Hi!! All my writings contain explicit language and mature themes, including sexual content. Reader discretion is strongly advised, enjoy! I also take requests, so donât be shy to shoot me one.
My main series:
SAJA BOYS x HUNTR/XâS 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 YOUâRE DATING A SAJA BOY
SAJA BOYS WHEN YOUâRE OVULATING
FREAKIEST SAJA BOY RANKING
PURRING SAJA BOYS
âWHOâS A GOOD BOY?â
HIDING PANTIES IN THE SAJA BOYSâ ROOMS
SAJA BOYS x INNOCENT!READER part 2
BABY SAJA x READER â LOYALTY IS WASTED ON MEN LIKE YOU! alternative ending 1
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)
"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 himâof also finding himâ
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 everâno, 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 mindâsubconsciously 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 shipâand 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 attractionâof 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 shipâone 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.
"SoâI 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. "Earlierâ"
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 soâoverwhelming.
"You were saying?" He prods gently.
You swallow, averting your gaze. "When you mentioned... about attractiveness. Was that likeâa 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. "Ahâthat."
"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 wonderingâwell, maybe I was. You just sprung it out of nowhere earlier, and I got... curious. You don't have to answerâ"
"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 meanâ" You barely resist a grin stretching on your lips. "âwhen 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 absentmindedlyâquickly 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 shameâand destroyed pride."
"What about you?" He asks in a hurry, though his tone drops towards the end in hesitationâhinting 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'sâ "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 lettersâasking 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 gazeâbut 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 youâ" Sokka whistles. "I was wondering who was going to break first. Congrats, love-birds!"
"We're notâ" Your voice clashes with Zuko's. "This isn'tâ"
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 yoursâstopping 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.
18+ | MDNI - stantastic's bucky's dream house collab
PAIRING:Â 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, heâs one of the librarians at the very same college he attended, and now thereâs nothing stopping him from asking you out⊠if not for one tiny detail: his spectacularly clumsy and painfully shy nature. thatâs 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 đ 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 đ„č hope you'll enjoy đ«¶đ» 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 heâs the one expected to know where everything goes.
Which, in theory, he does.
In practice, howeverâŠ
âBarnes?â
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.
âYeah, yes,â he corrects himself mid-breath, stepping closer to the computer. âSorry. I was justâuhâthinking.â
The blonde girl on the other side of the desk watches him mildly unimpressed, fingers drumming lightly against the wood.
âThatâs usually how that works.â She replies dryly, nudging three books toward him. âCan you check these out?â
âRight. Yeah, of course.â
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, heâs done it hundreds of times. There is absolutely no reason for his hands to feel like they belong to someone else.
âOkay, so these are all set,â he hums, sliding them back across the desk with what he hopes resembles confidence. âYouâre good.â
âThanks.â
âYeah, anytime. I mean, during open hours. Not, like, anytime anytime.â
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.
â⊠Right.â
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.
âGood recovery.â He murmurs under his breath.
âBuck.â
He doesnât need to look to know who it is, there arenât 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.
âYou just told her not to come back.â Steve grins.
âI did not,â he huffs, words coming out a little too quickly. âI just clarified the hours.â
âI clarified.â He insists in response to his raised eyebrows, less animatedly this time, because arguing with Steve is like trying to hold water in his handsâpointless and inevitably messy.
His best friendâs grin only grows as he follows Bucky to the shelf he was previously organizing, but whatever heâs 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 doesnât 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. Thereâs 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 heâs never quite prepared for the way his chest seems to tighten and soften all at once, a reflex he has no control over.
âOh,â Steve snickers beside him. âThere she is.â
Bucky doesnât 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.
âYouâre late.â She announces, though the accusation is entirely undermined by the grin tugging at her mouth.
âIâm fashionably late,â you set your bag down with a soft thud, your tone teasing. âThereâs a difference.â
âThere isnât. You just enjoy making an entrance.â
âI enjoy making you wait.â
At that point, Darcy laughs, bright and unrestrained, and you follow a second later, the sound softer, but no less captivating.
And BuckyâŠ
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 wayâ
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.
âOhââ
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.
â⊠I meant to do that.â 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 doesnât 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.
âJesus, Buck.â Steve frets, already crouching beside him, one hand braced on his shoulder as he looks him over. âYou good?â
âYeah,â he mutters, dragging himself up with Steveâs help, hands brushing at his clothes in a futile attempt to appear unbothered. âYeah, Iâm great. That wasâgreat.â
âMm-hm.â
âI just⊠misjudged the space.â
âYou mean you forgot about the heavy cart behind you because you were too busy daydreaming?â
Blushing, Bucky bends down at once, grabbing the nearest fallen book if only to have something to do with his hands.
âI knew it was there,â he insists under his breath, suddenly feeling too warm.
Steve leans in slightly, voice close to a whisper. âShe saw everything, you know?â
If a stare could kill, he would already be at his funeral.
âIâm aware.â
âYou sighed.â
Bucky freezes for half a second.
His head snaps towards his friend. âI did not.â
âYou totally did.â
âI breathed, Steve. Just like any other human being.â
âThat was not breathing, man, that was you yearning like a damsel in distress.â
His eyes close in dejection, as if that might erase the last thirty seconds from existence.
âI hate you.â Thereâs no real weight behind it.
âNo, you donât.â
â⊠No, I donât.â
With a satisfied grin, Steve straightens up while Bucky gathers a precariously balanced book, gripping it a little tighter than necessary.
âCâmon,â Steve adds, nudging him lightly. âLetâs clean this up before you take out a whole shelf trying to impress her.â
âIâm not trying to impress her.â Bucky mutters.
âCouldâve fooled me.â
Despite every instinct screaming at him not to, Bucky decides to glance up. Just for a fleeting peak.
Youâre 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 youâre 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. âAre you going to offer her your handkerchief now that she looked at you?â
Bucky has spent a considerable amount of timeâfar more than he would ever willingly admitâtrying 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 heâs 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 wasnât 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 didnât look away. Couldnât.Â
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.
âGood morning, everyone.â 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 spokeânot 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 exploredâhis 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 doesnât just teach students concepts and ideas, but changes something fundamental in the way they see the world. You taught nineteenth and twentieth-century literatureâBritish mostly, with the occasional American detourâand spoke about it in a way that made it feel alive and still unfolding.Â
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.Â
You carried that knowledge with that poised, quietly seductive composure of someone who knowsâknows that she knowsâand 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 participateâa 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; admirationâacademic or otherwiseâis not unusual, it doesnât 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, âthere is no correct, absolute way to interpret literature.â 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 itâs supposed to do.
Except it failed.
Because now, standing in the same building years after his first day of collegeâthe same quiet hum surrounding him, the same soft rays filtering through the windowsâand 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 doesnât 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 couldnât 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 doesnât immediately react when he hears footsteps approaching the desk, lighter than Steveâs, accompanied by the casual sound of hands dragging across a surface, before coming to a stop right in front of him.
âLong day?â Darcy asks, her tone light to the point that it immediately raises suspicion.
Bucky firmly keeps his eyes on the screen.
âNot really different from the others.â 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.
âYou fell over today.â
Buckyâs eyes flutter close for a moment.
âI tripped.â He corrects.
âYou collapsed,â she counters deadpan. âThere was a whole sound effect and everything.â
Muttering, he blinks at the screen to focus back on his task. âIt was an accident.â
âRight,â Darcy draws the word out. âAnd the sigh?â
His fingers stop over the keyboard.
âWhat sigh?â
âYou sighed.â
âI didnât.âÂ
âYes, you did.â She grins, far too pleased with herself. âIt was, likeâso romantic, yet a little tragic. Honestly, if I didnât know better I wouldâve thought you were rehearsing for one of those Netflix romantic movies.â
His lips part indignantly, but nothing comes out, because arguing will only make this worse. âI was just tired.â
âFrom sitting at the front desk all day?â
He squints at her, nodding once. âYes.â
Tilting her head, Darcy considers him in a way that feels dangerously teasing.
âYou know,â her fingers tap lightly on the wooden surface. âItâs kind of fascinating.â
Bucky doesnât like that word.
âWhat?âÂ
âThe way you look at her.â
There it is.
He blinks, going for his best deadpan face.
âWho?â
âHer,â she repeats, saying your name. âMy friend. The professor who shouldâve gotten the Teaching Excellence Award last year instead of that jerk Mr. Campbell.â She rolls her eyes. âThe one you definitely did not sigh at earlier.â
Bucky lets out a short, incredulous breath, a nervous scoff slipping out before he can stop it. âWhat? No! Why would I even do that?â
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.
âWe barely speak to each other.â
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.
âBucky,â she starts with a raised eyebrow, regarding him almost fondly. âYou look at her like she invented happiness.â
A pathetic sound claws out of his throat, caught between a laugh and a choked whimper that does absolutely nothing to help his case.
âWhat are you even rambling about?â He insists with an exaggerated chuckle, though the conviction is⊠lacking.
âHey, itâs actually kind of impressive. I didnât think people did that in real life.â
âLook, Darcy, I donâtââ He starts again, then his shoulders fall. There is no version of this where he wins. âIâm just⊠looking. People look all the time, we have eyes for a reason. Itâs not that serious.â
âDidnât know ânot that seriousâ meant staring at someone like theyâre the best part of your day.â
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.
âYouâre seeing things that arenât there.â He mutters.
She shakes her head, and her blue eyes seem to soften, but it could be a trick of the light. âBucky, Iâve known her for years, and Iâve known you for what, a few months? And even I can tell.â
Thatâunfortunatelyâlands like a punch to his stomach.
Swallowing, his gaze drops to the way his fingers curl weakly against the edge of the keyboard.
âI donâtâŠâ He tries again, fainter this time, because the denial thinned precariously under the weight of being seen. âItâs notâitâs nothing like that.â
Darcy doesnât interrupt him and that somehow makes it worse.
âSheâsââ He sighs. âShe was my professor. Sheâs older, and so⊠amazing. Andâand pretty, and sheâs got her whole life together, while Iâm...âÂ
He gestures vaguely to himself, to the desk, to the library. As if that explains everything. âThis.â
Thereâs a brief pause.
âYouâre âthis.ââ Darcy repeats, her tone pensive rather than dismissive. âAnd what exactly is âthisâ supposed to mean?â
Bucky huffs a small, humorless laugh.
âTemporary,â he swallows. âUnimpressive. A guy who falls over carts in the middle of the day because he canâtââ He cuts himself off abruptly, pressing his lips together.
âBecause he canât what?â
Bucky shakes his head again, eyes hardening. âIt doesnât matter.â 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.Â
She is quiet for a moment longer, studying him far less amusedly now.
âItâs been years, hasnât it?â
His whole body stills and that says more to her than words ever could.
Sighing, she pushes herself off the desk. âYou know,â her tone is casual as she adjusts her glasses. âShe likes books because they say what people canât bring themselves to say out loud.â
Bucky glances up at that, caught slightly off guard.
His colleague simply offers him a knowing smile.
âJust⊠something to think about.â 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.Â
âDarcy.â Bucky protests tiredly, but the words donât quite form anything coherent. Sheâs already waving him off without turning back.
âLock up, Barnes.â She calls lightly over her shoulder. âAnd try not to fall over anything on the way.â
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 doesnât particularly appreciate.
She likes books because they say what people canât 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. âDonât be ridiculous.â He mutters.Â
The idea alone is absurd, so dangerous that he doesnât 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 nameâ
He grimaces.
âYeah,â he murmurs dryly, reaching for the stack of keys as he steps out from behind the desk. âThat would go so well.â
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.Â
Morning, in theory, is supposed to fix things.
Itâs 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 doesnât 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.
âShit.â 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, itâs 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.
Itâs⊠too lively. Especially for someone whose brain is still trying to catch up with the rest of his body.
âIâm telling you,â Sam warns jokingly. âIf he falls again today, Iâm not helping him.â
âMind to remind us exactly when you ever helped?â Darcy asks, incredulous. âFrom where I was standing, you looked like you were choking on your own laughter.â
âHey, I offered emotional support. And donât act like you werenât cackling on this same desk.âÂ
âSam, you almost fell from your chair. You had tears in your eyes.â
He side-eyes Steve offended. âBecause I was thinking about his wellbeing, man.â
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.
âWell, look who survived the big, bad cart.â Sam smirks with entirely too much energy.
Bucky simply sighs, regretting getting up from his bed.
âGood morning to you too.â He mutters, walking toward them and hoping they will drop the topic if he doesnât engage too much.
âGood morning.â Steve echoes, his tone noticeably lighter than usual, which is never a good sign.
Darcy, on the other hand, narrows her eyes at him.
âYou look terrible.âÂ
âThanks.â Bucky replies flatly.
âYouâre welcome.â
Sam leans forward on the wooden surface, arms crossed and eyes studying him with a barely concealed grin. âDid you sleep at all, or did you just lie there thinking about your life choices?â
Bucky doesnât answer, which does nothing to stop him.Â
âMan,â Sam continues, shaking his head. âYou really committed to the tortured lover bit.â
âItâs not a bit.â Bucky sighs, dropping his bag on a chair.
Steve simply watches him, quieter and more observant, his gaze flicking briefly over the tension in Buckyâs shoulders and the slight heaviness in his movements.
âYou okay?âÂ
Bucky simply shrugs. âFine.â
His friend hums doubtful but doesnât push. Sam, however, is desperately waiting for a reaction.
âSo,â he claps his hands once. âAbout yesterdayââ
âNo.â Buckyâs head snaps toward him.Â
Darcy beams. âOh, weâre absolutely talking about yesterday.â
âThereâs nothing to talk about.â Bucky insists, already bracing himself.
âYou fell.â Sam counts on one finger.
âFor fuckâs sakeâI tripped.âÂ
âYou sighed.â Steve adds.
âI breathed.â
âYou were in absolute awe.â Darcy counters with a beam.
âI was just curious.â
âI thought you were about to fall to your knees and ask her to marry you in the quad.â Sam smirks, taking a sip of his coffee.
âWhatââ He sputters, his cheeks quickly turning red at the slight implication of you... marrying him. âWhat the fuck does that mean?â
âIt means,â Darcy cuts in, her tone taking a more serious note. âThat you need to do something about it, Barnes. Now.â
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.
âCan we not do this right now? I slept like shit, my head is throbbing and Iâm only running on a cup of coffee because I didnât have any cereal left. Just⊠please.âÂ
Sam exchanges a fleeting, subtle look with Steve, before his lips part, eliciting a stressed groan out of Bucky.
âWhat if,â he hums, like the thought has just occurred to him, nothing more than a passing idea with no real weight behind it. âYou just⊠didnât talk to her.â
Bucky frowns.
âIs this a joke? I already donât.â
âNo, I mean on purpose.â He clarifies, eyebrows raising knowingly. âLike, instead of overthinking every conversation into oblivion.â
With a tired exhale, his eyes close momentarily as if the action alone could give him the strength to deal with his nosy friends. âSam, that doesnât make any sense.â
âIt does,â his friend insists, straightening up. âOkay, listen. Youâre bad at talkingâor whatever it is that you do with herâweâve already established that.â
âThank you.â He replies sarcastically.
âSo stop trying to talk!â
Bucky stares at him deadpan, mouth opening and closing as his brain elaborates.
âThat is the worst advice youâve ever given me!â
âNot talking is not the same as saying nothing.â Steve corrects quietly.
Buckyâs eyes land on him, more suspicious than confused. âWhat are you getting at?â
Darcy sets her coffee down with an air of finality. âSamâs trying to suggest an alternative method.â
âWhich is?â
Said man gestures vaguely. âAnything that isnât you standing there and short-circuiting in real time.â
All three look at him with different degrees of amusement, to which he can only sigh, tension leaving his shoulders at once.
â⊠Okay, I guess sometimes I kind of short-circuit.â
âSometimes, he says⊠â Sam coughs. âAnyway, just donât put yourself in a position where you have to speak.â
âSo what should I do?â Bucky asks sincerely curious for the first time that morning.
At his friendâs shrug, his head falls back dejected.
âThis is going nowhere.â
At that point Darcy crosses her arms, leaning forward on the desk, eyes solemn and fixed on Buckyâs.
âBarnes, you donât have to tell her⊠everything. No oneâs expecting you to stand in front of her and confess your feelings like a fucking Hallmark movie.â
âGood,â Bucky mutters. âBecause Iâm not doing that.â
âBut you could communicate something.â She continues.
âItâs not like I never talk to her.â
âI mean, you say âhiâ.â 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 monthâone of the rare times theyâd managed to pry him away from the library for more than five minutes.
Bucky points at him, pleased. âSee?â
âBarnes, thatâs barely a syllable.â
He frowns. âOkay, so what do you want me to do then?â
Thereâs a brief pause, the silence too heavy for Bucky to sustain and heâs ready to put an end once and for all to this useless discussion, but then Darcy shrugs nonchalantly.Â
âWrite it down.â
He freezes.
âWhat?â
âWrite it down,â she repeats, like itâs obvious. âYouâre better when you have time to think, not to mention the effect her mere presence has on you. Right? So think. Then write.â
âThatâsâno,â Bucky frowns. âNo, that sounds so much worse! Thatâs permanent.â
âItâd be on a piece of paper.â Sam quips up. âItâs literally the least permanent thing. One wrong gust of wind and puff, itâs gone.â
âYou donât even have to sign it.â Steve adds.
Hesitation glints in his blue eyes as they silently jump between their hopeful faces.
âYouâre asking me,â he says slowly. âTo write her a note.â
âNo,â Sam corrects. âWeâre asking you to write her a love note.â
âThere is a difference.â Steveâs eyebrows wiggle teasingly.
âA very important one.â Darcy nods.
Sighing, Buckyâs gaze drops briefly to nothing in particular, his thoughts already starting to move faster than he can keep up with.
Itâs a bad idea. It tastes like something heâs 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 whatâs 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 doesnât feel as impossibly pathetic as it did yesterday night.Â
âHeâs thinking about it.â Sam sings songs into his cup of coffee.Â
âIâm notââ Bucky starts, then shakes his head. âI wouldnât even know what to say.â
Darcy takes a sip of his coffee. âI think you do, but you donât have to come up with something from scratch. You already know the kind of books she likes.â
Buckyâs chest tightens faintly.
âYeah.â He sighs, eyes timidly meeting the floor. âThat I do.â
âBorrow something,â she continues. âThen make it yours. Oh! If it helps,â she perks up. âSheâs coming by later for The End of the Affair. Weâve got this weird tradition going on every springâI randomly pick one book for her every week and she treats it like rewatching a comfort show, except itâs all different love stories on pages instead of seasons on a screen.â
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.
âOne.â His voice breaks embarrassingly, like it costs him everything to say it out loud. âJust one and⊠we see how it goes.â
Samâs grin lights up the entire room.
âAll we need is for you to try.â Steve gives him a pat of encouragement, though Bucky could use a lot more than that right now.
Just a note and theyâll 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.
âHello, James.â 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.
âHi.â He answers, too quickly, too quietly, and then clears his throat as if that might fix the way it came out. âHi.â
It doesnât fix it at all. His ears go slightly red but you donât seem to notice. Or if you do, you are kind enough to not comment.
âLong day?â You set your bag down and lean into the deskâs edge, one hand closing softly as your temple rests against it.
âUh, kinda. Well, itâs nothing compared to that of a professor.â His fingers fidget nervously.
You smile faintly at that, like you understand more than you let on. âDonât underestimate your job, James. Youâre surrounded by voices that refused to disappear. And you take care of them. That counts for more than you think.â
His lips part slightly, failing to find any words that could rival your beautiful mind. He isnât 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.Â
Before he can think about anything worthy enough, your eyes glance sideways as Darcy appears from the back.
âThere you are,â she bubbles. âI was starting to think youâd abandoned me.â
âI would never skip our afternoon gossip session.â
Bucky watches as the conversation flows without effort, leaving him standing just slightly outside of a bubble he doesnât quite know how to enter. Itâs 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 âperfect placementâ and leaving you and Bucky in a quieter space that immediately becomes more noticeable.
âI swear she gets more dramatic every week.âÂ
Bucky huffs something that might be a laugh if it were louder.
âSeems⊠consistent characterization.â He manages, regretting it the second it leaves his mouth.
Thereâs a pause in which Bucky considers walking into the nearest shelf and staying there, but then you smile. At him. Because of him. Itâs a shy curve, amused and fleeting, that makes his heartbeat accelerate just enough to hope you wonât 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.
âOh,â you perk up. âShe picked it already?â
âYeah.â Bucky nods once, your fingers lingering over the cover as if touching an old friend. The shift in your expression is immediate: the tiredness doesnât 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.
âMmh,â you turn it in your hands. âGood one to start my yearly re-reading.â
âYeah,â he agrees softly. âThought so too.â
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 friendâs enthusiasm for emotionally ruining you with the book she picked.
Bucky listens more than he speaksâas usualâuntil 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 canât 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.
Itâs 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 wouldnât 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 itâs folded that makes curiosity swirl in your stomach as you open it with caution.
âI couldn't have thought of her more. Even vacancy was crowded with her.â
Of course you would recognize it immediately given how many times you have already read it. Itâs a passage from the book itself, written in careful handwriting. Deliberately selected. And itâs⊠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.
âI hope your day was kind to you.
Love, Bâ
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.Â
A misunderstanding, right.
Maybe this B left the note for someone else.
Maybe itâs a joke.
But the words are too intentional. A quiet, sincere message that doesnât feel performative yet is entirely too thoughtful, causing your cheeks to heat up. It seems to be directed at you but you donât 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 donât fully trust yet.
It could be nothing. But it doesnât 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.Â
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 canât 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 Iâm supposed to return tomorrow? bc if I miss it again Iâm gonna lose those 60 dollars for good đ
You
I thought you returned that yesterday? btw I donât know what it is, looks like a love note I think? is this your umpteenth âsubtleâ 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 đ
maybe the books took pity on your nonexistent love life and are finally starting to write back to you? wouldnât that be something?
You
fuck off đ
Darcy
love you too <3
âHe 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.â
You donât 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 donât think twice about once class starts.
Itâs 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 canât be an accident, not anymore.Â
The first note could have been an oversight, something forgotten, or probably meant for someone else. Thatâs 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 doesnât 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 memoryâan unconscious comparison. A place where youâve 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 youâd 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 didnât 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 especiallyâthose could be held at a distance, experienced without consequence. You could allow yourself to feel everything without needing to risk what came after.Â
Until now.
The note in your hand doesnât 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. Itâs 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 donât 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.
âDo I love you? My god, if your love were a grain of sand, mine would be a universe of beaches.â
You seemed a little tired today. I hope youâre being gentle with yourself.
Love, B
Sam is the reason Bucky is outside at all.
âMan, if I have to watch you reorganize the same shelf one more time, Iâm reporting you.â He had said an hour earlier, already halfway to the front door before Bucky could argue. âYou need air. Sunlight. Human interaction that isnât whispering.â
âI talk to people.â Bucky had protested under his breath, grabbing his jacket anyway.
âYeah,â Sam shot back, holding the door open. âAt a volume only ghosts can hear.â
Now theyâre 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 isnât 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.
Youâre walking toward them from the opposite path, a heavy tote bag slipping slightly from your shoulder, completely focused on something youâre pulling out of it.
Bucky sees you before you see him but he doesnât move out of the way fast enough. The impact of your arms bumping is barely more than a firm brush, but itâs enough to knock the balance out of what youâre holding.
âOh shit, Iâm so sorry!â 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.
âNo no, itâs okay, that was me.â You apologize quickly, crouching down to pick them up, though youâre 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.
âSorry.â He mutters again, offering them back to you, though he doesnât 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.
âOh, James!â Your eyebrows lift in surprise, voice warming almost instantly. âHi.â
âHi.â Bucky parrots back, a little breath caught in the word.
Up close, itâs easier to notice the heaviness under your eyes and the lazy curve of your smileâit takes a bit more effort to reach your face. Yet itâs the sparkle heâs used to see in your movements that worries him the most. The energy is still there but buried a little deeper than usual.
âYou okay?â 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.
âYeah.â You nod at first. A small, polite answer that is meant to close the subject rather than invite more questions.
Although Bucky doesnât say anything, something in his expression must give him away, because you let out a small breath that turns into a self-deprecating chuckle.
âIs it that obvious?â
He shrugs, a little awkward now that he realizes he crossed a line.
âOnly if youâre paying attention.â He mumbles, then promptly looks down, like heâs said too much.
âOkay, Iâm a little tired.â You admit, shifting the books against your chest. âItâs been a long week, nothing to worry about.â
Bucky hums pensively, like heâs been expecting that answer. âYeah, you lookââ He stops himself, frowning. âNot bad. Justâtired.â
You beam properly for the first time that day, a hint of amusement breaking through the lack of sleep.
âWow. You really know how to cheer a woman up.â
âI didnât meanââ His eyes go comically wide. âI justââ
The words trip over themselves before he can stop them.
âYou are always beautiful.â 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.
âOh, thank you.â 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.
âIââ He starts again, yet youâre still smiling at him. Which, somehow, makes it infinitely worse.
âYou should get some rest,â he swallows, in a last, desperate attempt to direct the conversation. âIf you can.â
Itâs simple, a bit clumsy even with the way he canât seem to meet your eyes as you study him like youâre not used to people saying that and meaning it.
âI will,â you nod. âThank you, James.â
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 foreverâbut 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 Buckyâs shoulder and lands on the man watching the scene like his favorite reality show.
âOhâSam?â You greet him, a little surprised.
His friend straightens immediately, stepping forward with a grin thatâs just a little too knowing.
âMissââ He starts, out of instinct more than anything else.
You groan softly, already shaking your head. âOh God, no. Please donât. We are not doing that.â You chuckle. âWe are almost colleagues at this point. Or close enough, Doctor Wilson.â
Sam lifts his hands in surrender. âForce of habit.â
âIt makes me feel ancient.â You add jokingly.
âYou look far from ancient, professor.â 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.
âHow are you doing?â You ask him, genuine interest threading through your tone.
âGood,â Sam crosses his arms to his chest. âA lot more busy. Theyâve got me running around a lot, but I guess thatâs part of the deal.â
âYouâll be great at it.â You state without hesitation.
Sam grins. âYeah, I know.â
You laugh at that, shaking your head.
âIâm serious,â you add a tad more serious. âYouâve got the right instinct for helping people.â
Sam briefly glances down at that, not used to compliments. âI appreciate that.â
Thereâs nothing wrongânothing Bucky can point to and say this is whyâand maybe thatâs what makes it worse. Your interaction with his friend isnât 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 Buckyâs 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 somethingâanythingâbut he wouldnât 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.
âWell,â you give him a little smile, drained but real, adjusting your grip on the books again. âI should let you both get back to it.â
âYeah,â It comes out as an involuntary whisper, so Bucky quickly clears his throat. âSee you.â
âSee you around, James.â
You give Sam a small wave, then turn, walking across the quad until you gradually blend back into the movement of the campus.
Thereâs a beat of silence in which Bucky is still looking longingly in your direction, when Sam exhales.
âWow.â
âI mean, wow.â He repeats at the lack of response, dragging the word out this time. âYou just stand there and do that with no warning?â
âDo what?â Bucky mutters, already starting to move again.
His friend falls into step beside him, shaking his head. âYou ever notice you stop blinking around her or is that just me?â
Bucky shoots him a look. âShut up.â
âIâm serious,â he continues, completely undeterred. âYou were gone. I couldâve run around naked and you wouldnât have even noticed.â
âI wasnât that distracted.â Bucky replies flatly.
âLiar,â Sam counters. âYou didnât even know I was still there until she spotted me.â
Bucky canât argue, because for once heâs right, but Sam doesnât need to know that.
His friend shoots him a sidelong glance, lips already twisting into a small smirk. âYouâre in trouble.â
He sighs tiredly, yet doesnât even try to deny it.
âYou pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope... I have loved none but you.â
I get the feeling Iâm already in deeper than I have any right to be.
Love, B
Darcy called it a âfairâ 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.
âI helped you with the note thing,â she stated, like it was a perfectly reasonable transaction. âI require my payment now.â
He had eventually agreed, which in hindsight felt like the first mistake of the day.
Itâs 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 heâs slightly out of sync with the floor beneath him. Heâs 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 doesnât have to. But being here alone makes such an ordinary task sound impossible. He is suddenly aware of his damp hands and how he shouldnât 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 heâs 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 doesnât 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 doesnât matter, itâs just pastries.Â
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 hereâalways somewhere inside the rhythm of the building. But Mr. Fowler is here too, seated across from you like itâs the most natural arrangement in the world.
Professor Fowler is a math genius. He is always composed, always too comfortable in spaces that arenât 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 studentâs absurd answer in one of your quizzes. Or maybe is it something more personal? It doesnât really matter, because Fowler is laughing and thereâs 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.
Thatâs 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 donât 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 doesnât 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.Â
Across the room, Fowler says something, and this time you laughâproperly, 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 doesnât include him.
He should have left the moment this stopped feeling like speculation and started looking like certainty.Â
There are people who move through the world as if it already recognizes them, and people who donât quite manage to step into that recognition without friction. So Bucky turns away and doesnât look back.
There is no point in that, not when your smiles are for another man.
When he finally reaches the library, Darcyâs voice catches him before he can fully disappear into the stacks.
âBarnes,â she calls, far too bright for the way his day has just fractured. âWhere is my muffin?â
âThey ran out of pastries.â The shock at the way his own mind promptly provides him with a convincing lie doesnât manifest on his face.
Darcy squints at his back like she is trying to decide whether something happened or itâs just one of his days. âYou okay?â
With a non-committal hum, Bucky keeps walking until heâs 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.
âShe 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.â
Sometimes I think standing too close to you would be enough to undo me. I find myself stopping thoughts before they become something I canât easily take back.
Love, B
A single touch of his shoulder was enough for his cock to stir. Well, it wasnât 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 didnât 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. Itâs pretty hot today and you were here for a conference organized by the Department of Literature. Itâs 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. Youâre 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 canât 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 wasnât 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.
Itâs 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, Buckyâs 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 doesnât 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 canât 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 wouldnât 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, youâd still look down at him like a goddess with her favorite devotee, stubbornness burning in your eyes as youâd 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.
âJust like that, babyâfuckââ
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 isnât 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-hardâit makes such a crude picture next to his creased pants and underwear.
Only then shame curls hot in his belly.
âI have for the first time found what I can truly loveâI have found you. You are my sympathyâmy better selfâmy good angel.â
There are people you admire, and then there are people who quietly become part of how you think about everything else. I didnât 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.
âThatâs actually a really good pointâjust donât stop there, okay? Push it a bit further and youâll 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?â
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.
You shift the thick stack of papers in your arms, catching Buckyâs attention.
âMonthly assignments?â He guesses.
You glance down at the stack, then back at him, lips already curling knowingly.
âUnfortunately, yes.â Your shoulders move with a deep sigh. âAnd they all seem to have been written at three in the morning, which makes them⊠pretty creative.â
He huffs a quiet chuckle, a mix of sympathy and amusement.
âYeah, canât blame them.â
âI donât even mind the lack of sleep,â you continue. âItâs the confidence. Theyâll write something completely unhinged and still conclude it like itâs the most solid argument ever made.â
That pulls a real smile out of him.
âHonestly, I respect that.â He says before thinking too hard about it. Then, almost immediately, âNotâthe unhinged part. Just... the confidence.â
Something about your laugh shakes the butterflies in his stomach.
âNo, I get it. Thereâs something admirable about committing to a bad take.â
He nods along, then hesitates like heâs deciding whether to say the next part.
âAre they actually bad? Or just⊠not what you were expecting?â
Your head tilts a little, considering him for a moment.
âSome of them are bad,â you admit quietly. âBut some are... uh, unfinished thoughts, yes. Like theyâre almost there, but they stop right before it gets interesting.â
âYeah,â he murmurs. âThatâs worse, I think.â
Your eyebrows shoot up curiously.
âBecause they couldâve been good... if theyâd dared to go further.â He quickly explains, then immediately wonders if that sounds stupid. Too obvious. Tooâ
âYes, exactly. Dare is the right word.â You sound elated to be finally understood. âThey get scared.â
Thereâs a small pause in which you hurriedly look for one paper in particular, pulling it out from the middle of the stack.
âThis one actually had a really good point,â you mumble to yourself as you frown at it, eyes smoothly skimming the text. âAbout how emotional restraint in early twentieth-century fiction isnât absence, but displacement.â
Bucky looks up at that, interest showing on his features.
âLikeâredirected?â
âExactly,â you nod, a little more animated now. âBut then they just didnât follow it through.â
âThey couldâve tied it to narrative voice,â he muses. âHow whatâs left unsaid actually shapes the way the story is told.â
âYes!â You smile. âThatâs what I thought.â
Thereâs a flicker of something in your expressionâapproval, maybe, or just satisfactionâthat gives Bucky enough confidence to continue.
âDo you everâŠâ He clears his throat. âI meanâdo you ever feel like they just donât trust their own ideas enough?â
Your smile turns a little gloomy.
âAll the time.â You shake your head. âThey think thereâs a âcorrectâ answer theyâre supposed to land on, so they donât follow their real thoughts on the matter.â
He nods, more certain now that the conversation is finding its rhythm.
âYeah,â he agrees. âLike theyâre writing for approval instead of⊠figuring something out.â
You hold his gaze for a second longer than before.
âYou read my mind.â
The words settle between you with finality, your gaze meeting his, surprised at first, like youâre still turning the conversation over in your mind. And Bucky doesnât 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 thereâs a soft attentiveness in your expression that makes it hard to pull back from.
Like heâs 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 theyâve suddenly become very important.
âUhââ He has no idea how to finish that.
You blink like youâve 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.
âYesââ You murmur, then shake your head faintly, as if resetting yourself. âSorry.â
âNo, itâsââ 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.
âActually,â you take a small step closer, a little more composed now. âWhile I have youââ
His head snaps up a bit too fast at your wording.
âI wanted to ask you something about one of the students whoâs been coming to the library a lotâtall, always looks like he hasnât slept in three days? His nameâs Peter. Peter Olson.â
Bucky blinks, searching his memory.
â⊠That doesnât narrow it down much.â He admits hesitantly.
An embarrassed chuckle falls from your lips. âFair. Mmh, well he usually sits by the back tables. Keeps switching books every couple of hours like heâs looking for something and not finding it.â
âOh,â Bucky perks up. âYeah. I know who you mean. The one who wears the same grey hoodie every day?â
âYes, thatâs him!â You snap your fingers. âI was just wondering if you knew him, since he spends so much time there. Has he ever said anything to you?â Your brows furrow. âOr anyone you know? Heâs been struggling in class, and I canât tell if itâs the material or something personal.â
Itâs not the question per se that catches him off guard, but the way you ask it. Not like itâs your job, like youâre obligated to care.
âHe doesnât talk much,â Bucky starts slowly. âBut he stays late. Sometimes he just plays games on his phone until we close.â
You nod pensively, like that confirms something.
âYeah, thatâs what I thought. I might check in with him,â you mutter, more to yourself than to him. âJust... in general.â
You glance back at Bucky then, a soft smile already brightening your features.
âThank you so much.â
He shrugs, hoping to come across as nonchalant as Sam. âYeah, of course. Anytime.â
You shift your grip on the papers again, but you donât move away immediately. Instead, you squint at him.
âHey, are you doing okay?â
The question lands unexpectedly.
He blinks. âYeah.â
You tilt your head slightly. âJust yeah?â
He chuckles at that. âI swear,â he repeats, a little more honest this time. âIâm good.â
You hold his gaze for a second longer, like youâre deciding whether to believe him or not. Despite your initial doubts, you nod anyway.
âOkay.â
No lecture, no attempt to force him to speak.
âWell,â you announce ruefully, taking a step back. âI really need to go and start grading these now. Thank you again, James.â
âNo problem,â he gives you a thin-lipped smile. âSee you around, and good luck with those.â
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 didnât 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 heâs alone, it comes back to him in piecesâthe 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.
âHer presence altered the flow of time itself, making the hours feel lighter when she was near and heavier when she was gone.â
Iâve started measuring time around the moments you are by my side. I didnât 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 heâs 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 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.
Thereâs 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 youâre still. Itâs a dress that falls more naturally than the usual careful lines of trousers and shirts he associates with you.
Why does Bucky feel like heâs 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 doesnât 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.
âOhâhi.â
âHi,â you echo, your smile growingâeasy and relaxed, fitting perfectly into a sunny Saturday morning. âWhat are you doing here?â
âUhâwaiting. For Steve.â He gestures vaguely with his phone. âHeâs late.â
You laugh, a quiet, knowing sound. âAlways the last one to arrive and the first to go away. I see nothing has changed.â
Your hand points at the empty chair in front of you. âYou can come sit, if you want. Iâm waiting for my friends too.â
Itâs said so casually, like it doesnât require consideration.
Bucky hesitates anyway.
âAre you sure?â He is immediately aware of how unnecessary the question is.
âOf course! We can keep each other company.â You bubble. âI donât bite.â
That gets a small, startled huff out of himâhalf laugh, half whimperâbefore he steps closer to you than heâs 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 donât let the conversation stall.
âHowâs work been?â You rest your chin on your closed hand.
âUhâgood. Quiet. Mostly just⊠books.â He winces a little at his lame answer.
âThatâs literally my favorite category of things!â
A quiet chuckle escapes him, some of the tension easing from his shoulders thanks to your cheerfulness.
âYeah, I figured.â
âYou get to spend your whole day around them,â you continue. âThat sounds like a dream to me.â
He shrugs, a reflex more than a response. âItâs just⊠temporary. You know, nothing serious.â
You donât answer that right away.
âTemporary doesnât mean meaningless,â you explain calmly. âAnd being around something you love every day isnât small, James. Most people donât even get close to that.â
He opens his mouth to respondâout of habit more than anythingâbut doesnât have anything ready for that, in fact. And you donât 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 doesnât freeze around it.
âYou let them argue about Joyce with you?â His eyebrows shoot up, a hint of disbelief slipping through.
âOf course!â Your eyes widen, like itâs obvious. âThatâs the fun part. Otherwise itâs just me talking to a bunch of nodding heads for two hours.â
The corners of his mouth lift properly this time, not the small, careful version he usually allows in public.
âYeah, I guess that makes sense.â
You agree with a shake of your head, taking a sip of your second cup of latte. âYouâd be good at it, actually.â
That catches him off guard.
âAt⊠teaching?â He tentatively asks.
âYeah. You pay attention. Thatâs half the job.â
He doesnât know what to do with that either. So he just nods, a little slower this time.
âHave you ever considered that?â
His brows furrow in surprise. âActually... no.â
You donât 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.
âIâm serious,â you add, softer now. âYou make people feel like what theyâre saying matters. Thatâs rarer than knowing things, honestly. You can always study content, but some people never learn how to make someone want to keep talking.â
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.
âI never thought about it like that.â He murmurs, not sure if it was meant for himself only.
You donât push it further, just lean back into your chair with a serene smile.
âIâm telling you, there is a difference,â a voice behind you abruptly ripples through the quietness. âYou canât just say a flat white and a latte are the same thing.â
You flinch at the rising volume of the statement.
âThey are basically the same thing,â another voice argues back, annoyed. âItâs milk and coffee. Thatâs it.â
âThatâs like saying all literature is just words on paper. Donât be ignorant, Joe.â
Buckyâs gaze flick up to you at once, a sparkle of amusement dancing in his eyes, like heâs silently asking if youâre hearing this too.
You are, clearly, because youâre biting your lips so hard to avoid laughing and draw their attention.
âThereâs a texture, thereâs a ratioâthereâs an actual difference if you pay attention.â
âI am paying attention,â Joe replies, sharper now. âI just donât think itâs worth pretending itâs deeper than it is, Mary.â
âThatâs not pretending,â she counters quickly, almost cutting over him. âThatâs just⊠caring about things.â
He lets out a short, disbelieving snicker. âNo, thatâs overcomplicating things that donât need it.â
âRight, because you hate when things get too complicated.â
âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
âYou know very well what I mean, Joe.â
âItâs coffee, Mary.â The guy insists exasperated, but thereâs something defensive in his voice now, less certain. âYouâre acting like itâs a personality trait.â
âMaybe it is,â she snaps back. âMaybe the way people choose things does say something about them.â
âOr maybe you just want it to.â
âOr maybe you just donât notice anything.â
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.
âTheyâre not wrong, you know?â You breathe out, still smiling. âPeople get very attached to their preferences to the point it becomes a personality trait.â
Bucky leans back a fraction in his chair now, more at ease than he had been at the start.
âI think itâs less about the coffee,â he crosses his arms to his chest. âAnd more about wanting to be right about something.â
You hum around a sip of your drink. âOr wanting something small to feel important.â You argue back. âItâs easier to defend a preference than to admit it doesnât really matter.â
âDo you think people actually taste the difference,â he asks after a moment. âOr they just decide they do?â
A grin takes over your lips.
âI think sometimes they decide first,â you rest your chin back against your hand. âAnd then convince themselves their senses agree with them.â
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.
âWell, I think Iâm in trouble.â His grin is poorly concealed.
That makes you smile. âWhy?â
âBecause I donât think Iâve ever made a defining coffee decision in my life.â
âThatâs fine,â you gesture with your hand. âNot everyone needs to be a person of conviction.â
He squints his eyes at you. âI feel like thatâs not a compliment.â
âIt wasnât.â
He huffs out a laugh through his nose, shaking his head at your serious expression.
âMovies are like that too.â
That catches his attention a little more.
âWhat do you mean?â
âEveryone has one classic opinion they feel morally obligated to defend.â
âThatâs⊠accurate, unfortunately.â He rolls his eyes, suddenly reminded of his sister and her obsession with Casablanca.
You lean back a little in your chair. âLike people who act like you personally attacked their family if your favorite movie is not some... I donât knowââ You gesture loosely with one hand. âFrench, silent short film from the twenties.â
Bucky closes his eyes tiredly, head falling back. âGod, I hate those people.â
âI kinda am those people.â You eventually admit with a smirk.
That earns you a look.
âIâm joking!â Your giggle is so contagious his own lips twist into a small smile. âWell, maybe sometimes...â Your index finger rhythmically taps your chin as you think for a few seconds.
âI just love classics.â
âI donât... actually like most classics.â He scrunches his nose.
You blink, slightly taken aback. âThat sounded like a confession.â
âIt felt like one. Iâve never told anyone.â
You lean forward in interest, whispering conspirationally. âOkay, so which ones donât you like?â
He hesitates for a moment, like he knows this is about to become a problem. âGrease.â
Your expression falls at once, humor slipping away just as quickly as it came.
âWhat?â
âI didnât say I hated it.â
âThatâs worse.â Your eyebrows shoot up.
âHow is that worse?â He frowns.
âBecause it means you watched it and still chose neutrality.â
He stumbles over his words, hands raising in defeat. âWait, wait. I didnât choose anything. I just didnât... connect with it.â
You straighten up slightly. âThatâs not allowed.â
His lips press together, trying to hide a smile. âWhy not?â
âWhy?â You balk. âBecause itâs Grease, James!â
âThatâs not an argument.â
âIt is culturally! Itâs been around forever for a reason.â
That makes him laugh properly this time.
âWell, now I feel like Joe.â You chuckle at that, shaking your head in fake disappointment.
âThis is exactly what I meant about people having strong opinions about things they donât care about.â
You tilt your head at that, mildly affronted. âExcuse me, I care deeply.â
âItâs a musical.â
âItâs one of the musicals.â
At that point Bucky leans back on his chair with a glint of delight dancing in his eyes. âSo Iâm not allowed to just⊠not like it?â
âNo.â 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.
âOkay.â He sighs resignedly. âThen what do I get to dislike without being judged?â
You think about it seriously, arms crossing to your chest as you look out of the window.
âAh!â Your face lights up. âModern remakes of classics.â
His eyebrows shoot up. âThatâs safe?â
âThatâs universally safe.â
âI feel like youâre setting me up.â He squints at you.
âI swear Iâm not,â you lift a hand in sincerity. âThatâs just objective truth.â
Buckyâs blue eyes study you for a moment with something you canât fully decipher, ultimately opting for a thin-lipped smile. âYouâre impossible.â
His gaze inevitably falls on your lips, so lost in his own thoughts that he doesnât 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.
âMy friends are here.â
Bucky moves quickly, pushing his chair back with too much strength, the scrape of it against the floor making a few heads turn.
âSteve isnât here yet, right?â You ask, and then, more tentative. âStay.â
As if surprised by your own request, you correct yourself frantically. âI mean, if you want to, of course. I just⊠Iâd really like it if you stayed. I can introduce you to my friends.â
Thatâs 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.Â
He almost says yes.
Itâs there, immediate, unfiltered, so close on his tongue. Because thereâs 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 hasnât been part of in a long time.
And thenâ
Fowler.
Of course heâs 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.
âNo, itâsâI should go, really.â He is already stepping back. âSteve just texted. He canât make it. Iâve got⊠stuff to do. Groceries.â
He knows you can see through his lie, but he doesnât really care to fix it right now. Still, that small shift in your expressionâdisappointment flickering in your eyes before you smooth it over with a polite smileâshatters his heart to pieces.
âOh. Okay,â you nod. âWell⊠Iâll see you on Monday, then?â
âYeah,â his voice dims. âYes. Monday.â
He doesnât trust himself to stay longer than that.
Outside, the air suddenly feels colder than it should for a morning of late spring.
His feet donât stop moving until heâs across the street. Then he turns back, even if he knows whatâs going to see will make him lie awake all night.
Through the window, he can still spot youâonly now youâre not across from him, not contained in that small, manageable space of a shared table.
Youâre 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 youâre right there in the middle of itâthe center of it allâresponding without hesitation, without that small pause heâs 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 itâs probably the same laugh he has heard just a few minutes ago. It shouldnât 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 doesnât require adjustment, that doesnât 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 itâs waiting to start.
Your life looks full, complete in a way his isnât. And the people in it... they belong there. Theyâve already figured out what heâs still trying to understand.
He exhales slowly, the sound barely leaving his chest.
This time, when he turns away, he doesnât 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.
âThe human heart has a way of making itself large again even after it's been broken into a million pieces.â
I didnât know how to write these notes in a way that didnât sound like I was still your student trying to impress you. I think Iâve been confusing proximity with possibility, standing too close to something I was never meant to touch. Iâm still a temporary version of myself, still borrowing space. Time. Confidence. And I donât think Iâm the kind of man you would ever choose. You⊠youâre not temporary. You come into peopleâs lives to brighten them with your presence, and I donât 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 donât know how to keep loving you without shattering into pieces, until thereâs nothing left to recognize.
Always yours, B
You donât 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 youâll 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 whatâs going to happen the next time youâll see him again.
By the time you step into the library, youâre already smiling to yourself. Itâs ridiculous, you know that. Nothing about a person anonymously writing you love notes should matter this much, it shouldnât 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 youâre being irrational, but as much as your brain tries to keep you grounded, it canât stop your pulse from picking up every time that possibility takes hold in your thoughts.
You donât rush, not outwardly. But thereâs 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 youâre about to read.
Itâs 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 doesnât quite reach that far in. Your fingers are already finding the page before youâve 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 shouldnât feel so natural. For a second, your thumb presses along the crease, tracing it onceâenough for you to take a deep breath and calm down your wild heartbeat.
The quote registers firstâyour mind catching its tone before its meaning fully settlesâand 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. Thereâs 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.
Itâs a goodbye.
And it doesnât 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 missedâa look, a conversation, anything that could explain how it reached this point.
But thereâs nothing.
Only the unsettling realization that someone has been feeling this deeply, this painfully, somewhere just outside your awareness. And now theyâve 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 hadnât 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 itâs being ripped away from you before youâve 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.
Thatâs why you donât 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.
Youâre standing too still, your posture drawn inward in a way that doesnât 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, distantlyâbut 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 canât disappear with a single swipe of your fingers.
âJames.â You greet him with a slight bow of your head, your voice fainter than he has ever witnessed.
His heart hurts at the sight.
âAre you okay?â He whispers.
You nod too quickly. âYes!â You exclaim, nodding eagerly. âYes, of course. Iâm fine, itâs justââ The sentence falters, dissolving before it can take shape. You shake your head then, swallowing. âIt doesnât matter.â
Bucky should leave. He set the decision in stone last night as he crafted his last note, deliberately, with the kind of resolve he doesnât usually manage to hold onto for long. And even if right now you are shakenâholding onto that piece of paper that clearly matters to you more than he ever intendedâBucky should step back, let it end cleanly, before it could turn into something more complicated, more humiliating.
Youâll move on. In a few days, maybe a week at most, the notes will blur into a simple memory. Youâll return to your life, to the steady rhythm of it, to things that are real and lasting and meant for you. And eventuallyâmonths from now, years, it doesnât matterâyou 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.
Itâs exactly what he wanted.
But youâre still holding that damn piece of paper, and he knows every word written there.
âYou donât have to pretend.â He mumbles.
Your eyes lift to his again, searching now, something in his tone catching where everything else might have passed unnoticed.
â⊠James?â Uncertainty threads through your voice.
Thereâs a moment where he almost steps back, almost lets this dissolve into something safer.
âI didnât think youâd read it here,â he blurts out, his voice strained at the edges. âI thought youâd take it home, or⊠later.â
Your back slowly straightens to face him as realization dawns on your face.
âYou wrote this.â
Bucky nods, just once.
âIâm sorry.â
The apology comes quickly, choked, like it has been waiting all along in his throat.
âI shouldnât haveâI didnât mean for it to end up like this.â
âLike what?â You ask, voice steadier despite tears still blurring your vision.
âLike you having to deal with it.â
You shake your head, a small, almost disbelieving movement.
âThatâs notââ 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.
âWhy would you think this is something I have to deal with?â
He lets out a short, humorless breath.
âBecause it is,â he says with too much certainty. âItâs not something you asked for.â
âAnd you decided that for me?â
He hesitates. âNo. I just⊠didnât want to make it harder for you.â
âHarder how?â 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.
âBecause Iâm notââ His jaw clenches as he searches for words that donât sound as inadequate as he feels. âIâm not someone you would choose.â
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.
âThatâs not your decision to make.â
âIâm not deciding anything,â he replies, though his voice breaks. âIâm just being realistic.â
âYouâre not,â you say, taking another step closer. âYouâre assuming.â
âIâve seen enough to know,â he sighs, and thereâs something in the way his voice tightens that suggests he hadnât meant to say even that much. âItâs notâthis isnât about whether I feel something. That part was neverââ He stops, swallows back an embarrassing sob that dissolves his words into a whisper. âItâs about where I fit beside you. And I donât.â
You silently study how heâs holding himself tightly, slightly leaning back, like heâs already preparing to flee.
âThatâs not your decision to make.â You shake your head, stepping closer again. âYouâre being afraid.â
He canât deny that.
And thatâs when you close the distance.
Your lips meet in a tender kiss. It isnât rushed, but it isnât hesitant either. Itâs 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 doesnât move, eyes wide and arms rigid at his sides.
This doesnât make sense. Your lips on his.
Itâs 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 heâs afraid youâre 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.
Buckyâs a mess by the time you pull back, his ears ringing and his breath shaky. You donât 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.
âI donât understand,â he breathes out. âWhy would youââ
âBecause I want you, James.â You answer simply.
âThatâs notâThatâs not supposed to go like this.â
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.
âWhat if I donât see you the way you see yourself?â Your head tilts. âIf I donât think youâre temporary. If I donât think youâre out of place in my life.â
Thereâs 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.
âThen why didnât youââ His voice breaks, the question catching in his throat.
âBecause you never gave me the chance.â
This time, Bucky doesnât look away. His shoulders loosen, gradually, finally allowing himself to live in the moment. One of his hands shakily moves from your face, like heâs 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.
âCan Iââ His lips press together at your grin.
He doesnât finish the question. Instead, he simply leans in.
This time, the kiss is his.
END NOTES: thank you so much for reading đ 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
synopsis ââ 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 ââ sex pollen-adjacent, cunnilingus + fingering, praise, breath play (kinda, if you squint), semi-public sex, multiple orgasms. nsfw (minors + ageless blogs dni).
word count ââ 3k
song inspiration ââ too sweet, hozier / more than friends, isabel larosa
author's note ââ 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 đ«Ą
đȘœ part i: PLEASE, EAT. / part ii: FORBIDDEN FRUIT. / part iii: TOO SWEET.
This was definitely one of the worst situations youâd been in.
You had joined Laiosâ 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 partyâs 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 fatherâs body, but knowing heâd 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 fatherâs 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 heâd been carved by an artist. His tousled ash-blonde hair reminded you of a lion, and his eyes ⊠sometimes you couldâve 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 wouldnât 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 serpentâs 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.Â
You were woken up â hours, maybe days later â 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 serpentâs 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.
âAm I dead?â You asked softly.Â
Laios immediately turned in your direction, his mouth lifting in a smile. âOf course not.â
Your stomach did flip flops as you took in his smile, hunger consuming you. You needed something to eat â bad. Your body felt hot and sweaty, and you wondered if it was just from the humidity, even though Laios didnât look affected. Sitting up, you informed him, âWell, that was one of two options my father said would happen from a sea serpent bite. Which means âŠâ 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. âOh, fuck,â you muttered.
Laios stood, looming over you while asking, âWhatâs wrong?â
âItâs the other option,â you replied, too hungry to cry. âThe bite is ââ
ââ Turning you into a sea serpent,â Laios finished. âHonestly, I thought that was just a myth. But when the bite didnât kill you âŠâ His mouth twitched, tongue darting out to wet the corners of his lips. âWe have to suck the venom out. That has to stop the mutation.â
Your head snapped up. âHuh?âÂ
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 didnât matter anymore. Your worry had been replaced by an ache that only he could fix.
No â absolutely not. You couldnât. You shouldnât. You were turning into a sea serpent.
But the need between your legs still throbbed.
âItâs like when a snake bites you on the surface,â 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. âA sea serpent is part snake. Sucking out the venom should stop the mutation. Youâll probably experience symptoms from the bite for a few more hours, but theyâll stop eventually.âÂ
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, âDonât you think this is ⊠weird? Maybe Marcille should do it.â
âMarcille and the others just went back to another part of the level to find dinner. They wonât return for an hour, at least. This canât wait.â 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. âDo you not trust me?â
âOf course, I trust you. Itâs just âŠâ What exactly was the reason again? Oh, yes, it was pulsating hunger dripping between your legs from the bite, and you were terrified how youâd react the second his lips wrapped around your wound. The symptoms would just get worse. But he was right â this was the only way. Fuck, this had to be the most embarrassing thing youâd ever experienced.Â
âFine,â 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. âWhat should I do?â
âNothing, just lay back and let me take care of it.â Laios lifted your tunic a smidge, and just the tenor of his voice made your ache even worse. âWeâre just gonna ⊠get this out of the way. And then âŠâ 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. âYour pants need to be off so I can have better access to the mutation. Itâs on your hip.â You swallowed hard, knowing he was right, and your hand started to slip off his collar. âWeâre friends, right?â He asked.
You nodded weakly.
âGood,â 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, âYouâre so ââ
âDonât say it,â you cut in, snapping your eyes shut to prevent further embarrassment. Though you had never minded Laoisâ occasional lack of social cues, this was one of those moments you needed anything but. âJust get the venom out.â
Laios tugged your underwear down a little to see if the mutation had spread. âThereâs nothing to be embarrassed about,â he informed you, lowering his head to your hip. âIâve read that these bites can have a multitude of internal symptoms. Nightmares ... sweating ⊠fever âŠâ He ran his tongue over the gills, making your breath hitch instantly. â⊠And especially, arousal. Neat, huh?â He chuckled, and just his warm breath on the gills made you even more wet. âDonât worry, I got you,â 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 couldnât 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 wouldâve 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 couldnât 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 didnât 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, âIâm sorry, I ââ
âThe mutation closed. I was right!â Laios looked down at you, a big grin covering his face. âHow do you feel?â
âWell, I definitely donât feel a second set of lungs on my hip anymore.â You lifted your hand when you noticed a trickle of blue staining his lip, wiping it away with your thumb. âBut I ⊠my body is still âŠâ The ache inside you had simmered slightly, but it was still there, lingering underneath the surface.Â
This was genuinely humiliating. Maybe you shouldâve 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. âYour skin is so warm. I can still smell how aroused you are from the serpent bite.â His eyes burned into yours, keeping your hand close to his face. âI can help. Do you need another release?â
Your cheeks got even more red when he acknowledged your orgasm. Shaking your head, you said, âI couldnât ask you to do that. I can just ââ
âIâd be honored to,â 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 â your pretty face red with embarrassment â all dopey-eyed and grateful. âYou lot like to call me the devourer of monsters. Perhaps I should devour the last bit of monster out of you.â
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. âYou smell so good down here,â he whispered. âIâd wager you taste even better.â
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 heâd ever tasted. Better than any monster, better than anything on the surface.Â
âSo good,â he muttered into your pussy, lapping against your clit, doing anything that would get him more of your arousal. âYou taste so, so good.â
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.Â
He devoured you like a starved man. He devoured you like you were a boiled scorpion, or roast basilisk, or â even better â like sweet, delicious homemade cheesecake.Â
âLaios,â you whined, feeling your fever dissolve with each lap of his tongue. âLaios, itâs ⊠fuck â itâs okay, I feel ââ
âNeed more,â 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 couldnât 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. Heâd 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. Heâd 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. âFuck,â you moaned, tugging on his hair once again, âfuck â gods, Laios. I â Iâm s-so close ââ
âPlease,â he begged, smearing your slick all over his mouth. âPlease, youâre so good. Need to see how you taste when you release on my tongue.â 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 âŠ
You found your voice, hoarse from overstimulation. âLaios, please, you have to stop,â 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.
âThat was amazing,â he said, like he was in a haze. When your eyes flickered down, you realized he was hard in his pants, but it wasnât like he even noticed himself with the way he was staring at you. âWe should do that again sometime.â
He stood up, and you scrambled to pull your clothes back on before the group came back. You stammered, âItâs okay, uh â we donât have to. Especially if you donât want to. We could just ââ
âI want to,â he cut in, a determined look in his eyes. âWhat are friends for, right?âÂ
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 wonât stop getting in your way.
Or: you are Aangâs sister, he is the Fire Lordâs 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 !!!
â Ę . READ ON AO3. my full masterlist. my inbox. gif from this set by avatar-aang.
ACT I: âIf We Knew Each Other Back Then, Do You Think We Couldâve Been Friends Too?â
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 wonât stop getting in your way. Or: you are Aangâs sister, he is the Fire Lordâs 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
â Ę . my full masterlist. my inbox.
Youâre sore. Everywhere-sore.
The kind of sore youâd 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, youâre 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 forthâŠ
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.Â
Everything feels raw. You canât even move your arms.
Youâre 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. Youâre numb. Like youâre bleeding from some unseen woundâhidden somewhere pulsingâred and raw and angry. Your chest heaves, and every shift is like a stab. You need to leave, you have to move, you mustâŠ
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.Â
Empty your mind, and breathe.
Itâs not you that whispers in your head. Instead, Batsalâs calm voice overtakes you, soothing like a balm, and all of a sudden itâs like youâre 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, itâs 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.Â
A storm, lightning, blinding and deafening against the raging sea. Someoneâs 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 saddlâÂ
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.
Whereâs Aang?
Itâs hard to hear yourself think. The wind is beating on you, the snow is blinding youâthe snow?âand there seem to be voices coming from somewhere⊠In some direction and you just canâtâŠÂ
You freeze as the ground below you shakes with a groan.
Wait⊠The ground? No, that canât be right. You gasp: âAppa!â
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 Appaâs 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 youâve never been more glad for it. He groans appreciatively.
âNever thought Iâd be so glad to see you, boy,â you murmur against his fur. He grumbles. âDonât be like that, yâknow what I meantâŠâ 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, upâŠ
âŠOnly to find an empty sky.Â
Oh.
Oh, oh no.
The sky is empty? Itâs 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 isnât there.Â
The Great Comet⊠Itâs 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.
Youâve been stuck here.Â
Somehow, in some way youâre breathing too heavily to think about, Aang mustâve 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 youâre going to be sick. This is bad.
Whereâs 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 youâre nearly knocked off your feet.
âAang!â His arms enclose around your torso, and you lift him off his feet with a squeal. âWhere were you?!â
As he steps back with his glider clutched tight in one hand, he foregoes an answer by reaching his other hand out.
Your staff!
Itâs 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 Jeeâs 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 Jeeâs bending has evolved to more than just flickering, unsure embers. You hope Naokiâs traveled, seen the world the way she said she envied you for.
You hope theyâve missed you, too.
The weight of the staff strains Aangâs 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. Itâs 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: âI was making friends!â
Your eyes tighten. âWhat friends?â
A beat.
âWhat is that thing?!â
Ah. Those friends, then.
Theyâre hard to miss. With brown skin and clad in fursâthick and blue and very much swallowing them wholeâit makes where youâve wound up an easy guess. If the barren ice for miles in every direction hadnât given it away.
The Water Tribe.
âThis is Appa, my flying bison.â
The boyâs face (young, younger than you, maybe) falls at Aangâs words, eyes narrowed and stance almost defensive. He gives you little time to study him, the way heâs 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. Thatâs not where the resemblance stops.Â
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 hadnât 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 theyâre looking at you is making the tattoos on your skin itch.
The boy is looking at Aang like heâs grown three heads, muscles loosening as his shoulders drop. âRight,â he drawls, âand this is Katara, my flying sister.â
Aangâs gasp echoes from beside you, and it makes your ears ring. âThis is my flying sister!â 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 Appaâs 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.
âLook out!â you call, but itâs a little too late for it. All of Appaâs waste has landed on the boy, and his screeching mewls are even more piercing than the bisonâs.
Trying not to gag as he shakes and twists, you turn and nod to the girlâKatara?âwith a grimace. Your whole face is scrunched up, and hers is not far behind. âHold him,â you tell her as your nose twitches. Ugh.
Timidly and with an air of confusion, Kataraâs hands come up and grip her brotherâs 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 thatâs building just under your skin, just out of reach.
Inâ
Twisting your midriff, you bring your staff back for momentum.
And outâ
You shoot your palms forward.Â
The wind gathers under your fingers and all the way to the tip of your staff. Itâs sudden and harsh, roughing up your robes as you pull more and more, so raw and glacial itâs almost tangible.
Youâve 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 whatâs 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.
âItâll wash off.â You tap your staff down, and for a moment, theyâre both just staring at you, dumbfounded.
âYou almost blew me off the ice!â The boy says, anger dissolving and giving way to utter disbelief. Exasperation? Heâs now looking at you like youâve grown three heads. Your head tilts.
âYouâŠâ The girl whispers, eyes wide and gaping like sheâs seen a spirit. All previous wariness seems forgotten as she shoots forward, hands clasped and brows blown wide. âYouâre airbenders!â
Ah.
You bite down a grin. Itâs always fun to come across people whoâve 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 wouldâve flown over their village on Yunjin and they wouldâve waved you down. They wouldâve 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 youâve been dealt, and you will make the most of them.
Faintlyâselfishly, evenâyou wonder if they have any Masters in their home, someone willing to guide Aang in the things you simply canât.
Water comes after air, doesnât 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.
Youâre Aangâs 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 theyâre bound to have returned, as everyone else who came down south for the celebrations.
You want Aang to fulfill his duties. Heâs too young for this, you know that, but the monks wouldâve never imposed this on him without reason. You trust their decision and wisdom, and youâll 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. Thereâs not much else you can hope for right now. Except maybe for some waterâŠ)
âWe sure are! So, do you guys live around here?â
The jagged tooth spear is shoved in both your directions before Aang has even taken a breath. The boy huffs to his sister: âDonât answer that! Did you see that crazy bolt of light? They were probably trying to signal the Fire Navy!â
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 nunsâ questions, itâs easy to slip back into it like a second skin. Only, that just makes you even more homesick.
Katara shoves her brotherâs spear down with a scoff, moving to stand between the three of you. Thereâs a mocking scorn in her voice as she speaks, hands at her hips. âOh, yeah, Iâm sure theyâre spies for the Fire Navy.â Spies? âYou can tell by that evil look in their eye.â
You do your best to flash a grin, but it kind of comes out more like a grimace, eyebrows and lips pulling almost painfully.Â
The boyâs face drops, as does yours, and the spear is slowly lowered. The miniscule slip of a grin you shoot him thenâan almost-smileâis real this time. You donât know why heâs so guarded, but youâre glad to see those walls softening.
âThe paranoid one is my brother, Sokka,â Katara says. âYou never told us your names.â
As Aang tells her, Sokka turns on his heels, dismissive. âGiant light beams, flying bison, airbenders⊠I think I got midnight sun madness. Iâm going home to where stuff makes sense.â
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.
Thereâs nothing but ice, ice, and some more ice for as far as the eye can see. You assume they got here by boat, but thatâs 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. Youâve had enough of that for one lifetime. Multiple, even.
âIf you guys are stuck,â you call out, looking at Aang as he nods, âmaybe we can give you a lift?âÂ
Aangâs already up to Appaâs head, and Kataraâs looking up with a glint in her lovely eyes, smile wide and grateful. Her blue gaze swifts between you two. âWe would love a ride, thanks!â
She slides over to Appaâs 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 youâve never seen on him before.
Huh. Interesting.
Kataraâs gaze meets yours and you nod forward, standing just behind her. With the sudden gust of air you shoot under her, sheâs gripping Aangâs arm with a yelp and setting her feet on solid leather.
âOh, no!â Sokka calls, turning and walking towards you. âI am not getting on that fluffy snot monsterââ
Katara teases: âAre you hoping some other kind of monster will come along and give you a ride home?â
âYou knowâŠâ you trail off, head tilted. âBefore freezing to death. Or starving. Or ending up as tiger-seal lunch.âÂ
âAlright!â he grumbles, and itâs all the opening you need before youâve grabbed him by the arm, chuckling at his floundering.
âI did clean you up, yâknow,â you mutter before an airy blast throws you both onto Appaâs back, and Sokka lets out the sharpest shrill youâve 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 Kataraâs eye, you almost burst out laughing. Sheâs sitting on her calves across from you, eyes sparkling like lanterns as Aang slides down to Appaâs head.
Taking the reins in hand, he calls out: âFirst-time flyers, hold on tight! Appa, yip-yip!â
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 mightâve been the worst game of eye-contact youâve ever seen in your life, lounged back on Appaâs head without a care in the world.
He just keeps reminding you how young he is. Itâs 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 Sokkaâs snoring. The ebb and flow of Appaâs 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 couldâve.
It was Katara. Soft and hushed, she asked Aang: âI was just wondering, your being airbenders and all⊠If you had any idea what happened to the Avatar?â
There it was. That word, that question, the million implications it had. Your brows twitched but you didnât 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?
âŠHow long were you in that ice?
Dawn comes quickly when oneâs mind races, and the hits just keep on coming. Thereâs been a knot in your stomach ever since last nightâever since you overheard Kataraâand reaching their village does nothing but deepen that pit thatâs gnawing at you.
This is not the bustling Southern Tribe youâve 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.
Youâre carrying a sleeping Aang in your arms when the woman Katara hugged (her and Sokkaâs âGran-granâ) 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.
Itâs a way of life, though; a balance in its own right. Plus, they are warm, soâŠ
Sleep doesnât find you. Thoughts are bouncing around your skull as you watch the steady falling and rising of Aangâs 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 populationâs absence makes it look as big as Ba Sing Se and all the more desolate. Something has gone incredibly wrong, and you just donât know what. Itâs stifling you from the inside out.
Aang needs his rest, and then you need to go back. Immediately. He wonât like it, but that doesnât matter, because somethingâs off and itâs 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 donât wake up, please donât wake up, please donât wake upâŠ
You sigh when he turns and buries his head deeper in the pelts, one hand rising to rub the bridge of your nose.Â
âAre you hungry, child?â
The whisper makes you jump. Itâs Gran-gran leaning through the tentâs opening, wrinkled eyes shifting from you to Aang intermittently. Her smile is measured.
You hesitate, looking at Aang. âOh, I donât knââ
âNonsense. Come,â she waves you off, and you take that as your cue to stand up. Youâd 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: âHave you ever had blood soup?â
Spirits. âOh, noââ you laugh awkwardly, stumbling over some hard snow. âWe donât eat meat. Or, uh, blood. No dead animals hereâŠâ you trail off in a sing-song with a halfhearted chuckle. You donât think she finds it as funny.
âMy mistake, airbender,â she says kindly. âBut your kind hasnât been seen since well before my time. Hm⊠Well, Yunna makes the best five-flavor soup, youâll love it. Just seaweed, no meat, I promise.â
âSâsorry? What did you say?â
Your kind hasnât been seen well since before my time. What in the spiritsâ name does that even mean?
âItâs traditional southern food, we make it best here. The seaweed isââ
You donât get the chance to question her further, because a bubbling Katara halts your winding thoughts in place. She giggles: âYou came! Câmon, everybody wants to meet you! Is Aang awake?â
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.
âNâno, no, uh, heâs still asleep. I want to let him rest.â Youâre breathing heavier now, and itâs harder to pretend that everythingâs alright with nearly ten sets of eyes on you. âHi.â
Thereâs a chorus of hiâs and helloâs, and one of the younger girls skinning something nearly jumps in your face. Everyone else stares skeptically. She asks: âYouâre really an airbender?â
You falter. Mouth opening, tongue paralyzed. Katara speaks for you: âThey both are! You shouldâve seen the way she air-dried Sokka. His faceââ
âAlright,â Gran-gran cuts her off, one palm closing around your arm and guiding you to sit the furthest away from all the bloody meats. âLet the girl put something in her stomach first. Yunna, pour a bowl, would you?â
Gran-gran was right. The soup tastes amazing. Itâs very different from anything youâve ever tasted before; salty and rich with a thick broth, smelling strongly of fish even though thereâs 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 itâs just you, Katara, Gran-gran, and that young girl whose name is Zoyi.
Your mind hasnât stopped running in circles, and you finally muster the courage to ask Gran-gran: âWhat did you mean, before? About⊠airbenders not being seen since your time?â
It knocks the breath out of you to say. What seizes it completely is the look all three women share. Thereâs pity there, itâs plain as day. Like youâre a child who doesnât know better. âPlease,â you huff, âwhy are you not telling me? Just tell meââ
âEverybody knows the story,â Zoyi whispers and huddles in on herself.
âTell me anyway.â 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.
âGran-gran used to tell us stories about the old days. About times of peace, when the Avatar kept balance between the nations.â
âRoku,â you whisper.
She nods, braces herself. âAll of that changed when the Fire Nation attacked.â
Your eyes are scrunched so tight until all you see is white. ââŠWhat?â
Gran-gran says, slowly: âThat 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. Iâm so sorry.â
âAnd now the Fire Nationâs 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 itâs been just me, Sokka, and Gran-gran.â
Oh. Oh, youâre shaking, you think. Itâs hard to tell through all the blood thatâs rushing in your ears, the ringing thatâs echoing around you like itâs trying to suffocate you from the inside out. Thereâs pinpricks travelling up your arms, and only when you look down to the wet spots on your shawl do you realize youâre crying.
(âBreathe, my girl. Empty your mind, and breathe,â Batsal says.
Itâs the day of your ceremony. Youâre fourteen years old, and scared; of what this means for you, of how things will change, of the inevitable acceptance that comes with it youâre not quite ready for. Sheâs 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 thatâs peeking between the green cliffsides of the Western Temple.
âWhat happens when I leave?â 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, thatâs what Batsal always said; a wild thing and a wanderer, a summer wind that blows past and makes everyone warmer.
But youâre scared. You think you always have been. Those around you would disagree with everything theyâve seen you do, but what they donât know is that you just did them scared.
And now, with your freshly healed tattoos and one final ceremony awaiting you before youâre truly free, youâve never been more scared in your life.
What happens when youâre 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?
Youâre crying now, white and hot, a rising sun bathing you in light as Batsal takes you in her arms. âMy girlâŠâ she shushes you, gently making you look at her. Her dark skin is even more beautiful in the light. âWhen we hit our lowest point, we are open to the greatest change. Remember that, yes? As long as you have that in your mind, youâll find your way. Whatever it may be.â
You nod, sniffle, smile. âThank you, Batsal.â)
Spirits, Batsal⊠Everyone⊠A huâhundred years? Howâ?
The ice. Aangâs power.
Dead, everyoneâs dead, you abandoned them and now theyâre gone, thereâs no one left, a hundred years in ice and thereâs no one fucking leftâ
Aang.
Oh, spirits, Aang. He canât know about this, not yet. Itâll break him. You just have to go back somehow, you can go back and search. Search for what? You donât know. You canât think right now.
Yunjin. Oh⊠Oh, Yunjin⊠Sheâs 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 mustâve been so scared, sheâs always been scared of fire, always flinched at camps and festivals. She mustâve been so scared. And alone, all alone with just the screams of the dying as she searched for you. Sheâs gone. Everyone is gone.
You never shouldâve left her behind. Sheâd be with you now if⊠If you hadnâtâ
You donât know when you started running. The air outside feels like ice shards clawing at your cheeks, a boulder heavy and unmoving on your heart. Itâs beating so deeply, so wildly, you think itâs about to burst free.
Oh, spirits, oh spirits, oh spâ
You donât even realize when you duck into Aangâs 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 donât 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 worldâs been tilted on its axis.
This canât 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 youâre here? How can they all be gone when theyâre each carried by a different wind?
All the Water Tribe men are gone. Theyâve gone to fight a war thatâs been happening for a hundred years. A hundred years frozen, like some fucked up curse for not preventing Aangâs escape. You shouldnât be here. This wind thatâs roughing up your shawl is not your wind to bend, nor is this sky or snow below.
You shouldnât 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 couldâve 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.
Youâre all thatâs left.
These people youâve met have no reason to lie to you like this. You wouldâve seen it in the eyes. Eyes are the windows to oneâs 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 youâre sure all water is gone from inside you, until youâre sure Aang will not see you shed a tear before youâve figured things out.
You just glide, and glide, and glide.
You know somethingâs wrong when you spot Appa on the flight back.
Heâs 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: âWhereâs Aang, boy? Were you guys following me?â
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 canât 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.
Theyâve got Aang.
You land in a whirlwind of snow. Lungs burning, you shout: âStop! Where are you taking him?!â
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.
âWhat is this? Another airbender?â
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 canât 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: âHeâs just a child, please, youâre making a mistakeââ
âHeâs the Avatar, and Iâm going home.â His neck turns, dismissive, shouting to his helmsman: âHead a course to the Fire Nation!â
You donât 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.
âHeâs not the Avatar! I am!â
Now, that? That gets his attention. As do Aangâs screeching yells. That kid has one incredible set of lungs.
âNo, sheâs lying, sheâs lying! I am!â
You shake your head. âHeâs just protecting me! Iâm the Avatar. Please, just take me and let my brother go.â
The boyâs good eye narrows, his shoulders visibly tense, gaze shifting between the both of you in quick succession. âBrother, huh?â he seems to mutter to himself. âTime for a family reunion, then. Youâre both coming with me. Seize her.â
Fuck. Okay, okay, it could be worse.
âAye, my Prince.â
Prince? As in, the Fire Lordâs 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 youâre roughly pushed forward, but even from a distance you can see the tears that are pooling in her big eyes.
You shout: âWeâre gonna be okay, Katara! Weâre coming back.â
Youâre 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: ââComing back,â arenât you? You sound pretty confident for someone whoâs my prisoner.â
âIâm no oneâs prisoner,â you spit, eyes locked onto stiflingly hot amber thatâs half-marred by skin torn at the seams. His grip tightens so much it hurts, a hiss spilling past your lips. âLet me goââ
âHow old even are you?â
âLet me. Go.â
He squeezes you for just a moment more, just to hold himself above you in the eyes of his soldiers. When the momentâs over he lets you go like youâve burned him, storming off and shouting as he goes. âTake them to the prison hold, and bring their staffs to my quarters! Theyâll make excellent gifts for my father.â
âRight away, Prince Zuko.â
Prince Zuko. Prince Zuko with the scar and Prince Zuko your captor, son of the nation of your peopleâs killers.
Prince Zuko.
He disappears inside this metal maze, and youâre led deeper into the winding darkness. Aang is just in front of you, shoulders lax even though youâre being led to a prison.
You know heâs thinking the same thing you are when he says: âSooo, I guess youâve never fought airbenders before? I bet we can take you both with our arms behind our backs.â
âSilence.â
The guard has just placed the key inside the lock when Aangâs 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. Itâs exhilarating.
âCâmooon!â you groan at Aang, nodding at the stairway and kicking a rope of wind at the guardâs face as you go. Yâknow, just for good measure.
The cold air hits you quickly, and youâve only got time to take one deep breath before youâre airbending your way through the main deck and past a heavy door. You have to get your staffs back, and now itâs only a matter of finding the princeâs quarters.
As Aang bobs and dances circles around the soldiersâwho look more dumbfounded than anything elseâyou deliver the final blows while theyâre 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 oneâs 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.
âAang, letâs split, yell if we find trouble. Itâll be faster,â you tell him, rubbing circles on your wrists.
He nods with a grin. âI take up, you take⊠more up?â
âIf you gotta ask, youâre already behind,â you tease, making him eat your dust as you begin flying up stairs. He whines a small âhey,â but youâre already too far to make it out.
The doors you open are heavy and mechanical, much more advanced than any youâve 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 thatâs when you see it: one floor below the shipâs 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 youâve always done. The quarters smell of jasmine and flax oil, and it almost makes you sneeze. Yet sure enough, thereâs 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.
âLooks like I underestimated you, Avatar,â says the prince, eyes dark and bathed in shadows. He spits the word âAvatarâ like itâs an insult, like itâs sour in his mouth. What has Aang done to deserve such hate? What did your people do to deserve their end? âOr, is that your brother?â
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: âAang!â
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.
Itâs 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.
Itâs 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. Itâs nothing like the beauty youâve 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.
Heâs fighting it hardâand youâre about to let the whirlwind collapse under your failing armsâbefore a strong gust sends the door flying.
âAang,â you cry in relief, arms finally dropping in exhaustion as the prince lands unceremoniously against a writing desk.
âMy staff!â he smiles, palm closing around it before heâs 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.
Heâs 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: âStay down.â
The door closes behind you with a heavy clank.
âGo, go, climb up!â 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. Itâs heavy, and as Aang tries to push it open, you shoot air with raised arms until it pops open.
Youâre 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 youâre 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, youâre left gasping just as your eyes meet.
The prince.
Heâs hanging from Aangâs foot and dragging him down, down, down until theyâre crashing on the main deck.
âNo!â you hiss, swerving your glider downwards and aiming for the prince, knocking him down as you both crash against the metal. OwâŠ
Your staff gets hurled to the side while your head spins, and for a second too long you canât seem to place whatâs up or down. Or any direction, for that matter.
ShitâŠ
A bellowing roar from above is what finally sets your eyes straight.
Appa! And, are those� No way.
You donât have time to look closer. Aangâs dodging the princeâs fire with his glider and you think your ankle got twisted a bit, but it doesnât matter as you clutch your staff and fly up straight, because Aangâs right at the railing and heâs goingâ
A final burst of flames sends him overboard, and you realize the one screaming is you.
âNo!â You run, heart still, butâ
A blaze gets in your way.
(The wisdom of your people, at its core, is love. You love from the moment youâre 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 youâre strong, and forgiveness is the hardest feat of all.)
But as you look at Prince Zuko nowâwith his red scar that reeks of hate, in his offensive stance thatâs blocking you from saving the last living remnant of your loveâyou 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.Â
He gets knocked to the side so hard you think you mightâve knocked him unconscious.
From the distance, the wind barely carries Kataraâs screams of Aangâs name, and thereâs a rumbling in the air that wasnât there before, but you canât focus on that because you have to save himâ
The rising maelstromâs 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, heâs glowing. From the tips of his arrows to the roundness of his eyes, heâs alight with a power youâve never seen before.
Itâs⊠beautiful.
And dangerous. As if heâs not himself anymore; like someone or something has taken the reins and turned him into a weapon. His face is contortedâangryâand heâs 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 heâs buckling over from his own weight like a sack of potatoes.
âAang,â 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. âYou scared meâŠâ
Appa lands and shakes the entire deck. Katara and Sokka reach you in a heartbeat, gathering around you both. Kataraâs breathless, laying a hand on Aangâs shoulder before turning to you. âIs he okay?â
Thatâs when he stirs awake; like her voice is the one pulling him from the depths. âHey, Katara,â he coughs. âHey, Sokka. Thanks for coming.â
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 heâs breathing a little harder, too. âWell, we couldnât let you guys have all the glory.â
âI dropped my staffâŠâ whines Aang as you and Katara help pull him up.
âOn it!â Sokka chirps.
âSokka, can you grab mine too?â you call.
âSure thiiing!â
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.
âKataraâŠ?â you trail off, unsure, because Aangâs 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 atâÂ
Sokka.Â
Itâs 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 Kataraâs ice, and you give an encouraging cheer from above.
âCâmon,â you urge her with a gust of wind. She climbs onto the saddle easily, and Sokkaâs just managed to break free from the ice with both your staffs clutched tight. âYip-yip!â
Only once Appaâs soaring do you take a full breath.Â
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, Kataraâs 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: âIâm so glad youâre both okay.â
âMe too,â you nod gently.
You sense the sudden heat rather than see it, like a wave thatâs about to crash into you from behind.Â
Aangâs 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 princeâs 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.
Youâre snapped back into the conversation with Kataraâs voice. âWhy didnât you tell us you were the Avatar?â she asks. She almost sounds hurt, but that hurt is overshadowed by something a million times brighter.
Hope.
âBecause⊠I never wanted to be,â Aang whispers, curling to himself. You wince.
âBut, Aang⊠The worldâs been waiting for the Avatar to return and finally put an end to this war,â she tells him. She tries to meet your eyes, but you avoid them. You look down in shame.
What if youâd 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?
âAnd how am I going to do that?â 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 Yangchenâs Festival chasing each otherâs cranefish kites.
âThe Avatar cycle goes⊠Air, water, earth, and fire. You need to master water next, right?â you ask. Your voice is hoarse.
âThatâs what the monks told me,â Aang shrugs.
âWell,â Katara pipes up, âif we go to the North Pole, you can master waterbending.â
He brightens at this. âWe could learn it together!â
ââWeâ?â you ask, eyes jumping between her and Sokka. âYou guys are coming with us? Wâwhat about your Gran-gran, and your village, andâ?â
âYou donât want us, or what? Should we be offended?â Sokka teases. Heâs joking, but it doesnât register.
âNo! No, thatâs not what I meant. Itâs just⊠Are you sure? It wonât be easy, I donât want you regretting leaving your home behind. Homeâs aâŠâ you take a breath. âPrecious thing.â
A hand finds yours, a little smaller and covered by a thick, three-fingered glove. Katara smiles at you with warmth, and she says: âHelping you, helping the Avatar, is how weâll keep our home safe. Plus, Iâm sure Sokkaâs more than glad heâll get to knock a few firebender heads on the way. Right?â
âIâd like that,â Sokka smirks. âIâd really like that.â
And, just like that, thereâs four of you.
Itâs been a couple of days, and the Patola mountains are peeking through the clouds by the time you realize youâve 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 donât know, but letting him walk into a place thatâll more closely resemble a grave than his home is cruel. You canât do that to him.
Youâre not thinking of yourself right now, not really. You canât afford to. An image of Yunjin flashes past your lids, and you shake your head before crawling up beside Katara. Sheâs speaking with Aang in hushed tones, her shoulders tight. You only catch the end of it.
ââŠThe Fire Nation is ruthless. They killed my mother, and they couldâve done the same to your people.â
Oh⊠âKatara,â you breathe, and she looks at you softly. Your palm falls on hers, squeezes tight over her gloves. âIâm so sorry.â
She didnât have to. Another death for your tally, another tragedy that wouldâve never happened had you been better. So much pain because you couldnât 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 sheâll grow to mean to you.
âAang,â you start tentatively. âWe need to talk.â With the wind blowing past you, you slide down next to him, shoulder to shoulder. Katara hangs back, but close enough to listen.
âAbout what?â he chirps, but doesnât look at you.
You sigh. âHome.â
He shakes his head like he already knows what youâre going to say. âJust because no oneâs seen an airbender doesnât mean the Fire Nation killed them all. They probably escaped.â He pauses, looks out into the familiar mountains, and finally turns to you. âRight?â
When did your eyes water again? You blame it on the wind. âNo, yeah,â you breathe with a clogged throat, coughing a bit. âYeah. You might be right. Butââ
âI mean, the only way to get to our temples is by flying bison. I doubt the Fire Nation has any flying bison. Right, Appa?â he smiles, rubbing Appaâs fur.
âYeah, AangâŠâ you whisper as Appa starts the final twisting ascent towards the temple. âYouâre right.â
Coward. Useless. You lean back towards Appaâs neck from the force, hugging your knees and tucking your jaw on top of them, eyes shut tight. Coward.
Katara and Sokkaâs 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 desolateâno gliders or bison decorating its skyâbut standing.
It doesnât 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.
Heâs saying something to Katara and Sokka, but even though youâre standing right next to them, you canât hear a word. Itâs 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 Aangâs shoulders.
âSo, uh⊠This airball game. How do you play?â
âHuh?â you murmur. Aang grins, gives you a nudge. You force a smile for him, head shaking. âOh, go ahead. I think⊠Iâll just go look for something. Iâll find you guys.â
âAre you sure?â Katara asks.
âYeah,â you swallow. Nodding your head at Aang, you smirk. âYou know I always win. Takes the fun out of it.â
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 thatâs trailing after you. Youâre out of time, and youâve been out of time for over a hundred years, but it doesnât 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 visitorsâ dorms, and so thatâs where you go.
The stone of the building is charred; marred black so thick it hasnât 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. Itâs 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, itâsâ
Oh. Oh, spirits.
Itâs Yunjin.
Not her, or what wouldâve remained of her⊠No, itâs 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, itâs hers, youâd know it blind. Fingertips brushing over the finely carved strips, you stumble back onto stable ground and itâs 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.
Itâs like the dam breaks all at once.
One second youâre heaving, chest falling and rising painfully, air tangible like poison under your tongue⊠And the next, youâre 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 canât make it out; itâs stuck inside you and youâre unable to push it out, until all your air is gone and you heave through a spit-clogged throat.
Oh, oh, spirits. Oh, spiritsâ
She looked for you. Your sweet girl, your Yunjin, she couldâve flown away, she couldâve escaped, she shouldâve left but instead she searched for you amidst the carnage. And youâd 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?
Youâre 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 Yunjinâs 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. Youâd given the young coupleâs newborn baby your favorite prayer, and Lotan was so grateful he wanted to give you a gift. You tried to refuse the leatherâanimal deathâbut 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, YunjinâŠ
You fall backwards, back colliding painfully against hard stone, breaths uneven as you absentmindedly run your fingertips over the small indents.
Itâs like youâre paralyzed; suspended mid-air and drowning at the same time. Your breath slows a little, but itâs still stiff, still aching with each passing through your chest. Thereâs a pounding in your head, spreading like tendrils through your face, your tears still falling freely even though youâve stopped sobbing.
Itâs just quiet now. The same quiet thatâs been here since you left. Youâre part of it now.
You donât 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, youâre so numb you hardly react.
Something breaks through the haze. A familiar face that causes your heart to start to feel like itâs beating right again, a boy youâd move sky and earth for if given the chance.
Aang.
You shoot upwards with brutal force. Thereâs 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 youâre off towards the violent whirlwind that threatens to blow the structure clean off.
Because, deep down, you know.
You know itâs Aang. You can feel it in that intangible way youâve always felt your people. Youâve seen his power, you share his grief. You know.
Snow and debris nearly throw you off the cliff when you spot him. Heâs 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 donât think itâll 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.
âWhat happened?!â you yell over the chaos.
âHe found Monk Gyatso!â Sokka screeches.
Oh, AangâŠ
âAang,â Katara shouts. âI know how hard it is to lose the people you love! I went through the same thing when I lost my mom!â She takes a breath, and you nudge Sokka towards the rock sheâs balancing on, all three of you now a wall against the harsh winds. âMonk Gyatso and the other airbenders may be gone, but you still have a family! You have your sister, and⊠Sokka and I, weâre your family now too.â
This is the second time youâve watched her bring him off the edge.
She cares so deeply. Youâve known her only days and still, she cares so deeply. She speaks to something inside him that you canât, like sheâs got a map to follow and a trail that you simply canât lead.
âThank you, Katara,â 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 armâenough to acheâbut you donât care as Aang buckles under his own weight again.
This time, you let Katara catch him.
âIâm sorryâŠâ he sighs softly against her.
âItâs okay,â Katara mutters. âIt wasnât your fault.â
You lay a palm on his cheek, and when he looks at you, his eyes are broken. âYou were right. And if firebenders found this temple, that means they found the other ones, too.â
You shake your head, clench your eyes, shush him gently. âItâs okay,â you mutter, and you donât know who youâre trying to convince. âWeâre together. Thatâs all that matters.â
As Katara squeezes him in her embrace, you feel Sokkaâs arm draping over your shoulders, his other palm on Aangâs 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 thatâs wrecking you, for just one hugâs worth of a moment youâre not the failures that keep stacking up or all the deaths hanging over your head. Youâre just a girl in the arms of a boy, and youâre comforted.
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.
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.
àŒ đđđđđđ coworkers(?) to lovers, he fell first AND harder, first kisses, too many marriage proposals for the fire lord, happy ending, lowkey power imbalance cause heâs 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!
àŒ đđĄ.đ
when avatar aangâs letter accidentally outs firelord zukoâs feelings for his royal advisor.
àŒ đđĄ.đ
under the moonlight, feelings become more apparent but uncle iroh interrupts an intimate moment between you and the Fire Lord.
àŒÂ            starr's p.s. hi! i was not planning on this and i highkey suck at consistently posting seriesâ [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!!! iâll probably post properly starting 29th-30th after my exams!!
A/N: no spoilers here! I'm holding myself back from seeking out reasons to watch the AtLA movie, despite Zukoâs 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 badgeringâand the specific promise of some very private "alone time" away from the prying eyes of the Fire Nation courtâto lure Fire Lord Zuko away from the Dragon Throne.
The Director had clearly been busy during the post-war boom. Aangâs character had been through three different actresses, Kataraâs 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 pleasedâhaving successfully bribed his actor to incorporate a crumpled list of "certified Grade-A Sokka jokes" into the script.
You were comfortably tucked under Zukoâs arm, his thumb tracing idle circles on your shoulder, when his stage counterpart made his grand entrance. You felt the familiar tension rise in Zukoâs 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.
"Iâll 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.
"Iâll 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 Zukoâs 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 hadnât walked far. You knew you didnât 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 Iâd 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 hotâperpetually simmering with the fire beneath his skinâas 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!"
Sokkaâs voice boomed through the garden like a lightning strike.
The two of you freeze. Zukoâs 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 Tophâdespite her blindnessâwas 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! Sheâs like a sister to me! Iâm 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 weâd 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 weâll just go find some water. Lots of water. To uh wash our brains."
As the doors slammed shut, followed by the muffled sound of Sokkaâs 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."
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.
âi want us to be more than friends.â
you blinked at him and tilted your head. then your face lit up.
âoooh,â you said delighted, like heâd just suggested something exciting. âultra best friends?â
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 werenât 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.
âthatâs notââ he started, but the words didnât come out right.
you just⊠you smiled so happily at him and you were close and your thumb brushed his knuckles. enjinâs chest felt all fuzzy and tight at the same time as he stared at your joined hands.
âyouâre cute,â you added as if that explained everything.
didnât 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, wasnât he?
it wasnât your fault for being the way you were.
his expression grew tender as he leaned in and kissed your forehead.
âyeah,â he nodded. âultra best friends.â
his other hand came up, hugging your smaller one. maybe this wasnât too bad, and he didnât mind taking the long way to conquer your heart.
just keep looking at me like that, he silently begged.
Summary: The five times Hoshina flusters you and the one time you fluster him-
Word Count: 4,848
(1/5)
It all started late one night.
You rubbed your tired eyes and swallowed back a yawn. The quiet, empty hallway echoed with your footsteps as you dragged yourself back to your assigned quarters. The medical ward had been swarmed with injured officers following the Sagamihara Neutralization Operation. You had expected the usual cuts and bruises typical of any missionâbut the appearance of Kaiju No. 9 had left some of the rookies in much worse shape.
Ichikawa had multiple puncture wounds scattered across his body and had lost a considerable amount of blood. The only saving grace was that none of his vital organs were impactedâhis quick thinking with his shield had saved him. Furuhashi was luckier, only sustaining minor injuries, but you still placed him on strict bed rest to monitor his wounds.Â
They seemed to be on the mend, but you stayed until you were sure both had fallen asleep peacefully. You shook your head with a small smile at the thought of them. For teenagers who'd just survived having literal holes poked through their bodies, they were impossibly energetic and talkativeâsometimes to the point where you regretted putting them on bed rest. But you couldn't bring yourself to be mad at them. They were obviously well-loved by their fellow soldiers, and it was easy to see why.Â
'Sensei! Have a piece of this apple!' the pink-haired boy offered with his boisterous voice.
'Thank you for the offer, Furuhashi-kun, but I will have to decline,' you say with a smile. When you saw a pout forming on Furuhashi's face, your expression softened, 'You should eat up so you get better soon,' you added warmly.
Furuhashi's frown deepened, but he nodded earnestly, 'Yeah, you're right, I think I will if it means getting better faster. Thanks for worrying about me, Sensei!'
You smiled, 'Anytime, Furuhashi-kun.'
Before you realized it, your feet had carried you to your floor. You sighed in relief, ready to hop into the shower and let the hot water wash away the day's fatigue from your body. But then, out of the corner of your eye, you noticed a faint light spilling from underneath one of the training room doors.Â
Who could possibly be up at this hour?Â
You should have just turned around. You should've let the promise of a hot shower pull you back towards your quarters. But curiosity got the better of you.
You slowly pushed the door openâand froze.
There he was. Vice Captain Hoshina, dressed only in a tight, sweat-dampened compression shirt. And judging by the way his chest rose and fell rapidly followed by the sheen of sweat adorning his skin, he appeared to have just finished his late night training session.Â
The dim lights above caught the sharp angles of his shoulders and the taut muscles of his upper back. Every sinew and line was visible beneath the thin fabric, showcasing a physique honed by years of rigorous training. His broad shoulders tapered into a narrow waist, and the shirt clinging tightly to his body left little to imagination. The outline of the firm curve of his bicep was apparent as he lifted his arm to pull at the collar for air.Â
He stood with an easy, natural strength, every inch of him radiating a quiet confidence that made it impossible for you to look away.Â
He had his back to you, seemingly unaware of your presence. You watched as he dragged a hand through the neck of his shirt to let in some air, stretching the fabric thin enough for it to become almost see-through.Â
You let out a soft gasp at the sight of his skin.
That was all it took. Hoshina turned towards you slowly, his red irises locking on to yours.
"Like what ya see, Sensei?" he asked, a teasing grin tugging at the corner of his lips.Â
"I-I'm sorry! I was justâchecking if someone left the lights on," you stammered, feeling heat rushing to your cheeks as you quickly averted your gaze.Â
His smirk deepened, "That sure didn't sound like ya were just checkin' on the lights."
Hoshina stepped closer, his hand coming to rest on the doorframe beside your head, boxing you in with ease. You could feel the heat radiating off of his body, and the scent of his sweat and fabric softener hitting you all at once. His crimson eyes stayed locked on yours, amused and unbotheredâlike a cat toying with a cornered mouse.Â
âYer face is bright red~" his voice dropped to a teasing drawl.
And something in you snapped.Â
Maybe it was the exhaustion gnawing at your bones. Maybe it was the embarrassment of being red-handed practically ogling your vice captain. Or maybe it was the sheer audacity of himâso casual, so close, and so smug. Whatever it was, the combination of fatigue, adrenaline, and flustered panic short-circuited every rational thought in your head.Â
Without another word, you spun on your heel and boltedâracing down the hallway like your life depended on it. You didn't look back. You didn't dare. Because you knew if Vice Captain Hoshina really wanted to catch you, he could. Your heart thundered in your ears, face burning hot enough to rival a fever.
Behind you, the soft sound of laughter echoed from the training room.Â
"Better be careful, Sensei," Hoshina called out lazily, "Keep lookin' at me like that, and I might start thinkin' ya like me."Â
Little did you know, this was the start of something terrible.Â
âââââ
(2/5)
You avoided Hoshina like he was the plagueâand to your credit, you were doing a darn good job at it.
The only real risk of running into him was in the mess hall. So you conveniently decided that now was the perfect time for you to start bringing your food into your office under the guise of eating while you caught up on âpaperwork.â And frankly, the uninterrupted hour of silence was a blessing you didnât realize you needed.Â
Konomi frowned when she noticed you slipping away with a full tray in hand, âYou should really take it easy, you know. Iâm worried about you.â
âI could say the same to you,â you shot back with a grin. âDonât pretend like you donât practically live in the operations room.âÂ
âThatâs because I have to, not because I want to! Thereâs a difference!â she huffed, hands on her hips, the crease between her brows deepening.
You waved her off as you continued on your way, âWhatever you say, Konomi.â
But if Konomi had taken notice of your behavior, it was only a matter of time for Hoshina to catch onto your antics. And when he did, that was when a game of cat and mouse between you and the Vice Captain began.
Hoshina began showing up in places heâd never previously bothered with. A corner of the hallway when you were headed to file reports. The medical ward at odd hours. Even once in the medical supply room under the pretense of âinspecting requisitions.â It was as if he was waging psychological warfare against you. Forcing you to stay on your toes, always watching, as you never knew where he would appear next.Â
âCanât a man check on âis favorite doc?â, heâd say, voice all innocent and filled with feigned hurt, but you found that hard to believe as the mirth twinkling in his eyes told a different story.
The memory of that night still hung in the air like a shared secret neither of you dared speak aloud. You didnât need to say anything. It lived in the awkward tension, the pointed silences, and the way your heartbeat skipped a beat whenever he got too close.Â
You refused to give him the satisfaction.
âAs you can see, Vice Captain Hoshina, I am currently pre-occupied,â you replied coolly, carefully finishing the dressing on a junior officerâs wound. âUnless you are in need of medical attention, Iâd appreciate it if you leave and let me do my job.â
He leaned against the door frame, arms crossed, entirely unbothered. âMah, no need to be so cold, Sensei. And here I thought we were gettinâ better acquainted these days-â Â
âOw! Sensei, the bandages are kinda tight-â
You apologized profusely, âIâm so sorryâhold still, Iâll loosen them right now. Are you okay?â
The officer nodded sheepishly, and just behind you, a quiet snicker interrupted the silence.Â
You didnât need to turn around to know who it was. Your glare over your shoulder confirmed it. Hoshina, looking smug as ever, threw his hands up in mock surrender.
Before you finished contemplating whether or not to chuck a suture kit at his head, he had already slipped out the door, victorious.Â
You sincerely hoped the man never got injured againâbecause if you ever had to be alone with him in a room one-on-one, it might just kill you.
Unfortunately, fate had other plans.
â-
You had forgotten about the annual medical checkups.
The Defense Force offered its employees annual health check ups by the Doctors assigned on base. And every officer, operator, and high-ranking personnel on base was scheduled for oneâstandard procedure. Naturally, that also included Vice Captain Hoshina.
You sat in your chair, the cold medal of the stethoscope resting against your collarbones, and took a deep breath.Â
Itâs no big deal. Just treat him like any other patient. Stay professional.
The door slides open with a hiss.
âIâll be in yer care today, Sensei~â
âOf course, Vice Captain. Please, have a seat,â you smiled.
He strolled in casually, dropping into the chair across from you with his usual relaxed mannerism. You managed to keep your expression neutral, running through the procedure of the exam with practiced ease. The results of his Perrla assessment, blood oxygen, blood pressure, and reflexes all came back normal, all in line for a healthy adult.Â
All that was left was auscultation. And, of course, youâd save it for last. You pointedly ignored the damned compression shirt he decided to wear to your appointment and focused on the task on hand.Â
You lifted your stethoscope and stepped closer towards him.Â
âPlease take a few deep breaths,â you said, your voice measured and professional. The diaphragm of the stethoscope pressed gently in-between his intercostal space.
âInhale⊠and exhaleâŠâ
Hoshina obeyed without a word, but you noticed the subtle hitch in his breathingâless from discomfort but more from awareness. His chest rose and fell under your hand, each breath slightly uneven.
Many patients got a little weird when they were told to focus on their breathing. It was normal.Â
âVice Captain,â you said whilst readjusting the stethoscope, âTry to breathe normally.â
Silence followed.
Then, with a voice low enough to send a shiver down your spine, he murmured, âHard to when yer this close, Sensei.â
You froze. His breath ghosted your skinâwarm, steadyâand his eyes pinned you in place. Crimson, sharp as a bladeâs edge, but lacking their usual glint of mischief. The playful sparkle youâd come to expect was goneâreplaced by something heavier. More focused. More real.Â
You held his gaze, searching for a hint of teasing, a smirk, anything in order to break this tension that was creeping in from all around you.Â
But there was none.Â
Just quiet intensity. And it rattled you more than any smirk ever could.Â
Stay professional, You remind yourself, but your body had already betrayed youâyour pulse quickened, heat crawled up the back your neck, and your fingers trembled ever so slightly.Â
You quickly busy your hands, moving the stethoscope away from his chest as if it had burned you.
âThat concludes the exam,â you said a little too quickly. âEverything seems normal. Youâre in excellent health.â
Hoshina leaned back in his chair, watching you closely, a knowing smirk returning to his lips.
âGood to know,â he said smoothly, rising to his feet with the same catlike grace he always carried. âWouldnât want to give ya any more work than necessary.â
You opened your mouthâto reply or to breathe, you werenât sureâbut he was already at the door when you came to your senses.Â
He glanced over his shoulder, eyes gleaming again, âThanks for takinâ such good care of me, Sensei.â
And with that, he was gone.Â
You stared at the empty doorway for a moment too long, the heavy weight of the stethoscope resting pointedly against your chest, while you try to will your hammering heartbeat into its regular rhythm.
You were in so much trouble.Â
âââââ
(3/5)
The ward was quieter than usual, but the smell of antiseptic hung thick in the air. You sat on a rolling stool, fingers deftly unwinding a fresh roll of gauze, while Hoshina sat shirtless on the examination table. His lean torso was a patchwork of fading bruises and angry red gashes, the ribs on his left side still wrapped from his fight with Kaiju No. 10. His calm expression masked his pain well but the subconscious flinch of his body whenever you grazed his wounds gave him away. Sweat had dried in streaks across his skin, his dark hair falling loosely over his forehead.Â
He still wore his usual lazy grin, but there was something unmistakably different about him tonight.Â
He looked tired. Not just physically, but in the way his shoulders sagged slightly, in the way his eyes didnât quite have their usual spark behind the teasing gleam.Â
âYou shouldâve come in sooner,â you said quietly, voice more gentle than scolding. âYouâre healing, but your bandages need to be changed regularly. What were you thinking?âÂ
He shrugged, âDidnât feel urgent.â
âIt doesnât have to be urgent for you to take care of yourself, Vice Captain,â you said, smoothing a hand over his side before beginning to rewrap his wounds. âYouâre allowed to rest too, you know.â
He exhaled through his noseânot quite a sigh, but close.Â
âIâm fine.â
âYouâre not,â you replied without hesitation, meeting his eyes, âYouâve been pushing yourself nonstop since the fight with No. 10. And now with⊠everything else coming out about KafkaâŠâ
You didnât say it directlyâyou didnât need to. The news of Kafkaâs identity had hit the entire Defense Force completely out of left field. And for Hoshina, who had fought alongside him, who had pointed a blade at him not long ago, the fallout had landed heavier than most.
He went still against your touch.Â
You softened, âI know youâre doing what you think is right. I know itâs not easy, but⊠even you have limits, Hoshina.â
He looked down for a moment, expression unreadable, âYeah. Guess I do.â
You sat in silence for a while. It stretched on, not uncomfortable but charged, like something unspoken lingered in the air. You gently pulled the bandage snug across his ribs, fingers ghosting over his skin.Â
âI justâŠâ you hesitated, then continued. âI donât like seeing you run yourself into the ground. You already carry more than most people realize.â
Hoshina turned to look at you thenâreally looked. The grin faded from his lips, replaced by something quieter. Warmer.
ââŠThanks,â he said, voice low, âBut if I donât carry it, who will?â
You gave him a tired smile, âMaybe let someone else carry it with you once in a while.âÂ
A beat passed. You adjusted the last of the bandages, careful and steady.
Then, in a voice just above a murmur, he added, âIf Iâm beinâ honest⊠kinda glad it was ya patchinâ me up.â
You blinked, hands stilling.Â
He didnât look awayâjust tilted his head, that familiar grin tugging at his lips again, softer this time, âFeels better, somehow. When itâs ya.â
Your grip on the bandages you were holding on slipped, causing it to slip right through your fingers and hit the floor with a soft thud. You stared down at it like it had personally betrayed you.
When you looked back up, Hoshina was already watching you, smugness having returned to him.Â
âWhatâs wrong, Sensei? Didnât think I could be sincere?â
You crouched quickly, trying to hide the rising head crawling up your face. âThatâs not it. I just⊠happened to drop it, thatâs all.â
âMhmm.â
You resumed your work in silence, tying off the last knot of the bandageâmaybe a little tighter than necessary.Â
He chuckled, the sound lower now, more tired than mocking. But there was still that teasing glint in his eye as he slid off the table.Â
As he moved to the door, slower than usual, he pausedâhand resting on the frameâand glanced back.Â
âDonât work too hard, Sensei. Would hate to see ya wear yerself out⊠before I get the chance to.â
You stared after him, jaw slack.
What does not even mean??
The door hissed shut behind him.
You dropped the bandages again.Â
âââââ
(4/5)
Lunch hour had now became your safe havenâa brief time in the day where you could eat in peace, catch up on chart prep, and mentally regroup before the second half of your shift. But today you had admittedly bitten off more than you could chew.Â
You balanced a full tray of food in one hand and a precarious stack of paperwork in the other, navigating your way through the crowded mess hall like you were playing a game of dodge ball. The tray wobbled with each step you took, and the files threatened to slide out of your grip at any moment. You were so focused on avoiding the surrounding officers that you didnât see the chair leg jutting out just enough to catch your foot.Â
Your balance tippedâtry wobbling, files shiftingâand you braced yourself for the impending crash.Â
But it never came.Â
A strong arm slid around your waist, pulling you close until your back came into contact with their solid chest. His hand settled firmly at your hip, steadying you before you could even process what had happened.Â
âCareful now,â Hoshina said, his warm breath tickling your ear, âDocs shouldnât go throwing themselves across the cafeteria floor.â
You blinked, caught between mortification and the fact that his hand was still very much there, palm flush against the curve of your hips.Â
âI wasnât throwing myself anywhere,â you grumbled, straightening up quickly, forcing yourself to step away from his warm embrace.Â
He chuckled and proceeded to casually pluck the files and tray from your hand like it was nothing, âYa sure? Looked to me like you were on a mission to get concussed.â
âI was fine,â you protested, though you face was already starting to heat up, âI just trippedââ
âIâm takinâ ya to yer office,âhe said simply, leaving no room for argument, âCanât have ya trippinâ over chairs again.â
You glanced towards him but didnât pull away when you felt his hand move towards the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd. And you let him.Â
âBut-â
Before you could protest, he murmured, soft enough so only you could hear, âLet me take care of ya for once, yeah?â
You didnât answer. You couldnât find the right words. Instead you nodded once and walked with him.Â
The walk back to your office was brief, but the silence between you stretched thick with unspoken things. Neither of you said much. The only sound was the soft echo of your footsteps down the hallway, the occasional rustle of your white coat, and the rhythmic click of his boots beside you.Â
He didnât touch you again. But his presence alone was enough to make you hyperaware of the space between you two⊠or the lack there of.
Every brush of his shoulder against yours. Every glance of him you stole from the corner of your eye. Every moment you both couldâve spoken but chose not to.Â
By the time you reached your office, your pulse was a quiet drumbeat in your ears.Â
âThanks,â you said, picking your things back up from him, âFor the help.â
His lips quirked into his usual smile that you were starting to find dangerous, âAnytime, Sensei.â
And then he was goneâjust like thatâleaving you standing in your doorway with a tray of food, some files, and the echo of his words lingering in your head.Â
You didnât drop the tray this time.Â
But you might have if he had stayed a second longer.Â
âââââ
(5/5)
There was a buss in the Division 3 office that morning, a rare occurrence. Turns out, a courier from the Headquarters had delivered two massive white boxes adorned with golden embellishments and some incoherent French name printed on top of it.Â
Inside? Pastries. Fancy ones.Â
Apparently, some higher up decided that nearly dying every other week was grounds for some morale boost in the form of processed sugar. You werenât about to argue with free dessert, especially not when the office was filled with the smell of melted butter, cream, fruit, and roasted chestnuts.Â
You lingered by the box longer than you probably should have, your eyes zeroing in on the single untouched Mont Blanc nestled in the cornerâa delicate swirl of chestnut cream dusted with powdered sugar. You didnât hesitate. You plucked it up, dropped it onto one of the disposable paper plates prepared, and made a beeline for your desk before someone could talk to you. Or worseâmake you share.Â
You were halfway through the decadent dessert, practically humming in satisfaction, when you heard a familiar voice behind you.
ââŠYa didnât.â
You pause mid chew and look up. Only to find Hoshina standing over your desk with his arms crossed and brow raised. He looked at you as though you had just committed treason.Â
You blinked, âDidnât what?â
âDonât play dumb,â he said, nodding toward the plate. âTell me you didnât eat the last Mont Blanc.â
You glanced down at your fork, where the last bite was already halfway to your mouth, ââŠIt was unclaimed.â
âThatâs my favorite.â
You paused, then shrugged unapologetically, âGuess you shouldâve gotten there faster, Vice Captain.â
He squinted at you, âYa planned this.â
âSo what if I did?â
He leaned in slightly, hands bracing against your desk as he narrowed his eyes, âThatâs cold, Sensei.â
You smiled sweetly and lifted your fork containing the last bite, âYou snooze you lose, Vice Captain~â
You popped the last bit of Mont Blanc into your mouth with a little more flair than necessary and chewed slowly, smugly. Maybe it was a petty victoryâbut you had earned it. After weeks of teasing, tension, and him effortlessly getting under your skin, it was your turn to get the upper hand, even if just for a moment.Â
Or so you thought.Â
Hoshina didnât say anything. His eyes flickered downwards, just once, before a dangerous glint sparked in his expression.Â
You didnât like that look.Â
âStill got some on yer face,â he murmured.
You reached for the napkin, but before you could touch it, he stepped in closer and reached out, gently swiping his thumb across the corner of your mouthâslow, deliberate, and utterly shameless.Â
You went completely still.Â
Thenâtaking his sweet timeâhe brought that same thumb to his lips and licked the leftover chestnut cream.
âYer right, itâs real tasty.â
You blinked.
Then blinked again.Â
A high-pitched static filled your ears as your brain tried, and failed, to process what had just happened.Â
Your fork clattered against the plate. You opened your mouth to say somethingâanythingâbut no words came out. Hoshina gave you a wink, turned on his heel, and sauntered off like nothing had happened.Â
It wasnât until he was halfway across the room that your brain rebooted.Â
âYouââ
But it was too late. He was already gone, and you were left sitting at your desk, plate empty, pride wounded, and face ablaze.Â
You buried your face in your hands and groaned.Â
This man was going to be the death of you.Â
âââââ
You had completed everyoneâsâ checkups for the day. The medical ward was quiet for onceâno bandages, no paperwork, no patients.Â
Just you. And a hard-earned break.
You leaned back in your chair, slowly working your way through a small stash of hard candies you kept in your drawerâthe same kind you sometimes gave younger officers after their vaccines. It was mostly a joke now, a quiet tradition, âIf you stay still, Iâll give you candy after weâre done!â you would to say.Â
You unwrapped a piece and popped it into your mouthâstrawberry, your favorite. Sweet. Familiar. It took the edge off.Â
The silence didnât last.
A knockâsoft, rhythmicâfollowed by the door creaking open.Â
You didnât need to look up to know who it was. His footsteps were unmistakeable. Casual. Confident. A little too quiet.Â
âDidnât know Docs needed bribe candies still,â Hoshina drawled, eyes flickering to the candy between your lips, âor is that your reward for survivinâ another day of puttinâ up with me?â
You shot him a dry look, candy tucked in your cheek, âDepends on how long you plan on hovering here.â
He chuckled and moved closer, eyes now flickering to the small bag of candy on your desk, âGot any of those left?â
You offered a hum instead of an answer, swirling the candy against your tongue as you picked up the bag and gestured it towards him.
âWant one?âÂ
He plucked a lemon flavored candy from the pile, inspecting it, before asking, âWhat flavor are ya havinâ?â
âStrawberry.â
He held the lemon candy between two fingers, but made no move to unwrap it. Instead, he looked at you, face filled with mischief.Â
ââŠI want the one yer havinâ.â
You raised a brow, âThis is my last one.â
âThen I guess youâll have to share,â he said, tone lightâbut there was something in the way he leaned in just a little closer, something cocky and dangerous in the glint of his eyes, almost daring you to challenge him back. âCâmon, Sensei. Donât be stingy.â
You tilted your head, eyes narrowingânot annoyed, but calculating. Because suddenly, it all clicked.Â
You still owed him.
For the Mont Blanc cream on the mouth trick. For the compression shirt. For the relentless teasing and all the times he flustered you so effortlessly.Â
So maybe it was time to return the favor.Â
Slowly, deliberately, you stood from your chair and closed the distance between you. Hoshina straightened slightly, brows raising, clearly intrigued at what you were about to do next.Â
You stopped right in front of him, the candy still on your tongue. Sweetness sharp against your tongue.Â
Then, without breaking eye contactâand before he could say one more smug wordâyou leaned in, wrapped a hand behind his neck, and kissed him.Â
Not shy. Not hesitant.
Just slow enough to catch him off guard.Â
Your lips met his in one smooth, unhurried motion. His breath hitchedâjust onceâbut it was enough. He stilled like prey caught mid-step, eyes fluttering shut as your mouth moved together.Â
When you pulled back, his lips chased after yours for a second too long.Â
The room was silent except for the faintest click of the candy between his teeth.Â
He stood there, eyes wide, lips parted, like his brain had stopped processing at the taste of strawberry now against his tongue.
You raised a brow, feigning innocence, âStill want the lemon one?â
He blinked. Once. Twice. And then: a visible blush bloomed beneath the edge of his cheekbones, betrayed by the faintest twitch of his jaw as he struggledâgenuinely struggledâto pull himself together.Â
ââŠThe hell was that?â He grumbled, voice a bit too hoarse.Â
You leaned back against the desk, crossing your arms, âI shared.â
His gaze dragged over you, not calculating like usual, not smug. Something in him was reeling. Like you had just knocked the wind out of him and he didnât know whether to take it as a challenge or a warning.
âYouââ he shook his head slightly, scoffing under his breath, âYer trouble, Sensei.â
He looked away, jaw clenched, the strawberry candy visibly pushing against his cheek now like a mockery of his usually composure. He ran a hand over the back of his neckâa dead giveaway. He was flustered.Â
And you?
You were finally even.Â
Or close enough.
âYou okay, Vice Captain?â you asked sweetly, âYou look a bit red~â
He shot you a half-hearted glare that couldnât quite hide the upward twitch of his lips.Â
ââŠDonât think this means Iâm lettinâ ya win.â
âI donât need to win,â you said, biting back a smile, âI just need you to remember it.â
He turned to leave, but hesitated at the door, hand on the frame, the candy still in his mouth.Â
ââŠTastes better cominâ from you,â he murmuredâso low you almost missed it.
Then he disappeared into the hallway, ears just a little too pink to hide.
And you?
You finally understood the appeal of this little game he played.Â
㠀㠀 â°âș Zanka Nijiku loathed physical contact, everyone knew that. So when you accidentally fell asleep on his shoulder after a mission⊠He had two choices, push you off or sit there and pretend this wasnât happening...Unfortunately for him, he didnât move and if anyone walked in and saw this? He was absolutely blaming you.
zanka nijiku x reader , fluff, might be ooc , postmission exhaustion , zanka LOATHES physical affection , internal suffering from zanka , awkward moment , reader accidentally falls asleep on his shoulder
wc. 673
The room was quiet for once.
No shouting, no metal crashing, no stupid arguments from the others, just the dull hum of the lights above.
You and Zanka were sitting on the floor against the wall after a long mission, leaving the two of you in the empty room.
Zankaâs arms were crossed, eyes half-closed. âYouâre still awake?â he muttered.
âI could ask you the same thing,â you said, voice tired, you heard him clicked his tongue.
Then the silence returned.
Your head felt heavy, the exhaustion from the mission crept up on you faster than you expectedâŠWere you really that tired? You meant to keep sitting upright, really!⊠you did but exhaustion had other plans (á”âáŽâ)
But slowly, inch by inch⊠Your head tipped sideways and landed against Zankaâs shoulder, the room felt warm in a way it was comforting.
Across from you, Zanka cracked one eye open, watching you for a moment as your breathing had slowed.
ââŠIdiot,â he muttered, this wasn't HIS problem. "wake up." âŠno response, he looked down slowly. Your face was pressed against his shoulder, completely relaxed. You were asleep, like actually asleep, ON HIM... ( ˶°ă °) Zankaâs brow twitched, âYouâve got to be kidding.â he mumbled.
He looked like someone might magically appear to fix this situation, um⊠no one did, of course. He could shove you off, and it would take half a second.
Except⊠you looked exhausted more than usual, hand twitching slightly where it rested beside you. Zanka clicked his tongue under his breath ââŠTch.â
He shifted his shoulder slightly, not to remove you but just enough so your head wouldn't slide off. This was temporary, only until you woke up that was it! Minutes passed then more and moree⊠Your head hifted slightly in your sleep, pressing more firmly against him.
Zankaâs eye twitched, if anyone walked in right now⊠Heâd never hear the end of it, he disliked this, disliked physical closeness, clingy nonsense. He didn't like seeing people hanging all over each other like they couldnât function independently and like clinging like some leechâ And yet he didn't move, your hand moved next, while sleeping, your fingers loosely caught his sleeves.
Zanka stared down at it, ââŠYou better not remember this,â he muttered quietly. Another few minutes passed. Eventually, your breathing shifted, stirring slightly, and Zanka notices immediately. Your eyes blinked open slowly, unfocused at first and then realizing something⊠Your head was resting on something solid? warm?⊠As your gaze slowly lifted, you met Zanka's.
For a moment, neither of you moved, and thennn realization hits you like a brick. You shot upright immediately!
âOhâ!â your face flushed instantly, âSorryâ! I didnât mean toâ I mustâve fallen asleepââ you tried to explain you really did ("-àĄ-). While Zankaâs expression was completely flat, but his ears were faintly red.
âYou did.â you rubbed the back of your neck awkwardly, avoiding his gaze⊠âSorry.â apologizing since you felt shameful and that was⊠very embarrasing I guess? ââŠTch.â he looked away. âYou were tired.â that was it, no complaints or insults.
It made the situtation feel even more embarrasing, you heshitated. "Why didn't you wake me up?" he didnt answer immediately, his gaze stayed fixed on the opposite wall.
ââŠYou looked like you needed it.â your brain short-circuited for a second, that was⊠unexpectedly nice and not that bad! Before you could respond, Zanka pushed himself to his feet. âDonât do that again.â you stood too, still a little flustered âfall asleep?â
âOn me.â you couldnât help the small grin that slipped out, âSo youâre saying itâs fine if I fall asleep somewhere else?â Zanka shot you a look. ââŠDonât push it.â but he didnât look as irritated as usual. You noticed something else too, when you both started walking toward the hallway he slowed slighty.
Just enough so you were walking beside him, this isn't a coincidence you swear⊠or something strange and wasn't forced.
Not behind and when your shoulders accidentally bumped once as you walked, he didn't move away.
ââ âą ă»âžâž
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I am once again begging people to realize that AI checker doesnât work. itâs never worked. itâs notoriously known to have flagged human-made works as AI and AI-generated works as human-made. and by feeding it peopleâs works, you are feeding more works to AI, because apparently the machine itself is AI.
the only thing AI checker does is harm genuine artists and people in general too.
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