hyper-fixation station

[bonkusbookshelf]

INFO:

bonkus. she/her. 23.

RULE'S:

-> Please do not claim, repost, reupload, modify, or submit my work to any AI platforms.

-> I write based on my current hyperfixations. I may delete or shelf certain stories if they don't sit well with me.

-> I accept requests! It may take me a little bit to get to them.

RECENT WORKS:

-> Suckers and Poems | Kaji Ren part 2

-> Company | Laurence Zvhal

-> Resonance | Sonar

banners by @sweethearticism

[bonkusbookshelf]

Resonance

sonar x reader

tw: mdni(18+), cursing, spoilers for dispatch & dispatch comics tags: slow burn, rivals to friends to lovers, eventual smut

Hero Name: Glitch Real Name:[REDACTED] Age: 28 Abilities: Technopath & Electrokinetic Birthplace:[REDACTED] BIO: After a freak accident in a high-rise tower left her with technopathic and electrokinetic powers, she left her work with Coupé. Likes to read & is afraid of heights. Crimes: Various forms of Cybercrime. Aggravated assault. Theft. Extortion. Stalking.

"You look rough."

Robert’s voice cut through the hum of the vending machine as you trudged into the breakroom. He didn’t even bother to disguise the judgment in his tone.

"M'fine," you muttered, collapsing into the nearest chair. The metal legs scraped against the tile, sharp and grating, perfectly matching your mood. You folded forward, elbows on the table, palms pressing into your eyes like that could somehow erase the exhaustion radiating off you.

Robert leaned against the counter, coffee mug in hand, watching you over the rim. "You sure about that? ‘Cause you look like you just lost a fight—with a raccoon."

"Haha," you said, voice muffled through your hands.

There was no sugarcoating it: you looked like shit. Your hair had given up on structure hours ago, sticking out in defiance of gravity and dignity alike. The mask covering the bottom half of your face was upside down—something you hadn’t even noticed until you’d already been in the building for fifteen minutes. The dark circles under your eyes were practically a personality trait now, and your clothes, though clean, screamed, I got dressed in the dark.

At least you’d managed deodorant. Gold star for that.

The reason behind your tragic state? You’d been stood up.

An entire evening wasted—makeup done, hair styled, nerves in overdrive as you sat in a too-fancy restaurant, fiddling with your glass of water and pretending to check the menu like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. You told yourself he was just running late. Maybe traffic. Maybe bad signal. Maybe anything other than what it really was.

He wasn’t coming.

You’d spent an hour and a half trying to convince yourself otherwise. Staring at your phone, typing messages and deleting them before they even sent. The waitress had come by three times, and you’d lied every time—Oh, I’m just waiting for someone. You even laughed when she gave you that pitying smile. That soft, Oh honey kind of look.

And then, when you finally accepted it, when you finally let the truth sink in, you walked out. Head down, pretending that your eyes weren’t burning. Pretending you didn’t feel like a total idiot.

Because crying over a guy you’ve never met? That’s pathetic, right? At least that’s what you told yourself the entire drive home. Except it wasn’t really about him. It was about what he represented—something hopeful, something warm, something you thought might be real. A step in the right direction from being an ex-villain. From clawing your way out of the wreckage you’d made of your own life and trying, for once, to just be normal.

And now you were here. In the breakroom. At eight in the morning, running on four hours of sleep and too much embarrassment.

Robert set his mug down and crossed his arms, tilting his head. His brow furrowed slightly, the kind of look that said he knew better than to poke the bear but might do it anyway.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” you snapped before he could even open his mouth. “And I’m this close to blowing up the lights. So respectfully—fuck off, okay?”

The words hung there, sharp and electric. For a split second, the overhead bulbs actually flickered, as if testing you.

Robert blinked, then raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. Message received, Sparky.”

You slumped back in your chair, exhaling through your teeth. The static under your skin buzzed like an itch you couldn’t scratch. It always did when your emotions got tangled up like this—an unholy mix of humiliation, anger, and caffeine withdrawal.

After a few moments, you decided to do something productive—like not melt the breakroom appliances. You stood, tugged your crooked mask into place, and muttered, “Bathroom. Gonna make myself look less like a dumpster fire.”

Robert just hummed in response, the kind of low, noncommittal sound that meant he’d seen worse but wasn’t about to say it out loud. You brushed past him, the faint scent of his coffee lingering in your wake.

The hallway outside was too bright, too quiet. Every fluorescent hum felt like a personal insult. You could hear your own footsteps echo against the linoleum, sharp and rhythmic. The air had that sterile chill unique to government buildings and early mornings—too clean, too empty, too still.

You were halfway to the restroom when you collided with someone—shoulder first, solid enough to make you stumble. The impact jolted a small spark through your arm, not enough to burn, but enough to sting.

“Watch it,” you snapped automatically.

Then you looked up—and of course it was him.

Sonar.

Because the universe just couldn’t resist a punchline.

He snarled at the contact—sharp and infuriating. You scowled, shoving your hands against his chest to push him out of your way. “Move it, freak.”

The lights above you snapped—a hard flicker that made the shadows jump across the walls.

You just brushed past him, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. You could feel the static crackling faintly around your fingertips.

Behind you, the coffee machine in the breakroom sputtered violently, hissing like it was about to boil over.

“Who pissed in her cereal?” he muttered, stepping into the breakroom.

After you fixed yourself from being a hot mess, you walked to the entrance of the building and sank onto the cold metal bench beneath the overhang, the shade wrapping around you like a sigh. The air outside was thick with humidity, that faint electric tang that always lingered after a storm—or after you. You tipped your head back against the wall, feeling the faint hum of the circuitry within it respond to your pulse. Everything buzzed a little louder when you were upset.

You couldn’t afford to break anything else in the office. Not after last week’s incident with the copier.

“This is what I get for being a hopeless romantic,” you muttered, the words dragging out on a breath that trembled somewhere between exhaustion and irony. Above you, the morning light splintered off the glass tower across the street, stabbing through the air in shards of gold and white. Too bright. Too clean. Too much like the day everything went wrong.

You could still smell it sometimes—the scorched metal, the ozone, the scream of voltage crawling through your veins like a living thing. That moment, trapped between death and rebirth, when the world went white and your body became a conduit. People called it an accident. You called it the reason you never looked down from high places anymore.

A small spark jumped from your fingertip to your thigh, harmless but persistent. You drew lazy circles against your jeans, watching the faint blue static dance beneath your skin. Across the street, the power lines hummed back—a low, thrumming reply that made the corners of your mouth twitch. The city was loud in a way most people couldn’t hear, but you could. It was always talking to you, whispering in wires and current.

“Maybe I should stick to books,” you said softly, half a laugh, half a confession. Books didn’t flicker when you touched them. Didn’t hum when you got emotional. They were quiet, safe—paper and ink instead of chaos and charge.

Then again, your smut collection did have great source material for stress relief.

"Did you have to break the coffee machine?" Coupé’s voice sliced through your thoughts as she twirled one of her knives between her fingers, the blade catching the light with a faint metallic hiss.

Punch Up followed close behind, posture perfectly upright as always, broad shoulders and beefy arms flexing like they usually do.

"That was an accident," you mumbled, crossing your arms. "Blame Sonar."

"Ah don’t get it," Punch Up grumbled, running a hand through his mustache. "Two o' the smartest people on the team an’ they fuckin’ hate each other."

"You know why I despise him."

Coupé rolled her eyes. "Here we go."

"He put dead mice in my lunch," you pressed, voice rising slightly. "Multiple times!"

Coupé twirled her knife with a little more flair, glancing between you and Punch Up. "Anyway," she said, cutting through the tension, "what happened with that date last night? You looked like someone shoved a lightning bolt up your ass this morning."

You groaned, leaning back against the bench, eyes squinting at the sky like it might offer some answers. "Guy was a no-show."

"Big shock there," Punch Up snickered, shoulders shaking slightly with amusement.

You shot him a soft glare. "Thanks for the sympathy, Punch Up. Really. Top-notch," sarcasm dripping in your tone, deadpanned.

Coupé smirked, flicking her knife lazily. "Ooooh, a no-show, huh? That’s rough. Bet you looked adorable sitting there, all dressed up and ready to swoon."

"Shut uuup," you exhaled, shoving your face into your hands.

Punch Up leaned against the railing, arms crossed, a grin stretching across his face. "Ah, come on. You’ve survived worse. Besides," he added, voice low but teasing, "the guy clearly didn’t deserve you. Not worth your sparks."

You peeked through your fingers, squinting at him. "Sparks? That’s the best you’ve got?"

Coupé laughed, spinning her knife one last time before tucking it away.

Punch Up tilted his head, eyebrows raised, grin widening. "So… why don’t ye just hook up with someone who actually shows up, eh?"

"No," you said firmly, voice steady. "Absolutely not. I am not doing that."

"Ah, fair enough," He shrugged. "Didn’t think ye’d go for the easy fix."

"Easy fixes are boring," you muttered, a small smirk tugging at your lips.

"I don’t know about thaaat," Coupé said, sending a knowing glance to Punch Up. "Knuckles."

"Knives," Punch Up, his voice dropping an octave, and an uncomfortable rumble surged in your stomach.

"Please spare me the details about your guy’s first encounter slash sex story to Swan Lake," you said, standing abruptly. "I might puke."

part two | divider by @enchanthings

[lumineya]

Main Page + Index

★ ＯＦＦＩＣＥ ＤＡＹＳ ★

Sonar, Phenomaman, Waterboy and Robert x F! Reader

💫 Join the Taglist

📖 AO3 link

INFO

★ status: ongoing

★ content rating: mature

★ content warnings: graphic depiction of violence

★ tags: sfw (no smut), reader has powers, reader is a dispatcher, reader has daddy issues, slow burn, multiple love interests, suggestive themes, swearing, eventual angst and fluff, second person pov, other tags will be added as the chapters come out

PLOT

Ever since Robert Robertson joined the SDN, your work life has practically turned upside down, especially because Blonde Blazer asked you to help him manage the Z-Team.

It was supposed to be something temporary, you were meant to guide him for just one day.

Unfortunately for you, it turned into a full-time job.

INDEX

★ Chapter 1: Babysitting (wc: 9.9k)

★ Chapter 2: Relationships (wc: 12.8k)

★ Chapter 3: Team (wc: 14k)

★ Chapter 4: Hero (wc: 14.7k)

★ Chapter 5: Murder (coming soon)

[pockyum]

ᢉ𐭩 fem!reader, megumi’s demon dogs love you

megumi’s demon dogs have always loved you, even when they're tired after missions. oftentimes, they’ll run up to you with wagging tails, whining, and panting happily.

one night, you’re in the common room, sitting on the couch as you watch television, hair and skin still damp from the shower you took after a long mission. you begin to hear soft footsteps, though it sounds more like the demon dogs than people.

the dogs walk up and sit in front of you, tails thumping loudly against the ground.

“oh, hi!” you exclaim, scratching under their chins. the black dog leans into your palm, and the white one’s tail thumps faster against the ground. the white one almost becomes restless, paws tapping against the wood.

the white demon dog begins licking your hand, pausing in between to spin around excitedly. the black dog continues to receive chin scratches from you, pleased at your touch.

a voice speaks out, “hey, you two,” the dogs turn to look at megumi, “stop slobbering all over her,” he’s mostly referring to the white demon dog.

the white demon dog whines and lies its head on the couch, flushed against your thigh. its ears go down, though its tail doesn’t stop wagging. you pet the dog more, and it gently paws at your leg, wanting more pets.

the black demon dog woofs in complaint, softly growling at megumi, though with no aggression.

“it’s okay, megs,” you smile up at him.

he huffs, cheeks turning pinker. he finds it embarrassing how much his demon dogs love you, mirroring how he feels about you. unlike him, his demon dogs have no shame in showing their love and affection towards you.

“megumi, are you sure that keeping them out for this long isn’t making you tired?” you ask, eyebrows furrowed together.

he shakes his head no and sits next to you, pretending to watch whatever movie you were previously watching before the demon dogs came up to you.

“yeah, you’re good pups, aren’t you?” you mumble, and the demon dogs whine happily, you continue, “very well trained.”

you know well that they’re certainly not puppies, instead far from it. megumi’s warm next to you, leg bouncing anxiously as he hides his face, a bit afraid that you’ll see his flushed face.

footsteps walk into the common room, and someone stands behind the couch, hands resting on the back of it. gojo smirks knowingly, staring at how megumi’s demon dogs behave with you. megumi glares up at him, silently daring him to say something.

gojo speaks up, “hmm, that’s weird..”

you curiously look up at him, “huh?”

“megumi’s demon dogs normally don’t act this way around people. it’s a bit weird how they’re cuddling up to you and whining for your attention, don’t you think?”

you think for a minute, taking in his words, “yeah, it’s a bit odd, but i’m totally fine with it. they’re such sweethearts!”

when your attention’s back on the demon dogs, gojo runs a hand down his face with a frown, looking at megumi with a look of disbelief on his face. he seriously can’t believe that you didn’t pick up on a word he said.

gojo knows well that megumi’s shikigami mirrors his emotions and feelings towards people, and the older man immediately knew about megumi’s liking towards you when he saw the demon dogs cuddle up to you.

he just wonders when and how megumi’s going to confess to you.

repost from my other acc

sry i’ve been inactive

[gojosconsort]

︵ ೀ mdni. getting snowed in with your forever crush megumi isn’t that bad

the snow started falling during the afternoon, soft at first, then thick and heavy. by evening the dorm was buried, windows frosted over, doors impossible to open. everyone else had left for winter break days ago—yuji dragging nobara to some family thing, gojo off on a mission that conveniently kept him away.

just you and megumi, stuck in the old jujutsu high dorms with one thin blanket between you and the cold. power flickers once, twice, then dies completely. the heater clicks off. the room drops fast.

megumi curses under his breath, rummaging through drawers for candles he knows aren’t there. you’re already shivering on the couch, knees pulled to your chest. he glances over, dark hair falling into his eyes, expression unreadable as always.

“come here,” he says finally, voice low. he’s on the floor in front of the low table, the only blanket spread out like a bed. his dorm room is tiny—just a single futon, a desk, and shelves of books. no space for two people to stay warm separately.

you hesitate, then crawl over. the blanket is barely big enough. he lifts one side, and you slip underneath, pressed close. your back to his chest, his arm draped over your waist like it’s the most natural thing. he’s warm—always runs hot, even in weather like this. you feel it immediately, the solid heat of him seeping through your thin sweater.

minutes pass in silence. the snow taps against the window. your shivering slows, but awareness creeps in—his breath on your neck, the way his hips shift slightly when you move. you try to ignore it. this is megumi. quiet, reserved megumi who barely speaks unless necessary. who’s never touched you beyond a hand on your shoulder during training.

but the blanket traps everything. your ass brushes his lap when you adjust, and you feel him—half-hard already, thickening against you. he stiffens, arm tightening.

“sorry,” you whisper.

“it’s fine.” his voice is rougher than usual.

another shift. this time deliberate. you tell yourself it’s just for warmth, but when you press back, grinding slow, he exhales sharply against your hair.

“don’t,” he mutters, but his hand slides lower, fingers curling over your hip like he’s stopping you—or holding you there.

you do it again. the friction is perfect, your thin leggings and his sweatpants doing nothing to hide how hard he’s getting. he’s thick, long, pressing against your ass.

“megumi…”

he groans quietly. “we shouldn’t.”

but he doesn’t pull away. instead his hand slips under your sweater, palm flat against your stomach, pulling you tighter. you arch into him, grinding harder, and he matches the rhythm—slow, deliberate rolls that drag his cock along your ass.

the blanket traps the heat, the sounds—your soft gasps, his ragged breathing. his mouth finds your neck, lips brushing skin, then teeth grazing. not kissing, not yet. just tasting.

“you’re warm,” he says against your pulse, like that explains everything.

you turn in his arms, facing him now. the blanket tangles around your legs. his eyes are dark, pupils blown, cheeks flushed from more than cold. you kiss him first—tentative, testing. he freezes for half a second, then surges forward, mouth hot and desperate, tongue sliding against yours like he’s been holding back for years.

your hands find his shoulders, his slide up your back under the sweater, palms flat and trembling against bare skin. the grinding starts slow—hesitant rolls of your hips as you shift closer, testing how far this will go. he matches you carefully, breath hitching every time you press down.

“wait,” he murmurs against your lips. “are you sure? we don’t have to—”

“i want to,” you whisper, cutting him off with another soft kiss. “do you?”

“yeah. god, yeah.” his hands settle on your waist, thumbs brushing the skin just above your leggings. “get on top of me.” he says and you do.

you straddle his lap, knees bracketing his hips, blanket falling half off. his hands grip your ass, guiding you as you rock against the hard line of his cock. the layers between you are torture—thin cotton and fabric doing nothing to dull the heat, the shape of him dragging perfectly along your slit with every roll of your hips.

you’ve never done this before. never even come close. you’re friends—have been for years. you’ve seen him shirtless after training, watched sweat trace the sharp lines of his collarbones, and told yourself the flutter in your stomach was nothing. he’s always been careful, distant, those dark eyes giving away nothing even when his gaze lingered a second too long.

but tonight the air is different. you feel it in the way his fingers dig into your skin—claiming. like he’s been holding back for months, years, and the cold finally snapped something inside him. you’ve wanted this too—wanted to know what his hands would feel like on your skin, what sounds he’d make when he let go. you’ve caught yourself staring at his mouth during briefings, wondering how it would taste. wondered if he ever thought the same about you.

now you know.

every grind pulls a low, involuntary noise from his throat—rough, surprised, like he didn’t expect himself to sound so needy. you roll your hips harder, dragging your soaked core along his length through the clothes, clit catching on the ridge of his head. the friction is maddening. you’re both breathing too fast.

“fuck,” he mutters. his grip tightens, spreading you wider so you feel him even more. “never—never thought we’d—”

“me neither,” you whisper, cutting him off with another slow grind.

his hips buck up to meet yours, chasing the pressure. the rhythm turns desperate—messy circles, sharp thrusts, fabric growing damp where you leak against him. you can feel how hard he is, how much he wants inside, and it makes you dizzy. your hands slide under his hoodie, nails raking down his chest, and he shudders.

“want you,” he rasps. “wanted this for so long—didn’t think you—”

you silence him with a kiss, deep and hungry, swallowing the rest. because you did. you do.

“off,” he mutters, tugging at your sweater. you yank it over your head, bra following. he stares—openly, hungrily—at your bare chest, then buries his face between your breasts, breath hot against your skin, lips brushing the soft swell before his mouth is on one nipple.

you moan, fingers threading through his hair, holding him there as he sucks hard—slow, deliberate pulls that make your back arch into him. his tongue circles your nipple, flicking teasingly, then flattening to lap broad strokes that send sparks straight to your core.

“so perfect,” he murmurs, then he switches sides, lavishing the same attention on the other—sucking harder, tongue swirling faster, like he’s memorizing every gasp you make. his free hand cups the abandoned breast, thumb rolling the slick nipple in tight circles, pinching lightly when you whimper.

your hips don’t stop. you reach between you, shoving his sweatpants down just enough to free him. he’s thick, flushed dark, tip already slick with precum that beads and drips under the dim light. you wrap your hand around him—barely fitting—and stroke once, slow from base to crown, making him moan against your chest.

his head falls back against the futon, eyes squeezing shut, mouth open. he’s always so controlled, so restrained, but the second your skin touches his cock, that mask shatters. his hips chase your hand desperately, thrusting up again, needy and unashamed, like he’s starving for every bit of friction you’ll give him.

“fuck—please.” his hands claw at your thighs, pulling you closer like he can’t stand even an inch of space between you. another stroke and he whimpers—actually whimpers—precum smearing over your palm, making each glide slicker, easier.

“don’t stop—god, your hand feels perfect—better than i imagined—”

he’s trembling now, abs flexing with every ragged breath, dark eyes locked on your hand. he’s never been this needy, this open, and the sight of megumi—quiet, stoic megumi—being so undone from just your hand on his cock makes heat flood every inch of you.

“i need—” he gasps, but you’re already pushing your leggings down. naked now, both of you. skin on skin.

the futon is too small. you end up half on the floor, half on the mattress as he rolls you beneath him. his mouth never leaves your skin—kissing down your throat, your collarbone, sucking marks that’ll bruise tomorrow. when he reaches your thighs he spreads them wide, settling between like he belongs there.

he doesn’t tease. just lines up and pushes in—slow, relentless. the stretch burns beautifully. you’re wet enough that he slides deep on the first thrust, bottoming out with a groan that vibrates through your chest.

megumi’s arms tremble on either side of you, muscles locked tight. his breath comes in ragged pants against your forehead, eyes squeezed shut like he’s fighting for control. “fuck,” he breathes, voice shaking, forehead pressed hard to yours. “so tight—god, you’re so tight.”

for a moment neither of you move. you feel every throb of him inside you, the way he twitches against your walls, the heat of him searing you from within. you wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into his back, urging him to move.

but the second you shift—barely a roll of your hips—megumi’s whole body shudders. a choked sound escapes him, half-moan, half-whimper, and his hands fly to your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. he holds you still.

“don’t,” he gasps. “don’t move—just—fuck, i’ll come if you move. i’m already—”

another shiver wracks him, his cock pulsing inside you, dangerously close. you can feel it—the way he’s right on the edge. he’s never felt anything like this, never been inside anyone, and the heat of you, the slick grip of your virgin pussy around him, is unraveling him completely.

“megumi,” you whisper, breathless, clenching deliberately around him just to see him break further. his reaction is immediate—a strangled groan. “stop—please. i don’t want to come yet. want to feel you longer—want to make it good for you—”

“it’s already good,” you say, kissing him softly. he whimpers into your mouth—quiet, desperate—and buries his face in your neck, breathing you in as he fights to steady himself. his whole body is shaking with the effort not to thrust, not to lose it inside you right then and there.

finally, the trembling eases—just enough. he draws back slowly, barely an inch, then sinks in again, a careful, experimental grind that makes you both gasp. his thickness stretching you with every gentle roll of his hips. he keeps it tender at first, shallow thrusts that tease rather than take, forehead still pressed to yours, eyes squeezed shut in concentration.

“okay?” he whispers, voice strained, checking in like he’s afraid he’ll hurt you. you nod, moaning softly, and he exhales shakily, repeating the motion—deeper this time, grinding against that spot inside that makes your toes curl. each thrust is deliberate, hips circling at the end to rub his pelvis against your clit, drawing soft cries from your lips. but the restraint doesn’t last.

the next thrust comes harder, sharper, bottoming out with a wet slap that jolts you up the futon. another thrust—harder still, pace quickening from careful to claiming. “fuck,” he growls. “you feel too good—can’t—” he cuts off with a brutal snap of his hips, driving into you so deep the futon slams against the wall.

the tenderness is gone; he’s mean with it now, fucking you harder than you ever imagined quiet megumi capable of. he pins both wrists above your head with one hand, the other digging bruises into your thigh as he spreads you wider, angling to hit deeper. snow muffles everything outside, but in here it’s just wet, and moans, the wet sound of him fucking into you raw.

“mine,” he says. “no one else—never anyone else.” you clench around him at the words, orgasm building fast. “megumi—”

“say it,” he demands, thrusting harder, the head of his cock hitting that spot that makes you see stars. “tell me.”

“yours,” you gasp. “only yours—fuck, megumi, please—”

he loses it. pace turning brutal. you come first, crying out as pleasure crashes over you, walls fluttering around him. he follows seconds later—burying deep with a choked groan, spilling inside you hot and thick. you feel every pulse, the way he grinds to push it deeper, like he wants it to stay.

he doesn’t pull out. just collapses half on top of you, face buried in your neck, breath ragged. minutes pass like that, hearts slowing, sweat cooling on your skin. the blanket is somewhere on the floor. snow keeps falling outside.

finally, he shifts—just a little, starting to pull back. the moment he does, his cum gushes out, warm and thick, spilling from where you’re joined and trickling down your thighs, pooling on the futon beneath you.

he kisses your shoulder, soft, then your neck. “never want anyone else to touch you,” he mutters again, quieter now, almost vulnerable.

you thread fingers through his hair, holding him close. “they won’t.”

the power stays out all night. you don’t mind.

[my-dailydreams]

[iamactuallysocute]

Masterlist ⋆˙⟡

Hi!! All my writings contain explicit language and mature themes, including sexual content. Reader discretion is strongly advised, enjoy! I also take requests, so don’t be shy to shoot me one.

My main series:

SAJA BOYS x HUNTR/X’S ASSISTANT!READER part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 Part 9 part 10 part 11 part 12 part 13 part 14 part 15 part 16 plus plus plus

Other x readers:

HUNTR/X FINDING OUT YOU’RE DATING A SAJA BOY

SAJA BOYS WHEN YOU’RE OVULATING

FREAKIEST SAJA BOY RANKING

PURRING SAJA BOYS

“WHO’S A GOOD BOY?”

HIDING PANTIES IN THE SAJA BOYS’ ROOMS

SAJA BOYS x INNOCENT!READER part 2

BABY SAJA x READER – LOYALTY IS WASTED ON MEN LIKE YOU! alternative ending 1

Art:

❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎

[willowas519]

STOP PUTTING YOUR OC UNDER “X READER”!!!!! I DONT WANT TO READ YOUR STINKY LOVE STORY, *I* WANT TO BE THE LOVE STORY!!!!

[fawnindawn]

scale of attraction.

summary: zuko's straight-forwardness in appreciating the attractive qualities of the lone stranger saved by aang has you curious on whether you could get him to spill on what he thinks of you. (no major movie spoilers)

pairing: firelord! zuko x reader

content: fluff, idiot zuko my love, mutual pining, firelord zuko 😞🙏

"He's very attractive." Zuko admits, eyes unblinking as he stares at the unconscious stranger.

The entire team whips their heads to stare at Zuko in unconcealed shock.

"What?" Zuko mutters, gaze lingering on the surprised expressions casted onto him, before eventually landing on yours. "He is. It's all in the bone structure."

You blink, unable to process his straight-forward words that landed on you like a gut punch. You've never considered it, the fact that Zuko also found others attractive.

It seems like a completely, silly notion now that the thought has verbalised itself in your mind. Of course Zuko would notice if others were considered attractive. Maybe it just never occurred to you in all your years of knowing him—of also finding him—

You clear your throat, forcing yourself to look away from his prying gaze, confusion alight in his eyes from your taken-aback expression.

If he's unconsciously considered the attractiveness of this stranger... has he ever—no, this should not be your priority. It doesn't matter what he thinks of you, it's not like it would change a thing. He's practically admitted it non-verbally through that monotonous admission of his, that a person's looks is assessed by him in a completely, impersonal standpoint.

Bone structure? You shouldn't be curious. Knowing Zuko, he might accidentally insult your structure if you asked.

The curiosity does not disappear. In fact, it digs deeper and deeper into the crevices of your mind—subconsciously affecting your attitude around Zuko.

It doesn't help that it's painfully obvious that he's noticed your strange behaviour ever since his comment. Once, when his hand had come up to your shoulder to alert you that everyone was boarding the ship—and your entire body jumped in response. Again, when you completely blanked out when he asked if you would like some firecracker buns.

It's not like you wanted to hyper-focus on his observation on purpose. It's just that after years of knowing him and pushing down that sub-concious attraction—of not allowing yourself to even see him as anything more than the Zuko you know, the rebound impact of all your resurfacing emotions combined with his lingering presence is far too much.

Zuko isn't the type to beat around the bush either, one of the rare habits his uncle hasn't passed onto him. In a moment of needed reprieve, your attempt at regaining your composure fails spectacularly when you find yourself in a stand-still, cornered in the back of the ship—one firecracker bun in his hand as an offering.

"Have I said something to make you uncomfortable?"

Zuko's gaze is akin to a puppy's, wide-eyed and brows furrowed. Afraid that he's done something wrong, overlooked the choice of his words once again and destroyed the atmosphere without realising.

Straight to the point as ever, you'd appreciate it more if he had given you a few more minutes to come up with a reasonable excuse. Something more plausible than 'Do you find me attractive?', a lingering question that should've remained buried in the soil that you departed from nearly an hour ago.

"Not exactly." Taking the firecracker bun from his hand, the crumbs coat your fingers. You needed something to muffle your words, anything to distract you. It's easier to focus on the lingering spice that melts into your tongue, rather than his unblinking stare.

"So—I did say something." His mouth parts, a slight tilt downward in the corner of his lip. "Or I've made you uncomfortable."

There was no winning with him. Swallowing your last bite, you brush the crumbs against your sleeve, the slouch of your posture a key sign of surrender, your invisible white flag waving at the sight of his increasingly dubious expression.

"The first one." You admit with a sigh. "Earlier—"

He leans in subtly, a habit he does when he's listening attentively, and the luscious wave of his bangs brushes against your knuckles. His amber eyes pierce through you, and the words practically die off your tongue.

Why is he looking at you like that?

It isn't fair that he has such an effect on you. You still remember the old days, when he had a worser temper instead of the softened expression that lingers warmly on you. Plus, that horrible haircut, a singular ponytail with the rest of his hair shaved off forever engrained in your mind. Even recalling the image doesn't help calm your thundering heartbeat when the Zuko in front of you is so—overwhelming.

"You were saying?" He prods gently.

You swallow, averting your gaze. "When you mentioned... about attractiveness. Was that like—a spur of the moment kind of thing, or do you have a first impression for everyone you meet?"

His brows furrow for a moment, before recognition lights his golden gaze. "Ah—that."

"Right, that." You feel the seat warming beneath you in your embarrassment, a hallucination of senses in your sudden need to escape his assessing gaze. He barely even remembers his comment, and here you are, still obsessively prying over it.

"I was only answering Toph's question." He states. "No one was stating the obvious."

"The obvious." You muse. "Do you assess the attractiveness of everyone you meet?"

"I suppose it depends." He mutters, hand rubbing over his chin in consideration. "If it was during a battle, I wouldn't be prioritising on considering the opponent's appearance. As compared to someone knocked out on the ground, it gives me plenty of time."

You barely resist a snort. Only he could treat a topic like a person's attractiveness like one of his battle strategies. "I suppose you didn't have time during our first meeting then."

As soon as the words leave your mouth, both you and Zuko freeze. Your lips clamp shut, an immediate wince shuddering through your frame. Cat's out of the bag, you suppose.

"Never mind." You wave it off, your own laugh echoing much too loudly through your ears. "It wasn't like I was wondering—well, maybe I was. You just sprung it out of nowhere earlier, and I got... curious. You don't have to answer—"

"I did." He cuts you off unceremoniously.

You blink, his vague words echoing in the thin distance between the two of you. "What?"

He swallows, and for once, he's the one flustered in this conversation. "I did notice, during our first meeting."

No way. Your first meeting with Zuko was anything but pretty. You remember being covered in sweat, grime, and ashes coating your clothes as he shot flames at you from his palms. The twisted grimace on his face when you had him writhing under your grip, as he loudly declared his revenge on you, rupturing your eardrums with all his yelling.

"You mean—" You barely resist a grin stretching on your lips. "—when I pinned you down on your airship, and you were spitting death threats into my ear."

"Yes, that." His long locks cover his ears now, but you can bet the rims are reddened from the reminder. "You were formidable."

Formidable. No, that wasn't enough. His sudden focus on the floorboards of his ship made it obvious that he was simplifying his observation.

"I was gaining the winning hand." You state out-right, disbelief coating your tone. "And you had time to notice?"

A restrained sigh escapes Zuko's gritted teeth, already regretting his slip of tongue.

"What of the angle? Does the Fire Lord recall my bone structure during our first battle too, when I pinned you to the floor?" You tease.

He scoffs in a light-hearted manner, shoulder lightly bumping into yours. "It was the first time anyone had pinned me down. I wasn't exactly given another view to look at."

"Was the view bad then?" You prod.

"Not at all." He answers absentmindedly—quickly without hesitation.

Your lips part, speechless. Zuko immediately separates his shoulder from yours, a bashful expression overtaking his features.

"Objectively." He states hurriedly, waving his arms. "I was expecting to find the Avatar at the time, not... you."

The way he says it, the almost breathless note that leaves his lips. You devour it hungrily, now being the one to lean in, prying.

"And how did you find me, Zuko?" You ask earnestly.

He huffs in defeat. His softened gaze finally meets yours again, his eyes roaming over your features, ones that he's familiarised with for years, and yet... it still takes the breath out of him. "...You were the most beautiful person I've ever sparred with."

Oh... wow. You didn't expect that.

"You were threatening to kill me." You recall in disbelief.

"I was multi-tasking." He mutters, ashamed.

Your intended snort escalates into a cackle, unable to contain yourself. "I would have never guessed that from the way you glared at me. So full of shame—and destroyed pride."

"What about you?" He asks in a hurry, though his tone drops towards the end in hesitation—hinting his regret in the wrong change in topic. He grimaces, gaze dropping to his tightened fists over his lap. "...Did you find my scar hideous?"

Surprise colours your features.

Immediately shaking your head, you're at a loss for words on how to convey just how off-course he was on his guess. How could you ever find Zuko hideous? Your heart barely survived your visits to the Fire Nation, not when their own Fire Lord always insisted on attending to your presence personally, even when it arose suspicion of your shared bond with him, to have him so easily distracted when you arrived on his lands.

Even now, he's overwhelming your vision. Healthy muscles that are barely hidden under his clothes, or the hair he's refused to cut ever since his youth that now flows lusciously down his broad back. His amber eyes that glint golden when the sun reflects his irises, and even the conjured image of the way his arms move when he's fire-bending.

He's— "Beautiful."

By the time you realise your second slip of the tongue, Zuko has already blinked once, caught off-guard.

You purse your lips, finding this conversation to be as riveting as it is a weaponised self-attack. "Objectively speaking. You're attractive, Zuko."

"Objectively." He repeats slowly, amused that you're using his own deflecting choice of words.

"Fine, like really attractive." You deadpan. "It's annoying, because I'm supposed to be focused on the mission, and you're just... standing there."

It was the truth. You couldn't be the only one who noticed it. His subtle change in demeanour over the years, how he carried himself into a room now instead of randomly announcing his arrival at the worst timings. Even Sokka noticed.

He snorts, and the sound deflates the tension in your chest. "Funny, I should be saying that about you."

You gasp, expression aghast. "You're joking."

"It is not honourable to lie." He shrugs. "You've always been the most magnetic in my eyes. I can never find myself looking away from you."

You grow quiet, the genuine sincerity in his words leaving you defenseless. Have you been blind all along? Is that why he always sent letters—asking you to visit his nation for purposes other than meetings? Or why he sought for your company constantly during this entire trip, despite it being the first time the entire set of Team Avatar being together in months?

You had been too focused on what was comfortable and familiar, to teasing and prodding, that you never considered this.

"For the record." You whisper, leaning in to truly look at him. "I never found your scar hideous. You were always beautiful to me, Zuko."

He swallows, something intense flickering in his gaze—but too fleeting for you to catch onto it. Maybe it had always been there, when his eyes linger on your form when he accompanied you in his palace gardens, or even back then, when he was a banished prince who sought for you, even with a grimace on his face.

"That haircut when we first met, though?" Your smile breaks out into a toothy grin. "Absolutely hideous."

The softness in his gaze falters, before a groan rumbles past his throat. "Will you ever let that one go?"

"Never."

He lets out a low breath, drained of his energy. "I admitted to finding you attractive, and this is my repayment?"

"Who's finding who attractive?"

Sokka's voice strikes a jump in your shoulders, and Zuko's in an impressive halt, frozen completely after being caught red-handed.

"Ah, between the two of you—" Sokka whistles. "I was wondering who was going to break first. Congrats, love-birds!"

"We're not—" Your voice clashes with Zuko's. "This isn't—"

You sneak a glance to Zuko, and his hand is already covering half of his face, his embarrassment shielded by the shadow of his large palm.

Sokka's confused gaze switches between the two of you, blinking slowly.

"Ah, couple years too early?" Sokka shrugs, before clicking his tongue. "That's rough. I'll check back in with you guys in another time." Making his way back towards the front, he shouts once more to prove his point. "Just don't let me catch you guys making out or anything, I'll need to poke out my eyes for that one!"

"...We better restrain him before he starts blasting it as news to everyone." You groan.

"Agreed." He mutters.

Right as you made your move to leave, Zuko's hand grips yours—stopping you.

You lift your head, meeting his gaze. "Yeah?"

His Adam's apple bobs up and down, consideration clear in his expression before he decisively leans in. His voice is a warm hush, soft and intimate when he whispers. "For the record." Your own words echo back to your ears in the low hush of his voice. "I wasn't only referring to our first meeting when I said that you're beautiful."

His smile quirks up into something tender, a secret expression reserved only for you. ...At this rate, your curiousity was really going to be the death of you.

likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333

a/n: i need to write more firelord zuko stat. he looks so good and still so awkward my childhood crush has been reignited.

[winteryn]

LOVE, B

18+ | MDNI - stantastic's bucky's dream house collab

PAIRING: librarian!bucky barnes x professor!reader SUMMARY: bucky barnes falls in love with you, his gorgeous literature professor, on his first day of college. four years and a degree later, he’s one of the librarians at the very same college he attended, and now there’s nothing stopping him from asking you out… if not for one tiny detail: his spectacularly clumsy and painfully shy nature. that’s when his colleague, several romance books and a pen come to his aid. WARNINGS: she/her pronouns for reader; college au; pov switch; unspecified age gap (bucky is younger than reader and started college in his early 20s, so now he should be around 25); original characters; secret admirer!bucky; shy & clumsy!bucky; confident!reader; reader wears skirts and a dress; angst; insecurity & anxiety; mild jealousy; heavy yearning (sam, steve & darcy are so done with his ass); unrequited love (according to bucky); fluff; mutual pining; smut; masturbation (m) & sexual fantasies (nipple play; riding; oral); mention of edging; public indecency. WORD COUNT: 19.5k (sorry) A/N: hi barbies 🎀 this is my first ever collaboration and I'm so glad I could do it alongside the amazing, sweet people that are the stantastic members! and of course, thank you @miraclediviner for putting so much love into planning this collab, and @metal-armed-muse for your feedback 🥹 hope you'll enjoy 🫶🏻 ps: read end notes if you'd like to know which books I quoted.

Back when Bucky was a student, the library had felt like a refuge, a place where every worry could be neatly pressed between the pages of a book and shelved away for later. Between the sound of pages turning somewhere in the distance and the low hum of fluorescent lights overhead that no one ever really notices until they stop working, expectations lower their voices and time stretches just enough for him to breathe.

Four years later, standing behind the front desk with a stack of returns balanced precariously in his hands, it feels… well, not so different, except that now he’s the one expected to know where everything goes.

Which, in theory, he does.

In practice, however…

“Barnes?”

Bucky blinks, the sharp sound of his name pulling him out of the slow drift of his thoughts, and as he looks up a little too quickly, the top book in his stack shifts just enough to send a brief flicker of panic through him before he tightens his grip.

“Yeah, yes,” he corrects himself mid-breath, stepping closer to the computer. “Sorry. I was just—uh—thinking.”

The blonde girl on the other side of the desk watches him mildly unimpressed, fingers drumming lightly against the wood.

“That’s usually how that works.” She replies dryly, nudging three books toward him. “Can you check these out?”

“Right. Yeah, of course.”

Bucky sets his stack down with exaggerated care, as if the pages would turn into ashes at the slightest bump, and begins scanning the books one by one, his movements just a fraction too aware of themselves. He knows how to do this, he’s done it hundreds of times. There is absolutely no reason for his hands to feel like they belong to someone else.

“Okay, so these are all set,” he hums, sliding them back across the desk with what he hopes resembles confidence. “You’re good.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah, anytime. I mean, during open hours. Not, like, anytime anytime.”

The student pauses as she is putting her university badge back in her wallet just to send him a glare that reeks of poorly concealed judgment.

“… Right.”

She takes the books in silence and Bucky watches her go for longer than necessary before letting out a slow sigh, tipping his head back to the ceiling as his lips press together.

“Good recovery.” He murmurs under his breath.

“Buck.”

He doesn’t need to look to know who it is, there aren’t many people who call him that, but his head turns anyway. Steve is leaning casually against the edge of the desk with his arms crossed, expression already bordering on amused in a way that makes Bucky immediately defensive.

“You just told her not to come back.” Steve grins.

“I did not,” he huffs, words coming out a little too quickly. “I just clarified the hours.”

“I clarified.” He insists in response to his raised eyebrows, less animatedly this time, because arguing with Steve is like trying to hold water in his hands—pointless and inevitably messy.

His best friend’s grin only grows as he follows Bucky to the shelf he was previously organizing, but whatever he’s about to say next never makes it out, because at that exact moment the heavy front doors open with a quiet creak that still somehow cuts through everything else.

Bucky doesn’t think, nor decides. His body just knows, gaze lifting instinctively, like pulled by an invisible thread, and then, you walk in.

You move unhurriedly without being slow, composed without being rigid, the soft rhythm of your heels echoing faintly against the polished floor as you cross the entrance. There’s nothing ostentatious about you, nothing that demands attention in the obvious way. And yet, it gathers around you anyway, inevitable, drawn in by the quiet confidence you carry so naturally.

Bucky forgets how to breathe for a moment.

He has known you for years, but he’s never quite prepared for the way his chest seems to tighten and soften all at once, a reflex he has no control over.

“Oh,” Steve snickers beside him. “There she is.”

Bucky doesn’t respond, not when his entire focus has narrowed on you making your way to the front desk, already smiling in that easy, familiar way that feels like it belongs in this space just as much as the books do.

Darcy spots you at once, straightening with visible delight.

“You’re late.” She announces, though the accusation is entirely undermined by the grin tugging at her mouth.

“I’m fashionably late,” you set your bag down with a soft thud, your tone teasing. “There’s a difference.”

“There isn’t. You just enjoy making an entrance.”

“I enjoy making you wait.”

At that point, Darcy laughs, bright and unrestrained, and you follow a second later, the sound softer, but no less captivating.

And Bucky…

Bucky sighs.

It slips out of him before he can stop it, quiet but unmistakably there, the kind of sound that belongs more to a fairytale than to real life.

Without realizing it, his body shifts, leaning slightly to the side as if captured by your melody, and the way your expression changes as you speak: the subtle lift of your brows, the absent gesture of your manicured hand as you emphasize a point, the way—

The cart.

There is a cart behind him. A very real, very solid cart, stacked with books that are waiting to be sorted.

His elbow does not meet empty air so much as it fails to meet anything at all.

His balance tilts, center of gravity rearranging in a way that is both slow and horribly inevitable, and for one suspended, dreadful moment, Bucky is aware of what is about to happen, completely incapable of stopping it.

“Oh—”

The impact is catastrophic.

The cart slams into the nearest shelf with a jarring metallic crash that reverberates through the silent open space, books jolting and tipping, one slipping free entirely to hit the floor with a heavy, echoing thud that seems to stretch far longer than it should.

When the commotion dies, a religious silence settles back in its place, thick and absolute. And Bucky is on the floor, flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer him an escape route.

“… I meant to do that.” He strains out to no one in particular.

Somewhere nearby there is a snort that is quickly hidden by a cough. On the contrary, Darcy doesn’t even try: her laughter breaks through the quiet, too loud.

Bucky refuses to look at you. He likes to believe he still has some dignity left and he intends to preserve it for at least another three seconds.

Footsteps approach, quick and entirely unsurprising.

“Jesus, Buck.” Steve frets, already crouching beside him, one hand braced on his shoulder as he looks him over. “You good?”

“Yeah,” he mutters, dragging himself up with Steve’s help, hands brushing at his clothes in a futile attempt to appear unbothered. “Yeah, I’m great. That was—great.”

“Mm-hm.”

“I just… misjudged the space.”

“You mean you forgot about the heavy cart behind you because you were too busy daydreaming?”

Blushing, Bucky bends down at once, grabbing the nearest fallen book if only to have something to do with his hands.

“I knew it was there,” he insists under his breath, suddenly feeling too warm.

Steve leans in slightly, voice close to a whisper. “She saw everything, you know?”

If a stare could kill, he would already be at his funeral.

“I’m aware.”

“You sighed.”

Bucky freezes for half a second.

His head snaps towards his friend. “I did not.”

“You totally did.”

“I breathed, Steve. Just like any other human being.”

“That was not breathing, man, that was you yearning like a damsel in distress.”

His eyes close in dejection, as if that might erase the last thirty seconds from existence.

“I hate you.” There’s no real weight behind it.

“No, you don’t.”

“… No, I don’t.”

With a satisfied grin, Steve straightens up while Bucky gathers a precariously balanced book, gripping it a little tighter than necessary.

“C’mon,” Steve adds, nudging him lightly. “Let’s clean this up before you take out a whole shelf trying to impress her.”

“I’m not trying to impress her.” Bucky mutters.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Despite every instinct screaming at him not to, Bucky decides to glance up. Just for a fleeting peak.

You’re still by the desk half-turned toward Darcy, but your attention has shifted, your frown flickering in his direction with a kind of faint curiosity that sends electricity straight through his veins. And for one ephemeral moment, it feels like you’re looking directly at him.

His grip loosens enough for the book to slip from his hands and hit the floor.

Again.

At least Steve has the decency to press his lips together to hide his laughter. “Are you going to offer her your handkerchief now that she looked at you?”

“Shut up.” Bucky hisses, already crouching down, thoroughly, completely doomed.

Bucky has spent a considerable amount of time—far more than he would ever willingly admit—trying to convince himself that what he feels for you can be contained within the boundaries of his own mind, that can exist without demanding anything from him other than the occasional, carefully controlled glances when he’s absolutely certain no one is paying attention. Because it would be easier to carry it if it remained small and undefined and safely unspoken. A feeling that could be tucked away between routine and responsibility like a pressed flower between the pages of a book, preserved but ultimately harmless.

The problem, unfortunately, is that it has never been harmless.

Not even at the beginning. And that is something his mind recalls with a kind of stubborn clarity that refuses to fade.

It had been his first day of college, a morning that should have easily blurred into all the others, marked only by nerves and unfamiliarity and the low thrum of anticipation that comes with stepping into an entirely new world. He had been running just slightly behind schedule, not enough to cause a scene, but the lecture hall was already filling when he slipped through the back doors, shoulders drawn in just a little as if that might make him less noticeable. His bag shifted awkwardly against his side as he scanned the room for somewhere that felt sufficiently out of the way.

The space itself had been warm with early sunlight, long beams of gold stretching through tall windows illuminated the rows of seats that were already occupied by students who seemed, at least from where he stood, far more composed and certain of themselves and their place there. And Bucky, who had never been particularly skilled at navigating spaces that required that kind of confidence, had done what he always did best in these situations: move swiftly and quietly out of the way like a scared little mouse, choosing a seat that allowed him to exist without the pressure of being perceived.

The room had smelled faintly of old wood and chalk, filled with the soft murmur of conversations that wove together into a low, indistinct hum. His notebook was rigid beneath his trembling fingers, the nervous energy still alive under his skin.

And then you walked in.

There wasn’t any dramatic shift or unnecessary urgency, yet your effortless composure altered the rhythm of the room all the same.

Bucky had looked up without thinking, his attention drawn by instinct, expecting nothing more than another ordinary face to catalogue and then promptly file away as part of the background of his new routine.

He didn’t look away. Couldn’t. 

There had been something in the way you carried yourself: assured without feeling unapproachable, and that inexplicably held him captive.

Bucky had found himself marveling at you doing something as simple as carefully setting your things down. You then turned to face the room, your eyes sweeping briefly across the rows of students, almost pleased.

“Good morning, everyone.” You had started, voice clear and even.

At the time, he had dismissed the gentle pressure behind his ribs without much thought, attributing it to the unfamiliarity of the environment. This was a completely new experience and therefore bound to feel odd at first, so Bucky had resolutely turned his attention to his notebook, pen moving a little too frantically across the page as he attempted to anchor himself to a practical and tangible task.

However, as you spoke—not just about the material, but around it, through it, as if literature was not a bunch of static concepts to be memorized, but a universe to be explored—his attention kept shifting not to what you were saying, but to how you were saying it. To the way your hands moved when you explained a particularly important paragraph, to the small pauses you allowed yourself when choosing your words, because precision mattered more to you than simply filling the silence.

You were the professor. The kind that doesn’t just teach students concepts and ideas, but changes something fundamental in the way they see the world. You taught nineteenth and twentieth-century literature—British mostly, with the occasional American detour—and spoke about it in a way that made it feel alive and still unfolding. 

You could recite passages without looking at the pages, entire lines of Pride and Prejudice slipping easily into conversation as if they had always belonged there, as if they were simply another language you spoke fluently. And you quoted your favorite poets with the same certainty. Never showy, never exaggerated. 

You carried that knowledge with that poised, quietly seductive composure of someone who knows—knows that she knows—and because of that, never needs to raise her voice to be listened to.

Watching you interact with students was fascinating. You truly listened, fully immersing yourself in their words to the point that even hesitant responses felt worth being heard. But most importantly, Bucky noticed the way your glossy lips curled around a smile each time someone was brave enough to participate—a genuine and unguarded curve that seemed to belong more to you than to the role you were occupying.

At first, he told himself it was normal. Students notice things about their professors all the time; admiration—academic or otherwise—is not unusual, it doesn’t mean anything beyond a simple appreciation for someone who is good at their job.

He held onto that explanation for longer than he probably should have.

Through the first few weeks of returning to that lecture hall, he always chose the same general area in the back that allowed him to exist without drawing attention to himself.

Except distance, Bucky would eventually realize, did very little to lessen the effect you had on him.

Somewhere along the way, his thoughts of you had become more constant and less easily dismissed. Bucky began to notice not just the obvious aspects, but the smaller, more specific details that had no real reason to matter to a student, and yet traitorously lingered in his mind before falling asleep.

Your fingers played with the corner of the page whenever you were concentrating on a passage. Your head moved in a small, curious tilt to an unexpected answer, because as you always said, “there is no correct, absolute way to interpret literature.” Your handwriting curved just slightly to the right across the board, neat but not rigid, structured but still distinctly yours. Your voice softened when reading aloud, as if you were stepping into the text rather than simply reciting it.

And Bucky found himself anticipating those moments.

It was a gradual, subtle change that sinked rather than struck, growing steadily in the background of everything else until one day, without any clear warning, Bucky became aware of it in a way that could not be easily undone.

Sitting in that same lecture hall, long after most of the other students had left, his notebook opened in front of him though he had long since stopped writing, and listening as you gathered your things at the front of the room, he realized that what he felt had extended far beyond anything that could be reasonably categorized as harmless or temporary.

Yet, he had not said anything. Because even allowing the words to take shape in his mind had felt like crossing a line he had no right to approach, let alone step over.

So Bucky had done what he deemed best at the time.

Keep it contained.

He finished the course, handing in his assignments and accepting your feedback with reverent attention, all while maintaining that same distance he had cultivated from the beginning.

He had graduated.

He had left.

He had told himself, at some point, that it would fade. That time would do what it’s supposed to do.

Except it failed.

Because now, standing in the same building years after his first day of college—the same quiet hum surrounding him, the same soft rays filtering through the windows—and watching you laugh across the room as if no time has passed at all… his heart still tilts toward you, inevitably drawn to your light.

It was a root that burrowed deeper instead of retreating, patiently lying dormant until it became, without his permission, far too ingrained to pull free. And the truth is, he did not just develop a passing affection, or carry a fleeting admiration that lingered longer than expected.

Bucky fell in love with you.

Silently.

Completely.

And he never really found a way to fall out of it.

By the time the library begins to empty, the building itself seems to settle back after holding its breath for the entire day. Chairs sit askew where students have left them in a hurry, some pens lie abandoned on the desks, and the overhead lights seem just a fraction too bright now that there are fewer people around.

Bucky has always liked this part of the day. There is something comforting in the slow winding down and the small, predictable tasks that come with closing. It gives him something to focus on that doesn’t involve thinking too much about the way your smile lingers behind his eyelids each time they flutter close, or how his own reaction to your sole presence was… deeply unfortunate.

You had left not long after his embarrassing fall.

He had not watched you go. Not obviously, at least. But Bucky had been aware of the subtle shift in the air when you moved toward the door, your voice lowering as you said something he couldn’t quite hear from where he stood, that made Darcy smile in a knowing, almost conspiratorial way.

He had pretended not to notice.

Bucky likes to think he is very good at pretending. Which is exactly why he doesn’t immediately react when he hears footsteps approaching the desk, lighter than Steve’s, accompanied by the casual sound of hands dragging across a surface, before coming to a stop right in front of him.

“Long day?” Darcy asks, her tone light to the point that it immediately raises suspicion.

Bucky firmly keeps his eyes on the screen.

“Not really different from the others.” He shrugs. The safest answer he can give without committing to anything.

She simply hums, leisurely leaning her elbows against the desk as she studies him with open curiosity.

“You fell over today.”

Bucky’s eyes flutter close for a moment.

“I tripped.” He corrects.

“You collapsed,” she counters deadpan. “There was a whole sound effect and everything.”

Muttering, he blinks at the screen to focus back on his task. “It was an accident.”

“Right,” Darcy draws the word out. “And the sigh?”

His fingers stop over the keyboard.

“What sigh?”

“You sighed.”

“I didn’t.” 

“Yes, you did.” She grins, far too pleased with herself. “It was, like—so romantic, yet a little tragic. Honestly, if I didn’t know better I would’ve thought you were rehearsing for one of those Netflix romantic movies.”

His lips part indignantly, but nothing comes out, because arguing will only make this worse. “I was just tired.”

“From sitting at the front desk all day?”

He squints at her, nodding once. “Yes.”

Tilting her head, Darcy considers him in a way that feels dangerously teasing.

“You know,” her fingers tap lightly on the wooden surface. “It’s kind of fascinating.”

Bucky doesn’t like that word.

“What?” 

“The way you look at her.”

There it is.

He blinks, going for his best deadpan face.

“Who?”

“Her,” she repeats, saying your name. “My friend. The professor who should’ve gotten the Teaching Excellence Award last year instead of that jerk Mr. Campbell.” She rolls her eyes. “The one you definitely did not sigh at earlier.”

Bucky lets out a short, incredulous breath, a nervous scoff slipping out before he can stop it. “What? No! Why would I even do that?”

The words come out too fast and high, tripping over each other in their urgency. His head shakes just a little too quickly as he leans back slightly, like physical distance might somehow reinforce the denial.

“We barely speak to each other.”

Darcy observes him in silence for exactly three seconds. Then her lips gradually twist into a smug smirk. Not unkind, but still, it suggests she has already decided how this conversation is going to end.

“Bucky,” she starts with a raised eyebrow, regarding him almost fondly. “You look at her like she invented happiness.”

A pathetic sound claws out of his throat, caught between a laugh and a choked whimper that does absolutely nothing to help his case.

“What are you even rambling about?” He insists with an exaggerated chuckle, though the conviction is… lacking.

“Hey, it’s actually kind of impressive. I didn’t think people did that in real life.”

“Look, Darcy, I don’t—” He starts again, then his shoulders fall. There is no version of this where he wins. “I’m just… looking. People look all the time, we have eyes for a reason. It’s not that serious.”

“Didn’t know ‘not that serious’ meant staring at someone like they’re the best part of your day.”

Heat violently creeps up the back of his neck, cruelly manifesting across his face with a red blush. He turns back to the computer screen in a poor attempt to hide it.

“You’re seeing things that aren’t there.” He mutters.

She shakes her head, and her blue eyes seem to soften, but it could be a trick of the light. “Bucky, I’ve known her for years, and I’ve known you for what, a few months? And even I can tell.”

That—unfortunately—lands like a punch to his stomach.

Swallowing, his gaze drops to the way his fingers curl weakly against the edge of the keyboard.

“I don’t…” He tries again, fainter this time, because the denial thinned precariously under the weight of being seen. “It’s not—it’s nothing like that.”

Darcy doesn’t interrupt him and that somehow makes it worse.

“She’s—” He sighs. “She was my professor. She’s older, and so… amazing. And—and pretty, and she’s got her whole life together, while I’m...” 

He gestures vaguely to himself, to the desk, to the library. As if that explains everything. “This.”

There’s a brief pause.

“You’re ‘this.’” Darcy repeats, her tone pensive rather than dismissive. “And what exactly is ‘this’ supposed to mean?”

Bucky huffs a small, humorless laugh.

“Temporary,” he swallows. “Unimpressive. A guy who falls over carts in the middle of the day because he can’t—” He cuts himself off abruptly, pressing his lips together.

“Because he can’t what?”

Bucky shakes his head again, eyes hardening. “It doesn’t matter.” With his back straightening a little, he mentally retreats back into that safe cocoon made of denial and insecurity that has protected him since middle school. 

She is quiet for a moment longer, studying him far less amusedly now.

“It’s been years, hasn’t it?”

His whole body stills and that says more to her than words ever could.

Sighing, she pushes herself off the desk. “You know,” her tone is casual as she adjusts her glasses. “She likes books because they say what people can’t bring themselves to say out loud.”

Bucky glances up at that, caught slightly off guard.

His colleague simply offers him a knowing smile.

“Just… something to think about.” She adds with a light tap of her knuckles on the desk, before turning, already stepping away as if the conversation has reached its natural conclusion. 

“Darcy.” Bucky protests tiredly, but the words don’t quite form anything coherent. She’s already waving him off without turning back.

“Lock up, Barnes.” She calls lightly over her shoulder. “And try not to fall over anything on the way.”

The door closes behind her with a final click, plunging the library back into a deafening silence.

Bucky stands there for a moment longer than necessary, his hands resting against the edge of the desk and his gaze unfocused as her words echo in his mind in a way he doesn’t particularly appreciate.

She likes books because they say what people can’t bring themselves to say out loud.

Exhaling and with a hand dragging down his face before letting it drop, his shoulders tighten as a sense of discomfort begins to surface in his chest.

Because it would be easy, in theory.

To do something.

To say something.

Huffing a quiet breath, Bucky shakes his head with a sad smile. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He mutters. 

The idea alone is absurd, so dangerous that he doesn’t have the courage to examine it too closely.

Because what would he even say? How would he say it?

The image forms anyway, uninvited and entirely unhelpful: him standing in front of you, words tangling somewhere between his brain and his mouth, his fingers fidgeting awkwardly and unnecessarily because they never know where to go, his voice catching on something as simple as your name—

He grimaces.

“Yeah,” he murmurs dryly, reaching for the stack of keys as he steps out from behind the desk. “That would go so well.”

He moves through the library methodically, switching off lights one section at a time, the space dimming in stages as shadows stretch across the shelves. By the time he finishes, the only light left is the soft, warm glow on the desk.

He pauses there, keys still jingling in hand, his tired reflection faintly visible on the black computer screen. With a tired sigh, Bucky reaches forward and turns the lamp off.

The click of the lock echoes faintly in the empty space, and just like that, another day is over. 

Morning, in theory, is supposed to fix things.

It’s a universally accepted fact: sleep settles thoughts. Tangled and overwhelming woes will loosen with rest, and even a few hours of unconsciousness create order and resolution where there was none. A reset that doesn’t require effort.

Unfortunately, this morning proves, with irritating efficiency, that theory and reality have very little interest in aligning. Because when Bucky wakes up, there is only a dull, persistent pressure behind his eyes that comes from thinking too much and sleeping too little, and the immediate awareness that nothing has been resolved overnight. In fact, if anything, as soon as his eyes snap open, his stomach starts somersaulting in ways that make focusing on anything else significantly harder.

His first conscious thought is, inevitably, you.

His second is the memory of yesterday.

He exhales slowly into his pillow, pressing his face against it like that might physically muffle his thoughts.

“Shit.” He mutters, voice still rough from hours of disuse.

He lies there for a moment longer, staring at nothing and fully aware that going back to sleep is not an option. Lingering in bed will only allow his mind to spiral harder.

So he gets up and carries it with him anyway.

By the time he reaches the library, the day has already begun without him. Once he pushes the door open, it’s the echo of familiar voices easily threading together that hits him first, suggesting an unspoken complicity built over shared breakfast and coffee breaks lasting more than they should.

Steve is leaning against the front desk, coffee in one hand and posture relaxed in that effortless way that means he has been awake and productive for hours. Sam is right beside him, mid-sentence, gesturing lightly with a half-eaten pastry, while Darcy stands across from them behind the desk, her own cup balanced precariously in one hand as she guffaws at something Sam has just said.

It’s… too lively. Especially for someone whose brain is still trying to catch up with the rest of his body.

“I’m telling you,” Sam warns jokingly. “If he falls again today, I’m not helping him.”

“Mind to remind us exactly when you ever helped?” Darcy asks, incredulous. “From where I was standing, you looked like you were choking on your own laughter.”

“Hey, I offered emotional support. And don’t act like you weren’t cackling on this same desk.” 

“Sam, you almost fell from your chair. You had tears in your eyes.”

He side-eyes Steve offended. “Because I was thinking about his wellbeing, man.”

Bucky seriously considers turning around. Ultimately, he decides against it, because that would be suspicious and he is already operating at a disadvantage.

When he steps fully inside, all three heads turn toward him almost automatically.

There is a brief, collective pause, before chaos descends upon him.

“Well, look who survived the big, bad cart.” Sam smirks with entirely too much energy.

Bucky simply sighs, regretting getting up from his bed.

“Good morning to you too.” He mutters, walking toward them and hoping they will drop the topic if he doesn’t engage too much.

“Good morning.” Steve echoes, his tone noticeably lighter than usual, which is never a good sign.

Darcy, on the other hand, narrows her eyes at him.

“You look terrible.” 

“Thanks.” Bucky replies flatly.

“You’re welcome.”

Sam leans forward on the wooden surface, arms crossed and eyes studying him with a barely concealed grin. “Did you sleep at all, or did you just lie there thinking about your life choices?”

Bucky doesn’t answer, which does nothing to stop him. 

“Man,” Sam continues, shaking his head. “You really committed to the tortured lover bit.”

“It’s not a bit.” Bucky sighs, dropping his bag on a chair.

Steve simply watches him, quieter and more observant, his gaze flicking briefly over the tension in Bucky’s shoulders and the slight heaviness in his movements.

“You okay?” 

Bucky simply shrugs. “Fine.”

His friend hums doubtful but doesn’t push. Sam, however, is desperately waiting for a reaction.

“So,” he claps his hands once. “About yesterday—”

“No.” Bucky’s head snaps toward him. 

Darcy beams. “Oh, we’re absolutely talking about yesterday.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Bucky insists, already bracing himself.

“You fell.” Sam counts on one finger.

“For fuck’s sake—I tripped.” 

“You sighed.” Steve adds.

“I breathed.”

“You were in absolute awe.” Darcy counters with a beam.

“I was just curious.”

“I thought you were about to fall to your knees and ask her to marry you in the quad.” Sam smirks, taking a sip of his coffee.

“What—” He sputters, his cheeks quickly turning red at the slight implication of you... marrying him. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means,” Darcy cuts in, her tone taking a more serious note. “That you need to do something about it, Barnes. Now.”

Bucky looks at her like she grew a second head, then tucks his chin down, fidgeting with a stack of random papers lying close to the computer.

“Can we not do this right now? I slept like shit, my head is throbbing and I’m only running on a cup of coffee because I didn’t have any cereal left. Just… please.” 

Sam exchanges a fleeting, subtle look with Steve, before his lips part, eliciting a stressed groan out of Bucky.

“What if,” he hums, like the thought has just occurred to him, nothing more than a passing idea with no real weight behind it. “You just… didn’t talk to her.”

Bucky frowns.

“Is this a joke? I already don’t.”

“No, I mean on purpose.” He clarifies, eyebrows raising knowingly. “Like, instead of overthinking every conversation into oblivion.”

With a tired exhale, his eyes close momentarily as if the action alone could give him the strength to deal with his nosy friends. “Sam, that doesn’t make any sense.”

“It does,” his friend insists, straightening up. “Okay, listen. You’re bad at talking—or whatever it is that you do with her—we’ve already established that.”

“Thank you.” He replies sarcastically.

“So stop trying to talk!”

Bucky stares at him deadpan, mouth opening and closing as his brain elaborates.

“That is the worst advice you’ve ever given me!”

“Not talking is not the same as saying nothing.” Steve corrects quietly.

Bucky’s eyes land on him, more suspicious than confused. “What are you getting at?”

Darcy sets her coffee down with an air of finality. “Sam’s trying to suggest an alternative method.”

“Which is?”

Said man gestures vaguely. “Anything that isn’t you standing there and short-circuiting in real time.”

“That’s not—” Bucky sputters, frustrated. “I don’t short-circuit.”

All three look at him with different degrees of amusement, to which he can only sigh, tension leaving his shoulders at once.

“… Okay, I guess sometimes I kind of short-circuit.”

“Sometimes, he says… ” Sam coughs. “Anyway, just don’t put yourself in a position where you have to speak.”

“So what should I do?” Bucky asks sincerely curious for the first time that morning.

At his friend’s shrug, his head falls back dejected.

“This is going nowhere.”

At that point Darcy crosses her arms, leaning forward on the desk, eyes solemn and fixed on Bucky’s.

“Barnes, you don’t have to tell her… everything. No one’s expecting you to stand in front of her and confess your feelings like a fucking Hallmark movie.”

“Good,” Bucky mutters. “Because I’m not doing that.”

“But you could communicate something.” She continues.

“It’s not like I never talk to her.”

“I mean, you say ‘hi’.” Steve shrugs, grimacing at the memory of his friend nearly tripping over his own feet the time they ran into you in the hallway last month—one of the rare times they’d managed to pry him away from the library for more than five minutes.

Bucky points at him, pleased. “See?”

“Barnes, that’s barely a syllable.”

He frowns. “Okay, so what do you want me to do then?”

There’s a brief pause, the silence too heavy for Bucky to sustain and he’s ready to put an end once and for all to this useless discussion, but then Darcy shrugs nonchalantly. 

“Write it down.”

He freezes.

“What?”

“Write it down,” she repeats, like it’s obvious. “You’re better when you have time to think, not to mention the effect her mere presence has on you. Right? So think. Then write.”

“That’s—no,” Bucky frowns. “No, that sounds so much worse! That’s permanent.”

“It’d be on a piece of paper.” Sam quips up. “It’s literally the least permanent thing. One wrong gust of wind and puff, it’s gone.”

“You don’t even have to sign it.” Steve adds.

Hesitation glints in his blue eyes as they silently jump between their hopeful faces.

“You’re asking me,” he says slowly. “To write her a note.”

“No,” Sam corrects. “We’re asking you to write her a love note.”

“There is a difference.” Steve’s eyebrows wiggle teasingly.

“A very important one.” Darcy nods.

Sighing, Bucky’s gaze drops briefly to nothing in particular, his thoughts already starting to move faster than he can keep up with.

It’s a bad idea. It tastes like something he’s going to definitely regret a few months from now, like taking on a hobby you were so certain it was going to be funny and stimulating, but now it only steals your patience and money.

And then what’s he going to do when you are going to eventually find out the notes came from him? Resign and move to another state? How is he going to face you?

But what scares him the most, is the fact that the idea of confessing doesn’t feel as impossibly pathetic as it did yesterday night. 

“He’s thinking about it.” Sam sings songs into his cup of coffee. 

“I’m not—” Bucky starts, then shakes his head. “I wouldn’t even know what to say.”

Darcy takes a sip of his coffee. “I think you do, but you don’t have to come up with something from scratch. You already know the kind of books she likes.”

Bucky’s chest tightens faintly.

“Yeah.” He sighs, eyes timidly meeting the floor. “That I do.”

“Borrow something,” she continues. “Then make it yours. Oh! If it helps,” she perks up. “She’s coming by later for The End of the Affair. We’ve got this weird tradition going on every spring—I randomly pick one book for her every week and she treats it like rewatching a comfort show, except it’s all different love stories on pages instead of seasons on a screen.”

Bucky lets out a slow breath, his shoulders dropping just a fraction, not exactly in defeat but in something closer to reluctant consideration. His lips press together, before resolutely looking his friends in the eyes.

“One.” His voice breaks embarrassingly, like it costs him everything to say it out loud. “Just one and… we see how it goes.”

Sam’s grin lights up the entire room.

“All we need is for you to try.” Steve gives him a pat of encouragement, though Bucky could use a lot more than that right now.

Just a note and they’ll finally leave him alone.

You arrive later in the day, the end of your teaching hours bleeding into the tranquil part of the afternoon, when the library becomes more about the familiar rhythm of study sessions and exchanging small pieces of conversation that never feel particularly rushed.

When you walk in, Bucky is at the front desk, pretending to be busy with some books he has already sorted twice.

“Hello, James.” You greet him easily, his name warmly rolling on your tongue like this is just another part of your day and not a personal attack to his soul that makes his entire nervous system briefly forget how to function.

Bucky looks up and immediately regrets it when he meets your eyes.

“Hi.” He answers, too quickly, too quietly, and then clears his throat as if that might fix the way it came out. “Hi.”

It doesn’t fix it at all. His ears go slightly red but you don’t seem to notice. Or if you do, you are kind enough to not comment.

“Long day?” You set your bag down and lean into the desk’s edge, one hand closing softly as your temple rests against it.

“Uh, kinda. Well, it’s nothing compared to that of a professor.” His fingers fidget nervously.

You smile faintly at that, like you understand more than you let on. “Don’t underestimate your job, James. You’re surrounded by voices that refused to disappear. And you take care of them. That counts for more than you think.”

His lips part slightly, failing to find any words that could rival your beautiful mind. He isn’t used to hearing his job described like it holds weight, more meaningful than a temporary position and a set of tasks he performs without thinking too much about them. 

Before he can think about anything worthy enough, your eyes glance sideways as Darcy appears from the back.

“There you are,” she bubbles. “I was starting to think you’d abandoned me.”

“I would never skip our afternoon gossip session.”

Bucky watches as the conversation flows without effort, leaving him standing just slightly outside of a bubble he doesn’t quite know how to enter. It’s actually adorable how his eyes try to stick to the books in front of him, yet still end up on you.

Darcy disappears again almost as quickly as she appeared, muttering something about “perfect placement” and leaving you and Bucky in a quieter space that immediately becomes more noticeable.

“I swear she gets more dramatic every week.” 

Bucky huffs something that might be a laugh if it were louder.

“Seems… consistent characterization.” He manages, regretting it the second it leaves his mouth.

There’s a pause in which Bucky considers walking into the nearest shelf and staying there, but then you smile. At him. Because of him. It’s a shy curve, amused and fleeting, that makes his heartbeat accelerate just enough to hope you won’t hear it.

His eyes are already flying away from your beautiful face, hands reaching for the nearest thing like it might save him from the way his blood is pumping wildly in his veins.

His fingers close around a stapler. A fucking stapler.

Your eyes follow his movements, until they are distracted by a book lying nearby with a yellow post-it stuck to the cover, your name elegantly written on it.

“Oh,” you perk up. “She picked it already?”

“Yeah.” Bucky nods once, your fingers lingering over the cover as if touching an old friend. The shift in your expression is immediate: the tiredness doesn’t disappear so much as it gives way, naturally bringing you back to life. He watches it happen with quiet wonder, struck by how easily something simple as a book can reach the very core of your soul.

“Mmh,” you turn it in your hands. “Good one to start my yearly re-reading.”

“Yeah,” he agrees softly. “Thought so too.”

You glance up at that, curious, but before the moment can stretch too far, Darcy reappears again to insert herself between you both with suspicious efficiency, and the conversation drifts easily into lighter territory, from complaints about deadlines to a sarcastic comment about your best friend’s enthusiasm for emotionally ruining you with the book she picked.

Bucky listens more than he speaks—as usual—until eventually, you gather your things, saying your goodbyes with the same lovely smile, and then you are gone again, slipping back out into the world beyond the library. One where Bucky can’t follow you.

So he stays behind, his stomach churning as your perfume invades his nostrils, and his cheeks warm, the same color of a strawberry.

The parking lot is less busier than expected as you settle into your car with ease, dropping your bag onto the passenger seat. A soft exhale claws out of your throat, your shoulders finally loosening and your head momentarily resting back against the headrest.

It’s only when you reach for your bag to adjust it properly that something about the book feels slightly off.

The edge of a white paper is sticking out from between the pages, just barely, but enough to catch your attention. You pause, frowning at it as you pick it up carefully. For a moment, you assume it must be nothing: maybe a forgotten bookmark, or a note Darcy accidentally left there. It wouldn’t be the first time it happens. She often leaves her things at your apartment, later in the week complaining about having lost them.

Still, there is something about the way it’s folded that makes curiosity swirl in your stomach as you open it with caution.

“I couldn't have thought of her more. Even vacancy was crowded with her.”

Of course you would recognize it immediately given how many times you have already read it. It’s a passage from the book itself, written in careful handwriting. Deliberately selected. And it’s… beautiful in its simplicity; romantic in a way that makes your breath slow without you meaning it to.

You read it once again, smiling softly at the gentle words.

And then you finally notice the second part.

“I hope your day was kind to you.

Love, B”

The shift in your expression is immediate. Because that is something personal, directed not toward a character, but toward you.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the edges as your heart gives a small, unexpected lurch, catching you off guard to the point you bring your palm to your chest just to make sure your body is still functioning. Sitting still, your mind tries to make sense of what you are seeing, and the thought of the note being a mistake crosses your mind pretty quickly. 

A misunderstanding, right.

Maybe this B left the note for someone else.

Maybe it’s a joke.

But the words are too intentional. A quiet, sincere message that doesn’t feel performative yet is entirely too thoughtful, causing your cheeks to heat up. It seems to be directed at you but you don’t link the signature to anyone in particular.

Your stomach twists in a strange, fluttering sensation as you read it one last time. Then, you finally lower the paper and stare at the parking lot in front of you for a moment longer, before carefully folding the note back up with trembling fingers, your pulse still uneven and your thoughts scattered in a way you don’t fully trust yet.

It could be nothing. But it doesn’t feel like nothing.

Once the note is safely placed back inside the same pages, almost reverently, you slip the book into your bag, out of your sight. 

The sky is gradually darkening with soft hues of orange and pink and you still need to stop by the store to buy some produce, yet you allow yourself to sit in silence for a couple of minutes, hands lightly resting on the steering wheel and gaze lost somewhere far away. And when you finally decide to start your car, the radio blasting some latest pop song, your thoughts can’t help but circle back to the words you just read.

You

say… do you know anything about a certain piece of paper inside the book you gave me?

Darcy

a piece of paper?

oh shit is it the receipt for that blue shirt I’m supposed to return tomorrow? bc if I miss it again I’m gonna lose those 60 dollars for good 😭

You

I thought you returned that yesterday? btw I don’t know what it is, looks like a love note I think? is this your umpteenth “subtle” way to tell me I have to start dating?

Darcy

no you said you were coming with me tomorrow

oh? I have no clue what you mean 😇

maybe the books took pity on your nonexistent love life and are finally starting to write back to you? wouldn’t that be something?

You

fuck off 🙄

Darcy

love you too <3

“He could not be mistaken. There were no other eyes like those in the world. There was only one creature in the world who could concentrate for him all the brightness and meaning of life. It was she.”

You don’t notice it, but your smile lights up every corner of my world.

Love, B

The following week, the book comes home with you without attention, just another familiar weight in your bag that you don’t think twice about once class starts.

It’s only later in your apartment, when you are finally allowed to exist without answering to anything or anyone, that you reach for it again almost absently. Now comfortable on your couch, you are already halfway into the thrilling anticipation of losing yourself in yet another story that has nothing to demand from you, except attention.

Once you open it, something small slips out before you even register the change in weight. The folded piece of paper lands on your knees with no sound, yet you flinch anyway. For a long moment you just stare at it with wide eyes, because this can’t be an accident, not anymore. 

The first note could have been an oversight, something forgotten, or probably meant for someone else. That’s why it had been easy, then, to push it into the background of your thoughts and let it become a harmless detail in an otherwise ordinary week.

Your fingers move before your brain fully agrees to it, the paper already familiar in its structure now: the same placement of a line from the book first, and beneath it, a simple, personal addition, almost disarming in how unremarkable it tries to appear.

Your eyes trace the words slowly, as if savoring every letter.

There is a particular kind of attention in it that doesn’t feel casual. Not in the way people are ordinarily kind, or polite. This feels like someone has been observing without announcing it, leaving behind traces of themselves instead of explanations.

When was the last time anything in your life felt like it was aimed at you specifically, rather than at the role you occupy, the version of you that is expected to respond in proper, predictable ways? And who would do something like this? Not in the dramatic sense of confessions, but in this understated, quiet way of slipping fragments of themself into pages, trusting that you would find them when you were meant to.

It feels almost intimate in its restraint.

And as your mind tries to analyze that, it naturally reaches for an old memory—an unconscious comparison. A place where you’ve been before, back when everything at work still felt new and open.

At some point in the last months of your previous relationship, your ex was part of your life like those people who exist just close enough to feel superficially involved. There were evenings you’d come home carrying the day still alive in you: students who had sparked a debate with their brilliant answers; stimulating discussions that had shifted something in your thinking; all the small, unremarkable moments that shaped your job into something more than a simple obligation.

He listened as if you were talking about the weather.

And over time, you learned how to adjust yourself around that. To smooth out the edges of your enthusiasm before offering it.

Your jaw tightens at how miserable you were.

After you broke up, you didn’t stop loving love. You just stopped expecting it to arrive in a form that chose you back. Books filled that space more easily than people ever did, love stories especially—those could be held at a distance, experienced without consequence. You could allow yourself to feel everything without needing to risk what came after. 

Until now.

The note in your hand doesn’t feel like it was ever meant to remain tucked away between the pages of a book. But you have to remind yourself to keep your feet on the ground. It’s too easy to misread things like this, assigning meaning where none is intended.

You should stop here. You almost fold it back and place it on the coffee table like an afterthought, ready to jump straight into the first page. But then, uninvited, a face appears at the edge of your memory.

The person you have seen behind the desk more than once. The way he looks up too quickly when you approach, as if he can sense your presence the moment you cross the threshold. The carefulness of his voice when he speaks to you. The way he seems to take up less space when you are near.

James.

You exhale sharply, as if that alone can dismiss the thought.

Sweet, kind and clumsy in a way that makes him easy to underestimate and difficult not to notice. But also younger, and most importantly, your student once, even if those years have settled behind you both by now.

There are boundaries that people like you don’t cross. And yet, the thought refuses to leave.

Sighing, you fold the note with precision, as if returning it to order might also restore the sense of control you are gradually losing track of. You tell yourself, as you set it aside, that there is probably a logical explanation behind this. Many things sound unreasonable when analyzed under the microscope between the walls of your own mind. But even as you try to convince yourself of that, you are aware that something in the air between you and that possibility has shifted. This is starting to become a pattern, and patterns begin to ask for interpretation whether you want them to or not.

The thought of someone seeing you as a creature that could hold that kind of light is enough to make your lips curl into a serene smile for the rest of the night.

“Do I love you? My god, if your love were a grain of sand, mine would be a universe of beaches.”

You seemed a little tired today. I hope you’re being gentle with yourself.

Love, B

Sam is the reason Bucky is outside at all.

“Man, if I have to watch you reorganize the same shelf one more time, I’m reporting you.” He had said an hour earlier, already halfway to the front door before Bucky could argue. “You need air. Sunlight. Human interaction that isn’t whispering.”

“I talk to people.” Bucky had protested under his breath, grabbing his jacket anyway.

“Yeah,” Sam shot back, holding the door open. “At a volume only ghosts can hear.”

Now they’re crossing the quad on their way back to lunch, the faint bitterness of coffee still lingering on his tongue as the campus feels alive but not too overwhelming. Students are scattered across the grass, their smiles tired and their bags dropped carelessly by their side.

Sam is talking about something Bucky isn’t entirely following, gesturing with what remains of his drink, when it happens.

The collision is light, but the consequence is deadly for his poor heart.

You’re walking toward them from the opposite path, a heavy tote bag slipping slightly from your shoulder, completely focused on something you’re pulling out of it.

Bucky sees you before you see him but he doesn’t move out of the way fast enough. The impact of your arms bumping is barely more than a firm brush, but it’s enough to knock the balance out of what you’re holding.

“Oh shit, I’m so sorry!” Bucky startles, already reaching forward as the books in your arm tilt dangerously. You manage to catch most of them, but a few slip free anyway, hitting the concrete with a dull thud.

“No no, it’s okay, that was me.” You apologize quickly, crouching down to pick them up, though you’re a fraction slower than usual, like your body is lagging behind your intention.

He is already on the ground, hands closing around your books before you can reach them, then arranging them in a neat stack.

“Sorry.” He mutters again, offering them back to you, though he doesn’t let go right away, not when you look this tired. Your fingers brush against each other for an ephemeral moment, causing a shiver to run down his spine, and when you straighten up, your eyes finally land on him.

“Oh, James!” Your eyebrows lift in surprise, voice warming almost instantly. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Bucky parrots back, a little breath caught in the word.

Up close, it’s easier to notice the heaviness under your eyes and the lazy curve of your smile—it takes a bit more effort to reach your face. Yet it’s the sparkle he’s used to see in your movements that worries him the most. The energy is still there but buried a little deeper than usual.

“You okay?” The question slips out before he can filter it, his eyebrows furrowing.

You blink, caught off guard not by the question itself but by how swiftly and directly he gets there.

“Yeah.” You nod at first. A small, polite answer that is meant to close the subject rather than invite more questions.

Although Bucky doesn’t say anything, something in his expression must give him away, because you let out a small breath that turns into a self-deprecating chuckle.

“Is it that obvious?”

He shrugs, a little awkward now that he realizes he crossed a line.

“Only if you’re paying attention.” He mumbles, then promptly looks down, like he’s said too much.

“Okay, I’m a little tired.” You admit, shifting the books against your chest. “It’s been a long week, nothing to worry about.”

Bucky hums pensively, like he’s been expecting that answer. “Yeah, you look—” He stops himself, frowning. “Not bad. Just—tired.”

You beam properly for the first time that day, a hint of amusement breaking through the lack of sleep.

“Wow. You really know how to cheer a woman up.”

“I didn’t mean—” His eyes go comically wide. “I just—”

The words trip over themselves before he can stop them.

“You are always beautiful.” He blurts out, too fast, too honest.

You still, eyebrows raised in shock. But as Bucky feels his stomach drop somewhere near his shoes, your expression brightens in a way that he almost feels like he has died and gone to his own personal heaven.

“Oh, thank you.” You momentarily glance down, a coy smile taking over your lips. Your voice is a low, breathy thing, but it lands heavier than anything else in the conversation so far.

His brain scrambles uselessly for damage control, for something to say that might undo the moment, but everything just sounds worse before it even forms completely.

Behind him, Sam lets out a quiet, poorly concealed snort, but Bucky ignores it.

“I—” He starts again, yet you’re still smiling at him. Which, somehow, makes it infinitely worse.

“You should get some rest,” he swallows, in a last, desperate attempt to direct the conversation. “If you can.”

It’s simple, a bit clumsy even with the way he can’t seem to meet your eyes as you study him like you’re not used to people saying that and meaning it.

“I will,” you nod. “Thank you, James.”

His hands twitch at his sides, wishing he could offer to carry your books, your bag, or say something useful, something that might actually help and not further push him to hide forever—but words fail him, dying in his throat.

You shift your weight slightly, lips parting as if you are about to say something else, when your gaze flicks past Bucky’s shoulder and lands on the man watching the scene like his favorite reality show.

“Oh—Sam?” You greet him, a little surprised.

His friend straightens immediately, stepping forward with a grin that’s just a little too knowing.

“Miss—” He starts, out of instinct more than anything else.

You groan softly, already shaking your head. “Oh God, no. Please don’t. We are not doing that.” You chuckle. “We are almost colleagues at this point. Or close enough, Doctor Wilson.”

Sam lifts his hands in surrender. “Force of habit.”

“It makes me feel ancient.” You add jokingly.

“You look far from ancient, professor.” Sam shoots back easily with a friendly wink.

Bucky glances between the two of you laughing like two old friends, a knot forming in his throat at how naturally the conversation unfolds, how easily Sam fits into it.

“How are you doing?” You ask him, genuine interest threading through your tone.

“Good,” Sam crosses his arms to his chest. “A lot more busy. They’ve got me running around a lot, but I guess that’s part of the deal.”

“You’ll be great at it.” You state without hesitation.

Sam grins. “Yeah, I know.”

You laugh at that, shaking your head.

“I’m serious,” you add a tad more serious. “You’ve got the right instinct for helping people.”

Sam briefly glances down at that, not used to compliments. “I appreciate that.”

There’s nothing wrong—nothing Bucky can point to and say this is why—and maybe that’s what makes it worse. Your interaction with his friend isn’t forced, not tentative in the way it always seems to be with him. It flows, not leaving room for hesitation, and hesitation is the only language Bucky’s ever been fluent in.

His hands keep hovering uselessly at his sides before one of them comes up to rub the back of his neck, an old habit he falls into when he feels disquieted. For a moment, he considers stepping in, adding something—anything—but he wouldn’t even know where to begin. He would rather leave in silence than try inserting himself into a rhythm that would carry on just fine without him, and probably end up being ignored. Even if he knows rationally that neither of you would do that to him.

So he stays where he is, half a step behind, listening. As usual.

You nod once, satisfied, then glance back at Bucky.

“Well,” you give him a little smile, drained but real, adjusting your grip on the books again. “I should let you both get back to it.”

“Yeah,” It comes out as an involuntary whisper, so Bucky quickly clears his throat. “See you.”

“See you around, James.”

You give Sam a small wave, then turn, walking across the quad until you gradually blend back into the movement of the campus.

There’s a beat of silence in which Bucky is still looking longingly in your direction, when Sam exhales.

“Wow.”

“I mean, wow.” He repeats at the lack of response, dragging the word out this time. “You just stand there and do that with no warning?”

“Do what?” Bucky mutters, already starting to move again.

His friend falls into step beside him, shaking his head. “You ever notice you stop blinking around her or is that just me?”

Bucky shoots him a look. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” he continues, completely undeterred. “You were gone. I could’ve run around naked and you wouldn’t have even noticed.”

“I wasn’t that distracted.” Bucky replies flatly.

“Liar,” Sam counters. “You didn’t even know I was still there until she spotted me.”

Bucky can’t argue, because for once he’s right, but Sam doesn’t need to know that.

His friend shoots him a sidelong glance, lips already twisting into a small smirk. “You’re in trouble.”

He sighs tiredly, yet doesn’t even try to deny it.

“You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope... I have loved none but you.”

I get the feeling I’m already in deeper than I have any right to be.

Love, B

Darcy called it a “fair” exchange, half-sprawled against the front desk earlier that afternoon while Bucky pretended to log the latest entry of the day, hopeful she would eventually forget the whole thing if he looked busy enough.

“I helped you with the note thing,” she stated, like it was a perfectly reasonable transaction. “I require my payment now.”

He had eventually agreed, which in hindsight felt like the first mistake of the day.

It’s simple, really. In and out. Pick a pastry, hand the money and run back to the library where words are predictable and the space knows his name.

But the cafeteria is loud, exposed. Trays clattering, chairs scraping, too many conversations overlapping so nothing can be separated cleanly. And too many people existing too close together without thinking about it.

Bucky moves through it like he’s slightly out of sync with the floor beneath him. He’s been here before throughout these past few years, of course. With Sam, Steve… even Darcy recently, when she drags him out on their breaks, talking the entire time so he doesn’t have to. But being here alone makes such an ordinary task sound impossible. He is suddenly aware of his damp hands and how he shouldn’t let them hover uselessly at his sides. Of his posture, too straight or not straight enough. Of the fact that no one is guiding him through the space with casual familiarity, splitting the crowd ahead of him with easy conversation that makes him feel less like an intruder.

Bucky eventually reaches the display case feeling like he’s halfway through a side-quest that tastes more and more like an ambush. Pastries sit behind the glass in neat rows, almost judgmental in their little safe corner, yet he doesn’t really see them. His focus keeps slipping, attention unable to find anything to attach itself to for more than a second.

Two options blur together in his mind.

He should just pick one. It doesn’t matter, it’s just pastries. 

But he hesitates too long. A couple behind him shifts closer. Someone laughs too loudly nearby and it hits his ears too suddenly, his shoulders tightening instinctively, like his body is trying to make itself smaller.

He should choose. He should leave. He should do anything that involves not standing still like an idiot.

And then, without his permission, his eyes dart away mindlessly, stopping right to the far end of the room, on a face he knows too well. And the chaos is entirely forgotten.

You are here—always somewhere inside the rhythm of the building. But Mr. Fowler is here too, seated across from you like it’s the most natural arrangement in the world.

Professor Fowler is a math genius. He is always composed, always too comfortable in spaces that aren’t entirely his, sporting that cunning smile as if he were the sole keeper of the secret to having the last word in every conversation.

You are leaning forward, hands moving animatedly as you talk about something that matters more than anything else in the room. Maybe a student’s absurd answer in one of your quizzes. Or maybe is it something more personal? It doesn’t really matter, because Fowler is laughing and there’s nothing polite about that. He genuinely finds it funny. There is no hesitation, no carefulness.

And you answer that at once, smiling at him so easily.

That’s the first word that comes to mind, uninvited and unhelpful. Ease, Bucky realizes with unpleasant clarity, has a shape, and you and Fowler fit inside it without effort.

He has heard things before. Even if they came from voices that don’t matter, they start to form patterns when they repeat often enough in passing corridors, in the kind of giggles that bubble when something is slyly assumed.

Your names are linked together too lightly, followed by a glance that suggests there is nothing to confirm and nothing to deny, just the ultimate assumption everyone makes when two well-matched people keep ending up in the same orbit: both of them good-looking, established, sharp in their own fields. The sort of pairing that doesn’t need to be announced to feel plausible, which somehow makes it worse than a confirmation would have.

Bucky realizes he has stopped breathing properly at some point during that realization. His hands still hold nothing useful, and the counter is now farther than he remembers, his body having gradually drifted away without noticing. 

Across the room, Fowler says something, and this time you laugh—properly, head tipping back and eyes squeezing shut. And there is nothing performative in it, only familiarity unfolding candidly between you like it has always been there.

It feels real.

And it doesn’t include him.

He should have left the moment this stopped feeling like speculation and started looking like certainty. 

There are people who move through the world as if it already recognizes them, and people who don’t quite manage to step into that recognition without friction. So Bucky turns away and doesn’t look back.

There is no point in that, not when your smiles are for another man.

When he finally reaches the library, Darcy’s voice catches him before he can fully disappear into the stacks.

“Barnes,” she calls, far too bright for the way his day has just fractured. “Where is my muffin?”

“They ran out of pastries.” The shock at the way his own mind promptly provides him with a convincing lie doesn’t manifest on his face.

Darcy squints at his back like she is trying to decide whether something happened or it’s just one of his days. “You okay?”

With a non-committal hum, Bucky keeps walking until he’s standing in his usual dark corner, no memory of the steps in between and the people he brushed past along the way. The books are already there, waiting in the same order, and for a moment he simply stands in front of them.

Then, almost mechanically, he begins to rearrange them.

Not because they need it.

“She did not understand the beauty he found in her, through touch upon her living secret body, almost the ecstasy of beauty. For passion alone is awake to it.”

Sometimes I think standing too close to you would be enough to undo me. I find myself stopping thoughts before they become something I can’t easily take back.

Love, B

A single touch of his shoulder was enough for his cock to stir. Well, it wasn’t just that.

Bucky was talking with Steve in front of the library when he spotted you and Darcy making your way back after your break.

He didn’t realize he stopped speaking mid-response until Steve glanced at you and then back at him with understanding.

The effortless grace in your movements made it impossible for him to look away, a mixture of admiration and longing dancing in his own blue eyes... until they landed on your outfit. The skirt you were wearing moved differently than the ones he was used to, shorter and tight enough to sinfully cling onto the flesh of your thighs covered by sheer, light fabric that made his breath hitch embarrassingly loud.

And then you had come closer, and his knees almost buckled when he noticed how much skin your shirt was revealing. It’s pretty hot today and you were here for a conference organized by the Department of Literature. It’s only normal for you to put a little more effort in your outfits when you are not in class; you could be a little bit bolder.

The open collar was covering almost all of your breasts, still, the curve of your tits was completely visible for his eyes to feast upon.

The final blow was you touching him. You’re mid-sentence, when your foot caught on the uneven pavement, and his body just had to react before thinking. His hand was already around your waist, your fingers going for the nearest thing for support: his shoulder. You ground yourself for a moment as you corrected your step, thanking him with a sweet smile that will haunt him for weeks.

It was barely contact. An instinctive touch and nothing more.

Still, now he can’t stop the phantom brush of your digits on his covered skin from giving him goosebumps. Or the tingling sensation on his palm as it closes uselessly around nothing, trying to remember what the curve of your waist felt like.

It wasn’t long before Bucky had to excuse himself, conveniently holding his jacket in his arms because of the hot weather and low enough to hide his big bulge.

The walk to the restroom was nothing short of humiliating. He felt like every single pair of eyes was burning through his skin, judging him for popping a boner in the middle of a conversation with the prettiest woman in the world wrapped in tight silk and nylon.

It’s not the first time Bucky comes with your name on his lips, and images of you moaning and crying out under him rolling in his mind like the lewdest of movies. Still, it never happened in a public place.

As soon as he locks the door behind him, Bucky’s slacks are so unbearably tight he clumsily unhooks his belt, lowering them enough to relieve the growing pressure on his erection. He wishes to indulge in one of his perverted fantasies so bad, but it doesn’t feel right. Not here.

In a desperate attempt to calm down, he presses his back against the wall, sweat causing his hair to cling to his forehead and eyes squeezing shut. Until the image of the swell of your breasts comes back traitorously behind his closed eyelids, and that soon transforms into your naked tits bouncing in front of his face, nipples hard and glistening with his spit after he thoroughly kissed and sucked and pinched the sensitive nubs.

Yes, in his mind you are a sensitive little thing that needs her breasts worshipped. If he had a little more experience, Bucky is certain he could make you come just by toying with your nipples.

And then he thinks about that damn skirt. His fingers would lightly trace your soft skin covered by the pantyhose, ripping the fabric apart just to hear you gasp, and then taking his time in covering your pretty thighs with his mark.

Bucky always starts with the best intentions: slow, light touches, trying to make the pleasure last as long as possible. But he is far too eager to wait. He could learn to be patient for you, though. Edge you and himself for hours until you can’t take it anymore, indulge in your shaky thighs squeezing his head as his tongue teases your clit to bring you so close... and then pull away just to hear you beg and whimper for him to fuck you until you pass out, until the only thing your mind can remember is his name, and your pussy the shape of his cock.

A whimper claws out of his throat when his fingers instinctively reach down, wrapping around his length. Bucky is both long and thick, his palm sliding up and down, following the upward curve so easily. A shiver runs down his spine when he focuses on the tip, smooth and rounded, his hips jerking forward as his thumb smears precum across the crown.

He is sure you wouldn’t have any problems taking him. You are a determined, strong woman, and even if the stretches would burn at the beginning and your cheeks would be wet with fat tears of overstimulation, you’d still look down at him like a goddess with her favorite devotee, stubbornness burning in your eyes as you’d ride him with the little strength left.

Brows furrowed in concentration and head thrown back against the white wall, Bucky strokes his cock at a steady pace, lips parted around muffled breaths and low groans that fall into the palm pressed firmly against his mouth. At some point his eyes snap open, traveling down to the space between his legs, and his brain must really hate him, because it offers the image of you knelt there, shirt unbuttoned and skirt bunched at your hips, enough to expose your wet core. Your hand plays with his balls while your glossy lips stretch around his cock.

“Just like that, baby—fuck—”

His hips twitch in wild, frantic thrusts, the sloppy, wet sounds of his fingers picking up their pace echoing in the empty restroom. He is throbbing at the phantom feeling of your tongue tracing the veins and your lips closing around his tip to suckle on it like a damn lollipop.

He isn’t prepared for the violent, abrupt wave of pleasure that hits him only a few seconds later. Ropes of cum steadily paint his palm, a few, thin stripes spurting on the floor as his choked groans die behind pressed lips.

When the room finally stops spinning, Bucky tiredly slumps back against the wall, eyes accidentally falling on the mirror right in front of him. His chest heaves with rugged breaths and his hands are now dirty with his own cum. The sight makes his already red cheeks look like two tomatoes.

His cock is still out and half-hard—it makes such a crude picture next to his creased pants and underwear.

Only then shame curls hot in his belly.

“I have for the first time found what I can truly love—I have found you. You are my sympathy—my better self—my good angel.”

There are people you admire, and then there are people who quietly become part of how you think about everything else. I didn’t expect the difference to feel this irreversible.

Love, B

Classes have just let out, so the hallway is still quite full but thinning at the edges, students spilling out in clusters to move toward exits; some linger just a little longer than they need to. Bucky is standing off to the side, a folder tucked under his arm for the administrative office, waiting for the flow to clear before he moves.

You come out of one of the classrooms a few steps ahead of him, mid-sentence, turning slightly as you finish saying something over your shoulder to a student who stands by the door.

“That’s actually a really good point—just don’t stop there, okay? Push it a bit further and you’ll see where it goes. Actually, you know what? I have some articles about the psychological function of the Gothic in nineteenth-century literature, and I believe they could be very helpful for your essay. Just send me an e-mail to remind me, okay?”

The student nods, half-confident, half-lost, and you give her an encouraging smile before she heads off. You fully step into the hallway while adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder, and only then your distracted gaze lands upon him.

“James.” Your eyes light up.

“Hey.” Bucky smiles coyly, shoulders straightening unconsciously.

You shift the thick stack of papers in your arms, catching Bucky’s attention.

“Monthly assignments?” He guesses.

You glance down at the stack, then back at him, lips already curling knowingly.

“Unfortunately, yes.” Your shoulders move with a deep sigh. “And they all seem to have been written at three in the morning, which makes them… pretty creative.”

He huffs a quiet chuckle, a mix of sympathy and amusement.

“Yeah, can’t blame them.”

“I don’t even mind the lack of sleep,” you continue. “It’s the confidence. They’ll write something completely unhinged and still conclude it like it’s the most solid argument ever made.”

That pulls a real smile out of him.

“Honestly, I respect that.” He says before thinking too hard about it. Then, almost immediately, “Not—the unhinged part. Just... the confidence.”

Something about your laugh shakes the butterflies in his stomach.

“No, I get it. There’s something admirable about committing to a bad take.”

He nods along, then hesitates like he’s deciding whether to say the next part.

“Are they actually bad? Or just… not what you were expecting?”

Your head tilts a little, considering him for a moment.

“Some of them are bad,” you admit quietly. “But some are... uh, unfinished thoughts, yes. Like they’re almost there, but they stop right before it gets interesting.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s worse, I think.”

Your eyebrows shoot up curiously.

“Because they could’ve been good... if they’d dared to go further.” He quickly explains, then immediately wonders if that sounds stupid. Too obvious. Too—

“Yes, exactly. Dare is the right word.” You sound elated to be finally understood. “They get scared.”

There’s a small pause in which you hurriedly look for one paper in particular, pulling it out from the middle of the stack.

“This one actually had a really good point,” you mumble to yourself as you frown at it, eyes smoothly skimming the text. “About how emotional restraint in early twentieth-century fiction isn’t absence, but displacement.”

Bucky looks up at that, interest showing on his features.

“Like—redirected?”

“Exactly,” you nod, a little more animated now. “But then they just didn’t follow it through.”

“They could’ve tied it to narrative voice,” he muses. “How what’s left unsaid actually shapes the way the story is told.”

“Yes!” You smile. “That’s what I thought.”

There’s a flicker of something in your expression—approval, maybe, or just satisfaction—that gives Bucky enough confidence to continue.

“Do you ever…” He clears his throat. “I mean—do you ever feel like they just don’t trust their own ideas enough?”

Your smile turns a little gloomy.

“All the time.” You shake your head. “They think there’s a ‘correct’ answer they’re supposed to land on, so they don’t follow their real thoughts on the matter.”

He nods, more certain now that the conversation is finding its rhythm.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Like they’re writing for approval instead of… figuring something out.”

You hold his gaze for a second longer than before.

“You read my mind.”

The words settle between you with finality, your gaze meeting his, surprised at first, like you’re still turning the conversation over in your mind. And Bucky doesn’t lower his eyes like he usually would.

He holds it, because stepping away first would mean breaking this rare moment he gets to enjoy just existing with you. Because there’s a soft attentiveness in your expression that makes it hard to pull back from.

Like he’s worth listening to.

The moment stretches for a second too long. Then another, until it no longer feels like a mere pause in a conversation, and giving away even the slightest of hints about his feelings for you is enough to scare Bucky into talking again.

He clears his throat first, the sound cutting abruptly through the quiet hallway as he looks down at the papers like they’ve suddenly become very important.

“Uh—” He has no idea how to finish that.

You blink like you’ve just been pulled out of a dream, your posture adjusting slightly as you look away as well, fingers tightening just a little around the stack in your arms.

A small, almost embarrassed breath leaves you.

“Yes—” You murmur, then shake your head faintly, as if resetting yourself. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s—” He mentions at the same time, then cuts himself off, heat uncomfortably creeping up the back of his neck.

The brief, clumsy overlap of words goes nowhere, but then you shift your weight, grounding yourself back into something familiar, something safe.

“Actually,” you take a small step closer, a little more composed now. “While I have you—”

His head snaps up a bit too fast at your wording.

“I wanted to ask you something about one of the students who’s been coming to the library a lot—tall, always looks like he hasn’t slept in three days? His name’s Peter. Peter Olson.”

Bucky blinks, searching his memory.

“… That doesn’t narrow it down much.” He admits hesitantly.

An embarrassed chuckle falls from your lips. “Fair. Mmh, well he usually sits by the back tables. Keeps switching books every couple of hours like he’s looking for something and not finding it.”

“Oh,” Bucky perks up. “Yeah. I know who you mean. The one who wears the same grey hoodie every day?”

“Yes, that’s him!” You snap your fingers. “I was just wondering if you knew him, since he spends so much time there. Has he ever said anything to you?” Your brows furrow. “Or anyone you know? He’s been struggling in class, and I can’t tell if it’s the material or something personal.”

It’s not the question per se that catches him off guard, but the way you ask it. Not like it’s your job, like you’re obligated to care.

“He doesn’t talk much,” Bucky starts slowly. “But he stays late. Sometimes he just plays games on his phone until we close.”

You nod pensively, like that confirms something.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. I might check in with him,” you mutter, more to yourself than to him. “Just... in general.”

You glance back at Bucky then, a soft smile already brightening your features.

“Thank you so much.”

He shrugs, hoping to come across as nonchalant as Sam. “Yeah, of course. Anytime.”

You shift your grip on the papers again, but you don’t move away immediately. Instead, you squint at him.

“Hey, are you doing okay?”

The question lands unexpectedly.

He blinks. “Yeah.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Just yeah?”

He chuckles at that. “I swear,” he repeats, a little more honest this time. “I’m good.”

You hold his gaze for a second longer, like you’re deciding whether to believe him or not. Despite your initial doubts, you nod anyway.

“Okay.”

No lecture, no attempt to force him to speak.

“Well,” you announce ruefully, taking a step back. “I really need to go and start grading these now. Thank you again, James.”

“No problem,” he gives you a thin-lipped smile. “See you around, and good luck with those.”

Bucky stays there minutes after the shape of your body has disappeared behind a corner, the folder meant for the administrative office still waiting in his hands.

Nothing big just happened. It was just a normal conversation, honestly. You didn’t say anything extraordinary, nor did anything that should linger in his chest like this. You talked about literature and essays. You exchanged ideas. You asked about a student. You asked about him... And then you let it be enough.

Later, when he’s alone, it comes back to him in pieces—the subtle pride burning in his chest at being on the receiving end of that kind of attention, like he exists in the same category as everything else you choose to care about.

“Her presence altered the flow of time itself, making the hours feel lighter when she was near and heavier when she was gone.”

I’ve started measuring time around the moments you are by my side. I didn’t realize how much that would change things until I started noticing the difference when you are not there. Something in me refuses to settle properly without you in my day. Am I going mad, or does that happen more easily than people like to admit?

Love, B

Irritation curls hot in his chest as Bucky focuses on his phone, on the message from Steve warning him he’s running late. Waiting alone like this has never sat well with him, not when the constant sense of not belonging thrums high in his veins.

He steps forward in line anyway—they discovered this quaint café years ago while looking for a place to study for the days they actually didn’t feel like opening a book at all—barely paying attention to what he’s ordering, until a familiar voice cuts through the jazz melody coming from the speakers.

“James?”

He turns around in surprise, because there you are, sitting at one of the tables by the window, one hand wrapped around a cup, the other lifting in a small, happy wave when you catch his eye.

His body stiffens at once.

There’s no distance of a desk between you, no quiet formality shaping the interaction, like a college hallway. You look… softer, somehow. Draped in light fabric that catches the faintest movement of your body even when you’re still. It’s a dress that falls more naturally than the usual careful lines of trousers and shirts he associates with you.

Why does Bucky feel like he’s committing the sweetest kind of sin, seeing this version of you that belongs entirely to yourself?

His phone is still in his hand, screen gone dark, but he doesn’t even register the weight of it, because in that moment, there is just you in a pretty dress and afternoon light, smiling up at him like you are an angel genuinely delighted to see him.

Only then does he remember he is supposed to respond.

“Oh—hi.”

“Hi,” you echo, your smile growing—easy and relaxed, fitting perfectly into a sunny Saturday morning. “What are you doing here?”

“Uh—waiting. For Steve.” He gestures vaguely with his phone. “He’s late.”

You laugh, a quiet, knowing sound. “Always the last one to arrive and the first to go away. I see nothing has changed.”

Your hand points at the empty chair in front of you. “You can come sit, if you want. I’m waiting for my friends too.”

It’s said so casually, like it doesn’t require consideration.

Bucky hesitates anyway.

“Are you sure?” He is immediately aware of how unnecessary the question is.

“Of course! We can keep each other company.” You bubble. “I don’t bite.”

That gets a small, startled huff out of him—half laugh, half whimper—before he steps closer to you than he’s ever been.

The first few minutes are clunky.

Bucky sits a little too straight, hands not quite knowing where to go, fingers brushing the edge of his cup like he needs something to keep him anchored to reality. His answers are short at first, slightly off-beat, but you don’t let the conversation stall.

“How’s work been?” You rest your chin on your closed hand.

“Uh—good. Quiet. Mostly just… books.” He winces a little at his lame answer.

“That’s literally my favorite category of things!”

A quiet chuckle escapes him, some of the tension easing from his shoulders thanks to your cheerfulness.

“Yeah, I figured.”

“You get to spend your whole day around them,” you continue. “That sounds like a dream to me.”

He shrugs, a reflex more than a response. “It’s just… temporary. You know, nothing serious.”

You don’t answer that right away.

“Temporary doesn’t mean meaningless,” you explain calmly. “And being around something you love every day isn’t small, James. Most people don’t even get close to that.”

He opens his mouth to respond—out of habit more than anything—but doesn’t have anything ready for that, in fact. And you don’t push it, opting to take a sip of your drink.

Sometimes silence says more than words ever could.

Somewhere along the conversation, things shift.

Maybe when you start telling him about one of your classes and how a student arguing with you over an interpretation somehow made you rethink your own reading of the text. Maybe when he finally finds himself asking a question without rehearsing it first. Maybe when you laugh again, and this time he doesn’t freeze around it.

“You let them argue about Joyce with you?” His eyebrows shoot up, a hint of disbelief slipping through.

“Of course!” Your eyes widen, like it’s obvious. “That’s the fun part. Otherwise it’s just me talking to a bunch of nodding heads for two hours.”

The corners of his mouth lift properly this time, not the small, careful version he usually allows in public.

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”

You agree with a shake of your head, taking a sip of your second cup of latte. “You’d be good at it, actually.”

That catches him off guard.

“At… teaching?” He tentatively asks.

“Yeah. You pay attention. That’s half the job.”

He doesn’t know what to do with that either. So he just nods, a little slower this time.

“Have you ever considered that?”

His brows furrow in surprise. “Actually... no.”

You don’t react immediately, and for a moment he thinks the conversation might just drift away on its own, like so many of the others have, but instead you tilt your head slightly, studying him with that same quiet attentiveness that never fails to bring a blush to his cheeks.

“I’m serious,” you add, softer now. “You make people feel like what they’re saying matters. That’s rarer than knowing things, honestly. You can always study content, but some people never learn how to make someone want to keep talking.”

No one has ever framed him like that before, as if it were something worthy of praise rather than just a byproduct of him being timid, or quieter than most people.

His distant eyes drop briefly to the table as if the surface might offer him something solid to hold onto while his thoughts rearrange themselves around the idea, his fast heartbeat almost drowning any other sound at how beautifully you keep describing him and his job.

“I never thought about it like that.” He murmurs, not sure if it was meant for himself only.

You don’t push it further, just lean back into your chair with a serene smile.

“I’m telling you, there is a difference,” a voice behind you abruptly ripples through the quietness. “You can’t just say a flat white and a latte are the same thing.”

You flinch at the rising volume of the statement.

“They are basically the same thing,” another voice argues back, annoyed. “It’s milk and coffee. That’s it.”

“That’s like saying all literature is just words on paper. Don’t be ignorant, Joe.”

Bucky’s gaze flick up to you at once, a sparkle of amusement dancing in his eyes, like he’s silently asking if you’re hearing this too.

You are, clearly, because you’re biting your lips so hard to avoid laughing and draw their attention.

“There’s a texture, there’s a ratio—there’s an actual difference if you pay attention.”

“I am paying attention,” Joe replies, sharper now. “I just don’t think it’s worth pretending it’s deeper than it is, Mary.”

“That’s not pretending,” she counters quickly, almost cutting over him. “That’s just… caring about things.”

He lets out a short, disbelieving snicker. “No, that’s overcomplicating things that don’t need it.”

“Right, because you hate when things get too complicated.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know very well what I mean, Joe.”

“It’s coffee, Mary.” The guy insists exasperated, but there’s something defensive in his voice now, less certain. “You’re acting like it’s a personality trait.”

“Maybe it is,” she snaps back. “Maybe the way people choose things does say something about them.”

“Or maybe you just want it to.”

“Or maybe you just don’t notice anything.”

And just like that you watch Mary stomp out of the coffee shop with a sighing Joe right on her heels.

There is a brief, silent pause in which you and Bucky just stare at each other, before you both burst out laughing.

“They’re not wrong, you know?” You breathe out, still smiling. “People get very attached to their preferences to the point it becomes a personality trait.”

Bucky leans back a fraction in his chair now, more at ease than he had been at the start.

“I think it’s less about the coffee,” he crosses his arms to his chest. “And more about wanting to be right about something.”

You hum around a sip of your drink. “Or wanting something small to feel important.” You argue back. “It’s easier to defend a preference than to admit it doesn’t really matter.”

“Do you think people actually taste the difference,” he asks after a moment. “Or they just decide they do?”

A grin takes over your lips.

“I think sometimes they decide first,” you rest your chin back against your hand. “And then convince themselves their senses agree with them.”

It feels like that explanation applies to more than just coffee, to more than just the harmless debate that unfolded right behind you between two strangers who you will probably never meet again.

His gaze lingers on you for a second longer than necessary before he looks down again, almost unconsciously.

“Well, I think I’m in trouble.” His grin is poorly concealed.

That makes you smile. “Why?”

“Because I don’t think I’ve ever made a defining coffee decision in my life.”

“That’s fine,” you gesture with your hand. “Not everyone needs to be a person of conviction.”

He squints his eyes at you. “I feel like that’s not a compliment.”

“It wasn’t.”

He huffs out a laugh through his nose, shaking his head at your serious expression.

“Movies are like that too.”

That catches his attention a little more.

“What do you mean?”

“Everyone has one classic opinion they feel morally obligated to defend.”

“That’s… accurate, unfortunately.” He rolls his eyes, suddenly reminded of his sister and her obsession with Casablanca.

You lean back a little in your chair. “Like people who act like you personally attacked their family if your favorite movie is not some... I don’t know—” You gesture loosely with one hand. “French, silent short film from the twenties.”

Bucky closes his eyes tiredly, head falling back. “God, I hate those people.”

“I kinda am those people.” You eventually admit with a smirk.

That earns you a look.

“I’m joking!” Your giggle is so contagious his own lips twist into a small smile. “Well, maybe sometimes...” Your index finger rhythmically taps your chin as you think for a few seconds.

“I just love classics.”

“I don’t... actually like most classics.” He scrunches his nose.

You blink, slightly taken aback. “That sounded like a confession.”

“It felt like one. I’ve never told anyone.”

You lean forward in interest, whispering conspirationally. “Okay, so which ones don’t you like?”

He hesitates for a moment, like he knows this is about to become a problem. “Grease.”

Your expression falls at once, humor slipping away just as quickly as it came.

“What?”

“I didn’t say I hated it.”

“That’s worse.” Your eyebrows shoot up.

“How is that worse?” He frowns.

“Because it means you watched it and still chose neutrality.”

He stumbles over his words, hands raising in defeat. “Wait, wait. I didn’t choose anything. I just didn’t... connect with it.”

You straighten up slightly. “That’s not allowed.”

His lips press together, trying to hide a smile. “Why not?”

“Why?” You balk. “Because it’s Grease, James!”

“That’s not an argument.”

“It is culturally! It’s been around forever for a reason.”

That makes him laugh properly this time.

“Well, now I feel like Joe.” You chuckle at that, shaking your head in fake disappointment.

“This is exactly what I meant about people having strong opinions about things they don’t care about.”

You tilt your head at that, mildly affronted. “Excuse me, I care deeply.”

“It’s a musical.”

“It’s one of the musicals.”

At that point Bucky leans back on his chair with a glint of delight dancing in his eyes. “So I’m not allowed to just… not like it?”

“No.” You shrug, lips already twisting into a grin.

It makes him smile again, his ears burning a little at the fleeting realization that he just had a funny banter with you without making a fool of himself.

“Okay.” He sighs resignedly. “Then what do I get to dislike without being judged?”

You think about it seriously, arms crossing to your chest as you look out of the window.

“Ah!” Your face lights up. “Modern remakes of classics.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “That’s safe?”

“That’s universally safe.”

“I feel like you’re setting me up.” He squints at you.

“I swear I’m not,” you lift a hand in sincerity. “That’s just objective truth.”

Bucky’s blue eyes study you for a moment with something you can’t fully decipher, ultimately opting for a thin-lipped smile. “You’re impossible.”

His gaze inevitably falls on your lips, so lost in his own thoughts that he doesn’t notice the way your own lies on his.

However, your phone lights up, the strong vibration of an incoming text breaking the spell. Bucky suddenly straightens up, expression sobering now that he has been pulled out of whatever quiet complicity had settled between you. Meanwhile, you throw the screen a quick glance, then your eyes fall back on him.

“My friends are here.”

Bucky moves quickly, pushing his chair back with too much strength, the scrape of it against the floor making a few heads turn.

“Steve isn’t here yet, right?” You ask, and then, more tentative. “Stay.”

As if surprised by your own request, you correct yourself frantically. “I mean, if you want to, of course. I just… I’d really like it if you stayed. I can introduce you to my friends.”

That’s when Bucky stops entirely.

Your eyes are so hopeful and devastatingly pretty, your expression open at how uncomplicated the request is even if it clearly costs you something to make it. 

He almost says yes.

It’s there, immediate, unfiltered, so close on his tongue. Because there’s no calculation, no expectation dressed up as politeness. Just the simple, disarming fact that you want him there.

Then the door opens. Voices spill in. Energy, movement, a kind of ease he hasn’t been part of in a long time.

And then—

Fowler.

Of course he’s here. Of course he belongs to this part of your life too.

Bucky bites his tongue and shakes his head before you can say anything else.

“No, it’s—I should go, really.” He is already stepping back. “Steve just texted. He can’t make it. I’ve got… stuff to do. Groceries.”

He knows you can see through his lie, but he doesn’t really care to fix it right now. Still, that small shift in your expression—disappointment flickering in your eyes before you smooth it over with a polite smile—shatters his heart to pieces.

“Oh. Okay,” you nod. “Well… I’ll see you on Monday, then?”

“Yeah,” his voice dims. “Yes. Monday.”

He doesn’t trust himself to stay longer than that.

Outside, the air suddenly feels colder than it should for a morning of late spring.

His feet don’t stop moving until he’s across the street. Then he turns back, even if he knows what’s going to see will make him lie awake all night.

Through the window, he can still spot you—only now you’re not across from him, not contained in that small, manageable space of a shared table.

You’re part of an organized mess, alive and warm. Inside jokes repeated over the years and questions that require only a knowing look.

Your friends lean in, talking over each other, laughter overlapping easily, and you’re right there in the middle of it—the center of it all—responding without hesitation, without that small pause he’s come to recognize when you speak to him.

Fowler is closer than that day in the cafeteria, seamless in the way he occupies the space beside you. You laugh at something he says, and it’s probably the same laugh he has heard just a few minutes ago. It shouldn’t matter but Bucky stands there longer than he means to. Long enough for the pit in his stomach to return and set him a few steps back in your blooming friendship.

Could he even call it that, what you had? Talking about literature, stopping for a meaningless chat in the hallways, and randomly bumping into each other on a Saturday morning?

He is just an acquaintance. Those are your friends. They fit in a way that doesn’t require adjustment, that doesn’t need to be questioned.

And Bucky thinks about how long it took him to stop tripping over his own words, how even at his best, it had taken effort to reach something that, for Fowler, seems to exist without trying.

He thinks about his job. Replaceable. A placeholder more than a direction.

He thinks about the way his life still feels like it’s waiting to start.

Your life looks full, complete in a way his isn’t. And the people in it... they belong there. They’ve already figured out what he’s still trying to understand.

He exhales slowly, the sound barely leaving his chest.

Whatever existed in that small space between the two of you inside that café, it’s meant to stay there. It doesn’t extend here and it never will.

This time, when he turns away, he doesn’t stop again.

By the time Bucky reaches the end of the street, the decision has already been made, agonizing but certain.

Tomorrow will be his last note.

“The human heart has a way of making itself large again even after it's been broken into a million pieces.”

I didn’t know how to write these notes in a way that didn’t sound like I was still your student trying to impress you. I think I’ve been confusing proximity with possibility, standing too close to something I was never meant to touch. I’m still a temporary version of myself, still borrowing space. Time. Confidence. And I don’t think I’m the kind of man you would ever choose. You… you’re not temporary. You come into people’s lives to brighten them with your presence, and I don’t believe I am worthy enough to deserve that kind of warmth.

So I think this is the right thing to do.

I am going to let you go.

Not because I want to, but because I don’t know how to keep loving you without shattering into pieces, until there’s nothing left to recognize.

Always yours, B

You don’t make it home today. The thought of this small, unexpected thing finding its place in your life without asking permission, like it has belonged there all this time, always returns persistently in the back of your mind. It has translated into pure anticipation of what you’ll find next inside your books, and today it has been impossible to ignore since the moment your eyes opened. You catch yourself thinking about it between lessons, tasks, in the small pauses where it blends with the image of a certain person, already fantasizing about what’s going to happen the next time you’ll see him again.

By the time you step into the library, you’re already smiling to yourself. It’s ridiculous, you know that. Nothing about a person anonymously writing you love notes should matter this much, it shouldn’t feel this addictive.

Despite the fact that the initial on the notes had been easy to dismiss at first, something vague enough to ignore, it gradually became impossible not to imagine a certain someone behind those words. You told yourself you’re being irrational, but as much as your brain tries to keep you grounded, it can’t stop your pulse from picking up every time that possibility takes hold in your thoughts.

You don’t rush, not outwardly. But there’s a lightness to your steps, a quiet impatience that shows in the way your fingers tighten slightly around the cover, in how quickly your gaze moves past Darcy. The world feels just a little less interesting compared to what you’re about to read.

It’s been a long time since anything has made you feel like this. Or, anyone.

You slip away from the main aisle, drawn toward a quieter corner where shelves grow narrower and the sun doesn’t quite reach that far in. Your fingers are already finding the page before you’ve fully stopped walking, a warm sensation blooming in your chest in a way that feels embarrassingly close to a suffocating excitement. And when the folded paper finally reveals itself, tucked exactly in the middle of the book, your smile grows, unguarded and bright.

For a brief, suspended moment, everything feels exactly as it should.

You finally stop between two rows of thick books, hands closing around the edges of the note with a familiarity that shouldn’t feel so natural. For a second, your thumb presses along the crease, tracing it once—enough for you to take a deep breath and calm down your wild heartbeat.

The quote registers first—your mind catching its tone before its meaning fully settles—and then your eyes move down, desperately looking for the rest. For an explanation.

Each line feels like a stab to your heart, those words completely stripped of the gentleness that had softened them until now. There’s no careful distance here, no hesitation disguised as sweet restraint. Whatever has been building silently inside your secret admirer has become an uncontrollable, raging sea, inevitably crashing your heart against the cliffs.

By the time you reach the last line, your breathing has changed.

Your palm rests on your mouth in an instinctive attempt to contain a sob. Your eyes sting without permission, blurring the edges of the words still lingering in your mind.

You read it over and over again.

It’s a goodbye.

And it doesn’t make any sense.

Nothing in the notes before had prepared you for this abrupt ending, for the certainty that your fate has already been decided without you. You try to trace it back, to find the moment where it might have shifted, something you might have missed—a look, a conversation, anything that could explain how it reached this point.

But there’s nothing.

Only the unsettling realization that someone has been feeling this deeply, this painfully, somewhere just outside your awareness. And now they’ve chosen to step away.

Your grip tightens around the paper.

The ache that follows in your chest surprises you more than anything else. These notes had become a small but constant reminder that someone out there saw you as something more than your role and a polite smile. You hadn’t fully realized how much of them you carried with you every day until now.

It had become a possibility you never allowed yourself to name. And now it’s being ripped away from you before you’ve even had the chance to decide if you wanted it.

A wet breath leaves your lips, the paper trembling faintly between your fingers as you lean back against the sturdy shelf, hands stiff on your thighs as you clench your jaw, trying to stop your chin from wobbling so embarrassingly fast in a public space.

That’s why you don’t hear him at first.

Bucky lethargically turns into the aisle with a few books in his arms, already half-thinking about where they belong. He slows when he notices someone ahead, instinctively preparing to move past without disturbing them.

Then he recognizes you, and his body locks into place.

You’re standing too still, your posture drawn inward in a way that doesn’t belong to you. Your bag has slipped from your shoulder, probably without you noticing, because it hangs awkwardly in the bend of your elbow. The fabric of your shirt was dragged with it, the collar now slipping just enough to expose the slope of your shoulder and your collarbones, the seam no longer primly sitting where it should.

You look… undone, in the most mortifying of ways.

And then his gaze drops. In your other hand, a book barely held, your fingers curled around it without intention, like you forgot it was there.

Realization hits fast enough to make his stomach turn, sharp and sudden.

His note.

The air leaves his chest in a shallow breath.

He had imagined you finding out, vaguely, distantly—but not like this. Not with you standing in one of the darkest corners of the library, alone and crying for the very thing he had convinced himself would never affect you so much.

A soft, shaky sniff pulls him sharply out of his thoughts, so Bucky decides that this is enough.

He steps forward, careful like approaching a wild, injured animal.

Your name comes out of his lips more hesitantly than he wants to admit.

Your chin lifts, a flicker of surprise, brief and disoriented, crosses your features, before you realize who is standing before you. At that point you straighten abruptly, instinctively composing yourself, though the traces of what you were feeling can’t disappear with a single swipe of your fingers.

“James.” You greet him with a slight bow of your head, your voice fainter than he has ever witnessed.

His heart hurts at the sight.

“Are you okay?” He whispers.

You nod too quickly. “Yes!” You exclaim, nodding eagerly. “Yes, of course. I’m fine, it’s just—” The sentence falters, dissolving before it can take shape. You shake your head then, swallowing. “It doesn’t matter.”

Bucky should leave. He set the decision in stone last night as he crafted his last note, deliberately, with the kind of resolve he doesn’t usually manage to hold onto for long. And even if right now you are shaken—holding onto that piece of paper that clearly matters to you more than he ever intended—Bucky should step back, let it end cleanly, before it could turn into something more complicated, more humiliating.

You’ll move on. In a few days, maybe a week at most, the notes will blur into a simple memory. You’ll return to your life, to the steady rhythm of it, to things that are real and lasting and meant for you. And eventually—months from now, years, it doesn’t matter—you might remember this with amusement. A strange, fleeting experience. A story to tell with a soft smile to your kids, about that shy, awkward student who hid behind borrowed words because he never quite had the courage to stand in front of you and speak them himself.

It’s exactly what he wanted.

But you’re still holding that damn piece of paper, and he knows every word written there.

“You don’t have to pretend.” He mumbles.

Your eyes lift to his again, searching now, something in his tone catching where everything else might have passed unnoticed.

“… James?” Uncertainty threads through your voice.

There’s a moment where he almost steps back, almost lets this dissolve into something safer.

“I didn’t think you’d read it here,” he blurts out, his voice strained at the edges. “I thought you’d take it home, or… later.”

Your back slowly straightens to face him as realization dawns on your face.

“You wrote this.”

Bucky nods, just once.

“I’m sorry.”

The apology comes quickly, choked, like it has been waiting all along in his throat.

“I shouldn’t have—I didn’t mean for it to end up like this.”

“Like what?” You ask, voice steadier despite tears still blurring your vision.

“Like you having to deal with it.”

You shake your head, a small, almost disbelieving movement.

“That’s not—” Your eyelids flutter shut momentarily, chest raising and lowering with a deep breath as you try to find the right way to say something that suddenly feels more complicated than it should be.

“Why would you think this is something I have to deal with?”

He lets out a short, humorless breath.

“Because it is,” he says with too much certainty. “It’s not something you asked for.”

“And you decided that for me?”

He hesitates. “No. I just… didn’t want to make it harder for you.”

“Harder how?” You press, stepping closer without fully realizing it.

Bucky takes his time to look at you, properly, and whatever he sees in your expression seems to unsettle him more than the fear of being rejected.

“Because I’m not—” His jaw clenches as he searches for words that don’t sound as inadequate as he feels. “I’m not someone you would choose.”

You stare at him with furrowed brows, because of how easily he says it, how certain it sounds, like he has already accepted it as an absolute, indisputable fact.

“That’s not your decision to make.”

“I’m not deciding anything,” he replies, though his voice breaks. “I’m just being realistic.”

“You’re not,” you say, taking another step closer. “You’re assuming.”

“I’ve seen enough to know,” he sighs, and there’s something in the way his voice tightens that suggests he hadn’t meant to say even that much. “It’s not—this isn’t about whether I feel something. That part was never—” He stops, swallows back an embarrassing sob that dissolves his words into a whisper. “It’s about where I fit beside you. And I don’t.”

You silently study how he’s holding himself tightly, slightly leaning back, like he’s already preparing to flee.

“That’s not your decision to make.” You shake your head, stepping closer again. “You’re being afraid.”

He can’t deny that.

And that’s when you close the distance.

Your lips meet in a tender kiss. It isn’t rushed, but it isn’t hesitant either. It’s a decision made without overthinking, without giving him space to retreat behind that safe prison of insecurity he built to protect himself from being hurt.

Initially, Bucky doesn’t move, eyes wide and arms rigid at his sides.

This doesn’t make sense. Your lips on his.

It’s only when one of your hands touches his cheek, warm and hesitant, the other settling over the uneven rhythm of his heart, that his palms lift, almost cautiously, like he’s afraid you’re going to disappear with a single brush of his fingers. Just a figment of his imagination. A beautiful, sweet lie.

He cradles your cheeks, the touch so fragile, like a breath caught between speaking and silence. And your lips part gracefully against his, his tongue gaining more confidence the more you tease it with yours.

Bucky’s a mess by the time you pull back, his ears ringing and his breath shaky. You don’t leave him completely, the tips of your noses still brushing as his eyes desperately search yours for the slightest hint of regret. But he finds none.

“I don’t understand,” he breathes out. “Why would you—”

“Because I want you, James.” You answer simply.

“That’s not—That’s not supposed to go like this.”

Your eyes close with a sigh, and when they flutter open again, Bucky has to swallow back another apology as a set fresh of tears makes them glow so prettily under the dim-light.

“What if I don’t see you the way you see yourself?” Your head tilts. “If I don’t think you’re temporary. If I don’t think you’re out of place in my life.”

There’s a long moment where he just observes you in awe, the certainty of being unwanted he held onto for so long unraveling piece by piece, replaced by something far more delicate yet warm. So warm his chest feels full.

“Then why didn’t you—” His voice breaks, the question catching in his throat.

“Because you never gave me the chance.”

This time, Bucky doesn’t look away. His shoulders loosen, gradually, finally allowing himself to live in the moment. One of his hands shakily moves from your face, like he’s still not entirely sure you are real, and settles lightly against your waist. His eyes follow the movement, grounding himself in your body to convince himself this no longer feels like a ridiculous dream.

“Can I—” His lips press together at your grin.

He doesn’t finish the question. Instead, he simply leans in.

This time, the kiss is his.

END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 💛 here is the link to the collab masterlist!

books quoted:

1. The End of the Affair by Graham Greene 2. Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy 3. The Princess Bride by William Goldman 4. Persuasion by Jane Austen 5. Lady Chatterley's Lover by D.H. Lawrence 6. Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë 7. Il barone rampante by Italo Calvino 8. The Bridges of Madison County by Robert James Waller

time to expose myself: I've never read some of these books. yes I suck, I'm a terrible person, I'm illiterate, whatever you want 😩 some I just studied; others I discovered thanks to this story. all the quotes come from a long, thorough and agonizing research on different websites about romantic quotes (😭) and reddit (I swear I always find some interesting info every time I look up a topic I have no knowledge about). I tried to make sure each quote comes from a book with love/romantic relationships as one of the themes, but again, I had never even heard about some of them until a few weeks ago, so my knowledge entirely comes from google. I apologize if the english translation of some quotes is not 100% correct, I had to translate those myself because I could only find them in their original language.

[witchywcmans]

PLEASE, EAT. | LAIOS TOUDEN

synopsis ━━ after you've been bitten by a sea serpent, you know the consequences are either death or the possibility of turning into one yourself. thankfully for you, laios touden is the devourer of all things monster and he is dedicated to getting that venom out of you. (laios x f!reader.)

content warnings ━━ sex pollen-adjacent, cunnilingus + fingering, praise, breath play (kinda, if you squint), semi-public sex, multiple orgasms. nsfw (minors + ageless blogs dni).

word count ━━ 3k

song inspiration ━━ too sweet, hozier / more than friends, isabel larosa

author's note ━━ this is the first time I've ever written and posted an x reader one-shot on here, so please be gentle with me lol. I usually only write x oc fics bc I'm a yapper and I love creating characters. but alas...I was perusing the laios x reader tag and wanted to read something with this plot, couldn't find it, so I figured I'd just do it myself 🫡

🪽 part i: PLEASE, EAT. / part ii: FORBIDDEN FRUIT. / part iii: TOO SWEET.

This was definitely one of the worst situations you’d been in.

You had joined Laios’ adventuring party just a few months prior. They had found you on floor 3 of the dungeon, shivering and mourning the loss of your father. His body, dead in your arms, and beside him lay the lifeless body of a ghoul you had killed. At first, the party’s leader, Laios Touden, had only been interested in taking the ghoul's body so they could use its bones for utensils after the flesh rotted off. But it was Marcille who noticed the tears in your eyes, how you trembled from the cold, and suggested they take you in. You almost declined, not wanting to leave your father’s body, but knowing he’d soon turned into a monster left you with only one option. Your father had been with you for the past twenty-five years of your life, and now, you were leaving his dead body in a dungeon to travel with a group of strangers.

You soon came to appreciate your new party, though, and you felt your father’s spirit within each of them. Marcille had his kindness, Chilchuck had a comparable wit, Senshi was gifted with excellent cooking skills, and Laios … well, you were still figuring that out. And surprisingly, it was Laios who you began to connect with the most. His knowledge of monsters was unmatched, and he had a passion for learning how to prepare them while they traveled deeper into the dungeon. He was overtly blunt, much like you, and possessed similar advanced fighting skills due to both your fathers' teachings.

Sometimes … sometimes though, you found yourself staring at him more than you should have. His face was abnormally perfect, as if he’d been carved by an artist. His tousled ash-blonde hair reminded you of a lion, and his eyes … sometimes you could’ve sworn they were made out of gold, shimmering like molten lava. Each time you thought this way, you smacked yourself when no one else was looking. I mean, Laios was your friend, your party leader. Having a crush, especially in circumstances like these, was unethical. You had always been focused on one thing: helping your party and making it out of this dungeon alive, for your father. You wouldn’t let a little crush deter you.

Everything had been all well and good until today, when you and your party reached the end of floor 4. When Laios had struggled to fight off a sea serpent, you joined him in the lukewarm water, using your crossbow to shoot the creature in the head. Finally, Laios was able to step in to slice the serpent’s head off … but not before the creature could snap its jaw, tearing one fang down your hip. You jumped back, screaming as you felt the venom seep into you instantly. Some said sea serpent venom would kill you immediately, others said it turned you into one of them, cursing you to haunt the waters with them as penance. As soon as the head was cut, Laios carried you away from the water, and the last thing you heard was Marcille cursing him out before you were rendered unconscious. 

You were woken up – hours, maybe days later – by a drop of water hitting your face every few seconds. Lifting your head from the makeshift tunic pillow, you took in your surroundings. You were at the entrance of floor 5, in a damp corner of cobblestone, while water dripped down onto the floor every so often. There was a moist bandage covering your side where the serpent’s fang had cut into you, part of your tunic ripped to shreds. Hunger boiled in your stomach, making you groan and rub your head. Laios was sitting just a few feet away, a small fire in front of him to keep warm. Marcille had to have helped him with that; there was no way to craft a fire in an area this damp.

“Am I dead?” You asked softly. 

Laios immediately turned in your direction, his mouth lifting in a smile. “Of course not.”

Your stomach did flip flops as you took in his smile, hunger consuming you. You needed something to eat – bad. Your body felt hot and sweaty, and you wondered if it was just from the humidity, even though Laios didn’t look affected. Sitting up, you informed him, “Well, that was one of two options my father said would happen from a sea serpent bite. Which means …” You lifted the bandage up, noticing the gills that started to form on the healing wound. A turquoise hue surrounded the gills, almost like a bruise. “Oh, fuck,” you muttered.

Laios stood, looming over you while asking, “What’s wrong?”

“It’s the other option,” you replied, too hungry to cry. “The bite is –”

“– Turning you into a sea serpent,” Laios finished. “Honestly, I thought that was just a myth. But when the bite didn’t kill you …” His mouth twitched, tongue darting out to wet the corners of his lips. “We have to suck the venom out. That has to stop the mutation.”

Your head snapped up. “Huh?” 

But as soon as your eyes met his, you started to wondered if what you were experiencing was hunger after all. Perhaps … a different kind of hunger. Laios stared down at you, the sparkling gold replaced by a dark hazel. It was just you two in this little corner of the dungeon, but you suddenly felt exposed, so naked, under his gaze. Your body was hot all over, sweat sticking to uncomfortable places. And your thighs … a burning need emerged between them, soaking the thin linen of your undergarments. This had to be a symptom of the bite, but it suddenly didn’t matter anymore. Your worry had been replaced by an ache that only he could fix.

No – absolutely not. You couldn’t. You shouldn’t. You were turning into a sea serpent.

But the need between your legs still throbbed.

“It’s like when a snake bites you on the surface,” Laios said, crouching down to your eye level. His closeness made your heart rate pick up. You realized then that he had shed his armor, kneeling in front of you in just his gambeson, which clung to his muscles and wide frame. “A sea serpent is part snake. Sucking out the venom should stop the mutation. You’ll probably experience symptoms from the bite for a few more hours, but they’ll stop eventually.” 

He started to peel back the bandage, taking a look at the gills forming on your hip when you gripped his wrist. Immediately, his skin burned, making you even more hot. You ripped your hand away from him, and with sweat trickling down the side of your face, you said, “Don’t you think this is … weird? Maybe Marcille should do it.”

“Marcille and the others just went back to another part of the level to find dinner. They won’t return for an hour, at least. This can’t wait.” He inspected the turquoise gills with concern, before his eyes snapped back to yours, noticing the way your black pupils filled almost the entire iris. “Do you not trust me?”

“Of course, I trust you. It’s just …” What exactly was the reason again? Oh, yes, it was pulsating hunger dripping between your legs from the bite, and you were terrified how you’d react the second his lips wrapped around your wound. The symptoms would just get worse. But he was right – this was the only way. Fuck, this had to be the most embarrassing thing you’d ever experienced. 

“Fine,” you finally relented, lying back down on the cobblestone. You did your best to get comfortable, but the makeshift pillow hardly provided much cushion between you and the floor.  “What should I do?”

“Nothing, just lay back and let me take care of it.” Laios lifted your tunic a smidge, and just the tenor of his voice made your ache even worse. “We’re just gonna … get this out of the way. And then …” His fingers hooked on the waistband of your pants, and you immediately clutched his collar. If you touched his skin again, you were sure to moan.

Laios looked from where your hand was gripping him and back to your eyes. “Your pants need to be off so I can have better access to the mutation. It’s on your hip.” You swallowed hard, knowing he was right, and your hand started to slip off his collar. “We’re friends, right?” He asked.

You nodded weakly.

“Good,” he smiled again, and you struggled to hold back a plea for him to touch you. He pulled down your pants, tossing them to the side. For a moment, he paused, taking in your soaked underwear and running his fingers over the mutation on your hip. He licked his lips again, and then said in a rather blunt tone, “You’re so –”

“Don’t say it,” you cut in, snapping your eyes shut to prevent further embarrassment.  Though you had never minded Laois’ occasional lack of social cues, this was one of those moments you needed anything but. “Just get the venom out.”

Laios tugged your underwear down a little to see if the mutation had spread. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” he informed you, lowering his head to your hip. “I’ve read that these bites can have a multitude of internal symptoms. Nightmares ... sweating … fever …” He ran his tongue over the gills, making your breath hitch instantly. “… And especially, arousal. Neat, huh?” He chuckled, and just his warm breath on the gills made you even more wet. “Don’t worry, I got you,” he assured before finally wrapping his mouth on the wound.

Your body burned even hotter than before as soon as his lips touched your skin. He sucked the venom out of you, spitting out blue globs every other second. His hands gripped your side, digging into your flesh and leaving crescent shapes from his nails. As you felt the gills start to close up, you couldn’t help but moan and arch into nothing. This felt better than any time you masturbated … any time you imagined your party leader above you … Fuck, who would’ve thought sucking sea serpent venom out of you would feel this good? Thank the gods the rest of their party was off catching dinner. You couldn’t deal with them possibly hearing this.

It surprised you when your orgasm flooded through you like a crashing wave. As Laios finished sucking out the last of the venom and the mutation closed, your arousal came to a definite peak and you let out a whine. You grabbed his arm, cumming from absolutely no stimulation.

Laios didn’t seem to mind though. In fact, he was mostly preoccupied with inspecting the area. You opened your eyes, your cheeks tinged pink, and saw the globs of venom to the left dissipate to nothing but water. You pinched the bridge of your nose, “I’m sorry, I –”

“The mutation closed. I was right!” Laios looked down at you, a big grin covering his face. “How do you feel?”

“Well, I definitely don’t feel a second set of lungs on my hip anymore.” You lifted your hand when you noticed a trickle of blue staining his lip, wiping it away with your thumb. “But I … my body is still …” The ache inside you had simmered slightly, but it was still there, lingering underneath the surface. 

This was genuinely humiliating. Maybe you should’ve just decided to turn into a sea serpent after all.

Laios grabbed your wrist before you could pull away from his face. He leaned into your palm, running his long nose down to your inner wrist. “Your skin is so warm. I can still smell how aroused you are from the serpent bite.” His eyes burned into yours, keeping your hand close to his face. “I can help. Do you need another release?”

Your cheeks got even more red when he acknowledged your orgasm. Shaking your head, you said, “I couldn’t ask you to do that. I can just –”

“I’d be honored to,” he replied, quite gruffly and persistent. His fingers tugged your underwear down with precision and ease, despite the damp fabric clinging to you. He spread your legs wide and placed them on his shoulders. Lowering himself down, he inhaled the scent of your climax and hooked his arms around your inner thighs. He smiled up at you – your pretty face red with embarrassment – all dopey-eyed and grateful. “You lot like to call me the devourer of monsters. Perhaps I should devour the last bit of monster out of you.”

He inhaled again, groaning like he typically did when he was hungry. His hot breath against your achingly wet pussy made you whimper with desperation. “You smell so good down here,” he whispered. “I’d wager you taste even better.”

You gasped as soon as he dove between your legs, licking a stripe through your folds, tasting your recent orgasm. He flicked his tongue over your clit before sucking on it with feverish excitement. Slick gathered on his tongue and he whined, needing more. So much more. You were the most delicious meal he’d ever tasted. Better than any monster, better than anything on the surface. 

“So good,” he muttered into your pussy, lapping against your clit, doing anything that would get him more of your arousal. “You taste so, so good.”

You whimpered out his name and attempted to close your legs, but he held them opened with all his strength. His arms wrapped around your thighs went tight, bruising the sensitive flesh. Your jaw went slack while your own hands scrambled for purchase, eventually landing in his cropped hair. You tugged, hips bucking against his face, making him groan even more. This allowed him to hold your hips a little higher, and his tongue finally dipped into your leaking entrance. You heard him grunt the second he plunged his tongue deeper, his nose nuzzling your clit. 

He devoured you like a starved man. He devoured you like you were a boiled scorpion, or roast basilisk, or – even better – like sweet, delicious homemade cheesecake. 

“Laios,” you whined, feeling your fever dissolve with each lap of his tongue. “Laios, it’s … fuck – it’s okay, I feel –”

“Need more,” he muttered, his voice low and laced with need. He was practically humping the stone floor as he buried his tongue as far as it could go inside you. Your hips couldn’t stop bucking forward, riding his face as you felt your orgasm building at the base of your stomach. Laios was completely transfixed. He wanted to be here, nestled between your thighs, for every meal. He’d take you away from the rest of the group before dinner, lapping away to the sounds of your pleas and whimpers, so help him gods. He’d do this every day, every night, whenever you wanted, for as long as he was alive. Fuck monsters. He could survive off the taste of you for the rest of his life.

Slipping his tongue out of your hole, he went back to sucking on your throbbing clit and feeling your legs start to tremble. You had to be close to another release, and he was desperate to taste it. He paid all his attention on your clit, snaking one hand up and sinking two fingers knuckle-deep into your entrance in tandem. “Fuck,” you moaned, tugging on his hair once again, “fuck – gods, Laios. I – I’m s-so close –”

“Please,” he begged, smearing your slick all over his mouth. “Please, you’re so good. Need to see how you taste when you release on my tongue.” His own hips continued to buck against the floor.

You choked on a cry when you finally came all over his tongue. He groaned, loud and drawn out, when he finally got a taste of your sweet climax, knowing that it was him that brought you to this point. The orgasm felt long, like the ocean bringing you in and out, and your whole body trembled. He continued lapping at your clit as it pulsed under his tongue, his fingers curling inside you through your orgasm. When you finally breathed out and started to come down from the high of it all, Laios stayed between your thighs, allowing his tongue to gently swirl your clit. Maybe if he continued, he could taste a little more of you …

You found your voice, hoarse from overstimulation. “Laios, please, you have to stop,” you begged, yanking his head up from between your legs. His mouth was covered in your slick, and then he was giving you that dopey expression again, making your heart clench. Your body was no longer hot and sweaty. Laios had completely cured you of the sea serpent bite with that expert mouth of his. He unwound his arms from your thighs, bringing his fingers that were still covered with your wetness to his mouth, tasting the last of your orgasm. You watched him, eyes wide and cheeks blushing, until he was looking at you again with those golden doe eyes.

“That was amazing,” he said, like he was in a haze. When your eyes flickered down, you realized he was hard in his pants, but it wasn’t like he even noticed himself with the way he was staring at you. “We should do that again sometime.”

He stood up, and you scrambled to pull your clothes back on before the group came back. You stammered, “It’s okay, uh – we don’t have to. Especially if you don’t want to. We could just –”

“I want to,” he cut in, a determined look in his eyes. “What are friends for, right?” 

[3leni]

HER BROTHER'S KEEPER ; SERIES MASTERPOST

pairing; zuko / f!airbender!reader

status; ONGOING

current wc; 11k

Awakened in a war-torn world with only your brother as the last remnant of your people, you find yourself responsible for a ragtag group of kids tasked with saving it. Oh, and an exiled prince won’t stop getting in your way. Or: you are Aang’s sister, he is the Fire Lord’s disgraced son, and the wind has always had a habit of fanning the flames.

warnings/tags; canon rewrite, slow burn (for real), air nomad culture, grief/mourning, enemies to friends to lovers, heavy angst, explicit themes of war/genocide, spirituality, heavy angst, survivor's guilt, older sister syndrome used as a literary device, reader is a 17yr old mom who works two jobs who loves her kids n never stops, complicated feelings during complicated times, forgiveness.

A/N; please, please, pretty please with a cherry on top, i need you to go read the director's note section on ao3 !!! LIKE, PLEASE !!!

⭒ ݁ . READ ON AO3. my full masterlist. my inbox. gif from this set by avatar-aang.

ACT I: “If We Knew Each Other Back Then, Do You Think We Could’ve Been Friends Too?”

CHAPTER ONE

[3leni]

HER BROTHER'S KEEPER, CH1 ; zuko / f!reader

⭒ ݁ . SERIES MASTERLIST. READ ON AO3.

summary; Awakened in a war-torn world with only your brother as the last remnant of your people, you find yourself responsible for a ragtag group of kids tasked with saving it. Oh, and an exiled prince won’t stop getting in your way. Or: you are Aang’s sister, he is the Fire Lord’s disgraced son, and the wind has always had a habit of fanning the flames.

word count; 11k

warnings/tags; a hundred year old ice hangover, zuko being his usual s1 zuko self, depictions of war and genocide, grief/mourning, reader is a 17yr old mom who works two jobs, found family, survivor's guilt and heavy angst, air nomad culture, older sister syndrome used as a literary device. read the full shebang on the masterlist or ao3!

A/N; can you guys believe that this fic was first conceptualized back in 2020... holy fuck i just realized that's 6 years ago. ok. sure man what the hell. GO READ THE DIRECTOR'S NOTE (lmao) ON AO3 FIRST PLS !!! and pls pls pleaaaase give me your thoughts (or questions!) below whether it's a sentence, a paragraph, or just a keyboard smash! reblogs feed the soul. feed your local writer <3

⭒ ݁ . my full masterlist. my inbox.

You’re sore. Everywhere-sore.

The kind of sore you’d expect after gliding in-between prickly clouds for hours: breath tight, lungs strained trying to keep your temperature regulated against the cold of the sky.

But, you’re not… flying?

Gooseflesh prickles at your arms, and from under your closed lids a blinding light jolts you awake. An echoing boom! that shakes your core and feels more like a waking dream, dizzying and making you drift from one plane to the next. Back and forth, back and forth…

Moments or hours pass until you move, fingers twitching. Your body does so on its own accord: shooting itself sideways against hard leather, coughing up water as breath enters your lungs for what feels like the first time in years. 

Everything feels raw. You can’t even move your arms.

You’re exhausted. Entirely drained of motion and so, so thirsty. Your throat bobs as you attempt to swallow, tongue grating against the roof of your mouth like sand. One naked hand drops miserably against the leather, and you exhale.

The air feels like glass shards clawing at your skin, nipping at the flesh and grazing the bones. You’re numb. Like you’re bleeding from some unseen wound—hidden somewhere pulsing—red and raw and angry. Your chest heaves, and every shift is like a stab. You need to leave, you have to move, you must…

Stop.

Heartbeat pounding in your chest, the thumps pulsate through your head and down your belly.

Breathe.

Thu-thump, thu-thump, thu-thump. It echoes like a broken melody, an unstringed instrument in a loud and ugly cacophony. 

Empty your mind, and breathe.

It’s not you that whispers in your head. Instead, Batsal’s calm voice overtakes you, soothing like a balm, and all of a sudden it’s like you’re back at the temple again. Back home.

You can almost see her wrinkled eyes twinkling alongside a setting sun, can almost feel her weathered palm closing around your shoulder. For just a moment, it’s enough.

Breathe.

Just letting yourself be, you keep laying on the hard surface as air weaves itself throughout your body. It starts from your core and spreads like heated tendrils, until you feel your toes and fingers tingling with its warmth alongside the fall and rise of your chest. It makes you shiver.

And, as if your mind is suddenly jolted awake, images flash beneath your eyes in a dizzying rush. 

A storm, lightning, blinding and deafening against the raging sea. Someone’s screaming with a raw throat, and you think it might be you. A blurred amalgamation of choking on saltwater. Down your throat, burning your eyes and filling your lungs as all sounds slowly dull. The currents are fierce. The air runs out. It has all ran out. It burns your chest and throws your senses into disarray, fingertips just barely grazing against a saddl— 

You bolt up with a heave, gasping and choking on your own spit. Eyes shooting awake, you shut them tight as quickly as you opened them. Wincing at the blinding backscatter, you let your hazy vision adjust with a moan.

Aang.

Spirits, where are you?

Your head hurts.

Where’s Aang?

It’s hard to hear yourself think. The wind is beating on you, the snow is blinding you—the snow?—and there seem to be voices coming from somewhere… In some direction and you just can’t… 

You freeze as the ground below you shakes with a groan.

Wait… The ground? No, that can’t be right. You gasp: “Appa!”

The bison responds with a deep bleat, shaking his head and shaking you with him. You stretch on trembling legs tingling from misuse, limbs popping, and Appa grumbles from under you.

You almost laugh. Reaching out your arms, you fall from the saddle and the wind falls with you. It licks your fingers, pushing and pulling as you land, raising specks of snow with it.

The hard ice beneath your feet has you shivering. You can feel Appa’s warmth next to you, his fur emanating a heat that has you burrowing at his side like a kitten-moth. It nearly engulfs you whole, and you’ve never been more glad for it. He groans appreciatively.

“Never thought I’d be so glad to see you, boy,” you murmur against his fur. He grumbles. “Don’t be like that, y’know what I meant…” He bellows.

As you step back towards his snout with airy footsteps and giving it an affectionate squeeze, you let your eyes wander upwards. They follow an invisible trail up, up, up…

…Only to find an empty sky. 

Oh.

Oh, oh no.

The sky is empty? It’s empty! Painted by clouds: thick, moving, misty… Devoid of everything. Just boundless blue stretching for miles and miles that only makes you dizzier the more you look up at it, craned neck becoming sore the more you twist and turn, searching for something that simply isn’t there. 

The Great Comet… It’s gone.

Your eyes fall back on Appa and on the ice around you, at its hollow and shattered shape. The hairs on your nape rise as that feeling overtakes you again. That thundering burst you felt shaking your very core just before you woke.

You’ve been stuck here. 

Somehow, in some way you’re breathing too heavily to think about, Aang must’ve buried you in here after Appa went down. You remember, you think. Just a second before everything goes black. A flash under the heavy waves, pulling you in like a riptide. The details are still muddy; a foggy, barely-there recollection, and your fingers rise to rub the bridge of your nose.

This is too much.

How many days were you in here? Weeks?

You think you’re going to be sick. This is bad.

Where’s Aang?

And suddenly, your name is called: it rings back all around, a swirling echo against the emptiness. The voice is all too familiar. Breath hitching, you backstep just in time for the figure to fall between you and his bison, catching a glimpse of yellow and orange before you’re nearly knocked off your feet.

“Aang!” His arms enclose around your torso, and you lift him off his feet with a squeal. “Where were you?!”

As he steps back with his glider clutched tight in one hand, he foregoes an answer by reaching his other hand out.

Your staff!

It’s heavier and longer than his, more worn. Wind-beaten by your years of travels through the Earth Kingdom and frayed by flames in the Fire Nation. Scattered engravings wrap around its surface, etched around campfires and carrying laughter with them.

It makes you remember the black-sanded beaches of that small Fire Island too insignificant for imperial mapmakers, giggling as Naoki tried to pry it off you and Jee struggled to keep the flames going. (He just needed practice, is all.)

Spirits. You have not seen them for… Huh. Years now. The sudden realization sends a pang beneath your ribs.

You miss the easy way the days flowed on that small blotch of land just north of Ember Island. A slow push-and-pull. The way Jee’s mother gave you toasted millet for the road, crammed it up in tiny little drawstring purses and sneaked them in your satchel with a wink. The way Naoki made you laugh until your cheeks ached.

You really ought to visit them again. You hope Jee’s bending has evolved to more than just flickering, unsure embers. You hope Naoki’s traveled, seen the world the way she said she envied you for.

You hope they’ve missed you, too.

The weight of the staff strains Aang’s arm, and you take it with a sigh of relief. It feels good to have it in your palm again, to feel its weight shift as you tap it on the ground. Something sure instead of this shaky, tense resolve. It’s easing your nerves, eyes slowly but surely adjusting to the way the snow reflects the sun.

When you look down at Aang again, he speaks before you have a chance to: “I was making friends!”

Your eyes tighten. “What friends?”

A beat.

“What is that thing?!”

Ah. Those friends, then.

They’re hard to miss. With brown skin and clad in furs—thick and blue and very much swallowing them whole—it makes where you’ve wound up an easy guess. If the barren ice for miles in every direction hadn’t given it away.

The Water Tribe.

“This is Appa, my flying bison.”

The boy’s face (young, younger than you, maybe) falls at Aang’s words, eyes narrowed and stance almost defensive. He gives you little time to study him, the way he’s leaning towards you cautiously, gloved palms gripping his spear as he shifts to cover the girl beside him. She looks even younger, with the same brown skin and wide blue eyes. That’s not where the resemblance stops. 

The way his body twists looks almost practiced. A second nature screaming of distrust. She lets him, legs locked and hands fidgeting at her sides.

You hadn’t been as lucky as to have visited either sister-tribe during your travels, but you know they are not a guarded people. Not the way the citizens of the other nations are, either too prideful or too stubborn. Not even the way your people are.

Your eyebrows twitch. Everyone is wary of strangers, but the way they’re looking at you is making the tattoos on your skin itch.

The boy is looking at Aang like he’s grown three heads, muscles loosening as his shoulders drop. “Right,” he drawls, “and this is Katara, my flying sister.”

Aang’s gasp echoes from beside you, and it makes your ears ring. “This is my flying sister!” He points at you with a beam, eyes wide like bells. You snort, despite the ache.

A sudden winding roar rings out, and you turn just in time to watch as Appa’s snout contorts violently, the ice under you shaking as he lets out a rumbling sneeze. Snoot and mucus shoots out as you duck and almost land on your ass.

“Look out!” you call, but it’s a little too late for it. All of Appa’s waste has landed on the boy, and his screeching mewls are even more piercing than the bison’s.

Trying not to gag as he shakes and twists, you turn and nod to the girl—Katara?—with a grimace. Your whole face is scrunched up, and hers is not far behind. “Hold him,” you tell her as your nose twitches. Ugh.

Timidly and with an air of confusion, Katara’s hands come up and grip her brother’s arms, carefully avoiding the snoot sticking to his furs.

You exhale, palm following the path of your breath all the way down to your center. You feel it leaving your lungs, the way it intertwines with the air around you in a cloud of hazy mist. It feels crisp, crackling with an energy that’s building just under your skin, just out of reach.

In—

Twisting your midriff, you bring your staff back for momentum.

And out—

You shoot your palms forward. 

The wind gathers under your fingers and all the way to the tip of your staff. It’s sudden and harsh, roughing up your robes as you pull more and more, so raw and glacial it’s almost tangible.

You’ve never bent an air so pure, so untouched and sharp. It feels invigorating. It engulfs the boy whole, furs flying in the whirlwind, his hair a tangled mess as his knot comes undone.

Yup. That seems to do it.

The waste is almost all gone, and what’s left behind is just a lingering smell and his darkened wet coat. You have to fight the urge to laugh as he gathers his wits, blue gaze glaring daggers at you as you smile and the wind dies out.

“It’ll wash off.” You tap your staff down, and for a moment, they’re both just staring at you, dumbfounded.

“You almost blew me off the ice!” The boy says, anger dissolving and giving way to utter disbelief. Exasperation? He’s now looking at you like you’ve grown three heads. Your head tilts.

“You…” The girl whispers, eyes wide and gaping like she’s seen a spirit. All previous wariness seems forgotten as she shoots forward, hands clasped and brows blown wide. “You’re airbenders!”

Ah.

You bite down a grin. It’s always fun to come across people who’ve never been exposed to the world before. To be the one bringing the world to them. In many ways, this is a first for you, as well.

Under better circumstances, you hope to have come across the two siblings anyway. Maybe you would’ve flown over their village on Yunjin and they would’ve waved you down. They would’ve offered you a bowl of sea prunes around a fire, exchanged a kind word before you mounted your bison and promised to return one day. But these are the pieces you’ve been dealt, and you will make the most of them.

Faintly—selfishly, even—you wonder if they have any Masters in their home, someone willing to guide Aang in the things you simply can’t.

Water comes after air, doesn’t it? The element most like yours: that flowing, soothing pulse of it, its vibrancy and all-consuming force. A pond and a breeze, a sea-swell or a hurricane. Both give life, are essential to it, and both can take it in return. Hanging in that delicate balance as all things do.

You’re Aang’s sister, his people, his friend. But his teacher, his mentor… That you cannot be. Not for this.

Running away, well… It was never going to last. You only hope convincing him to return home will be easier after this.

Ugh. You shudder. Just the thought of open waters makes your shoulders twitch.

You just want to go back. To look over the temple and see nothing but mountaintops and clouds as far as your eye wanders. You want to mount Yunjin again, let her take you all the way back to the Western Temple to see Batsal and Meena and Yarra. With the Comet over they’re bound to have returned, as everyone else who came down south for the celebrations.

You want Aang to fulfill his duties. He’s too young for this, you know that, but the monks would’ve never imposed this on him without reason. You trust their decision and wisdom, and you’ll guide Aang the best way you know how.

Right now, that means getting the Avatar back.

(Avatar… It still feels weird calling him that. You hope it gets easier on the tongue with time. There’s not much else you can hope for right now. Except maybe for some water…)

“We sure are! So, do you guys live around here?”

The jagged tooth spear is shoved in both your directions before Aang has even taken a breath. The boy huffs to his sister: “Don’t answer that! Did you see that crazy bolt of light? They were probably trying to signal the Fire Navy!”

The Fire Navy? In Southern Tribe waters?

To your credit, you manage to hide your confusion well. With years of flying in circles around the nuns’ questions, it’s easy to slip back into it like a second skin. Only, that just makes you even more homesick.

Katara shoves her brother’s spear down with a scoff, moving to stand between the three of you. There’s a mocking scorn in her voice as she speaks, hands at her hips. “Oh, yeah, I’m sure they’re spies for the Fire Navy.” Spies? “You can tell by that evil look in their eye.”

You do your best to flash a grin, but it kind of comes out more like a grimace, eyebrows and lips pulling almost painfully. 

The boy’s face drops, as does yours, and the spear is slowly lowered. The miniscule slip of a grin you shoot him then—an almost-smile—is real this time. You don’t know why he’s so guarded, but you’re glad to see those walls softening.

“The paranoid one is my brother, Sokka,” Katara says. “You never told us your names.”

As Aang tells her, Sokka turns on his heels, dismissive. “Giant light beams, flying bison, airbenders… I think I got midnight sun madness. I’m going home to where stuff makes sense.”

How sheltered are these kids?

He stops short on the edge of the ice, seeing what you all do as your eyes  trail after him.

There’s nothing but ice, ice, and some more ice for as far as the eye can see. You assume they got here by boat, but that’s nowhere to be seen either. The southern sea spreads out around you dauntingly, desolate and stark.

Be that as it may, the perfect means of transportation is yawing just a few feet behind you, warm and ready to take flight. You wince, hoping no more waves rise up. You’ve had enough of that for one lifetime. Multiple, even.

“If you guys are stuck,” you call out, looking at Aang as he nods, “maybe we can give you a lift?” 

Aang’s already up to Appa’s head, and Katara’s looking up with a glint in her lovely eyes, smile wide and grateful. Her blue gaze swifts between you two. “We would love a ride, thanks!”

She slides over to Appa’s side and stops short, looking up at the saddle and Aang as he extends an arm. What makes you pause is the smile on his face; a kind of smile you’ve never seen on him before.

Huh. Interesting.

Katara’s gaze meets yours and you nod forward, standing just behind her. With the sudden gust of air you shoot under her, she’s gripping Aang’s arm with a yelp and setting her feet on solid leather.

“Oh, no!” Sokka calls, turning and walking towards you. “I am not getting on that fluffy snot monster—”

Katara teases: “Are you hoping some other kind of monster will come along and give you a ride home?”

“You know…” you trail off, head tilted. “Before freezing to death. Or starving. Or ending up as tiger-seal lunch.” 

“Alright!” he grumbles, and it’s all the opening you need before you’ve grabbed him by the arm, chuckling at his floundering.

“I did clean you up, y’know,” you mutter before an airy blast throws you both onto Appa’s back, and Sokka lets out the sharpest shrill you’ve ever had the displeasure of hearing. Even eel-hounds are not as ear-splitting, but you do your best to bite down your tongue.

Settling your back onto the saddle, you cross your arms with a smirk as he tries to play it off. Catching Katara’s eye, you almost burst out laughing. She’s sitting on her calves across from you, eyes sparkling like lanterns as Aang slides down to Appa’s head.

Taking the reins in hand, he calls out: “First-time flyers, hold on tight! Appa, yip-yip!”

So. Appa did not… yip-yip.

It was an embarrassing trip all throughout. Sokka fell asleep halfway through, just as dusk started peeking its way on the horizon, and his snores were enough to fill the silence. On the other hand, Aang subjected Katara to what might’ve been the worst game of eye-contact you’ve ever seen in your life, lounged back on Appa’s head without a care in the world.

He just keeps reminding you how young he is. It’s almost sweet.

But with nothing else to do for the hours ahead, you sat cross-legged on the saddle and gave a losing battle of meditation against Sokka’s snoring. The ebb and flow of Appa’s swimming helped though, and soon you managed to almost reach a state.

Almost, because one word snapped you out of it as quickly as a plunge in the icy waters could’ve.

It was Katara. Soft and hushed, she asked Aang: “I was just wondering, your being airbenders and all… If you had any idea what happened to the Avatar?”

There it was. That word, that question, the million implications it had. Your brows twitched but you didn’t move, even as your heart raced.

What did she mean? Have you been gone so long that the monks sent out search parties? That word spread to other nations looking for Aang?

…How long were you in that ice?

Dawn comes quickly when one’s mind races, and the hits just keep on coming. There’s been a knot in your stomach ever since last night—ever since you overheard Katara—and reaching their village does nothing but deepen that pit that’s gnawing at you.

This is not the bustling Southern Tribe you’ve heard about. There are no lively murmurs in the air when Appa lets you dismount, no excited curiosity for the new visitors. The women that greet you at the run-down gates have tired faces and worn postures, and they look at you in disbelief until Katara runs and engulfs an elder.

You’re carrying a sleeping Aang in your arms when the woman Katara hugged (her and Sokka’s ‘Gran-gran’) leads you to a tiny pelt tent, where you lay him on some wool hides that make every bell in your mind ring. The nuns would pop a vein if they saw all this animal death.

It’s a way of life, though; a balance in its own right. Plus, they are warm, so…

Sleep doesn’t find you. Thoughts are bouncing around your skull as you watch the steady falling and rising of Aang’s chest. You try to meditate, but the hope of any spirits reaching you here is low. You can feel the emptiness in the air; this place was abandoned long before you showed up.

All the men are gone, too. You noticed it. As small as this village is, half the population’s absence makes it look as big as Ba Sing Se and all the more desolate. Something has gone incredibly wrong, and you just don’t know what. It’s stifling you from the inside out.

Aang needs his rest, and then you need to go back. Immediately. He won’t like it, but that doesn’t matter, because something’s off and it’s like the air itself is trying to warn you.

Fire Navy and spies and run-down villages… What business does the Fire Nation have here? Try as you might to make sense of it, you only come up empty. A frustrated groan spills out of you that makes Aang twitch in his sleep.

Please don’t wake up, please don’t wake up, please don’t wake up…

You sigh when he turns and buries his head deeper in the pelts, one hand rising to rub the bridge of your nose. 

“Are you hungry, child?”

The whisper makes you jump. It’s Gran-gran leaning through the tent’s opening, wrinkled eyes shifting from you to Aang intermittently. Her smile is measured.

You hesitate, looking at Aang. “Oh, I don’t kn—”

“Nonsense. Come,” she waves you off, and you take that as your cue to stand up. You’d started to cramp, anyway. Making sure to keep your steps quiet, you follow after her and wince when the sun reflecting off the snow hits you again. You saw a few children wearing some sort of goggles before, with the tiniest slits cut out; must be for that. Voice rising as you move through the village, Gran-gran says: “Have you ever had blood soup?”

Spirits. “Oh, no—” you laugh awkwardly, stumbling over some hard snow. “We don’t eat meat. Or, uh, blood. No dead animals here…” you trail off in a sing-song with a halfhearted chuckle. You don’t think she finds it as funny.

“My mistake, airbender,” she says kindly. “But your kind hasn’t been seen since well before my time. Hm… Well, Yunna makes the best five-flavor soup, you’ll love it. Just seaweed, no meat, I promise.”

“S–sorry? What did you say?”

Your kind hasn’t been seen well since before my time. What in the spirits’ name does that even mean?

“It’s traditional southern food, we make it best here. The seaweed is—”

You don’t get the chance to question her further, because a bubbling Katara halts your winding thoughts in place. She giggles: “You came! C’mon, everybody wants to meet you! Is Aang awake?”

You blink as she drags you with her, bending your waist to enter a big tent full of gathered women, a large pot boiling in the middle, cured meats and bloody carcasses hanging from the sides. Spirits, you think you might get sick.

“N–no, no, uh, he’s still asleep. I want to let him rest.” You’re breathing heavier now, and it’s harder to pretend that everything’s alright with nearly ten sets of eyes on you. “Hi.”

There’s a chorus of hi’s and hello’s, and one of the younger girls skinning something nearly jumps in your face. Everyone else stares skeptically. She asks: “You’re really an airbender?”

You falter. Mouth opening, tongue paralyzed. Katara speaks for you: “They both are! You should’ve seen the way she air-dried Sokka. His face—”

“Alright,” Gran-gran cuts her off, one palm closing around your arm and guiding you to sit the furthest away from all the bloody meats. “Let the girl put something in her stomach first. Yunna, pour a bowl, would you?”

Gran-gran was right. The soup tastes amazing. It’s very different from anything you’ve ever tasted before; salty and rich with a thick broth, smelling strongly of fish even though there’s none in it. (You asked. Multiple times.)

As you quietly slurped on your soup, slowly but surely the women began leaving the tent, probably to take care of other daily duties. Soon enough it’s just you, Katara, Gran-gran, and that young girl whose name is Zoyi.

Your mind hasn’t stopped running in circles, and you finally muster the courage to ask Gran-gran: “What did you mean, before? About… airbenders not being seen since your time?”

It knocks the breath out of you to say. What seizes it completely is the look all three women share. There’s pity there, it’s plain as day. Like you’re a child who doesn’t know better. “Please,” you huff, “why are you not telling me? Just tell me—”

“Everybody knows the story,” Zoyi whispers and huddles in on herself.

“Tell me anyway.” Your eyes drift from Zoyi to Katara, keeping her gaze locked as she stares uncertainly at her grandmother. Gran-gran only gives her a stiff nod of approval, and with a sigh Katara faces you again.

“Gran-gran used to tell us stories about the old days. About times of peace, when the Avatar kept balance between the nations.”

“Roku,” you whisper.

She nods, braces herself. “All of that changed when the Fire Nation attacked.”

Your eyes are scrunched so tight until all you see is white. “…What?”

Gran-gran says, slowly: “That was a hundred years ago, child. When Fire Lord Sozin harnessed the power of the Great Comet, and… slaughtered the Air Nomads. It is known that any and all survivors were persecuted around the world. I’m so sorry.”

“And now the Fire Nation’s nearly won. Two years ago, my father and the men of our tribe journeyed to the Earth Kingdom to help the war effort. Since then it’s been just me, Sokka, and Gran-gran.”

Oh. Oh, you’re shaking, you think. It’s hard to tell through all the blood that’s rushing in your ears, the ringing that’s echoing around you like it’s trying to suffocate you from the inside out. There’s pinpricks travelling up your arms, and only when you look down to the wet spots on your shawl do you realize you’re crying.

(“Breathe, my girl. Empty your mind, and breathe,” Batsal says.

It’s the day of your ceremony. You’re fourteen years old, and scared; of what this means for you, of how things will change, of the inevitable acceptance that comes with it you’re not quite ready for. She’s always been an anchor for you, all throughout your childhood years and even now, becoming a Master yourself.

You wipe a tear on your shawl and look away from her, towards the horizon that’s peeking between the green cliffsides of the Western Temple.

“What happens when I leave?” you ask.

Ever since you took your first steps, you were a free spirit. An explorer, weaving inside corridors and giving the nuns headaches. You are a wild thing, that’s what Batsal always said; a wild thing and a wanderer, a summer wind that blows past and makes everyone warmer.

But you’re scared. You think you always have been. Those around you would disagree with everything they’ve seen you do, but what they don’t know is that you just did them scared.

And now, with your freshly healed tattoos and one final ceremony awaiting you before you’re truly free, you’ve never been more scared in your life.

What happens when you’re gone? What if the rest of the nations are so beautiful that you might never want to return? What if you fall in love with the world that you forget your home?

You’re crying now, white and hot, a rising sun bathing you in light as Batsal takes you in her arms. “My girl…” she shushes you, gently making you look at her. Her dark skin is even more beautiful in the light. “When we hit our lowest point, we are open to the greatest change. Remember that, yes? As long as you have that in your mind, you’ll find your way. Whatever it may be.”

You nod, sniffle, smile. “Thank you, Batsal.”)

Spirits, Batsal… Everyone… A hu–hundred years? How—?

The ice. Aang’s power.

Dead, everyone’s dead, you abandoned them and now they’re gone, there’s no one left, a hundred years in ice and there’s no one fucking left—

Aang.

Oh, spirits, Aang. He can’t know about this, not yet. It’ll break him. You just have to go back somehow, you can go back and search. Search for what? You don’t know. You can’t think right now.

Yunjin. Oh… Oh, Yunjin… She’s gone too, your sweet girl you left behind that night sneaking on Appa, determined to follow Aang to the ends of the world just to bring him back.

She must’ve been so scared, she’s always been scared of fire, always flinched at camps and festivals. She must’ve been so scared. And alone, all alone with just the screams of the dying as she searched for you. She’s gone. Everyone is gone.

You never should’ve left her behind. She’d be with you now if… If you hadn’t—

You don’t know when you started running. The air outside feels like ice shards clawing at your cheeks, a boulder heavy and unmoving on your heart. It’s beating so deeply, so wildly, you think it’s about to burst free.

Oh, spirits, oh spirits, oh sp—

You don’t even realize when you duck into Aang’s tent and grab your staff, nor when you keep running to the snowy walls and jumping over them with a powerful gust of air. The glacial winds help carry you as you take flight, the cold a welcome distraction against something you don’t even want to name.

Grief.

Raw, scraping, swelling like a wave. How can it be grief? You remember things like they were days ago. You woke up and your world’s been tilted on its axis.

This can’t be right, can it? What can a small Water Tribe village know about the rest of the entire world? How can all of your people be gone when you’re here? How can they all be gone when they’re each carried by a different wind?

All the Water Tribe men are gone. They’ve gone to fight a war that’s been happening for a hundred years. A hundred years frozen, like some fucked up curse for not preventing Aang’s escape. You shouldn’t be here. This wind that’s roughing up your shawl is not your wind to bend, nor is this sky or snow below.

You shouldn’t be here, yet here you are.

Everyone is gone. Batsal, Meena, Yarra, Gyatso, Naoki, Jee. Everyone you met on your years of travels, everyone you could’ve met. Your Yunjin. The monks, the nuns, the expecting mothers Yarra used to ask you for help with at the birthing wing.

Everything your people were and are and will be, all shrunk and trapped inside you and Aang.

You’re all that’s left.

These people you’ve met have no reason to lie to you like this. You would’ve seen it in the eyes. Eyes are the windows to one’s soul, and there was nothing but defeat in theirs.

You let the winds carry your sob-wrecked body over the landscape, passing caves and snowy hills until the village behind you is just a speck in your vision. Cheeks streaked and frozen against the bite, you cry and cry until you’re sure all water is gone from inside you, until you’re sure Aang will not see you shed a tear before you’ve figured things out.

You just glide, and glide, and glide.

You know something’s wrong when you spot Appa on the flight back.

He’s curled up and huffing, agitated as he knocks against glaciers with his foot. He bellows when he sees you, the sound reverberating and shaking you. Frozen cheeks scraping against his furs, you murmur: “Where’s Aang, boy? Were you guys following me?”

He keeps huffing and puffing in the direction behind you, and when you turn, your blood runs cold.

A Fire Navy ship.

Fumes are blackening the crisp air, its bow splitting the village walls in two. You can’t see much from this distance except the women and children that are gathered together, so you run. Again.

As fast as you can make the wind carry you, you run for momentum and shoot upwards in the air with the wings of your glider as an anchor. The closer you get, the more your stomach sinks.

They’ve got Aang.

You land in a whirlwind of snow. Lungs burning, you shout: “Stop! Where are you taking him?!”

When the boy on top of the formation turns, so does Aang. Your brother shouts your name, voice shrill, eyes panicked. From the back, you think Katara says your name too, but everything gets lost as soon as that boy speaks and your eyes focus on him.

“What is this? Another airbender?”

He has a scar; ugly, big, red and scorched. It extends all the way to his ear, unmistakably shaped like a hand, and for just one second you think: Who does this to another person? By the looks of it, he can’t be older than you. Who does this to a kid?

His armor looks polished and decorated. He wears no crown but carries himself with all the self-righteousness suited for one. You take a breath, stance defensive against two of his soldiers that came to stand in front of you, and say: “He’s just a child, please, you’re making a mistake—”

“He’s the Avatar, and I’m going home.” His neck turns, dismissive, shouting to his helmsman: “Head a course to the Fire Nation!”

You don’t know why you say what comes out of your mouth next. Call it desperation, or stupidity, or love for the only person you have left in this world.

“He’s not the Avatar! I am!”

Now, that? That gets his attention. As do Aang’s screeching yells. That kid has one incredible set of lungs.

“No, she’s lying, she’s lying! I am!”

You shake your head. “He’s just protecting me! I’m the Avatar. Please, just take me and let my brother go.”

The boy’s good eye narrows, his shoulders visibly tense, gaze shifting between the both of you in quick succession. “Brother, huh?” he seems to mutter to himself. “Time for a family reunion, then. You’re both coming with me. Seize her.”

Fuck. Okay, okay, it could be worse.

“Aye, my Prince.”

Prince? As in, the Fire Lord’s son? Fuck. Fuck. It is worse. So much worse.

As the soldier on your left takes your staff and the one on your right ties your hands behind your back, you hear Katara call after you. Your neck strains as you’re roughly pushed forward, but even from a distance you can see the tears that are pooling in her big eyes.

You shout: “We’re gonna be okay, Katara! We’re coming back.”

You’re nearly inside the ship, inside this black behemoth ready to clamp its jaws tight. Shoved past the prince, he stops you in your tracks with a stiff grip on your arm. His touch burns, and he sneers: “‘Coming back,’ aren’t you? You sound pretty confident for someone who’s my prisoner.”

“I’m no one’s prisoner,” you spit, eyes locked onto stiflingly hot amber that’s half-marred by skin torn at the seams. His grip tightens so much it hurts, a hiss spilling past your lips. “Let me go—”

“How old even are you?”

“Let me. Go.”

He squeezes you for just a moment more, just to hold himself above you in the eyes of his soldiers. When the moment’s over he lets you go like you’ve burned him, storming off and shouting as he goes. “Take them to the prison hold, and bring their staffs to my quarters! They’ll make excellent gifts for my father.”

“Right away, Prince Zuko.”

Prince Zuko. Prince Zuko with the scar and Prince Zuko your captor, son of the nation of your people’s killers.

Prince Zuko.

He disappears inside this metal maze, and you’re led deeper into the winding darkness. Aang is just in front of you, shoulders lax even though you’re being led to a prison.

You know he’s thinking the same thing you are when he says: “Sooo, I guess you’ve never fought airbenders before? I bet we can take you both with our arms behind our backs.”

“Silence.”

The guard has just placed the key inside the lock when Aang’s head turns to give you the slightest of nods, and the air around you both gathers like a hurricane against the hot metals.

Aang kicks a gust of wind that knocks the guard in front of him straight onto the door, and you exhale a breath so big it sends both yourself and the guard all the way to the end of the corridor. It’s exhilarating.

“C’mooon!” you groan at Aang, nodding at the stairway and kicking a rope of wind at the guard’s face as you go. Y’know, just for good measure.

The cold air hits you quickly, and you’ve only got time to take one deep breath before you’re airbending your way through the main deck and past a heavy door. You have to get your staffs back, and now it’s only a matter of finding the prince’s quarters.

As Aang bobs and dances circles around the soldiers—who look more dumbfounded than anything else—you deliver the final blows while they’re distracted. They get trapped inside your whirling cyclones, the air thick with the smog from the fumes, ending up on their asses or upside down while you use one’s helm to cut off your restraints.

They have no idea what to do against your bending and, in some messed up way, this is almost fun.

“Aang, let’s split, yell if we find trouble. It’ll be faster,” you tell him, rubbing circles on your wrists.

He nods with a grin. “I take up, you take… more up?”

“If you gotta ask, you’re already behind,” you tease, making him eat your dust as you begin flying up stairs. He whines a small ‘hey,’ but you’re already too far to make it out.

The doors you open are heavy and mechanical, much more advanced than any you’ve seen before. The metal groans and screeches every time you push another one open, only to end up disappointed and with a sore shoulder. You climb higher inside the metal tower, and that’s when you see it: one floor below the ship’s wheelhouse. A door is wide open, the space inside draped with Fire Nation emblems and shining regalia, red like the flames on every corner.

This has to be it.

You enter on light footsteps, bending the air beneath your feet like you’ve always done. The quarters smell of jasmine and flax oil, and it almost makes you sneeze. Yet sure enough, there’s both your staffs leaning against the wall. You take them in your arms with a triumphant smile before turning.

The smile drops from your lips just as the door clicks shut.

“Looks like I underestimated you, Avatar,” says the prince, eyes dark and bathed in shadows. He spits the word ‘Avatar’ like it’s an insult, like it’s sour in his mouth. What has Aang done to deserve such hate? What did your people do to deserve their end? “Or, is that your brother?”

You inhale. Breathing in all the stifling smoke and oppressive air inside the ship, letting it pass inside your lungs and filling them to the brim before you yell: “Aang!”

Your voice travels with the wind; you bend it to send it as far as it can go, ducking beneath the fire the prince hurls your way. It almost hits you, so hot it feels colder than the ice you woke up in. Heaving and backed up against the drapery, he keeps on with his assault.

It’s relentless and sloppy, full of hate. It snuffs out any and all air you pull as a shield, vaporizing before another flame has taken its place. You duck and twist in defense, following the lines of his body to end up behind him as he groans in frustration with each missed hit.

It’s a damn chaos.

All bending is an art, but airbending is a dance more than anything. You must move like the wind: formless like the breeze and thrice as strong, fluid with each shift of a muscle like a leaf blown off course. His moves are charged and angry, each one messier than the last as he tries to draw blood. It’s nothing like the beauty you’ve come to associate with firebending.

Well. A hundred years is a long time.

Your skin is slick with sweat as you throw yourself mid-air, locking your soles on his upper back and sending him flying to the wall.

The force of it sends you back too, but you recover quicker, pulling yourself upright with a gust of air. Giving him no time to get his bearings, you draw a breath, arms falling in formation: up your chest and down your midriff, tattoos twisting with your skin before they shoot up again.

The air gathers swiftly. It snuffs out the candles by his bed and makes your robes fly wildly. It raises him in a twisting vortex that leaves your hands shaking with the sheer force it takes to keep his hands incapacitated.

He’s fighting it hard—and you’re about to let the whirlwind collapse under your failing arms—before a strong gust sends the door flying.

“Aang,” you cry in relief, arms finally dropping in exhaustion as the prince lands unceremoniously against a writing desk.

“My staff!” he smiles, palm closing around it before he’s by your side and helping you stay upright.

The prince is groaning on the ground when Aang flattens him on the wall with the mattress of his bed, letting him drop before he shoots him up the ceiling. He falls on the cot and keeps lying there, spent.

Aang takes you by the hand and drags you to the door. Just before you step out, something makes you turn. To him.

He’s barely lifted his head with a scorn, fists tight and lips curled in a snarl. Your eyes are locked on his broken skin, the darkened blisters that look even darker from the distance. But Aang keeps pulling on you, so with one last breath, you whisper: “Stay down.”

The door closes behind you with a heavy clank.

“Go, go, climb up!” you usher Aang, gaze snapping between the final set of stairs and the empty corridor behind you.

The stairs tighten at the top, leading up a wheeled door towards the steering station. It’s heavy, and as Aang tries to push it open, you shoot air with raised arms until it pops open.

You’re met with the shocked face of the helmsman, arms frozen around the large wheel. The glass doors in front of him are open though, so you pay little attention before you’re sprinting with the wind. Aang is just behind you now, and the freezing polar air makes you sigh in relief.

You jump off the railing with a laugh, letting the hot air inside your body mix with that of the glaciers, misting with each exhale as you propel your glider forward.

Twisting your neck to search for Aang, you’re left gasping just as your eyes meet.

The prince.

He’s hanging from Aang’s foot and dragging him down, down, down until they’re crashing on the main deck.

“No!” you hiss, swerving your glider downwards and aiming for the prince, knocking him down as you both crash against the metal. Ow…

Your staff gets hurled to the side while your head spins, and for a second too long you can’t seem to place what’s up or down. Or any direction, for that matter.

Shit…

A bellowing roar from above is what finally sets your eyes straight.

Appa! And, are those…? No way.

You don’t have time to look closer. Aang’s dodging the prince’s fire with his glider and you think your ankle got twisted a bit, but it doesn’t matter as you clutch your staff and fly up straight, because Aang’s right at the railing and he’s going—

A final burst of flames sends him overboard, and you realize the one screaming is you.

“No!” You run, heart still, but—

A blaze gets in your way.

(The wisdom of your people, at its core, is love. You love from the moment you’re born to the moment of your death, and in the next life you love more than the ones before combined. You spread that love through your travels. You forgive because you’re strong, and forgiveness is the hardest feat of all.)

But as you look at Prince Zuko now—with his red scar that reeks of hate, in his offensive stance that’s blocking you from saving the last living remnant of your love—you feel something… Unfamiliar.

A rage so pure and ugly that it shocks your nerves into overdrive. Makes you scream so loud your throat goes raw, gathers the wind and coal-smoke into crackling balls of air you send hurling at the prince. 

He gets knocked to the side so hard you think you might’ve knocked him unconscious.

From the distance, the wind barely carries Katara’s screams of Aang’s name, and there’s a rumbling in the air that wasn’t there before, but you can’t focus on that because you have to save him—

The rising maelstrom’s spray hits your burning cheeks, the saltwater wild and untamed, twisting in a violent river that looms over the ship like a giant.

Gasping deep inside your chest, your palm covers your mouth as Aang descends wildly onto the deck. You fall back just in time for him to knock the prince overboard and his soldiers on the railing, the water whips cracking violently against their skin.

Spirits, he’s glowing. From the tips of his arrows to the roundness of his eyes, he’s alight with a power you’ve never seen before.

It’s… beautiful.

And dangerous. As if he’s not himself anymore; like someone or something has taken the reins and turned him into a weapon. His face is contorted—angry—and he’s heaving with exertion. Slowly, as Appa circles above to find a place to land, the glowing faintly drains out. It trickles out of every little crevice and detail of the ink on his skin, until he’s buckling over from his own weight like a sack of potatoes.

“Aang,” you wheeze weakly, jumping to catch him just before he hits his head. You kneel beside him, his droopy head balanced on your thighs, and you whisper as you rub his freezing cheek. “You scared me…”

Appa lands and shakes the entire deck. Katara and Sokka reach you in a heartbeat, gathering around you both. Katara’s breathless, laying a hand on Aang’s shoulder before turning to you. “Is he okay?”

That’s when he stirs awake; like her voice is the one pulling him from the depths. “Hey, Katara,” he coughs. “Hey, Sokka. Thanks for coming.”

It pulls a wet laugh from you, and you gently wipe some unshed tears as he pulls himself up.

Sokka smirks, but you can see he’s breathing a little harder, too. “Well, we couldn’t let you guys have all the glory.”

“I dropped my staff…” whines Aang as you and Katara help pull him up.

“On it!” Sokka chirps.

“Sokka, can you grab mine too?” you call.

“Sure thiiing!”

Appa greets you with a shrill grumble, and you pat him on the neck when you land on his fur. You help pull Aang up then extend an arm for Katara as Sokka says something about the Water Tribe in the distance, but now the guards are up and stalking closer.

“Katara…?” you trail off, unsure, because Aang’s still mostly out of it and Sokka is too far away, but she takes a defensive stance; arms and feet equal, knees bent, water gathering in a whip she freezes mid-swing at— 

Sokka. 

It’s a small mishap; it takes her half the time to simply turn around and try it again, and now the soldiers are left frozen and gaping behind Katara’s ice, and you give an encouraging cheer from above.

“C’mon,” you urge her with a gust of wind. She climbs onto the saddle easily, and Sokka’s just managed to break free from the ice with both your staffs clutched tight. “Yip-yip!”

Only once Appa’s soaring do you take a full breath. 

He gains distance quickly, and you let yourself fall flat on the saddle with a sigh so loud it could be heard for miles. When you open your eyes, Katara’s smiling at you through wet lashes, and she takes you in her arms by the nape.

You laugh against her furs, and she pulls back, saying: “I’m so glad you’re both okay.”

“Me too,” you nod gently.

You sense the sudden heat rather than see it, like a wave that’s about to crash into you from behind. 

Aang’s faster; he flies over your bodies to the back of the saddle, staff gripped tight as he sends an airwave against the approaching gale of wildfire, flinging into the nearest ice cliff that collapses into an avalanche straight on top of the ship.

As you fly away on Appa and the kids laugh, you can only stare into the distance. To that black Fire Navy ship and the people on its deck, growing smaller like ants the further you get. At the memory of a prince’s angry scar and even angrier fire you still feel ghosting over your skin.

Appa flies and flies, until sunset breaks into the horizon and its golden glow over the clouds almost reminds you of the sunsets back home.

You’re snapped back into the conversation with Katara’s voice. “Why didn’t you tell us you were the Avatar?” she asks. She almost sounds hurt, but that hurt is overshadowed by something a million times brighter.

Hope.

“Because… I never wanted to be,” Aang whispers, curling to himself. You wince.

“But, Aang… The world’s been waiting for the Avatar to return and finally put an end to this war,” she tells him. She tries to meet your eyes, but you avoid them. You look down in shame.

What if you’d managed to talk Aang out of running? Would things have gone any differently? Could you have escaped a fiery grave and lived as fugitives, helped him grow into a man before this war neared a century, helped him put a stop to it? Would you be dead or old now, would Katara and Sokka have grown up in a bustling Southern Water Tribe untouched by war?

Is this your fault?

“And how am I going to do that?” Aang mutters, more to himself rather than Katara.

You look up at your little brother. You remember the day the nuns told you about him like it happened yesterday. You were five. The first time you met him, it was before the statue of Lady Tienhai, and the memory is accompanied by the echoing lilt of a dungchen. You were nine then, he was four, and you spent the entirety of that Yangchen’s Festival chasing each other’s cranefish kites.

“The Avatar cycle goes… Air, water, earth, and fire. You need to master water next, right?” you ask. Your voice is hoarse.

“That’s what the monks told me,” Aang shrugs.

“Well,” Katara pipes up, “if we go to the North Pole, you can master waterbending.”

He brightens at this. “We could learn it together!”

“‘We’?” you ask, eyes jumping between her and Sokka. “You guys are coming with us? W–what about your Gran-gran, and your village, and—?”

“You don’t want us, or what? Should we be offended?” Sokka teases. He’s joking, but it doesn’t register.

“No! No, that’s not what I meant. It’s just… Are you sure? It won’t be easy, I don’t want you regretting leaving your home behind. Home’s a…” you take a breath. “Precious thing.”

A hand finds yours, a little smaller and covered by a thick, three-fingered glove. Katara smiles at you with warmth, and she says: “Helping you, helping the Avatar, is how we’ll keep our home safe. Plus, I’m sure Sokka’s more than glad he’ll get to knock a few firebender heads on the way. Right?”

“I’d like that,” Sokka smirks. “I’d really like that.”

And, just like that, there’s four of you.

It’s been a couple of days, and the Patola mountains are peeking through the clouds by the time you realize you’ve yet to talk to Aang.

What can you even say to him? What should you say? Is misguided hope better than none? Is hope ever a bad thing?

You need to talk to him. To say what, you don’t know, but letting him walk into a place that’ll more closely resemble a grave than his home is cruel. You can’t do that to him.

You’re not thinking of yourself right now, not really. You can’t afford to. An image of Yunjin flashes past your lids, and you shake your head before crawling up beside Katara. She’s speaking with Aang in hushed tones, her shoulders tight. You only catch the end of it.

“…The Fire Nation is ruthless. They killed my mother, and they could’ve done the same to your people.”

Oh… “Katara,” you breathe, and she looks at you softly. Your palm falls on hers, squeezes tight over her gloves. “I’m so sorry.”

She didn’t have to. Another death for your tally, another tragedy that would’ve never happened had you been better. So much pain because you couldn’t do the one thing you were born for: been a good sister.

Katara gives you a small smile, but her gaze is too preoccupied with Aang. She motions to him with her eyes, and… This is the moment you realize how much she’ll grow to mean to you.

“Aang,” you start tentatively. “We need to talk.” With the wind blowing past you, you slide down next to him, shoulder to shoulder. Katara hangs back, but close enough to listen.

“About what?” he chirps, but doesn’t look at you.

You sigh. “Home.”

He shakes his head like he already knows what you’re going to say. “Just because no one’s seen an airbender doesn’t mean the Fire Nation killed them all. They probably escaped.” He pauses, looks out into the familiar mountains, and finally turns to you. “Right?”

When did your eyes water again? You blame it on the wind. “No, yeah,” you breathe with a clogged throat, coughing a bit. “Yeah. You might be right. But—”

“I mean, the only way to get to our temples is by flying bison. I doubt the Fire Nation has any flying bison. Right, Appa?” he smiles, rubbing Appa’s fur.

“Yeah, Aang…” you whisper as Appa starts the final twisting ascent towards the temple. “You’re right.”

Coward. Useless. You lean back towards Appa’s neck from the force, hugging your knees and tucking your jaw on top of them, eyes shut tight. Coward.

Katara and Sokka’s elated giggles are all you need to signal your arrival. And sure enough, when you open your eyes, there it is. The Southern Air Temple, standing tall and proud even a century later. Empty and desolate—no gliders or bison decorating its sky—but standing.

It doesn’t feel like a homecoming should.

The air is heavy when you land, as all four of you start going up the winding carved pathways towards the top. The stone beneath your feet is dull, full of wild weed patches and wilted trees. When Aang stands on an edge overlooking the airball field, you pause.

He’s saying something to Katara and Sokka, but even though you’re standing right next to them, you can’t hear a word. It’s like your ears are stuffed with cotton. You just… stare at where the bison slept. You just stare, and stare, and stare until Sokka jolts you awake with a hand on both yours and Aang’s shoulders.

“So, uh… This airball game. How do you play?”

“Huh?” you murmur. Aang grins, gives you a nudge. You force a smile for him, head shaking. “Oh, go ahead. I think… I’ll just go look for something. I’ll find you guys.”

“Are you sure?” Katara asks.

“Yeah,” you swallow. Nodding your head at Aang, you smirk. “You know I always win. Takes the fun out of it.”

You leave them behind in a mix of groans and giggles.

The atmosphere is… thick. Heavy with every footfall you leave behind, like an echo of a past self that’s trailing after you. You’re out of time, and you’ve been out of time for over a hundred years, but it doesn’t feel like it. Still seems like yesterday you came with Meena for the festival, the Great Comet high in the sky when Batsal greeted you near that very airball field you just left.

Your rooms were in the eastern wing, the visitors’ dorms, and so that’s where you go.

The stone of the building is charred; marred black so thick it hasn’t faded all these years. It still looks fresh. The scorched wildlife has claimed nearly the entire wing of the temple, unburned roots twisting in-between of broken bricks. It’s almost all collapsed.

You go to jump, to shoot air beneath your feet and climb through the many openings blown into the structure, but something gives you pause near the bundled and fallen trees dangling from the cliff.

You move closer, feet propelled by air to make it easier, floating just a breath above the unstable ground.

There.

Between some unnaturally mangled branches, it’s—

Oh. Oh, spirits.

It’s Yunjin.

Not her, or what would’ve remained of her… No, it’s one of the leather bands you used to decorate her horns with, to make her prettier than she already was. Stumbling on stiff bark and scratching yourself on stray twigs, you reach the worn leather blowing in the wind and grasp it so tight your knuckles burn and shake.

Yes, it’s hers, you’d know it blind. Fingertips brushing over the finely carved strips, you stumble back onto stable ground and it’s like your breath leaves you all at once.

The beads and trinkets that once were are nearly all lost, the thread stringy or not there at all. You twist the leather around, run your hands over it, find it charred and black near the ends and falling apart into ashes when you brush over it with a featherlight touch.

It’s like the dam breaks all at once.

One second you’re heaving, chest falling and rising painfully, air tangible like poison under your tongue… And the next, you’re sobbing.

It starts out fractured: mouth hanging painfully, brows tight like knots, the tears punching their way through your lashes like white hot flashes burning you from the inside out. Then you want to scream, but the sound can’t make it out; it’s stuck inside you and you’re unable to push it out, until all your air is gone and you heave through a spit-clogged throat.

Oh, oh, spirits. Oh, spirits—

She looked for you. Your sweet girl, your Yunjin, she could’ve flown away, she could’ve escaped, she should’ve left but instead she searched for you amidst the carnage. And you’d already left her behind.

You were gone and she was here, searching for you as she burned. Who else searched for you as they were swallowed by the flames instead of escaping?

Batsal? Meena? Yarra? How many more deaths are you responsible for?

You’re dizzy with it, clutching the leather tight in your chest like you could carve a spot between your ribs and keep it there forever. The air around you is alive, bursting with your grief, roughing up your shawl and the loose straps of Yunjin’s band.

The leather was crafted by a sweet young man from the Earth Kingdom state of Chenbao; his name was Lotan. He and his wife had welcomed you in their home for a week, back then when a passing airbender was commonplace and good fortune instead of a miracle. You’d given the young couple’s newborn baby your favorite prayer, and Lotan was so grateful he wanted to give you a gift. You tried to refuse the leather—animal death—but he was adamant. In the end, you gave in; it was a gift, after all.

Air, water, earth, fire. All the elements finely carved, beautifully placed and balanced.

Oh, Yunjin…

You fall backwards, back colliding painfully against hard stone, breaths uneven as you absentmindedly run your fingertips over the small indents.

It’s like you’re paralyzed; suspended mid-air and drowning at the same time. Your breath slows a little, but it’s still stiff, still aching with each passing through your chest. There’s a pounding in your head, spreading like tendrils through your face, your tears still falling freely even though you’ve stopped sobbing.

It’s just quiet now. The same quiet that’s been here since you left. You’re part of it now.

You don’t know how long you stay lying there, gaze cloudy and thoughts nowhere at all. An insect buzzes past your face, and for a long while you keep replaying that second in your head. And then some branches crack with the wind up ahead, and you think of that too. You focus on them so intently, that when something starts shaking the entire temple, you’re so numb you hardly react.

Something breaks through the haze. A familiar face that causes your heart to start to feel like it’s beating right again, a boy you’d move sky and earth for if given the chance.

Aang.

You shoot upwards with brutal force. There’s no time to wipe your tears or fix yourself in any way that matters. Only to tie the leather band around your arm and grab your staff, before you’re off towards the violent whirlwind that threatens to blow the structure clean off.

Because, deep down, you know.

You know it’s Aang. You can feel it in that intangible way you’ve always felt your people. You’ve seen his power, you share his grief. You know.

Snow and debris nearly throw you off the cliff when you spot him. He’s glowing again, fine tattoos alight in blinding blue, fists clenched as he pours his pain into a hurricane, as the swell inside his heart bursts and threatens to burst him too.

Katara and Sokka are barely hanging on when you descend; pulling against power itself, you manage to encase the three of you inside an air bubble, but you don’t think it’ll be enough. It pulls against your muscles to maintain, and it might be the first time you truly comprehend how powerful your little brother is. How ancient.

“What happened?!” you yell over the chaos.

“He found Monk Gyatso!” Sokka screeches.

Oh, Aang…

“Aang,” Katara shouts. “I know how hard it is to lose the people you love! I went through the same thing when I lost my mom!” She takes a breath, and you nudge Sokka towards the rock she’s balancing on, all three of you now a wall against the harsh winds. “Monk Gyatso and the other airbenders may be gone, but you still have a family! You have your sister, and… Sokka and I, we’re your family now too.”

This is the second time you’ve watched her bring him off the edge.

She cares so deeply. You’ve known her only days and still, she cares so deeply. She speaks to something inside him that you can’t, like she’s got a map to follow and a trail that you simply can’t lead.

“Thank you, Katara,” you exhale as Aang drops. His small body slowly descends on the ground as the wind dies out into a gentle breeze. The leather is tight around your arm—enough to ache—but you don’t care as Aang buckles under his own weight again.

This time, you let Katara catch him.

“I’m sorry…” he sighs softly against her.

“It’s okay,” Katara mutters. “It wasn’t your fault.”

You lay a palm on his cheek, and when he looks at you, his eyes are broken. “You were right. And if firebenders found this temple, that means they found the other ones, too.”

You shake your head, clench your eyes, shush him gently. “It’s okay,” you mutter, and you don’t know who you’re trying to convince. “We’re together. That’s all that matters.”

As Katara squeezes him in her embrace, you feel Sokka’s arm draping over your shoulders, his other palm on Aang’s back.

When he presses you tighter to his side, you let yourself be comforted. Neck lax, your head drops under his chin. Despite the guilt that’s wrecking you, for just one hug’s worth of a moment you’re not the failures that keep stacking up or all the deaths hanging over your head. You’re just a girl in the arms of a boy, and you’re comforted.

And then, there were four.

3leni © 2025 — i do not consent to my work being republished on other platforms or put into ai. do not copy or plagiarize.

[ltadoriyuujl]

The Gaang was having a rare and much needed meetup; dinner in the Fire Nation on the Fire Lord's tab. There was good drink and good conversation in spades, everyone glad for the break and the company.

Toph got on the topic of her students, moaning about one in particular. "I mean, it makes no sense! She's one of the best metalbenders I've ever trained. Maybe even THE best, after me of course. Not only has she forced me to use my hands in a spar, she's actually made me sweat! A generational talent, and what does she want to do? Hole up in a workshop all day making jewelry."

Zuko perked up, eyes drawn to the shiny new golden bands wrapped snugly against Toph's biceps. "Did she make the cuffs you're wearing?" Aang asked, beating him to the punch.

Despite her apparent irritation with her protégé's choice of career, Toph immediately jumped on the opportunity to brag about your skill. "Yeah, aren't they amazing? Naturally, any student of mine worth a damn would be the best at anything they chose to do." She slid off one band, using her own bending to slowly rotate it above her palm for the group to marvel at. Zuko leaned in for a better look and was instantly speechless.

The detail was insane. What he had thought were simply decorative engravings from afar were actually intricate, lifelike carvings. The band was decorated with a chain of badgermoles, each chasing the one in front of it in an endless loop, so realistic they seemed to breathe as light and shadow played across the gold surface.

Sokka gave a low whistle. "Damn, she's good." Zuko almost felt irritated at the word choice. "Good" didn't even begin to describe it. He doubted that any of the pieces in his vast royal wardrobe, painstakingly crafted by the finest of Fire Nation artisans, could even hold a candle to the work of art in front of them.

"Does she take commissions?" He tried to come off casual but, if the wicked grin that grew on Toph's face was any indication, failed miserably.

"I don't know, princess, I'll have to ask her. She runs a little smithy in the Earth Kingdom with her folks and trains with me in her free time, but maybe she'll spare a request from the Fire Lord the time of day."

The group laughed good-naturedly at Toph's ribbing as Zuko tried to mask his reddening cheeks with his drink. Mercifully the topic changed quickly, Katara and Sokka getting into a heated debate on if the grilled cranefish on the table tasted more like arctic hen or salmon jerky, but Zuko found his mind still wandering back to you. By the time the night wound down and everyone prepared to go their separate ways for the evening (none of them ever took him up on his offer to host them in the palace, which, he figured, was understandable), Zuko had unconsciously began to daydream. Toph had generously told him your shop's address as she was leaving, and he turned it around constantly in his mind on the walk back to the imperial grounds. By the time he sat down to pen the message, his head was full of nothing but you.

What did you look like? Were you tall, short, average? Did you have Toph's muscled build or were you softer? Details like the sound of your voice, the shape of your hands, the color of your hair, all of them tumbled and tangled in Zuko's mind until they formed a faceless outline, vague and evershifting but with an alluring dreamlike quality.

The sound of a rogue drop of ink hitting the paper jerked Zuko from his reverie, and he groaned as he crumpled the ruined sheet and tossed it aside. How pathetic. Bewitched by...what, a fancy bangle? He was no better than a bird, getting distracted by shiny things. But as he thought back on your work, on the way the animals had genuinely seemed animated when Toph rotated the band, he picked up a fresh sheet of paper and began to write.

He received your response a week and a half after his letter went out. The container was cheap and the delivery bird was plain, and his attendants might have thrown it out had Zuko not told them to keep an eye out for missives from the Earth Kingdom. He sat alone in the council room, turning the wooden tube in his hands. Over the last week he'd more or less been able to get himself under control, but having your letter physically in front of him filled him with a sense of childish giddiness. A manicured nail broke the seal, and he fished out the leaf of paper inside.

Your handwriting was neat and blocky, and the faint scent of sword oil wafted to his nose. The letter began with an earnest apology for the lateness of your reply, citing that you'd initially thought his message to be a prank from someone until Toph had asked about it. You gushed about the honor of his attention, which made his stomach to a funny flip. You lamented that you wouldn't be able to come to the Fire Nation to fulfill his request, but if he sent a description of what he was looking for as well as the necessary measurements, you'd be overjoyed to make him something, free of charge.

The way you wrote was genuine and earnest, the rise and fall of your emotions laid bare on the page in a way Zuko found incredibly endearing. At the end, you mentioned the sample included with your letter and how you hoped it was to his liking; he could almost picture the bashful wobble of your smile. He immediately dropped the paper on the table and picked up your message container, noting the weight and faint clinking of the piece inside. Upending the little tube, he was greeted by the most gorgeous kanzashi pin he'd ever seen. A snake with glittering ruby eyes and scales rendered so well he could count each one wrapped around half the silver needle, the other half flat and pointed like a sword's blade. He was tempted to slide it into his hair that very second but refrained, instead slipping it and your letter back into the wooden envelope and setting it aside.

His mind was whirling with ideas for what to ask of you, each more elaborate than the last, but he finally settled on a relatively simple one. He wrote the request hastily (before his nerve could desert him), marked it with the imperial seal, and sent it off with enough money to pay for the commission and the sample pin twice over.

Two weeks later, the package from you arrived. This time Zuko opened it in his bedchambers, a reward after a long day of being Fire Lord. He marveled at the ring sat in the palm of his hand, above and beyond his specifications, but what really drew his attention was the second half of his order: a photograph of you.

It was grainy the way most photographs available to the working class were, but your beauty shone through regardless. You were both everything and nothing like he'd imagined. He stared at the image, burning the shapes and colors that made you up into his memory, and Zuko knew in that moment he was truly and utterly screwed.

[stxxrrgirl]

firelord zuko and his royal advisor 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

༄ 𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐒 coworkers(?) to lovers, he fell first AND harder, first kisses, too many marriage proposals for the fire lord, happy ending, lowkey power imbalance cause he’s technically her boss, sever angst in ch.3, fluff in all other chs, political concerns, unc iroh is alive idc, more to be added as i write!

༄ 𝐜𝐡.𝟏

when avatar aang’s letter accidentally outs firelord zuko’s feelings for his royal advisor.

༄ 𝐜𝐡.𝟐

under the moonlight, feelings become more apparent but uncle iroh interrupts an intimate moment between you and the Fire Lord.

༄ 𝐜𝐡.𝟑 ⌞coming soon...⌝

༄ 𝐜𝐡.𝟒

༄ 𝐜𝐡.𝟓

༄ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 @rosieposiediditagain, @johnporkblogsblog, @anothergojostan, @kittykats444, @leilamor, @ladyhesperus, @rorel1a, @bam-boozledx, @hepprine, @bonsaijoons, @pickledsoda, @norsaval, @arfemiz, @idk-butimhere, @mitsukichiis, @eywaonline, @puzzledhearts16, @suzueuieeeee, @strangeprincessblog, @just-a-blue-nerd, @xolivxo, @vynn01, @wonderlandangelsposts, @yannasuniverse, @polnaraffsrack, @sur-i-ki, @simply-vanill4, @icelatte-tea, @dollfacearchives, @kiw1te

༄            starr's p.s. hi! i was not planning on this and i highkey suck at consistently posting series’ [ahem regency jason ahem] but by popular demand of 30 ish people in comments, i will be doing this!!! the number of chapters might change a little but this is what ive outlined for now!! stay tuned!!! i’ll probably post properly starting 29th-30th after my exams!!

[vidaliarkv]

⸝⸝ Aged up! Zuko x Fem! Reader ⸝⸝

A/N: no spoilers here! I'm holding myself back from seeking out reasons to watch the AtLA movie, despite Zuko’s fine ahhh plaguing my FYP. Pouring out my desires here and awaiting my kings return on the big screen

It was truly beyond comprehension how Aang had managed to convince the group to return to the scene of the crime. Yet, here they were, settled into the plush red velvet of the VIP box at the Ember Island Theater to see the "updated" production of The Boy in the Iceberg.

While the original play had been an affront to their very existences, the passage of years had turned the insult into comedy. It had taken weeks of relentless badgering—and the specific promise of some very private "alone time" away from the prying eyes of the Fire Nation court—to lure Fire Lord Zuko away from the Dragon Throne.

The Director had clearly been busy during the post-war boom. Aang’s character had been through three different actresses, Katara’s counterpart was somehow even more prone to theatrical sobbing, and the actor playing Toph was still a hulking, muscular man. Your own portrayal had been "enhanced" as well; the playwright had leaned heavily into your firebending temper, making you out to be a terrifyingly bitchy aristocrat. Sokka, meanwhile, was the only one pleased—having successfully bribed his actor to incorporate a crumpled list of "certified Grade-A Sokka jokes" into the script.

You were comfortably tucked under Zuko’s arm, his thumb tracing idle circles on your shoulder, when his stage counterpart made his grand entrance. You felt the familiar tension rise in Zuko’s frame as the actor shouted about his honor.

"Even after all this time," you whispered, leaning close so your breath tickled his ear, "the fact that they still haven't switched your scar to the right side is actually impressive."

A chorus of snickers erupted from the rest of the group. Zuko let out a soft huff of indignation, his face flushing a deep crimson as he gave your shoulder a playful pinch in retaliation. You poked his cheek, grinning when he tried to maintain his "stoic Fire Lord" facade, before shifting to stand.

"I’ll be back," you announced, smoothing out the invisible crinkles of your skirt. "I need some fresh air before the 'Secret Tunnel' musical number starts."

"Don't get lost on the way back," Sokka chirped, his eyes glued to the stage as he shoveled a handful of fire flakes into his mouth. "The halls are confusing for people who aren't master navigators like me."

You reached over and gave his man-bun a sharp flick. Sokka let out a dramatic yelp of feigned agony, fumbling for a fire flake to hurl at your head. You dodged it with effortless grace, your soft laughter echoing through the box as you slipped through the heavy curtains.

Inside the box, silence lingered for exactly three minutes before Zuko awkwardly cleared his throat. He shifted in his seat, adjusting his high collar as if it had suddenly become too tight.

"I’ll also, uh... grab some fresh air," he muttered, rising with a stiff formality that fooled absolutely no one. "Just to make sure she didn't... actually get lost. This theater is a maze."

As the curtains swished shut behind him, Toph kicked her feet up on the railing, a wicked smirk crossing her face.

"He's lying," she said nonchalantly, feeling the frantic, heavy thrum of Zuko’s heartbeat through the floorboards. She let out a loud cackle when Sokka immediately choked on a fire flake.

The cool night air of Ember Island was a relieving contrast to the stuffy, velvet-draped balcony box, but you hadn’t walked far. You knew you didn’t have to wait long before the doors opened behind you.

You were leaning against a pillar, the moonlight catching the gold embroidery of your outfit. When Zuko appeared, looking flustered and scanning the shadows a slow smirk pulled at your lips.

"Found me already?" you purred. You hooked a finger into the high, gold-trimmed collar of your outfit, tugging it just enough to invite the breeze. "And here I thought you were worried about my sense of direction."

Zuko didn't waste time with excuses. He crossed the distance in a few hurried strides, his boots crunching on the gravel before he pinned you against the stone. "You knew I’d follow you," he rasped, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that always made your toes curl.

"Oh I counted on it," you whispered, reaching up to tangle your fingers in the dark hair at the nape of his neck and bringing him down to your height.

The kiss was far from polite affection of the palace; it was hungry and desperate, fueled by weeks of formal meetings and long distance. You were bold, nipping at his lower lip and pulling him closer until there was no space left between you, your breasts pressing up against his chest.

You shifted your weight, intentionally letting the deep slit of your skirt fall open. Your bare leg brushed against the heavy fabric of his trousers, a bold invitation that Zuko accepted without hesitation or the need of words. His hand slid down, his palm hot—perpetually simmering with the fire beneath his skin—as he found the exposed curve of your thigh.

His fingers flared, his grip firm as he squeezed the soft skin there, hitching your leg up slightly to bring your hips flush against his. A soft, breathless moan escaped your throat, swallowed by his mouth as he deepened the kiss, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips with a frantic sort of worship and desperation.

"The play..." Zuko managed to mutter against your jaw, his breath hitching as you nipped at his earlobe. "They'll... they'll notice we're gone too long."

"Let them," you breathed, your voice thick with heat. "I'm much more interested in the 'alone time' I promised you."

You guided his hand higher up your thigh, your heart wildly hammering against your ribs. Zuko groaned, a low sound of pure want, and was just about to bury his face in the crook of your neck when the doors creaked open with a violent thud.

"HOLY HOG MONKEYS!"

Sokka’s voice boomed through the garden like a lightning strike.

The two of you freeze. Zuko’s hand was still firmly cupping your thigh, your arms were draped over his shoulders, and your hair was a bird's nest of redirected passion. You peeked over his shoulder just in time to see four bodies enter the garden.

The Gaang stood there in various states of shock. Sokka froze mid-chew, a half-eaten moon peach in his hand, his eyes bulging, Katara had her hands over her face, though her fingers were suspiciously wide apart, Aang turned a shade of pink that rivaled a sunset, and Toph—despite her blindness—was grinning directly at your location.

"Oh, wow," Aang squeaked, spinning around instantly. "The stars! Look at how... sparkly the stars are tonight!"

"Told you they weren't looking for 'fresh air,'" Toph cackled, pointing a thumb back at the theater. "The vibrations out here were getting... intense."

"My eyes!" Sokka finally wailed, dropping his snack. "Zuko! She’s like a sister to me! I’m traumatized!"

Zuko didn't move for a long, agonizing second, his forehead dropping onto your shoulder with a heavy thud of pure defeat. Slowly, he retracted his hand from your leg, though he pointedly took his time to smooth your skirt back down before turning around. His face was a shade of crimson so dark it was almost purple.

"The play broke for intermission," Aang squeaked. "We just... thought we’d join you."

"Well," you said, your voice regaining its playful edge, "now that you're all here... does anyone want to tell me if the stage-version of me finally stopped complaining?"

"Actually," Katara managed, finally finding her voice as she steered the group away, "I think we’ll just go find some water. Lots of water. To uh wash our brains."

As the doors slammed shut, followed by the muffled sound of Sokka’s indignant yelling, you looked at Zuko. He looked at you.

"Sooo..." a mischievous glint in your eyes as you looped your arms back around his neck. "Where were we?"

Zuko let out a short, breathy laugh, shaking his head. "I am never taking them on vacation again."

[enjinsdoll]

you had always been the light in a world of trash and dust. especially to enjin.

it was the way you smiled at him. the way you grabbed his sleeve without hesitation, dragging him along to whatever caught your attention. the way you never noticed how his gaze lingered too long on your face.

so one beautiful evening he finally found the courage to confess.

“i want us to be more than friends.”

you blinked at him and tilted your head. then your face lit up.

“oooh,” you said delighted, like he’d just suggested something exciting. “ultra best friends?”

before his brain could catch up your fingers slipped between his, lacing together… like it was the most natural thing in the world. and you weren’t just the cutest, oblivious thing walking around.

however, his brain short circuited somewhere between ultra best friends and the way your hand fit so perfectly in his.

“that’s not—” he started, but the words didn’t come out right.

you just… you smiled so happily at him and you were close and your thumb brushed his knuckles. enjin’s chest felt all fuzzy and tight at the same time as he stared at your joined hands.

“you’re cute,” you added as if that explained everything.

didn’t explain shit. made shit worse.

he exhaled slowly. an odd noise bubbled from his throat, half sigh and half defeated laugh. he was so fucked, wasn’t he?

it wasn’t your fault for being the way you were.

his expression grew tender as he leaned in and kissed your forehead.

“yeah,” he nodded. “ultra best friends.”

his other hand came up, hugging your smaller one. maybe this wasn’t too bad, and he didn’t mind taking the long way to conquer your heart.

just keep looking at me like that, he silently begged.