself had been compressed by what had just happened and now refused to move naturally. The body on the ground offered no resistance anymore, the tension that had held it suspended completely gone, but your own body hadn’t caught up to that ending; your fingers remained slightly curled, as if still responding to a command that no longer existed, and your breathing came uneven, too short, like it was still trying to find a rhythm that refused to return to normal.

It was in that interval — in that space between the end and the acceptance of the end — that he spoke.

Aang didn’t approach. Not immediately. His voice crossed the space before his body did.

“…did I get here too late?”

The question didn’t accuse, nor did it carry urgency, as if he expected an immediate answer. It came low, restrained, almost too careful — like someone still deciding what exactly he was looking at… and what it meant.

You let the air leave your lungs slowly, as if only then realizing you had been holding your breath.

“No.” The word came out steadier than you felt. “You got here exactly when you needed to.”

There was a small pause after that — not long, but enough to make it clear there was more. Your throat moved in a dry swallow, and when you spoke again, your voice no longer carried that same automatic steadiness.

“They wanted you.” You said it plainly. “I just… happened to be the easier way.”

Aang’s expression shifted there — subtle, but unavoidable. It wasn’t surprise — not entirely — but hearing it out loud carried a different weight, more concrete, harder to keep at a distance.

“I figured.” he replied, though the words didn’t come easily. “I could feel something… off.”

He paused briefly, his gaze finally moving through the space around him — not with curiosity, but with understanding. When it returned to you, there was something firmer in it.

“This wasn’t improvised.”

It wasn’t exactly a question.

You didn’t look away.

“No.” Your voice dropped. “It wasn’t.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty; it was filled with mutual recognition, as if both of you knew exactly what needed to be said next… and at the same time, neither of you was in a hurry to get there.

But Aang got there anyway.

“You used it.”

Simple.

Direct.

No raised voice, no explicit judgment.

And still, impossible to ignore.

You closed your eyes for a brief moment, as if that sentence carried more weight than it should — not because of what it said, but because of who was saying it. When you opened them again, there was no denial.

“I tried not to.” Your voice came out quieter now, more honest. “I swear I tried.”

Aang didn’t interrupt.

He just… waited.

And that made you continue.

“But they didn’t want to hurt me quickly.” You swallowed, as if choosing the words required more effort than it should. “They were waiting for you. They were… keeping me there.”

Your breath faltered for a second — too small to break, but enough to betray what came before.

“And when I realized…” you continued, slower now, “when I understood what they were going to do when you showed up—”

You didn’t finish the sentence.

You didn’t need to.

Aang drew in a deeper breath, enough to show he was following every word — even the ones left unsaid.

“So you decided to end it first.” he concluded, not as an accusation, but as someone fitting the last piece into place.

You nodded, almost imperceptibly.

“I wasn’t going to let them use you.” The firmness returned, but different now, heavier. “Not like that.”

His expression softened for a moment.

Just one.

Because he understood.

He really did.

But that didn’t erase everything else.

His hand ran slowly over his head, a small gesture weighed down by restrained tension.

“You promised…” His voice came lower now, less steady than before. “Not to me. To yourself.”

That hit differently.

Because it was true.

And you knew it.

“I know.” The answer came immediately, without defense. “I know, Aang.”

A small space opened between you after that, as if the air itself needed to rearrange before allowing anything else to continue.

“I didn’t lose control.” you said then, slower, holding his gaze. “Not this time.”

Aang stilled there.

Not outwardly, but enough for something in his eyes to shift.

“It wasn’t… like before.” you added, almost cautiously. “I knew exactly what I was doing.”

And maybe that was what affected him the most.

Because it made everything more deliberate.

More… real.

He took a step forward this time — small, but meaningful enough to close the distance he himself had kept until then.

“That’s what scares me.” he admitted at last, plainly, but without harshness.

The word lingered between you.

Scares.

Not rejection.

But truth.

You didn’t step back.

“I was scared first.” Your voice didn’t rise, didn’t break. “Scared they’d hurt you. Scared you’d be too late. Scared I… wouldn’t be able to stop them in time.”

Your fingers curled slightly, as if they still remembered the control they had held.

“So I chose.”

Just like that.

Aang held your gaze longer now, as if trying to accept the weight of that choice exactly as it was — without softening it, without distorting it.

“And you put yourself in that place again.” he said, more as a statement than a judgment.

You took a slow breath.

“I put myself between them and you.” you corrected, calmly.

That made him stop.

For real.

Because deep down, he knew.

He knew exactly what that meant.

The silence returned, but it wasn’t heavy like before.

It was… different.

More human.

More fragile.

Aang let out a slow breath, and when he spoke again, there was something there that finally managed to exist alongside everything else.

“I don’t know what to do with this yet.” he admitted, honest, without trying to be bigger than he was. “I just know that…” he hesitated for a second, but continued, “you’re alive.”

His gaze softened, even if only a little.

“And so am I.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Aang was the first to move.

Not with urgency, nor with the restless energy that had brought him there, but with something more contained, more deliberate — as if each step needed to exist with intention. He looked away for a brief moment, scanning the space around him, not as before — not as someone trying to understand what had happened — but as someone who already understood enough.

And didn’t need to remain there any longer.

“We need to get out of here.” His voice came low, but firm enough that it didn’t sound like a suggestion.

You nodded.

Not because you wanted to go.

But because staying wasn’t an option.

You both began to move almost at the same time, but not in sync — there was a slight delay, a subtle hesitation, as if your bodies were still catching up to the decision your minds had already made. Your steps avoided looking directly at the ground, but even so, it was impossible not to feel the presence of what had been left behind, like a visual echo that insisted on following every movement.

When you crossed the doorway, the night air felt different.

Lighter.

Colder.

Still not enough to erase what lingered inside you.

Aang stopped just outside.

Not completely.

Just enough to create a brief pause between leaving and moving forward.

You stopped too.

Not because he asked — because you felt it.

There was a moment — brief, but heavy — where neither of you spoke. The world around you kept going, the city still breathing in its own rhythm, unaware of what had just unfolded inside.

But between the two of you, something was still being decided.

Then he did something that didn’t feel planned.

His hand moved.

Not fast, not impulsive — but not calculated enough to seem distant either. It was a simple gesture, almost hesitant, as if he wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed to, but chose to try anyway.

His fingers brushed yours.

Light at first.

Almost like a test.

As if he were confirming that you were still there in a way no words could accomplish.

And then they held.

Not tightly.

But with presence.

You didn’t pull away. You didn’t squeeze back either — you just didn’t let go.

Aang exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting for a moment toward the distant line of the city before returning — not fully to you, but enough for his voice to find space between you again.

“We’re going to have to talk about this.” he said, without the weight of accusation, but without softening the truth either.

A small pause.

“But not now.”

He squeezed your hand slightly this time.

Almost imperceptible. But intentional.

“Come on.” he murmured.

Aang still didn’t know whether he was more relieved to have found you… or more afraid of how far you had been willing to go to make that happen.

[demaparbat-hp]

They would.

[inkwish]

motivational advice from your local critters and radish

[bluemoonscribbler]

I had an awful migraine the other day….im sorry to take it out on you my son

[adast3ria]

Hope - Imagine Aang (Avatar), Part V

The silence that followed Aang’s realization was neither empty nor light; it held itself in the space between them like something dense, almost tangible, as if the very air were waiting for the next decision before moving freely again. The current separating Aang from the figure remained steady, no longer a gesture of attack but a carefully maintained line of containment, marking distance with a precision that allowed no error. The mist around them stayed low, close to the stone ground, slipping through old cracks and uneven steps, forming a quiet frame for an encounter that could no longer be ignored.

The figure ahead did not move immediately.

But it answered.

“I don’t need help.”

The voice came low, controlled, without rising, yet carrying a tension born not of fragility, but of constant restraint. There was no tremor, no hesitation—only a firmness that sounded more like defense than refusal. Every word felt chosen not just to respond, but to shut the subject down before it could expand.

Aang kept his gaze steady, taking in the tone, the rhythm, what was being said—and what was being avoided. He didn’t step forward, didn’t try to cross the boundary set by the wind.

“I didn’t say you needed it,” he replied calmly, his voice just as low, but softer, without confrontation. “I just said you’re hurt.”

For a moment, nothing answered.

The wind didn’t intensify, but it shifted slightly—subtle enough to go unnoticed by anyone not paying close attention. Aang noticed. Toph did too.

Behind him, the silence didn’t last.

Sokka let out a restrained sigh, leaning slightly to the side in an attempt to see better through the mist, clearly unable to stay quiet any longer.

“Okay… so let me see if I’ve got the strategy here,” he began, his tone laced with the practical disbelief that always surfaced when things slipped out of logical control. “We run into a mysterious airbender who clearly doesn’t want us around, who already slammed Aang into a wall, and the chosen approach is… pointing out that they look exhausted?”

Toph let out a short sound through her nose, almost a laugh, without taking her focus off the presence ahead.

“He’s not wrong,” she said bluntly, arms still crossed. “But he’s not helping much either.”

“I’m not obligated to help, I’m just here to watch the disaster unfold,” Sokka shot back quickly. “There’s a difference.”

Zuko didn’t react to the exchange.

His gaze remained fixed on the figure, attentive to every micro-shift in the air’s behavior, his body still ready to act—but not advancing.

“This isn’t just distrust,” he said at last, his voice low and firm, analyzing more than commenting. “It’s constant effort. They’re not relaxing for a second.”

The reaction was subtle.

The figure didn’t move, but the wind around them adjusted slightly, as if that observation had been acknowledged. There was no increase in force—but there was reinforcement, a slight tightening in the structure of the currents.

Katara stepped forward, positioning herself beside Aang without crossing past him, maintaining a respectful distance. Her expression was more open, more approachable—but her attention was absolute.

“You don’t have to trust us right now,” she said carefully, choosing each word with precision. “But you don’t have to keep fighting all the time either.”

The answer came without delay.

“I do.”

No hesitation.

No softening.

It was a direct statement, supported by something deeper than the immediate situation—as if that need didn’t belong only to that moment, but to something that came before.

The wind around them remained steady—but more rigid, as though that sentence had reinforced the structure holding it together.

Toph tilted her head slightly, focusing even more on the reading she was making through the ground, absorbing not just position, but the behavior of the body in front of her.

“You’re not just defending yourself,” she said with her usual bluntness. “You’re using the air to hold your body up.”

The impact of her words didn’t come as an immediate reaction.

It came in the silence.

Sokka blinked, turning toward her with visible surprise.

“What do you mean ‘hold your body up’?” he asked, frowning. “Like… literally?”

Zuko narrowed his eyes, understanding beginning to form.

Aang didn’t speak.

But he noticed.

Because at that exact moment, the wind failed.

It was minimal.

Almost imperceptible.

One current lost consistency for less than a second—just enough for the figure’s body to adjust its weight a fraction too late, as if, for an instant, the support hadn’t responded with the same precision as before.

Aang reacted without thinking.

He stepped forward.

“Wait—”

“No.”

The answer came instantly.

Faster than any movement.

The wind between them thickened sharply—not as an attack, but as an absolute barrier, cutting off his advance before he could close the distance.

“Don’t come any closer.”

This time, the voice carried something different.

Not just control.

A reaction to a mistake.

Toph slowly uncrossed her arms, her expression now more serious, more focused.

“You felt that too,” she said—not a question, but a confirmation.

The figure didn’t respond.

But the air around them tightened further, denser, more contained—as if it were being held together with renewed effort.

Katara looked from Aang back to the figure, her expression shifting subtly.

“You’re pushing yourself past your limit,” she said, firmer now. “That won’t hold for long.”

“It doesn’t have to.”

The reply came short.

Dry.

Closed off.

Sokka raised his hands in restrained frustration.

“Great, so we’ve got someone who doesn’t want help, doesn’t want to talk, is clearly falling apart, and is still keeping us at a distance with ridiculous control—this just keeps getting better.”

“Sokka, please,” Katara murmured, without losing focus.

But Aang spoke before the tension could climb further.

“You’re afraid.”

The words weren’t forceful.

But they cut through everything.

The wind didn’t vanish.

But it hesitated.

The figure remained still, yet their posture shifted almost imperceptibly—a fraction of relaxation that appeared and disappeared too quickly to be certain it was real, if not for the air around them giving it away.

Zuko glanced at Aang for a brief moment.

“You sure about that?”

Aang didn’t answer right away.

His eyes stayed fixed ahead, attentive not only to what he saw, but to what he felt in the movement of the air.

“It’s not fear of us,” he said, quieter now, with growing certainty. “It’s fear of losing control.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was heavy.

Charged with something no one there tried to name out loud.

Despite everything having been laid bare so clearly, the wind didn’t yield. The distance didn’t close. The figure didn’t step back.

The tension that had settled between them did not dissolve after Aang’s words; if anything, it seemed to condense further, as though the air itself were being compressed into a limited space, forced to sustain something that had already surpassed its natural balance. The wind around the figure remained active—still obedient, still precise—but it no longer carried the same continuous fluidity as before. There were small ruptures in its pattern, subtle flaws, nearly imperceptible, that betrayed a growing effort to maintain what, moments ago, had seemed automatic.

Aang noticed before anyone else.

Not as a single event, but as a sequence of quiet inconsistencies in the behavior of the air. The currents no longer responded with the same synchronicity; there was a slight delay between intention and execution, as if each command demanded more energy than the body could provide at that moment. To anyone else, it would have gone unnoticed. To him, it was impossible to ignore.

The figure remained standing.

But the body no longer held the same stability.

Their weight began to shift almost invisibly, moving from one point to another in constant micro-adjustments, as if balance had to be rebuilt every second. Muscles, once rigid with control, now revealed strain. The breathing, already unsteady, became shorter, more irregular, as though each inhale were being cut off before it could fully form.

Katara noticed next.

Her expression changed immediately, her attention shifting from cautious to concerned.

“Aang…” she called, more quietly, like someone recognizing the beginning of something that shouldn’t happen.

Toph, for her part, didn’t hesitate to name what she felt.

“She’s giving out,” she said bluntly, head slightly tilted, reading through the ground the changes in weight, in support, in tension that no longer held evenly.

Zuko tensed instinctively, his gaze narrowing, ready to react to any sharper shift.

For once, Sokka had no immediate response.

He just watched.

And from him, that said enough.

The wind failed again.

This time, it wasn’t subtle.

One of the currents sustaining the space around the figure collapsed before it could be replaced, creating a brief void that made the body pitch forward abruptly. There was an attempt to correct it—quick, instinctive—and for a split second, it seemed like control would return.

But it didn’t.

The response came late.

Weak.

Insufficient.

Breathing faltered right after, breaking the already unstable rhythm. The chest didn’t fully expand, the air didn’t complete its path, and that small disruption was enough to unravel everything else.

Then, without warning—

The body gave out.

There was no preparation, no conscious attempt to step back. It was a direct collapse, as if the support had simply ceased to exist. Knees lost strength, the body’s axis tilted, and for a moment that seemed to stretch beyond its natural length, everything slowed.

The wind around her collapsed with it.

The currents that once sustained, protected, and controlled dispersed without command, unraveling into a disordered flow that obeyed nothing but gravity.

She was falling.

No support.

Straight toward the uneven stone of the courtyard.

“Aang!”

Katara’s voice echoed, but he was already moving before he heard it fully.

It wasn’t a decision.

It was instinct.

The air responded immediately, gathering beneath the falling body with a precision that left no room for error. A firm current formed—not to stop the fall abruptly, but to slow it, to soften the impact gradually, as if the wind itself refused to let the fall complete.

Her body never reached the ground.

It remained suspended for a moment, light, supported with a care that sharply contrasted the violence the moment had threatened.

Aang was already at her side.

His movements were quick, but controlled, in sync with the airflow he kept steady around her unconscious form. He knelt as he guided her descent, reducing the speed further, ensuring there would be no impact.

Gently, he laid her onto the stone.

The contact was light.

Careful.

Almost reverent.

The wind around them eased gradually, as if reflecting the shift in the moment. It didn’t disappear entirely, but it lost its rigidity, its intent, returning to a more natural, freer flow, without imposed direction.

Aang remained kneeling beside her, his gaze focused, analyzing every detail in quiet concentration.

She was still breathing.

Weak.

Irregular.

But there.

Katara approached quickly, already kneeling on the opposite side, her hands moving with precision and care, her full attention on assessing the girl’s condition.

“I’ve got her,” she said, her voice firm but gentle, taking control without adding tension.

Toph stayed standing for a moment, head slightly tilted, processing the changes she now felt through the ground.

“She’s out,” she stated with certainty. “No active air support anymore.”

Zuko stepped closer next, his expression serious, attention split between the surroundings and her condition.

“That was exhaustion,” he said, assessing the situation objectively. “She was forcing herself to keep going.”

Sokka crossed his arms, watching the scene with an unusual expression, his usual lightness completely absent.

“So… let me get this straight,” he started, quieter now, almost cautious. “We spent all this time being kept at a distance by someone who was basically… holding themselves together at the edge… and now they just passed out.”

No one answered.

The wind around them had returned to its natural flow, sliding over the broken stones of the courtyard and weaving through the ancient columns like a steady sigh, almost indifferent to what had just happened. Even so, no one seemed willing to move without thinking twice.

Aang remained kneeling beside her, his gaze focused, as if still waiting for some sign of response—any shift that might suggest her condition wasn’t as deep as it seemed. Katara had already fully positioned herself on the opposite side, her hands close but careful, assessing breathing, temperature, muscle tension—everything with the quiet precision of someone who had done this many times before.

“She’s exhausted,” Katara said after a few seconds, her voice low but firm, like someone closing a diagnosis. “It’s not just fatigue… it’s accumulated strain. Her body couldn’t keep that up any longer.”

Sokka let out a small sigh, running a hand over the back of his neck as he looked between them, clearly trying to organize his thoughts.

“Okay… so we’ve got two options, right?” he started, gesturing lightly, still not stepping too close. “We leave her here, in the middle of an abandoned temple, unconscious, after all this… or we take her with us without knowing absolutely anything about who she is.”

Zuko crossed his arms, his gaze dropping briefly to the figure on the ground before returning to Aang.

“Taking someone unconscious without consent isn’t exactly… right,” he said carefully, weighing each word. “Especially someone who clearly doesn’t trust anyone.”

“And leaving her here is better?” Sokka shot back immediately, his tone sharper. “Because, just to be clear, she was literally staying on her feet powered by ‘I refuse to pass out.’ That doesn’t sound like a sustainable plan.”

Toph, who had remained silent until then, stepped forward, tilting her head slightly as if reassessing the body on the ground—not through movement this time, but through its absence.

“If we leave,” she said bluntly, “she’s not going to wake up okay.”

Katara nodded almost instantly.

“She needs care,” she added, firmer now. “Food, rest, hydration… maybe even treatment. I don’t know how long she’s been like this, but it hasn’t been recent.”

Aang finally looked away from her face, taking a slow breath before speaking.

“I don’t want to force anything,” he said, his voice quieter, threaded with conflict. “She made it clear she doesn’t want help. And… I understand that.”

“But she also made it clear she can’t keep going alone,” Katara replied, looking straight at him—not harsh, but not softening the truth either.

Zuko tilted his head slightly.

“If she wakes up and decides to leave, we won’t stop her,” he said. “But the way she is now… that’s not a choice.”

Sokka raised a hand, pointing lightly.

“Exactly. This isn’t ‘invading personal space,’ this is ‘preventing someone from permanently passing out in a forgotten temple,’” he said with a half-sigh. “There’s a pretty important difference there.”

Aang stayed silent for a moment.

His gaze returned to her.

To the state she was in.

To everything he had felt in the air… and that was no longer there.

Then Toph broke the moment in a completely unexpected way.

“Also…” she began, tilting her head a bit more, as if reassessing something with renewed focus, “is she pretty?”

The silence that followed was immediate.

Complete.

Sokka blinked.

“Toph—seriously? Now?”

“I can’t see,” she replied simply. “And everyone’s been way too quiet staring at her.”

Katara looked away for a second, as if caught off guard by the question, but didn’t answer right away.

Zuko remained still.

Aang was still looking.

And that was exactly what made the answer happen.

It didn’t come from just one of them.

Nor in separate moments.

But almost at the same time.

“Yes.”

The word came out low, but clear.

Unified.

No variation.

No debate.

Toph let a small, knowing smile curl at the corner of her lips.

“That explains it,” she murmured.

Sokka let out a short breath, half incredulous.

“That definitely explains nothing.”

But no one really engaged with that.

Because the decision was already taking shape.

Aang exhaled slowly, as if finally accepting something he had known since the moment he caught her before the fall.

“We’re not leaving her here,” he said, firm now.

Katara nodded.

Zuko did too.

Toph didn’t argue.

Sokka just shrugged.

“Great,” he said. “Because carrying unconscious people through abandoned temples is becoming a weird trend in our lives.”

Despite the comment, no one really reacted.

Aang leaned in slightly, carefully adjusting her position to ensure she remained stable before lifting her with the aid of air—not in a visible way, but enough to reduce any impact or discomfort.

The decision to leave didn’t bring immediate relief—only direction. There was a subtle difference between the two, and everyone felt it as Aang leaned in once more, now with even greater attention to detail. He adjusted her unconscious body with deliberate care, making sure every point of support was secure before lifting her fully. His movements were precise, almost silent, as if the simple act of touching her required respect for something he didn’t yet fully understand. As he slid an arm beneath her and drew her weight closer to his own body, he felt—undeniably—how light she was. Not because of airbending, but something deeper, something more concerning.

When he finally settled her against his back, the realization became even clearer.

She shouldn’t weigh so little.

Aang posicionou um dos braços dela sobre o ombro, prendendo-o para evitar que escorregasse, enquanto a outra mão sustentava parte do peso dela. Ao mesmo tempo, o ar ao seu redor reagiu quase instintivamente, formando um suporte invisível que suavizava cada movimento, distribuindo o peso de maneira mais uniforme e reduzindo qualquer impacto que pudesse agravar a condição dela.

For a moment, no one spoke.

The group simply watched.

And then they started walking.

The return through the temple carried a completely different atmosphere from their arrival. The mist still dragged along the ground, but now it seemed less active, less hostile, as though it had retreated along with the absence of conscious control. The surrounding structures—broken columns, uneven platforms, half-collapsed corridors—once again appeared to be just ruins, no longer part of a living organism reacting to their presence. Even so, something about that place refused to fully fade, a lingering sense that it held more than it revealed.

Their footsteps echoed softly, rhythmically, accompanied by the constant sound of wind moving through the temple with a steadiness that no longer felt entirely natural.

Sokka was the one to break the silence, as if he could no longer hold his thoughts without voicing them.

“I really need to understand what just happened here,” he said, his voice more restrained than usual, though still edged with disbelief. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, glancing quickly from Aang to the others, as if seeking confirmation they had all witnessed the same thing. “Because right now, it feels like we walked into an abandoned temple, got held at a distance by someone who clearly knew what they were doing… and ended up carrying that person out unconscious like that’s the logical next step.”

Toph let out a small sound, almost a short laugh, walking beside them with her usual confidence.

“You described it perfectly,” she said casually, though her attention was clearly tuned to what she could still sense in the environment. “You just forgot to mention she was basically holding herself together through sheer stubbornness.”

Sokka exhaled through his nose, almost laughing, but without real humor.

“Great. That really improves things.”

Katara, walking close to Aang, kept her eyes fixed on the figure on his back, carefully analyzing every detail she could still observe.

“She wasn’t just defending herself,” she said, more serious now. “She was holding all of that together while already at her limit. That wasn’t full control… that was endurance.”

Zuko moved alongside them, his attention constantly shifting between the path ahead and what lay behind.

“She reacted too quickly for someone who wasn’t expecting company,” he noted analytically. “There was no surprise. It was immediate.”

Aang responded without looking away from the path.

“She knew someone would come,” he said, low but firm.

Katara turned her head slightly toward him.

“Do you think she’s the one who wrote the letter?” she asked carefully, as if the answer might change more than just their interpretation.

Aang took a moment before answering.

The wind around them was lighter now, but it still carried echoes of what had happened—subtle variations he couldn’t ignore.

“The pattern… wasn’t random,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “It wasn’t just a warning. It was… a directed call.”

Toph tilted her head, agreeing without hesitation.

“She’s got enough control for that,” she said. “Even in that state, she was manipulating the entire environment. That’s not improvisation.”

Sokka let out a longer sigh, looking down for a moment before lifting his gaze again.

“Okay. So let’s organize this,” he said, more serious now. “She probably called us. And when we showed up, she did everything she could to keep us away. That’s way too contradictory to ignore.”

Zuko answered before silence could settle.

“Not if she doesn’t trust anyone,” he said plainly.

Katara shook her head slightly.

“It’s not just distrust,” she countered. “That was… damage control. She didn’t want us getting close.”

“From us or from her?” Sokka asked.

Toph didn’t hesitate.

“From her,” she said. “She never tried to drive us out of the temple. Just kept us far enough so we wouldn’t get close.”

The group fell silent again.

Aang slowed his pace slightly, absorbing that as he adjusted her weight, making sure she remained stable.

“She didn’t attack,” he said, more clearly now, connecting the pieces. “Not even when she had the chance.”

Katara nodded, following his reasoning.

“And even when you moved forward… she only blocked,” she added. “She never tried to hurt you.”

Sokka ran a hand over his face, visibly trying to piece everything together.

“So we’re dealing with someone who calls for help but doesn’t want to be helped,” he said slowly. “Who needs support but keeps everyone at a distance… and who was pushing past her limit just to maintain that.”

Zuko looked ahead, his tone more serious.

“Or someone trying to keep us from getting involved,” he said.

The words lingered in the air for a few seconds.

Katara broke the silence, quieter.

“Maybe she’s protecting us from something.”

Toph frowned slightly.

“Or trying to make sure no one else goes through what she did,” she said.

Aang didn’t respond right away.

But the subtle way he adjusted her on his back was enough to show he was listening—and agreeing more than he wanted to.

Sokka sighed again, this time more tired.

“So, summary: either someone attacked her before and she managed to survive, or she’s running from something… or she wanted us to come here to see this before it’s too late.”

“Or all of it,” Zuko added.

They kept walking, now nearing the temple’s exit. The mist began to thin gradually, and the air no longer felt as compressed as before, as if her absence had released some of the tension that had built within the space.

Katara glanced at her again, her expression softening without losing concern.

“Her body isn’t just tired,” she said, more certain now. “She’s been weak for a while.”

Toph confirmed.

“She’s too light,” she said. “This didn’t happen today.”

Sokka ran a hand through his hair, letting out a short, humorless laugh.

“Perfect. So on top of everything, we found someone who’s probably been surviving alone for way too long, avoiding any contact, pushing herself until she passed out… and still managed to keep us at a distance like it was nothing.”

He looked at Aang.

“That’s not normal.”

Aang answered without hesitation.

“No,” he said calmly. “But it’s real.”

Ahead, the space began to open, and Appa’s presence could be felt before he was seen—the air wider, freer, less burdened. Even so, the feeling that followed them didn’t disappear.

Aang adjusted her once more on his back, making sure she was secure.

Leaving the temple wasn’t marked by haste, but by a kind of silent urgency none of them needed to voice. As they crossed the threshold of the ruins and the terrain opened again, Appa came into view—massive, steady, almost comforting against everything that had just happened. The sky bison lifted his head as soon as he sensed their approach, his gaze immediately settling on the group… and then on the unconscious figure resting against Aang’s back.

A low sound rumbled from his throat.

Deep.

Soft.

Not uneasy—but not indifferent either.

Aang approached more slowly this time, not out of hesitation, but out of heightened care with each movement. He adjusted her slightly before stopping beside Appa, resting his free hand against the bison’s forehead in an automatic, almost instinctive gesture, as if grounding himself in something familiar.

“It’s going to be okay,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

Appa exhaled a warm breath, the air shifting gently around them in silent response.

Katara was already moving into position, watching closely as Aang began transferring her weight. The motion was slow, calculated—he guided her from his back to the saddle with the help of air, ensuring there was no impact, no misplacement. As soon as she was settled, Katara stepped in immediately, adjusting her posture, supporting her head properly, checking her breathing once more.

“She’s still stable,” she said, though the concern remained clear in her voice.

Sokka climbed up next, glancing at the scene with a mix of exhaustion and disbelief.

“I feel like we just went from a scouting mission straight into ‘mysterious rescue with zero briefing,’” he muttered, settling into place as he glanced at her. “And nobody explained the rules.”

“Because there are no rules,” Zuko replied, climbing up after him, his expression serious as he took his place. “Not yet.”

Toph was the last to climb aboard, doing so with practiced ease before crossing her arms.

“There’s only a problem,” she said flatly. “And we just brought it with us.”

Aang didn’t respond.

He simply climbed up.

And for a brief moment, he hesitated.

Not physically—but internally, as if this was the exact point of no return for whatever this was becoming.

If it had been just an encounter, it would have ended there.

But it didn’t feel like that.

He took a deep breath.

"Yip yip."

[adast3ria]

Please tell me what you think!

Hey everyone, taking advantage of the holiday here in Brazil, I'm thinking about doing something bigger set in Avatar (Atla/Gaang). Would you like a project with more continuity, more dialogue, and a more developed plot? Regarding the love interest, I believe we could decide together as the story progresses, or I could work on larger, separate projects. Anyway, that's it.

[jasi-jx]

me (a telepath) sending all my fellow writers the motivation and inspiration to write more atla x reader stories so we can restore balance to the fanfic world

[monkishe]

WHERE THE BLADE HESITATES ✶ ch. i

summary: while the world celebrates peace, you move through the earth kingdom with one mission: end the avatar cycle. raised by the order to believe the avatar’s failure cost you everything, you infiltrate his circle during a fragile peace treaty, determined to gain his trust and strike.

but aang isn’t what you expected. he’s kind, burdened and human. not the cowardous demigod you were told about, and as he begins to trust you, your resolve starts to crack.

pairing: aged up!aang x reader

warning: aang is 20 and oc is 21, timeline kind of sort of really doesn’t make sense, slow burn, betrayal, NOT PROOF READ

word count: 2k

nisa’s notes!: so my obsession for atla is back (it never went away) this isn’t proof read once again and i should definitely be revising but i wrote this instead… whoopsies… will probably edit it later but for now here it is!!!!short first chapter but it’ll get longer as we go :3 also comment if u wanna be added to the taglist. banner creds: heyhanibee on twt

< BACK | MASTERLIST | NEXT >

You could kill him right now.

Your eyes follow his every movement from across the room as he engages in a conversation with the Fire Lord, all bright eyed and smiling. From this distance, he doesn’t look like the boy who ended the hundred-year war. Instead he appears to look too care free, too comfortable, and way too happy for your own liking.

The obsidian pin in your hair feels heavy, a silent promise tucked against your scalp. One quick strike to the base of the skull while he laughs at Zuko’s dry wit, and the Order’s century-long nightmare would be over. Maybe you could land a few hits on the Fire Lord in the process. Two for the price of one.

“He’s remarkable, isn't he?”

The voice of a fellow Earth Kingdom delegate startles you, but you don't let your expression flicker. You maintain the serene, practiced mask that you’d been taught.

“Remarkable,” you agree, your voice smooth as silk as you look over at them. “It’s hard to believe so much power is contained in one person.”

“And so much kindness,” the delegate sighs. “We are lucky he returned to us.”

Lucky. You feel a familiar, cold bitterness rise in your throat. Was it 'luck' that left your mother’s body burnt to a crisp in the mud? Was it 'luck' that forced you to learn the anatomy of a human body before you learned how to dance?

Humming, you return your gaze back to the Avatar, and to your astonishment his curious eyes are already settled on you. His lips are curled into that all too familiar, sickeningly friendly smile of his that you yearn to smack right off of his face. He doesn’t look away, until a slightly shorter man dressed in the blue robes of the Southern Water tribe says something that takes his attention away from you. If your memory serves you right, his name must be Sokka. Another one of the fools in the Avatar’s circle.

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes as the Avatar takes his position at the centre of the room, a broad smile remaining on his face.

“Welcome, everybody! I have gathered you all here today to discuss the creation of a new city,” he lets his gaze roam the hall, his eyes bright with a fervor that seems to settle on every person individually.

“What is the purpose of this city?” a voice calls from the crowd.

“Well, it’s supposed to represent a place where the Four Nations are no longer separate,” he explains. “A place where people are just... people. Not Earth Kingdom subjects or Fire Nation citizens or Water Tribe people. I believe it will help us further restore the peace that we’ve lost after past events.”

The crowd murmurs amongst themselves, some nodding in agreement whilst others still weren’t fully convinced.

The Fire Lord steps up beside him, placing a supportive hand on his shoulder. “After everything that has happened, this will be good for us. The Fire nation is in full support of Avatar Aang’s plan.”

With their Lord's approval, the small group of Fire Nation diplomats quiets down. Their murmuring stops, though the scowls don't leave their faces.

Aang offers a final, humble bow to the room before hopping down from the dais. He moves with an irritating fluidity, weaving through the crowd like a breeze. He doesn’t walk like a man who ended a war, he walks like a child at a festival. He stops to greet the Northern Water Tribe elders with a respectful dip of his head and shares a brief, boisterous laugh with Sokka, who is already gesturing wildly toward a map of the proposed docks.

Then, his path shifts. He is heading toward the Earth Kingdom delegation. Toward you.

Your hand twitches instinctively, a phantom reach for the obsidian pin, but you force your fingers to remain interlaced within your silk sleeves.

"Honored guests," Aang says as he approaches, his voice bright and clear. He bows deeply to your group. "It’s good to see Ba Sing Se so well represented. But I noticed King Kuei’s seat is empty. Is he feeling alright? I was looking forward to showing him the sketches for the central plaza."

The elder delegate beside you bows in return, his voice trembling slightly with the weight of the Avatar’s presence. "The Earth King sends his sincerest apologies, Avatar Aang. He was waylaid by matters of state regarding the restoration of the agrarian zones. He has entrusted us to speak on his behalf."

"I understand," Aang says, his expression softening into genuine empathy. "The work of rebuilding never really stops, does it?"

His gray eyes, vast and unnervingly observant, scan the faces of the delegates. He acknowledges each one by name—men and women who have spent decades in the shadows of the Upper Ring, now preening under the gaze of a boy who wasn't even awake for the war they survived.

Then, his gaze lands on you. The recognition he held for the others vanishes, replaced by a flicker of curiosity. He realizes you are the only variable he doesn't recognize.

He steps closer, stepping into the private space usually reserved for peers.

"I don't think we’ve met," he says, tilting his head slightly. That sickeningly friendly smile returns, though up close, you can see the exhaustion tucked into the corners of his eyes. "I’m Aang. And you are?"

The silence stretches for a second too long. You feel the weight of the obsidian pin pressing against your skull. You could kill him right now, but when you turn your head and notice all eyes on you, you shove the wicked thought far back into your head.

“I’m Y/N,” you force your lips to curl upwards as you offer a shallow, perfectly executed bow. “It is actually my first time here.”

“Really?” his eyes seem to brighten up further, for a reason you cannot place. You nod with a grimace. “What’s your opinion on Republic City then?”

Your eyebrows furrow at the name. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“Ah, yes… I mean it’s not final. Just an idea,” his eyes roam across your face, seeming to catch onto the way your nose wrinkled at the name. “Don’t you like it?”

“The name's nice. I’m just,” you pause, looking up at his hopeful and curious expression. Why was he seeking your approval? It was a gift you would never grant him. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea. People aren’t that accepting — not yet at least.”

The silence that follows your words is heavy, thick enough to choke the diplomats standing nearby. To tell the Avatar—the bridge between worlds—that his vision of harmony is flawed isn't just rude; in this room, it's practically heresy. You can feel the elder delegate beside you vibrating with pure terror.

But Aang doesn't summon a whirlwind. He doesn't even raise his voice.

He takes a half-step closer, his gray eyes searching yours with a piercing intensity.

"The world has been at war for a hundred years, Y/N," he says softly, his voice carrying a weight that belies his young face. "I know people are hurt. I know they're angry. That’s exactly why I think we need this. If we keep staying behind our own walls, the fear will never go away."

He folds his arms into his sleeves, mirroring your own composed posture, though his energy is warm where yours is ice.

"You say they aren't accepting yet,'" he repeats your words, turning them over like a puzzle. "So, in your mind, what comes first? Do we wait for the hearts of every person in the Four Nations to change before we build a place for them?"

Maybe you had overstepped. You take a slow, steady breath, smoothing the metaphorical wrinkles in your composure until you are once again the picture of Earth Kingdom grace.

"Forgive me, Avatar," you say, your voice returning to that silky, practiced tone. You offer a small, apologetic tilt of your head. "I didn't mean to—”

He holds up a hand, a gentle, reassuring smile returning to his face. “No, please don’t apologise. You may speak freely. I value your opinion just as much as anyone else’s.”

You blink in surprise. “Okay. It is simply that in the Earth Kingdom, we are taught that a foundation must be perfectly level before the house is built. If the ground is still shifting from the tremors of the past... the house might fall."

"I don't have a better idea," you continue softly, your eyes downcast in a show of feigned humility. "I only worry that justice is a heavy stone to move. If people feel it has been forgotten in the rush for peace, they may find their own ways to seek it. I would hate to see your beautiful vision compromised by those who aren't as... forgiving as you are."

Aang’s hand, which had been hovering in the air, slowly drops to his side. He looks at you for a long moment, his brow furrowed. He can tell you’ve retreated behind a wall, but your words have clearly left a mark.

"I see," he says, his voice quieter now. The playful energy from before has vanished, replaced by a somber weight. He offers you a small, grateful nod.

"I appreciate your honesty, Y/N. Truly. Most people just tell me what they think the Avatar wants to hear. It’s refreshing to meet someone who cares so much about the stability of the future."

He lingers there for a heartbeat, his gray eyes searching yours as if looking for the person who spoke so sharply just moments ago.

"I hope I can prove to you that this city can be a foundation for justice, too," he says. "Maybe we can talk more about what that 'level ground' looks like later tonight? At the banquet?"

The invitation is a double-edged sword. It’s the perfect opportunity to get him alone, away from the prying eyes of the Fire Lord and the Water Tribe warrior. But it also means more time under his unnerving, intuitive gaze.

"It would be an honor, Avatar," you reply, your voice a perfect, polite lie.

[adast3ria]

It bothers me that so many people don't know how cute Zuko and Suki are and what a great ship they are.

credits to @Nathagi_ on Twitter/X

[adast3ria]

The One That Got Away - Imagine Zuko (Avatar)

Before anything started to feel inevitable, before titles began defining who he was allowed to be or not be, Zuko was still just a teenager living inside a constant tension between what was expected of him and what he still wasn’t sure he could become. There was always something about him that felt like it was under construction and collapse at the same time, as if each day were an attempt to reorganize an identity that never stayed stable for long. The world hadn’t yet decided to call him Fire Lord, but it was already demanding a posture he didn’t know how to sustain.

It was during this period, between diplomatic missions that weren’t truly his and training sessions that felt more like punishment than learning, that he met you.

You were an earthbender, trained among the Kyoshi Warriors, and that already said a lot before any conversation even happened. The Kyoshi Warriors didn’t move through the world like visitors, but like extensions of it. There was a steadiness in the way you occupied space that didn’t come from arrogance or rigidity, but from something older—almost as if your body instinctively knew how to balance itself in any kind of instability. You didn’t need to raise your voice to take up space, and that alone was enough to subtly disrupt Zuko’s understanding of presence.

The first encounter was nothing special in the traditional sense. No announcement, no dramatic scene, no moment that felt worth remembering afterward. It was just a crossing of routines in one of those temporary camps where different groups gathered out of strategic necessity. And yet, something stayed behind. Not as a clear memory, but as an impression.

He noticed you before any real interaction even happened. Not because of anything flashy, but precisely the opposite. You didn’t seem interested in being noticed. While others trained, argued, or tried to position themselves within the group’s hierarchy, you were too busy adjusting your body to the environment, as if the ground and you followed the same logic. That kind of naturalness caught his attention in a way he couldn’t explain at the time.

When interaction finally happened, it wasn’t easy. Zuko was never simple to approach, and you weren’t someone who approached others out of convenience. The conversation began out of necessity first, and later out of repetition. Small exchanges during training, quick tactical comments, brief observations that didn’t demand continuation—but somehow kept continuing anyway.

There was a clear difference between you from the start. He carried tension as if he were always one step behind something he needed to prove. You, on the other hand, didn’t seem to be in competition with the world. There was no rush in the way you moved, no urgency to justify yourself. That didn’t mean passivity—far from it. It meant internal stability, something he still hadn’t learned how to access.

Over time, those interactions stopped being purely circumstantial. They didn’t become declared, named, or officially acknowledged. They just started happening more often than necessary. A kind of silent habit began forming between the two of you, something that didn’t require conscious decision. You started appearing in the spaces he occupied, and he, without realizing it, started noticing when you weren’t there.

Zuko didn’t know how to deal with that directly. For him, almost everything in life was about control or survival. But this didn’t fit into either category. It wasn’t a threat, not a mission, not a duty. It was just… presence. And presence, at that level of consistency, started altering the way he perceived his own world.

You didn’t name it either. There was no need to turn it into something larger than what it was. But there was awareness. A quiet awareness that he was different from what the world said he was—not because he was better or worse, but because there was something in him that hadn’t been resolved yet. And you didn’t try to resolve it.

What existed between you began like this: without definition, without agreement, without formal intent. Just an accumulation of small moments where silence wasn’t uncomfortable, where presence wasn’t a demand, where a glance didn’t need explanation.

And, over time, that started to become dangerous.

Not because it was intense in an obvious way, but precisely because it wasn’t. Because there was no immediate conflict, no clear barrier, no simple reason to pull away. It was the kind of connection that grows without asking permission—and for that very reason, becomes harder to stop later on.

And at that point in his life, Zuko didn’t know that yet.

But he was already involved enough to start changing without realizing it.

Zuko’s growth didn’t happen in a straight line, but as a sequence of forced rebuilds. He stopped being someone still trying to find a place in the world and became the center of decisions that affected that entire world. The title of Fire Lord didn’t arrive like a gentle coronation, but like a brutal shift in reality. From one day to the next—or so it felt—he could no longer exist as just an individual. Everything about him became read as political consequence.

The palace, the councils, the alliances, the tensions between nations—everything began reorganizing itself around him. And the more he adjusted to the role, the more space for anything personal started shrinking without anyone needing to say it out loud. There was no explicit prohibition, only structure. And structures are more efficient than orders.

In that same rhythm, you continued existing outside the center of that system. As an earthbender and Kyoshi Warrior, your life followed a different logic, a different discipline, a different kind of presence in the world. You didn’t orbit power—you walked alongside it when necessary, but never inside it. And over time, that created a distance that wasn’t physical, but functional.

Still, between you, something remained.

Not in an explosive, intense way, but continuously. As if each other’s existence had become a fixed point amid everything constantly moving around it. Zuko, even immersed in growing responsibilities, still found in you a kind of pause that wasn’t escape, but suspension. A place where he didn’t have to be only strategy, title, or decision.

And it was exactly at that point that he tried to turn it into something definitive.

Not out of impulse, but because, for the first time in a long while, he believed there might be something that didn’t need to be sacrificed just to fit into the life he was building. The proposal didn’t come as a spectacle. It came as an honest attempt—still restrained—to give shape to something that had already existed between you for too long to be ignored.

He asked you to marry him.

There was no grandeur, no court, no witnesses. Only the weight of someone who rarely spoke about himself trying to put into words the only way he found not to lose you inside the future being imposed on him. It wasn’t about tradition at that moment. It was about choice.

And, for a moment, it seemed possible.

But you didn’t say yes.

Not from lack of feeling. Not from absence of bond. But from fear of everything it would mean. Fear of being pulled into a world where you would no longer be only yourself. Fear of becoming part of a larger narrative that could slowly erase you without anyone noticing. Fear of losing the freedom that had always been the foundation of who you were.

And there was something else too, quieter and more cruel: the feeling that you were too small in the face of the world he needed to hold together.

You refused.

And the way it happened wasn’t cold or distant. It was too human. Full of hesitation, unfinished words, pauses that carried more meaning than any complete sentence. And afterward came what truly marked everything: guilt.

Because, deep down, it didn’t feel like a refusal of his love.

It felt like a refusal of what you could have been.

Zuko didn’t argue. He didn’t insist. He didn’t turn it into conflict. He simply listened, like someone who understands that some answers aren’t negotiable even when they hurt. And that, in a way, was even worse than any explicit emotional reaction.

After that, nothing between you disappeared immediately.

But everything started shifting its place.

The world around him kept moving forward with more force. Responsibilities began occupying spaces that had once still been flexible. Advisors spoke more openly about future alliances, political stability, about how the Fire Lord needed choices that strengthened not just personal bonds, but entire structures.

And he began to accept it.

Not as abandonment of what he felt, but as adaptation to what needed to be sustained.

You, on the other hand, started carrying that moment like something you didn’t know where to store inside yourself. It wasn’t simple regret, because the decision still felt right in some way. But it wasn’t peace either. It was a kind of emotional suspension with no resolution.

Between you, nothing truly ended.

It simply stopped moving forward. And that, perhaps, was the quietest form of loss.

The wedding happened as if the entire world had been rehearsing that moment for years and had finally decided it was time to execute it without any margin for error. The Fire Nation palace looked as though it had been redesigned to convince anyone that nothing there had ever been unstable. The torches burned with almost military discipline, the red banners moved only as much as necessary, and the air carried a formality so dense that even silence felt trained not to draw attention. It wasn’t just a ceremony—it was a public declaration that the future had been decided and no longer needed to be discussed.

Zuko stood at the center of it all like someone who had learned to hold entire worlds up with his own body. He didn’t look broken, nor obviously distant. He looked too functional for any emotion to have room to rise to the surface. Every gesture was precise, every posture controlled, every response aligned with what the title demanded. But there was something in the gaps—in the seconds when no one needed to observe him—that revealed a tension that hadn’t disappeared with time, only learned how to stay quiet.

At his side, the new Fire Lady occupied her place as if that space had been designed exactly for her. Nothing about her disrupted the environment, nothing created noise. She was a presence that didn’t compete with the throne, only stabilized it. And that was exactly what made everything feel so efficient and yet so distant from anything that could be mistaken for emotional chaos or choice. The kingdom saw it as perfect balance, as if fate had finally found its most stable form.

You were there.

And you weren’t alone.

Katara stood beside you with a calm that felt more like restraint than peace. Aang tried to hold some lightness in his expression, as if he still believed his presence could soften the weight of the atmosphere, but even his energy felt diminished inside that space. Sokka watched everything with that analytical focus that never fully switched off, as if trying to find logic in something clearly not designed to be logical. Toph remained still, but the way she “listened” to the environment made it obvious that nothing escaped her—not the ground, not the silence, not what wasn’t being said.

And you, earthbender, felt it in a more direct way. The ground beneath your feet didn’t tremble, didn’t give way, but it felt heavy. As if the very space carried more weight than it should, as if every step inside that place required a kind of emotional consent no one had asked you to give. It wasn’t physical discomfort—it was awareness. Awareness that you were witnessing something that had once been life, but now existed in another category—a reorganized version of reality.

The ceremony moved forward with absolute precision. Ancient words were spoken at the correct rhythm, rituals were carried out without hesitation, and every step seemed designed to reinforce the idea of inevitability. There was no doubt in what was being presented to the world. It was stability. It was continuity. It was consolidated power. And the world watched it exactly like that, as if all of it had always belonged where it now stood.

But within it all, there were fractures that didn’t belong to protocol.

Brief instants too short to be public, too long to be ignored. Glances that should not have existed in an official ceremony, but did anyway, because some things don’t obey the moment they are supposed to disappear from. And in each of them there was recognition. Not the kind that asks for reaction, but the kind that simply acknowledges what can no longer be undone.

You felt it before you could rationalize it.

Because you remembered.

You remembered the beginning, when nothing was defined and the world hadn’t yet decided what you would become. You remembered him before the full weight of the title, before the rigidity of political choices, before everything turned into state consequence. And you remembered the proposal he made when there was still space between you to imagine possible futures without immediately translating them into responsibility.

And you remembered your answer.

Not as absence of feeling, but as fear of it. Fear of what it could become. Fear of losing yourself inside a life with no guarantee of being gentle toward someone never meant to stand at the center of power. Fear of not being enough for a world that always demanded more than you wanted to give.

Now, watching it unfold in front of you, there was no way back to what had not been chosen.

Zuko looked.

Not in a dramatic way, not like a scene meant to be remembered. It was brief. Too precise to be coincidence, too quiet to be public. A direct recognition, clean, unguarded. And in that instant it became clear that nothing had been erased. It had only been reorganized into places where it could no longer interfere with the present.

He looked away afterward.

Not out of lack of feeling.

But because some lives require continuation even when the past is still breathing.

And you understood that without needing explanation.

Because in that second everything became painfully simple: he moved forward. And you were left with the space between that.

The ceremony ended the way ceremonies like that always end when they are meant to resemble destiny—with applause, formality, and the collective sense that the world had finally found balance.

But inside you, what remained was not closure.

It was permanence.

And as the sound around you began to dissolve, as people started moving as if nothing had been lost along the way, the thought arrived without warning—quiet, whole, final:

Maybe in another life I would have been your girl.

[adast3ria]

Snappy - Imagine Toph (Avatar)

The house had a kind of silence that wasn’t the absence of sound, but its constant presence — as if everything inside it were always in a subtle state of awareness. The wood responded to every step with a faint creak, the wind slipped through the cracks with measured calm, and even the air felt denser, more “listenable.” Nothing ever fully escaped notice, even when it seemed like it did.

And her even less so.

Toph Beifong was in her usual state: relaxed, almost slouched into the space, as if the entire house had been built around that exact posture. But that was just appearance. The truth was she didn’t need sight, nor any visible effort. The world came to her through the ground, through vibration, through the way everything moved even when no one paid attention.

You walked in trying to look as natural as possible.

That was the first mistake.

The second was assuming “natural” worked anywhere near her.

In your arms, the cat.

Small, restless, absurdly confident for something that hadn’t learned a single basic survival rule yet. It had stayed quiet long enough to give you that false sense of victory — that quick illusion of “okay, maybe this will work.”

It wouldn’t.

You closed the door too carefully. Not the efficient kind of careful, but the kind that tries not to exist at all. The floor answered with a faint vibration beneath your feet, almost imperceptible — but you felt it. You always did. And you knew she did too.

On the other side of the house, nothing changed.

And that was never a good sign.

Because Toph didn’t need to react in order to already be reacting.

You started crossing the space slowly, adjusting your body with calculated precision, as if speed could hide intention. The cat rested in your arms like this was normal, too comfortable for something that clearly had no concept of secrecy.

And then it chose the worst possible moment to exist.

A small sound slipped out of it — light, involuntary.

But in the silence of that house, there is no such thing as “light.”

There is only “noticed.”

You froze instantly.

From the other room, her voice came calm, direct, without a trace of doubt:

— You’re holding something.

You didn’t turn your head.

Not because you didn’t want to, but because any movement felt like a confession.

— No — you answered too quickly.

And the moment you said it, you already knew you’d lost.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full. Full of that kind of attention that doesn’t need confirmation to exist.

Toph tilted her head slightly, even without needing to see anything. The way she moved shifted the entire atmosphere effortlessly.

— You get worse when you try to hide things in my house.

The cat, completely unaware of the social collapse it was actively causing, shifted again, pressing against you like it was far too comfortable to care about consequences.

You closed your eyes for a second.

Just one.

Like someone accepting that the universe had made a decision without consulting them.

And then she stood up.

No rush. No announcement. No theatrics. But the simple act of her moving made the space feel more defined, as if the entire house was paying attention at once.

Her footsteps weren’t loud, but they were inevitable.

She came.

And you realized too late there was no such thing as “hiding” when she was involved.

She stopped in front of you.

Didn’t look directly at you at first. She never needed to. She just stood there, quiet, as if listening to the world through the floor and filtering it down to the correct answer.

The cat shifted again, as if it wanted to participate in a situation it clearly didn’t understand it was central to.

Her hand lifted slightly, not to touch you, but to “feel” the space between you. A simple, almost casual gesture.

And then she confirmed it.

— …that’s a cat.

There was no surprise in her voice.

Only certainty.

You exhaled slowly, like someone finally accepting defeat.

— Yeah.

The silence that followed was different. Less tense. More… curious.

Toph stayed still a moment longer than expected. She didn’t seem irritated. Not surprised either. Just mentally adjusting to a new variable in her house.

The cat chose that exact moment to settle more comfortably in your arms, as if signing a contract with the situation.

And then she asked, like it was the most normal thing in the world:

— Does it have a name?

You blinked, slightly caught off guard by the shift.

— It does… but I’m not sure it actually responds yet—

— A name doesn’t depend on response.

She turned slightly toward it, as if “listening” to its shape in space. The cat, in turn, let out a satisfied sound, like it was being approved in some important interview.

Toph went quiet for a few seconds.

Not indecision.

Decision forming.

Then she spoke, simple, firm, completely unceremonious:

— Snappy.

You froze.

— What?

— Snappy.

— Why Snappy?

She shrugged.

— It looks like a Snappy.

You looked at the cat.

It very clearly agreed with everything.

Immediate betrayal.

You ran a hand over your face, exhausted.

— You just named it without discussing anything.

— I don’t discuss obvious things.

End of argument.

There was no room left for debate. Only forced acceptance of reality.

You let out a short laugh, half defeated, half incredulous.

— Okay… Snappy it is then.

The cat responded like it had always been Snappy since the beginning of existence.

Toph crossed her arms, satisfied with her own decision like she had just solved something too simple to question.

— It stays.

You lifted your gaze.

— It stays?

— It stays. — she said, like it was obvious. — But if it starts breaking things, you deal with it.

— That feels kind of unfair.

— It’s efficient.

She was already turning away from the conversation, like the matter had been officially archived.

But the detail wasn’t the cat.

Or the name.

It was that nothing about this had been rejection, scolding, or control.

It was just acceptance.

And from her, that wasn’t kindness.

It was a deliberate choice.

The house remained silent.

But now there was one more sound inside it.

And Snappy, completely unaware of the historic impact it had just caused, slept like it had always belonged there.