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im bacccckkkk. decided to drop the semester because what the hell was that? luckily i only have on subject left and can finally go back, unwind and enjoy some creative writing.
Loving Zuko Is Not easy Zuko x reader aangst, comfort
synopsis: loving Zuko is not easy. not because of his temper, his mood, his throne. no. that would have been easy.
word counts: 1902 words
warning: angst with comfort.
zuko x reader
Loving Zuko is not easy, not because he’s temperamental, moody, and someone who is under pressure.
No.
It was never that.
That part is easy. It’s simple.
And most days you wish it was just that.
Because you can learn the rhythm of his anger, the silence that follows, and the way it curls in on itself like smoke after fire.
That is easy.
But no, loving Zuko is hard because you start noticing what he never says out loud.
The first thing you learned was Zuko loved being praised, but not the empty kind where he is worshipped. He loved it when his hard work is noticed, when his reforms are upheld, when Iroh praise his fire-bending and his maturing calmness.
But there were days where he would pull out a hidden copy of his family portrait. One where he was younger, not knowing anything better. Sometimes wondering about the what could’ve been if the fire nation weren’t greedy or if his father chooses affection over power.
Would his father praise him for being one of the integral part in uniting the nations again or would he call him foolish?
Would his mother embrace him and tell him how proud she is of him?
Would Azula look at him smugly?
During those days, he would crawl on your bed, stay the night, kiss you all over. Promising you a life, a family. The kind that he was not fortunate enough to have.
The second thing you learned was that Zuko doesn’t know how to rest without guilt.
It doesn’t matter how peaceful the days have been, how steady the palace halls feel when war is no longer pressing against the walls like a living thing. It doesn’t matter if there is no crisis, no council meeting bleeding into midnight, no urgent messenger breaking the quiet with bad news.
If there is stillness, Zuko doesn’t know what to do with it. He becomes restless in it.
At first, you thought it was boredom. Or maybe a habit—the body remembering war even after the war is done… But it is not that simple.
It never was.
Because when he rests, he looks like someone waiting to be punished.
He sits down, exhales, and within minutes his mind begins to wander somewhere you cannot follow. His eyes grew distant in a way that is not peaceful, but searching.
As if silence itself is a doorway and he is afraid of what might come through if he stays too long.
Sometimes you find him standing near the balcony long after sunset, not looking at anything in particular. Just existing in a space where he doesn’t have to be anything yet cannot escape being himself.
And when you ask him to come back to bed, he does.
Slowly.
Like even rest has to be earned through resistance and order.
There are nights where he lie down beside you, finally feeling light and free and peaceful, only to wake up minutes or hours later with a sharp inhale—like something in him forgot it was safe to sleep.
He doesn’t wake up screaming or thrashing and that’s the third thing you learn. What followed is the worse.
Screaming would be something. A noise. A signal. A crack in the armor where you could slip through and engulf him in a hug and whisper “I’m here.”
But Zuko wakes up in silence.
His eyes open. His body stills. His breathing leveled. And for a long moment… he just lies there. Staring at the ceiling. Or the wall. Or the space where the moonlight doesn’t reach.
You learned to wake up when he does.
Not because he makes a sound.
Because the air around him changes.
Silence gets heavier.
And air is tighter.
Like the room is holding its breath.
You don’t touch him right away. That’s the fourth lesson you learned. Because when he’s like this, touch feels like an accusation.
Instead, you wait.
You lie beside him, still as he is, and you wait for him to remember where he is, who he’s with, and what year it is.
Sometimes it takes seconds.
Sometimes it takes minutes.
Sometimes it takes hours.
You counted. You have too.
You watched the ceiling with him,
The two of you suspended in something that wasn’t quite darkness and wasn’t quite dawn either.
He doesn’t apologize for that one. He never apologizes.
And that’s the fifth thing you learn.
He never say sorry for the nights he can’t sleep. Never say sorry for the way he flinches when you touch his scar. Never says sorry for the question he ask himself—you know he does—the one that goes “Do I deserve this?”
He doesn’t apologize because he doesn’t know how to say: “I’m sorry you have to carry this with me”
So, you say it for him.
Not out loud. That would embarrass him.
You say it in the way you stay. In the way you don’t flinch back when he flinches first. In the way you learn the shape of his silences the same way people learn the shape of a loved one’s hands. Because that’s the sixth thing you learned.
Zuko is not empty in those silence. He is crowded.
With voices,
With memories.
With the weight of every version of himself he has ever been told to abandon or become or erase.
And some days, it felt like he is still arguing with them all at once.
And you found traces of them in the smallest things.
The way he hesitate before making decisions, as if expecting someone to correct him mid-thought.
The way he overcompensates when he believes he made a mistake, like every error must be corrected immediately or it will grow teeth.
The way he sometimes flinches at respect, as if it is a trick to lull him in complacency that leads to mockery.
He never says these things out loud… because Zuko doesn’t ask for comfort the way other people do.
He doesn’t know how—no—he doesn’t allow himself to show weakness.
He doesn’t say stay.
He doesn’t say I’m afraid.
He doesn’t say I need you.
Instead, he appears.
He would show up at your doorway at night without explanation. Standing there like he is unsure if he is allowed to enter. He sits on the bed without speaking. His presence heavy with everything he refuses—don’t know how to put into words.
And when you finally reach for him, he does not pull away.
But he also doesn’t fully relax.
Its as if affection is something he has to negotiate with himself before accepting.
There are moments when he will lean into you touch so quietly that it almost feels like and accident. As if his body forgets, briefly, that it is supposed to remain guarded.
And then he remembers… and pulls himself back together again.
The seventh thing you learned was the hardest to understand, because it does not look like pain at first.
It looks like duty.
Zuko is a good ruler. The best Fire Lord the Fire Nation have had in a century. He’s better with his duties than he is with responsibility. There is a difference, and he knows it intimately. He carries responsibility like it is something sacred and fragile, something that will shatter if he loosens his grip even for a second.
But underneath it, is fear
A fear that if he stops moving, even briefly, everything he has done to become better will collapse backward into what he used to be.
So, he keeps going.
Even when he is exhausted. Even when his body aches with the kind of fatigue that sleep can not fix. Even his eyes lose their sharpness and become something older, something heavier.
Because stillness feels like failure.
And you realize that loving Zuko means learning how to exist beside someone who believes that are always one mistake away from becoming unworthy again.
The eighth thing you learned was that Zuko loves like he is trying to rewrite history with his own hands.
Carefully.
Desperately.
As if gentleness can undo what fire once destroyed.
He does not love lightly.
He loves like it is a vow he is afraid to break.
So, when he touches you, he is deliberate. When he speaks softly, it is intentional. When he stays, its not casual. He chooses to be there with you, over and over again. Like he is constantly aware that that space beside you will no longer be his if he’s not careful enough.
He lost his chair, his place, his throne once, he’s certain that he will again if he doesn’t show you that he’s worthy enough to be graced by your presence.
The ninth thing you learned about Zuko is that his past doesn’t stay in the past.
It follows him.
Not as a story.
But as ghosts of his reflexes.
There are days when his jaw tightens for reason you can not see. Days where his hands curl slight on air before he realizes he is no longer holding sword. Days where his eyes harden at nothing at all, reacting to enemies that doesn’t exist in front of him.
And you understood then that healing is not the absence of ghosts.
It learning how to live without letter them speak for you.
And Zuko is still learning how to keep hem quiet.
The tenth thing she learned was that loving Zuko is not about saving him.
It’s about witnessing him.
It is about sitting beside someone who is constantly trying to outrun the version of himself that hurts others, and refusing to look away when the running gets painful.
Its about staying when he can not believe staying is possible.
It is about knowing that some nights, he will crawl into your bed like he was searching for proof that he is allowed to exist without punishment.
And you will give it to him, not because it erases anything, but because it tells him that erasure is not the only alternative.
And yet… despite everything—loving Zuko remains to not be easy.
Not because he is too much. He never even is!
But because he has spent so long believing he is only ever too much, or never enough, that teaching him otherwise feels like trying to change the shape of the fire without extinguishing it.
You wonder, sometimes, if the shame will ever leave him.
You wonder if he’ll ever look in the mirror and see what you see: not the scar, not the new Fire Lord, not the banished prince, not the boy who made the wrong choices until he started making the right ones, not the boy mistreated and left behind by the ones who should’ve loved him.
Just… him. Zuko. A man worth staying and loving.
And sometimes, you wonder, whether love is enough to rewrite what shame has already written into him.
But then he comes to you again.
Not to be fixed.
Just asking to be near something that does not disappear when he looks directly at it.
And you stay.
Because some forms of love are not gentle in the beginning.
Some of them are simply the act of refusing to let someone be along in the long, slow process of becoming someone they can finally stand to look at in the mirror.
a/n: sometimes i wonder if im hyporcite for writing things i knew i couldnt do or decided to put a plug on it.
anywayssss I hope you had a great experience reading it! Like, comment, and reblog is highly appreciated!
synopsis: She was twelve when she left the Southern Water Tribe. Young, dumb, and broke enough to mistake hope for courage.
Years later, when people asked how she met the Avatar, she made it a joke. It was easier that way. No one wanted the truth — the jealousy, the humiliation of hope, the quiet, graceless way love can make you smaller if you're not careful.
But the truth has a way of surfacing. In the air that answers her like breathing. In the spaces between Aang's words. In the name she calls out when the fever takes her.
This is not a love story. I dont think so
wc: 10,879
ps. I crashed out while listening to laufey like a sad girl when i dont even have a love life to begin with
a/n: english is my second language. im sorry for any grammatical errors made.
I will change the banner soon, when I finally get enough sleep.
next>>
When people asked how she met Avatar Aang, she would smile and say, lightly,
"Oh, I invited myself and then forgot how to leave" or "I saw my sister crack an ice, and there he was sleeping inside."
People laugh.
It was easier that way since no one wanted the truth.
No one wanted to hear that she had followed him across the world with a half-packed satchel, boredom, and a ridiculous crush, believing that maybe if she stood close enough to the sun, it might one day turn and look at her too.
No one wants to hear that story!
The jealousy.
The humiliation of hope.
The quiet, graceless way love can make you smaller if you are not careful.
So she made it a joke.
She had always been good at that.
Because back then, she had been ordinary.
Painfully, aggressively ordinary.
Katara bent water like she owned it.
She, however, bent it like she was asking for permission from a dragon to take atleast one of its gold.
She was not useless. Just disappointing in the sort of way people were too polite to say it out loud
Gran-gran would smile kindly and say:
"You're patient enough"
"You worked hard"
"You will learn it in time"
She learned very young that if you made yourself a joke first, no one would turn you into a punchline.
Sooo... she smiled. She laugh when she fail.
She joke when things don't go her way.
She said things like "It's fine," she'd joke, shaking the water off her sleeves "The spirits clearly have their favorites"
Everyone laughed.
Katara would throw a snow ball at her.
Sokka would tell her to abandon magic and be just like him.
That was easier.
If you made them comfortable, they wont witness your shame.
She brought that skill with her when Katara said:
"You should come with us"
Like it was simple and the most obvious choice she could make. As if she was asking her to join dinner and not leave the only home she had ever known.
"And do what? Become an emotional support?" Sokka snorted and shrugged,
"Puh-lease. We already have enough of that"
Katara smacked his head and said, "I'm serious."
"I know. That's what scares me" she answered with a gentle smile a twelve years old could ever offer.
Let's just say… she just couldnt be apart from her family so she joined them.
She should've said no.
She had every reasons not to come.
She's no prodigy.
She's not smart and couragous.
She only knew household chores.
She has her staff and various books and scrolls their mom left her.
For goodness sake, she can hardly bend the water the same way Katara does!
She's no Sokka who is a quick thinker.
She's certainly not the Avatar.
She was just… there.
Ordinary.
But ordinary girls are the most vulnerable to impossible things.
Heroes have purpose.
Ordinary girls have hopes.
And hope, dangled in front af an ordinary girl with extraordinary dreams is dangerous.
So she took their hand. Smilling like it was an adventure instead of the beginning of her own hardship and heartbreak. Left home before she became wise enough to think this decision through.
At first, she thought she might survive it.
Travel made everything temporary.
Cold nights on Appa's saddle. Bad camp food. Villages she would forget and forage. Fights and flights too urgent for self-pity.
Quit nights, and slow days were scarce.
Ugency was mercy. It gave longing for a place to hide.
And Aang, he was kind… and that was the problem!
Cruelty woul've been easier.
Cruel people can be hated.
Kind people became saint worthy of prayers.
He noticed when she fell behind and slowed without saying anything.
He handed her fruit first because he remembered how she hated the bitter kind.
He laughed at her self-depricating jokes like she was genuinely funny and not just using humor as a personality tourniquet.
He made space for her, which is the beginning of her demise.
Because lonely people are reckless around being welcomed.
One evening, somewhere over the Earth Kindom, Appa drifting through the wide sky, Aang sat beside her at the saddle's edge and asked casually:
"Do you ever feel like everyone else got instructions for life and yours got lost?"
For a moment she stared at him, then looked back ahead, thighten her hold on the string manouvering Appa and said "Yeah,"
"Most of the time"
He looked relieved, "Right?"
He sat cross legged beside her, his elbows on his thighs, his face craddles on his fisted knuckles, and looked ahead of him as well.
"Everyone seems to know what I should be doing and expects me to know each one of them just because I'm the Avater" he grumbled.
"But you are the Avatar" she answered without thinking
"Exactly" he flatly said "A terrible idea to be honest. Who died and decided I should be the avatar? Huh? Huuuh?"
She can not help but chuckle. "Maybe you should've told Rokku that when you had a conversation earlier"
"Oooh, you dont know how badly I wanted to complain to him earlier!" he said broodingly "But Rokku was fast and distracted me with more pressing matters" and then he blew a raspberry.
She laughed— real laughter not just a chuckle that almost throw her off balance. She could've flown down had he not caught her on time.
He smiled at her as she laughed, as if he was aiming for it.
She remembered that moment for years.
The complaining avatar and her ever helpful insomnia.
That should've warned her.
She noticed the way he looked at Katara in pieces.
Not all at once. That would've been mercy.
Instead it arrived slowly.
A glance half a second too long.
The way his body turned towards her like she's the first person he wants to see.
The softness in his voice when he said her name.
The way his laughter changed when she was the reason for it.
The way he wants her attention on him.
The way hope sat in him, bright and fragile and obvious.
Love, she learned, was often obvious only to the person it excludes.
Or maybe she was just blind to not see them before.
Who can even blame her? She was a child. She still is, if you dont count her age and think that the war and adventure took her childhood away.
The realization came by a campfire in some forgettable village with excellent noodles and terrible weather. Appa asleep nearby, the world briefly quieter.
Katara was laughing at something Sokka said.
Aang was watching like sunset had personally agree to happen only for that moment.
And there it was.
Simple
Final.
Oh
Suddenly every moment before that rearranged itself into clarity.
Every blush.
Every awkward silence.
Every excuse to stand a little closer.
It had always been there. She had just been too selfish to not see it.
She sat very stil. Smiled when spoken to. Nodded at the right time.
Then lay awake that night staring at the branches of trees she would never remember and quietly mourned a love story that had never actually existed.
By morning, she was composed again.
She had years of practice.
The air found her by accident or maybe she found it.
Or may be it has always been with her but she was constantly looking for other things.
Aang insisted it was destiny.
She countered that destiny was just a bad decision-maker with better marketing strategy.
They were in some valley so green that it made the Southern Water Tribe feel like a myth someone else had told her.
Aang was showing off. Again.
The usual.
"Air is about freedom" he said, spinning leaves in circles with infuriating ease. "You can't force it"
She crossed her arms and rolled her eyes "Sounds fake to me"
"It's not fake. You're just skeptical"
"Phu-leaase" she elongated, "add charming before skeptical"
He chuckled and stepped towards her
"Here"
And because the universe hated her specifically, he moved behind her.
Too close.
Warm.
And unfair.
Her entire nervous system went haywire.
His hands settled lightly on her shoulders.
"Relax," which felt more like a trap than a guideline.
"Aang—"
"Trust me"
Which was rude, because she does!
Always.
She just dont trust herself to be able to do it though.
He adjusted her stance.
Patient
Oblivious
And far too gentle for her continued emotional instability.
"Dont push it, dont force it," he murmured. "Listen. Air doesn't like being controlled."
"I relate to that"
He laughed softly, close enough that it felt like a secret.
Then the wind shifted. Like something in her answered.
The pile of leaves in front of them lifted.
Rose.
Then swirled.
Both of them froze and stared.
The leaves dropped
Then Aang shouted so loudly that Appa was startled awake.
"You did it!"
"No! I absolutely did not" denial is heavy on her voice, "There was probably a strong gush of wind that's why it moved"
"Yeah right" he gave her a deadpanned look "And we were so numbed that we didn't feel it"
"Glad we came in to an agreement then" she nodded in finality and walked towards where she left her staff leaving Aang who was buzzing and giddy behind.
He grabbed both her hands.
Looked at her eyes like she had hang the moon herself.
"You absolutely did it!"
She laughed too because she couldn't not. Because joy was contagious when it wore his face.
"I think I would've known if I was secretly an air bender."
"Well, apparently you're full of surprises." He looked at her like she was something astonishing.
And there it was again.
Stupid.
Persistent.
Leach.
A terminal illness called Hope.
Because now they had something that was theirs.
Not Katara's
Not Sokka's
Not the group's.
Theirs.
Air.
Air bending.
She learned it too quickly.
At a frightening speed.
Frightening everyone.
Especially her.
Born to water, she should've been bending oceans, tides, and ice.
Instead, air answered her like breathing.
Air answered her without prayer and bargaining required.
She learned the forms she had seen in scrolls.
The breathing.
The meditation.
The philosophy.
Then she moved beyond the forms.
Beyond what the world deemed to be tradition.
She could pull cold from the atmosphere so sharp that water froze obediently at her fingertips. Sometimes she carry water in the air and drink from it.
She could strip oxygen from flame until fire folded on itself and dies.
She could move sand, mist, ash— enough that people sometimes swore she was bending every element when really she was just terrifyingly good at lying and playing with the wind and air in her vicinity.
What even is a tradition for a practice that has been lost for more than a century?
She jokes once that she was the world's least impressive Avatar which Toph replied with:
"No, you're just terrifyingly good at committing fraud."
Even Aang looked at her sometimes with quiet awe.
The only other airbender.
The only person in the world he could teach this way.
The only one standing beside him in the shape of something he had lost.
The only person he could hand those ghost to and know they would be held carefully.
He trusted her with pieces of himself he did not hand out lightly.
His grief.
His culture.
His loneliness.
He shared everything.
Late nights were filled with conversations about Air Nomad temples, artifacts, monks and stories no one else asked for.
He thought her games from his childhood.
Made her meditate with him even though she's bad at it as her mind would wander off.
He laughed every time she complained, and corrected her posture with the unbearable sincerity of someone who had never learned to be embarrassed.
Morning training became theirs.
Before sunrise, barefoot on wet grass. They practiced forms older than kingdoms while the rest of the world lay asleep.
Sometimes he would stop mid-lesson and grin at her with such uncomplicated pride that she forgot how to breathe.
It should've been enough.
Friendship.
Trust.
History.
But proximity is dangerous when your heart is stupid.
She started believing in maybe.
Maybe love could grow where devotion and shared practice lived.
And hope is humiliating.
It teaches you how to survive on crumbs and call it faith.
Everyone knew. She hated that too.
Not because anyone said it.
Because no one did.
Sokka would pause sometimes when Aang and Katara sat too close together, glancing at her with the kind of pity people thought counted as kindness.
Toph understood everything immediately because apparently blindness only improved her ability to witness emotional disasters.
"You're all exhausting," she said over dinner.
No one asked, because they didnt need to.
Even Zuko, who is permanently one inconvenience away from violence, looked at her once in sympathy and understanding when she said too casually that Aang and Katara had always been like this.
Only Aang seemed untouched by it.
Or maybe… he was simply better than her at pretending.
The strangest thing she and Toph ever built were letters. Neither of them understood how it worked, but that made it theirs.
It started during training.
She had been practicing carrying sound through the air currents— trying to move and amplify voice farther without shouting.
Toph, meanwhile, was being Toph.
"Can you stop breathing dramatically? I can hear you in my sleep"
She laughed and sent a small gust at her. In return, Toph blocked it with floating thin wall of earth.
But something shifted. The gust carried more than air.
A feeling.
A shape.
A thought.
Not words exactly.
Intetion.
Toph froze and said "… Do that again."
"What? Fan your royal face?"
"Nooo. I heared something in that gust you sent"
"I guess no more ghost stories tonight then"
And she did as she was told.
Actually no, she doesnt even know what she did.
But she tried attacking her with air that has some dust in it.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Until somehow, the impossibility became a possibility.
Messages carried through air pressure and vibration and stubborn intent.
Not perfect.
But enough.
Enough for short letters folded into the wind.
Enough for thoughts sent across impossible distance if both of them concentrated hard enough.
Enough for both of them to have secret codes and secret jokes to laugh about.
Enough for Toph to insult her from three villages away without inconvenience of travel.
Before she left, Toph had said:
"If you disappear dramatically and dont use this, I will personally hunt you. "
She smiled.
"Comforting"
"I'm serious"
"I know. That's why its comforting"
Katara was the one who finally said it. They were sitting by the river at sunset, the world unfairly beautiful. For a long time, neither of them spoke.
Then Katara said softly:
"You should tell him" then she belatedly added, "You love him"
It wasn't a question.
She felt her whole body lock and denial is as automatic as she breathe "Who? Sokka? Of course I do, he's our—"
"I meant Aang"
Katara looked at her. Not accusing. Not pitying. Just knowing.
And somehow that was worse.
"It it that obvious?" her voice came out smaller than she wanted.
Katara sighed, looking down at the water, "Only if someone's paying attention"
She chuckled once. Bitter. "So everyone, then"
"No." Katara shook her head. "Mostly just me"
That should have comforted her but she knew how things are within their circle. No secret remains a secret for that long.
'Sis, if you know, then Toph knew then Sokka noticed and while Zuko can be dumb but he have eyes and ears too,' she thought
She stared hard at the river so she didnt have to look at her.
Then she laughed.
A sharp, wrong sound.
"Absolutely not." she answered resolutely. "I wont tell him a single thing"
Katara looked at her and countered, "He cares about you."
"Yes," she said "And that's exactly the problem"
"You dont know what he'd say"
She turned then,
Really looked at her.
At this girl that she loved and envied and resented and would still defend with all her life.
And because honesty was easier when disguised as humor, she smiled.
"Yes,I do."
Katara's face fell but she reached for her hand regardless.
Warm and steady.
Just the same way she remembered when she was shaking from her nightmares when they were younger.
"You're allowed to want things"
She almost laughed.
"But apparently I'm not allowed to have them."
Katara's grip tightened.
And for one horrible moment, she hated her.
Hated her for being kind.
For being worthy of kindness.
For being loved so easily by the person she would have bled for.
She hated her because she could not hate her enough. So instead, she pulled her hand away and said the cruelest truth she had.
"Do you know what the worst part is?"
Katara said nothing.
"He tells me about you."
She hated how her voice cracked a little there.
"He asks me what you mean when you say certain things. If I think you're upset. If I think you'd eve—" she laughed, sharp, and ugly. "I help him try to love you better"
Katara looked like she'd been struck.
But she kept going because once pain starts speaking, it rarely stops politely.
"He teaches me airbending like it means something. Like maybe I'm special because I'm the only one who is somewhat like him. But I'm not. I'm just convenient. I'm just there."
"That not true"
She looked at Katara again and said "Is it?"
She softened immediately because cruelty was easy and she liked Katara too much to deny it.
"He loves you"
Silence.
She looked back at the river.
"And before you say anything noble and tragic, please dont. I dont think I can handle your guilt on top of everything else."
"That isn't fair!" Katara countered.
"No" she said lightly "It really isn't." she chuckled, "None of this is, actually."
Then, because if she didnt joke she might drown:
"Beside, imagine how embarrassing rejection would be. I'd have to relocate to another nation."
Katara made a helpless laugh despite tears threatening to fall from her eyes.
"Your awful"
"Oh phu-lease. I'm hilarious"
And because she was very, very good at smiling, Katara almost believed she was fine.
Almost.
It ended quietly.
No storms.
No screaming.
No dramatic declarations under moonlight.
Real heartbreak is usually administrative.
And jealousy, when masked flawlessly, is dissolved to something polite.
Katara was impossible to hate, which frankly makes this inconvenient.
It would have been easier if she was cruel and vindictive.
If she was arrogant or selfish or blind to the devotion orbiting her.
But Katara was good.
She was warmth, and competence, and strength held together by stubborn kindness. She notice when people are hurting. She remembered who needed what.
She deserved to be loved. That was the problem.
Because if Katara had been terrible, resentment would have felt righteous.
Instead it felt shameful.
Like being angry at the sun for rising from the East instead of the West.
So she said nothing.
She helped with dinner.
She laughed at Sokka's jokes.
And once again, she listened when Aang talked about Appa and the Air nomads, and old memories that still hurts.
And when he talked about Katara— because of course he does— she listened then, too.
"Do you think she's mad at me?"
"She seemed tired today"
"What do you think would be a better way to catch her attention?"
Each time, she answered like a good friend should.
Each time, she hands him the knife and thanked him for trusting her enough to hand it over.
The worst part was he never seems to notice she was bleeding.
Not because he was cruel. It's because it never occured to him that she likes him.
To Aang, she's safe.
Easy.
Certain.
And there's nothing lonelier than being loved like a furniture.
Useful.
Comforting.
Convenient.
It was late. Everyone else was asleep.
She was laying on Appa's saddle, staring at the stars, willing it to fall on her, allowing the mosquitoes to start treating her like a buffet when Aang sat beside her.
Easy.
Familiar.
Dangerous.
Like he owned the place beside her.
"You've been weird lately"
She smiled and with a snort she replied, "I'm offended that the weird one tells that to the normal one"
"You seized being normal when Sokka called you a magical girl" he countered, chuckling at the memory.
"I'm serious though. Are you ok?"
There were so many answers to that question.
None of them were survivable.
So she sat up, folded herself into something manageable.
"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"
She's pretty sure she heard Toph send out a noise that sounded suspringly like a snort.
'Traitor. '
For a while, neither of them spoke.
The fire across them crackled softly between breaths.
Then Aang said, very quietly, like it would break whatever fragile china there was. "Katara spoke to me."
"Did she?"
"Yeah"
He rubbed the back of his neck, nervous.
She wanted to laugh.
How considerate of him.
"She said…" he hesitated. "she said I might've been making things harder for you without realizing it"
She stared at the fire.
The flames blurred.
"Well," she said calmly, because apparently self-destruction is her hobby now, "that sounds like her."
Then, softly he said "Is it true?"
She could lie.
She will lie.
She had planned to, for years, to lie forever.
But exhaustion is honest,
And she was tired of carrying it alone.
So she looked at him in the eye.
Calm.
Composed.
Smilling, because of course.
And said:
"You already know the answer."
His face changed.
Not surprise.
Worse.
Recognition.
And suddenly she understood. All at once.
"You knew"
He looked away.
And there it was.
The final cruelty of this charade.
Not ignorance.
Awareness.
Choice.
She laughed. Not because it was funny.
Because if she hadn't, she might let herself break.
She wanted to scream.
Instead, she asked, "Do you ever wish people were different?"
He blinked.
Confused, "What?"
"Like…" She looked at the sky again and asked "… do you ever look at someone and think that if they were a little different, if you had met them first, maybe you could have love them?"
The words hang between them, naked and terrible.
Aang went still.
For the first time in years, the air they shared felt torn and absent.
She didnt look back at him.
Couldn't
Instead, she settled in locating the north star, willing it to guide her in life.
And when he spoke, his voice was soft with the kind of sorrow that only made things worse.
"I think," he started carefully, "People are not puzzle pieces you fit together to define love. It just happens."
Her throat burned. Her eyes blurred. Her heart ache. Her gut hurts.
She laughed anyway.
Because that was kind. That was honest. That was enough.
"Right." she took a deep breath, "Of course. That was a stupid question"
"No—"
"Aang"
His name had never sounded so tired.
"I dont know what to do. What to—"
"Of course you didn't"
"I didnt want to hurt you"
She shook her head and looked at him this time.
She smiled wider. Sharper. Sharp enough to tear.
"And yet" she pointed at him then back her and look around their surrounding, "A remarkable outcome we have here."
A laugh escaped her, soft and humorless one.
"That ship sailed, crashed, and sank somewhere around Ba Sing Se"
He flinched.
Good.
Let him
She slid down from Appa's saddle.
He followed suit.
"I didn't mean for it to happen," she said, "If that helps?"
His voice small and asked "When?"
She smiled at that, because of course, he would ask like there was a clean beginning.
Like love arrived politely and announced itself.
"I dont know. Somewhere between you flying to teaching me how not to trip over my own feet, probably."
He made a week sound that might have been a laugh. Who knows, really.
She swallowed, continued and started listing things that made her hopeful.
"But you were kind to me. And then… you trusted me! Then there was airbending, and all those moments shared between us. You just made me feel…" She paused and searched for the least humiliating truth and failed miserably "Seen, I guess"
The fire popped. And somehow Appa flipped over in his sleep.
"I know you didn't mean anything behind it. That's the problem. You were just being you. I was an idiot who turned kindness into hope"
"No"
She looked at him.
Aang was starring at her with something raw and stricken in his face.
"No, don't do that. Don't make it sound stupid"
She blinked, because she was expecting pity.
Awkwardness.
A gentle rejection wrapped in kindness.
Not this.
Not conviction that might mean something.
He dragged a hand over his face.
"I knew." he admitted.
His voice cracked on the word. "I knew"
Aang, apparently is committed to ruining both their lives tonight, continued. "But I was selfish"
He looked younger when he's ashamed.
Smaller even.
"I knew, and kept pretending I didnt, because if I admitted it, I'd have to do something about it. And I didnt want to lose you!"
His words landed between them like fire landing in a forest, destroying the life around it.
Her throat tightened.
Her smile almost slipping.
"Aang—"
"I loved being with you"
His voice was so quiet she almost missed it.
"I still do." he whisphered, "You make things easier. You understand parts of me no one else does. With airbending, with the Air Nomads— with everything. You make me feel less alone."
Hope really is a vicious, vicious thing.
Because even now, even here, when the veil has been lifted.
Even when the illusion of the mist has shifted.
It craves and is hungry for validation
For confirmation.
For a confession.
"And?"
He closed his eyes then looked at the sky, took a deep breath, then look at her again.
And she knew.
Before he said it, she knew.
Before this entire confrontation, she knew.
"But it wasn't the same"
There it was!
The knife.
The deadly stab.
Clean and familiar.
Not enough.
Never enough.
Not the way he love Katara.
She blinked multiple times, letting her eyelids swallow the burning tears inside.
She nodded once.
Let out the air she was holding in.
Because what else was there to do?
"I know," she whispered.
"No— you don't! because if I could choose—"
"But you can't," she looked at him and offered him another smile. The kind that you knew is holding everything in. "No… " she shook her head, "you didnt even have to."
He stopped. Because that was the truth, wasn't it?
Love was not fairness nor effort.
It was not proximity or history or practice.
It was simply where your heart arrived.
And his had arrived somewhere else, somewhere named Katara.
"You know what the worst part is?"
Aang looked at her like he already did.
And for once, she let herself be angry.
Not loud.
Not cruel.
Just honest.
"You let me stay in the maybe"
His face broke.
And she kept going because pain, once invited, rarely leaves politely.
"You gave me closeness. Trust. Just enough affection to make hope feel reasonable enough. And all that time, you knew— No, I knew it would never be me."
"For years, I ate and built a life in that maybe. And you knew!" she exclaimed, "You knew and you couldn't be brave enough to pull the plug on it"
She laughed bitterly.
Her voice shook, tear sthreatened to fall.
She ignored them just like how she ignored the mosquittoes feasting on her.
"And… its not even your fault. I knew you love Katara. Devastatingly so. I'd be blind to not see it. I'd be deaf to not hear it from you" she paused again, trying to gain control on her emotions.
"I was the one foolish enough to put meaning in those moments that we shared. It was selfish of me to think because we both have airbending, because we have our own thing, because you share with me things you dont share with others— that maybe, maybe you might look at me and choose differently. That you might see me"
Aang whispered, devastated:
"You are worth choosing."
She smiled then.
Small.
Sad.
Final.
"But not by you"
Silence.
That was enough.
"I think…" Then she stepped away from from him, and said, with all the gentleness of a closing door:
"… I will always love you a little. I wish I didn't. But I will."
He looked like grief had introduced itself and kissed him.
And for the first time since she had climed onto Appa's back all those years ago, she chose herself over staying.
"And I think," still smiling she said, "that's the last thing I'm ever going to give you."
Then she walked away.
And this time she did not look back.
The war ended. The world celebrated.
Aang kissed Katara beneath a sky that finally belonged to tomorrow.
And she smiled.
Of course she smiled.
She clapped when eveyone clapped.
She laughed when everyone laughed.
She stood beside them in victory and looked exactly like someone who had made peace with all of it.
Maybe she had.
Mostly.
But peace was louder than war.
Because now there was time.
Time to notice.
Time to remember.
Time to ask herself who she was when she was no longer trying to be enough for someone else.
That question terrified her.
So she stayed.
Because leaving immediately would make it look like heartbreak.
No.
If she leaves, it will be on her own terms. Own reason, own choices and benefit.
So she stayed.
Long enough for peace to become believable and normal.
Long enough for Katara to stop watching her with quiet guilt.
Long enough for Aang to stop looking like the embodiment of apology.
Long enough for Appa to have children.
That part, oddly, mattered the most.
Because if Aang was the last airbender, Appa had been the last sky bison.
Because if she's leaving, she would need a cuddle buddy.
She would not leave him alone inside extinction if she could help it.
So she helped fix that frst.
It started as a joke. Mostly.
They were older now. Not old, but older— at that dangerous age where everyone around you starts talking about permanence like it is a reasonable thing to attempt and have.
Aang was talking about rebuilding Air Nomad culture. Again. He always was.
Some things just never changed.
He talked about the weight of being the last and desperate need to stop being it.
She listened because she always had.
Then, over tea she said lightly,
"Well… if we're rebuilding things, perhaps start with Appa" she said, acting as if she pittied Appa's singleness. "Poor Appa has been carrying your entire emotional instability for years. He deserves a wife! He needs a mate!" she exclaimed, determination clearly visible in her eyes.
"His carnal needs havent been met for a hundred years. He lived more like a monk than you ever could Aang! Don't you pity that giant flying caterpillar?!"
Aang nearly choked. "G-giant caterpillar?"
Katara chortled into her cup.
Sokka said with a raised eyebrow, "And how are we even going to achieve that, my dear flying sister?" a bit skeptical, like he always is. "We travel far and wide and we havent seen a flying bison anywhere!"
"Hohoho" she chuckled like those obnoxious princess in some play they've watched few days ago.
"You're creeping me here" Sokka sweatdropped.
"Maybe you haven't but I have!" she exclaimed
Sokka pointed a finger at her and called bullshit, "Don't lie! You were hardly apart from us. So what time do you even have to see them alone?"
"Zukko, bring me the map"
"What now. Did you somehow made the big bad fire lord as your lackey?" crossing his arms, Sokka grumbled.
Instead of answering his question she looked at them playfully then covered her mouth, then looked at the side avoiding their eyes and said "Hoho~ Who knows~"
If she had a cat tail, they would've seen it swishing playfully.
"Wha-What? Zuko, what's the meaning of this?!"
Poor Sokka was ignored as Zukko laid out the map that for some reason have a drawing on a certain region of the Fire Nation.
"Why is there a cat drawing here?" Sokka pointed out in which she chirped happily with "That's a Appa!"
"Gurl, are you drunk" Toph, bless her soul, asked as she looked wearily at the tea cups.
"Nope. Just giddy hehe. Imagine, more fluff balls in town"
"And we lost her in her merry land"
Since she seems to be lost in her imagination, it was Zuko who had to explain how they found the hidden herds of the flying bison.
"I can't believe I'm hearing a discussion about Appa's love life before mine" Toph grumbled.
"That's because your ideal type dont exist!" she countered pointing finger at Toph "Dont you dare oppose my flying bison repopulation plan! I need a cuddle buddy. It isn't fair that only Aang have one" she grumbled before drinking her tea.
And because the universe love surprises.
The proposal was approved.
Contacts were established.
Ancient records were dug up.
Hope, once again, arrived disguised as logistics.
She threw herself into it with strange kind of devotion. Everyone thought it was because she cared about Aang and Appa.
Which was true. Partially.
Toph, of course, understood.
Because Toph undersood everything she wish she didn't.
One afternoon, while she was painting, Toph dropped onto her studio's floor and watched her paint for few minutes before she spoke;
"You're planning to leave, aren't you?"
It was a statement disguised as question.
She paused. She didn't look up. Then continued painting again.
"Whatever do you mean Toph?"
Toph snorted.
Then silence.
She watched her drown in the painting she's pouring her mind and soul into. It had always been like this whenever she tried running away or if she need to hide something. She poured them in painting, in art, or music that only the air could carry and remember.
"You've been wanting to leave." she paused, "For the longest time, you've been looking for your way out."
She stilled and looked at her, because it wasn't a lie.
Because hearing it aloud made it real.
Toph, now layed on the floor, popped a grape on her mouth.
"The second Appa stopped being the only one, you got hopeful. Like an excited child waiting to open her present" she chewed.
"That's dramatic"
"You're dramatic"
"Excuse you, I have flare" she rolled her eyes.
"Yeah right. Its that exact same diseased as Sokka. Dramatitis" Toph popped another grape on her mouth
She laughed despite how ridiculous everything sounds.
And Toph, with an emotional subtlety of a landslide, continued:
"The students were a dead giveaway, by the way"
That made her pause
"Huh? Isn't that the most subtle one? Teaching aspirants how to airbend. I've got good reputation to boot" she's not even denying anything anymore.
"To others yeah. But I know you" another grape to her mouth it is. "For someone who likes her freedom so much that she would rather drift around, you sure follow a strict schedule for teaching."
"I had too. You cant have random time to teach, you know. I dont want them budgering me around for which day and time I would be free"
Toph pointed at her and said "That's the thing. Its too logical. Too clinical. Totally not like you. Its like a final hoorah for something." she said in finality. "I feel like I'm the only one with functioning eyes here. How can I see things they couldn't see? Are they blind?"
The irony caught her off guard that it made her fall from the chair she was seating at. The blind woman complaining about their abled friends blindness will never get old.
"If you had stick to just selling your painting and sculptures, it would've been less obvioust yknow" Toph added as she added another grape that would go down her stomache in no time "You've been doing that since we've been on the run or on the fly? You get what I mean. And hey, anything made under your name inflated in price value"
"Should I stop teaching then?"
"Nah. Apparently they are too blind to see the obvious. Stopping now would be like telling them they're dumb"
Toph turned her head towards her. Her eyes somehow sharper than sight.
"Just dont forget that you can come home to me when the going get tough. I can hide you from them too, y'know" she said with outmost sincerity.
"My reputation exceeds me, dear. I doubt you can hide me in your little hut" she jest, but she's thankful.
They both knew that.
Because somehow, someone noticed her silent plea.
Someone noticed her closing the door before shutting it close and let the ocean swallow the key.
And they were kind enough to reach out and ask for a duplicate.
They didnt listen to everyone's congratulatory messages.
They didn't mistake her competence for contentment.
They didn't allow her to disappear just as easily.
They made sure that there was a tether connecting them, regardless of how thin it may be.
She told everyone she was taking a vacation. That was the official version.
Sokka complained and told her to take him with her.
Katara hugged her and told her that she deserved it.
Aang smiled softly and asked where she was going.
She smiled back and said:
"Away from you, obviously. I cant handle your brooding nose anymore"
Everyone laughed.
Because she made it sound like a joke.
She had always been good at that.
Only Gran-Gran knew the truth.
And even she knew about it just few days after she left the warm embrace of Katara and the ventured on her own journey.
She stood before them at dawn with one bag, enough money and souvenirs with her. and the kind of calm that only comes after a decision has been made so thoroughly it no longer hurts.
She knelt down to hug Gran-Gran the moment she saw her. Its been so long since she's been home. She missed her scent, her voice, and her embrace.
"What brought you home child?" Gran-Gran asked as she enveloped her in a warm embrace in contrast to their winter season.
"Can't your grandchild see you just because?" she joked, her voice croaked. "I missed you so much Gran-Gran" she nuzzled deeper in her embrace.
Gran-Gran did not ask much. She let her cry in her embraced, wiped the snot off her face, and laughed at her when she noticed how puffy she had looked.
She let her stay, cooked her favorite meal, let her play they with the pequins the way she used to. She let her teach the kids, now turned into a teenager. She tell them tales of their adventure, of the places they've been too, showed them drawings and gave them gifts that are timely but timeless.
Kanna let her be her own person in their own home, because at the back of her mind, she knew that this might be the last time she will see this child. She let her babble like the kid that she once was, she allowed her cuddle times that she was so shy to ask. They braided each other' s hair, exchanged stories over meal time, knitted together.
They made the most of their 'borrowed' and limited time.
One dinner Gran-Gran finally asked "For how long will you be gone?" with no preemptive plan to stop her or to tell her stay. It's like she knew this child would just fly and disappear if she doesnt find her anchors.
She smiled, "I dont know yet"
"Will you come back?"
That made her pause, she looked at the food on the table filled with dishes Gran-Gran knew she loved. The house is no longer a temporary tent but is a wooden cabin, much sturdier than the one she grew up in. She looked at the neatly scattered knitted, finished and unfinished project they both started.
Then she looked at Gran-Gran. She aged so much over the years. There are more lines on her face than the ones she used to trace when she was younger, hoping to smooth them out then pout when they sag back.
She can't fully leave this yet.
She cant leave her yet.
She can't leave the mother that raised her yet.
"I'll come back here each year" she said in finality, "But I dont think I'll go back there anytime soon"
Gran-Gran did not ask. She was used to this child's vague and stubborn ways.
She sighed though "You told them you're taking a vacation didn't you?"
Chopstick stucked on her mouth. Her eyes wide, and she smiled awkardly just like how she does when she's caught taking another slice of the meat that was supposed to be preserved for another meal when she was younger.
"Uhm… Uhhh" she looked like a gaping fish in front of her mother grandma.
Gran-Gran just looked at her and shook her head. She was pretty sure she heared her say "This child" in a low voice.
At that moment she thought of Katara.
Of Sokka.
Of Aang.
She thought of Zuko too, but she's can bet Sokka's broken heart that he knew what she was planning. After all, he handed her a weaned child of Appa saying "That can't carry you yet, but you can train her when you're on the run"
T'was a scary exchange to be honest. She was half-asleep when they decided to meet and when he handed the baby to her. She thought she was wanted in some nation or something.
She thought of Toph too, that kid almost foiled her plans! Kept hiding her maps and notes. Then sometimes made it impossible for her to sell or trade her craft by making the middle man arrive days late.
Those two can survive without her. Maybe she'll pop up every now and then, who knows.
But Katara, Sokka, and Aang?
"I think they deserved honesty. And I dont think the me right now is kind enough give them that" her thoughts spilled out causing her Gran-Gran to look at her across the table.
"They will ask questions"
"Well… Maman, make up an excuse for me hehe" she asked sheppishly.
The next day she left before sunrise.
No dramatic farewell.
No tears.
No one last look.
Just a note on table bidding her mother farewell and a bag of cash she might need in case of emergency.
Just her.
A bag.
A future.
And the ocean, for the first time, opening for her without needing to ask for permission.
They noticed after three weeks of silence from her. There should have atleast been a letter by now.
Sokka complained first.
Because Sokka noticed absence like others noticed the incoming storm.
"This is suspicious," he announced over breakfast.
Katara barely looked up, "What is?"
"Her vacation. It's been too silent." he answered, suspicion is creeping on his tone.
"Let her be. She cant possibly report every moment she had on us" Katara countered, but she too is concerned, after all, this is the first time that their youngest have been away from them on her own.
"She organized my kitchen before leaving. Then left multiple paintings and sculptures she made in my house, saying that if I'm short for money I should sell them in months or years time. The price appreciates or something" he stabbed the pork on his plate then continued "That's not the behavior of a woman seeking peace. That's a behavior of someone who's saying goodbye!"
Katara looked at him, hard, like she was a little bit convinced by his reasoning because she did the same at her place. She redecorated her living and dining area. Placed her paintings and sculptures in places that visitors could notice. Then asked her if she could house some more of her piceces, sell them during emergencies if needed.
But she brushed that feeling off because… it can't be true. Right?
Or rather she tried convincing herself by telling him that:
"Maybe she's just looking after her older brother. You know how she gets"
Aang smiled faintly at the exchange, but there was something restless there.
Like there was truth in what Sokka was saying.
"What if she eloped with Zuko?!" Sokka's voice raised as his brain went on some weird tunnel "They were oddly chummy the last time I saw them. They were whispering like they have their own secrets" he grumbled, "There has got to be something going on between those two"
"If they did, then the world would've known by now" Katara reasoned, "It would've been on the papers. A headline saying "Fire Lord Zuko Ran Away with the Avatar's First Student" but there's no paper yet"
"He could've been hiding her in that huge mansion of his." Toph for some reason just popped out of nowhere and decided to add her two cents "It's huge enough to hide anyone without being found. It would've been easy for him to keep her there" she said, adding fuel to Sokka's overthinking overprotectiveness.
"Exactly!" he exclaimed, "Toph, lets go to the Fire Nation now!"
"Toph no! Don't feed into his delussions." Katara exclaimed back, "What are you even doing here?"
"I was hungry, so I decided to pop by"
Aang chuckled at the whole exchange .
Guess its just one of those typical morning of theirs.
Just like back then.
Ever so cheerful.
Ever so jolly.
Three weeks of silence turned to a month.
A month turned to two.
Two months followed by another week.
But nothing.
No letters were received.
Finally, concern outweighed assurance, and they went to the Southern Water Tribe. The one place they knew she would stop by.
When they arrived, they saw remnants of her. The same way she left hers at their places.
They saw her trinkets. Her little figurine's that the kids are playing. Saw multiple paintings on Gran-Gran's house. Some of them seems to be newer than the ones left at their houses.
She must've stopped over. They were relieved, cause maybe. Just maybe, they could find her here.
But there was no shadow nor a strand of her hair.
There was, however, a ghost of her intigrated in the tribesmen's daily life.
Finally, on one lunch time, Sokka was so feed up that he finally piped up and asked:
"Gran-Gran, hypothetically, if you leave remnants of yourself in someone else's house, how long do you think you will be gone?"
The elder looked at him then scooped up some soup and put it in her own bowl.
"How long? That wouldn't even be my question"
Katara blinked, confused and alarmed.
"… Yes?"
A pause. Then:
"I'd ask: Is she ever coming back?" and suddenly you could hear a pin drop as silence engulfed the dinning table.
It was Katara who broke the silence by asking hurriedly:
"What do you mean, Gran-Gran? She's just taking a vacation, right?" she asked for assurance. "That's what she said."
The elder looked at them pointedly and said "I know a runaway when I see one"
"No"
Aang had gone very still.
"Trust me, I know. I was one" she then looked at him, confused "You ran away once as well, were there no signs?" she paused "I'm sure there was. I saw some when she was here. They were so evident, that you would be blind not to see them."
And that cuts the deepest.
Because they didnt see.
Because apparently she was just fussy and looking after them like she would usually do.
Sokka laughed sharply. Like he had just heard some bad joke across the pub. "That's not funny Gran-Gran"
He started hitting the side of his head where his ears were "Some snow must've melted in my ears when I played with the kids earlier"
"No," the elder said softly. "It isn't."
Aang said nothing.
Because there it was.
The thing he feared and believed wouldn't happen.
She's really gone.
Not for time.
Not for distance,
Gone.
And she hadn't told them.
Not because she forgot
Because she choose not to.
That was the wound.
Not absence.
Intention
Toph found them found them afterward. She was conveniently asleep during the entire lunch, which was unusual for her.
They were sitting outside, looking like grief had physically punched exhaustion in their system.
She walked towards them, took one look, and said:
"Sooo…You found out huh" she said it so brazenly as she brushed the gunked she got off her ear.
Sokka gawked and pointed an accusing finger at her "You knew and didn't bother to tell us?"
Toph shrugged. "Obviously"
Katara looked stricken, what could've had happened that made her younger sister trust Toph more than her?
"And you said nothing?"
"Its not like she told me" she shrugged again, plopping down the snow covered earth "She said nothing, and I respected her little game."
Aang finally spoke and said "You knew she was leaving?"
Toph snorted, "I didn't knew. I witnessed it myself" she paused as she thought of something "If it helps, Zuko figured it out before I did. I think"
"After all, she's been on the look out for years"
Years.
Years.
That word hit like a bruise.
Sokka's voice tightened, "What are you talking about?"
"Those two are kindred spirits. Always wishing to run away from something. I just couldn't figure out what she was running away from" she said looking at them or in Aang's perspective, at him "Maybe she felt suffocated by something, but what could she even be suffocated by when there's no longer any war to fight?"
Toph said it like it like she was discussing weather.
"Zuko and Iroh gave her a gateway. Appa and the flying bison. To be fair, I think they thought it would ground her, made her less flighty. You know, an anchor" she trailed off as if looking back on a memory so precious that if she kept looking it would lose its charm
"When everyone was discussing it, she was giddy. Like a child waiting for her candy. Everyone witnessed that. Those two thought so as well. She was practically glowing when her ridiculous idea was approved" she chuckled at the memory and rubbed the tip of her nose with her pointed finger.
"Then her paintings and sculptures kept popping up on the market, the auction. She started teaching . That was the most ridiculous thing she had ever done. I was mildly surprised that none of you clocked that" she scoffed and smirked at them.
Then Toph pointed vaguely towards Aang
"I think repopulating Appa was her final gift to you so that she dont have to feel guilty about leaving you with your extinction issues. Being one of the last Air Bender and all that."
Aang looked like someone had struck him.
But Toph kept talking as if she's been holding this in for far too long.
"Personally, I just think she wanted a cuddle buddy. She can be selfish that way" she chuckled, "The students? Teaching? Selling art? Dude, those weren't a cute hobby of hers. That was funding. She was building her runway before she flew away"
Silence engulf them as her words finally sunk to their system.
Sokka was the first one to break
"How are we so blind?" he said as he finally recall their last moments together "It was fucking obvious" his hands scratched his head, messsing with the perfectly tied hair of his.
"The kid, if given a permission to do so, would just sleep or float all day. Her dream was to be a slob or be eternally dependent on to her dependable siblings. She doesn't even wanna work!" he said exasperratedly. "Why didn't I think it was suspicious when she was always busy?"
"That's the entire reason why she trained so hard with Air Bending. She told me that she wanted to command the air to do her bidding" he said in defeat.
Toph looked at him flatly confused, not sure if he's insulting or praising his sister, but ok. Whatever makes his guilt softer…?
"Zuko and I did wonder how blind you all were to be honest. It was so obvious that it could slap you in your faces"
Katara sat down like standing had become impossible.
And Aang—
"Why didn't any of you told us?" he asked sharply.
"Because she didn't have to tell us anything. We asked, she never answered. She allude to thee. What can we even tell you? Our speculations?"
"What we couldn't understand is how were the three of you so blind?" she left them with that question to ruminate from or to hollow in.
Indeed.
How can they be more blind than Toph when they have perfectly working eyes?
We're they so lost in their happiness that they didnt even notice her crumbling?
Why?
What was she even running away from?
Amidst all the questions, Aang understood something terrible.
She didnt leave suddenly.
She had been leaving them for years.
Quietly removing her presence.
Patiently and surgically limiting their interactions.
Right in front of all of them,
And because she smiled—
because she stayed—
because she made things easy—
they had mistaked her endurance for permanence
her compliance for contentment.
He thought of every dawn she trained alone.
Every joke that had been a goodbye.
Everytime she said she was fine.
And the night she told him she was done giving,
She had meant all of it.
She had not been waiting for him to come after her.
She had already choosen herself.
Long before she walked away.
She came back for a funeral. Of course it would be something like that.
Not for him.
Not for closure.
Not for nostalgia.
For death.
For Gran-Gran. For the woman who understood her soul more than anyone. For the woman who raised her. For the woman who didn't ask questions but comforted her silently. For the woman who took her in when she didn't have to. For her mother, Kanna.
Years had passed.
Enough for Appa's children to have children of their own.
Enough for the world to stop waiting for her return and start speaking of her like weather— something that existed, occassionally touching your life before moving on again.
Enough for Aang to become less of a boy and more of a history.
Enough for regret to stop being sharp and settle into something permanent.
She stepped off the boat at dawn looking older, yes, but not softer.
Sharper.
Like she had been carved down to only the necessarry parts.
She wore travel like it belonged to her.
Like home had become a direction instead of a place.
Katara saw her firts.
Across snow.
Across years.
Across silence.
For one terrible second, neither of them moved.
Then Katara crossed the distance and hugged her so hard it was almost violent.
She laughed.
Real laughter.
Startled somewhere deep.
"Well," she amusely said into Katara's shoulder, "I see subtlety is still dead, huh"
Katara started crying.
"I hated you."
"I know."
"I'm still considering it."
"That feels healthy."
Sokka cried too, loudly and with immediate denial when it was so obvious on his puffy eyes.
Toph only crossed her arms and said:
"Took you long enough."
Her answer came immediately.
"You're still unpleasantly comforting."
And then—
there was Aang.
He found her last, near the shore at sunset.
Of course.
She stood at the edge of the water with her shoes abandoned somehwere behind her, coat open to the wind, looking like she had never belonged anywhere except places she were about to leave.
For a long time, neither of them spoke.
Finally, he said quietly:
"You came back"
"That's old news already. I've been here for couple of hours now."
She smiled faintly.
"I'm here for maman."
"Maman?"
"Gran-Gran. Kanna. Whatever people call her. She had always been Maman for as long as I can remember"
She gave him a stinky yet playful side eye. As playful as time could get "Don't make anything out of it, Avatar"
He laughed.
Soft.
Tired.
"Too late. I already had a whole scenario in my head"
She chuckled.
Then silence.
"Are you staying?"
She turned then.
And there it was—
affection.
Real.
Warm.
Gentle.
But no hunger.
No waiting.
Nor ache.
The kind that no longer asks to be chosen.
The kind that no longer care.
"No" she said.
And strangely—
it did not hurt.
Not for her.
Mayber for him.
But not for her.
Because it was not rejection.
Just the truth.
She had left once to save herself.
She would not unlearn that lesson for sentiments.
He nodded.
Like he had expected it.
Like he had spent years teaching himself how to survive answers he did not want.
Then, because maybe honesty only arrives after it can no longer ruin you—-
he said it.
Quietly.
Like holding a fragile china
Like a confession wrapped in grief.
"I love you"
She didnt move.
Did not gasp.
Just stood there, watching him with the calm of someone looking at the tornado she had predicted years ago.
Aang swallowed.
The words came easier once they existed.
"I think I have for a long time. Maybe not the way you deserved then. Maybe not in a way I understood when it would have mattered. But I do."
His voice shook.
"I loved you in all the places I thought didn't count. In trust. In dependence. In certainty. In reaching for you first and not understanding what that meant until you were gone"
She said nothing.
So he kept going.
"I thought love was supposed to feel like lightning. Immediate. Obvious. Like what I felt for Katara when we were younger. I thought if it wasn't that, it wasn't real
A bitter laugh escaped him.
"I was a teen and stupid."
"Yes, you were," she smiled softly "We all were."
"But losing you— watching you leave and realizing you had been walking away for years and never saw it because I thought you would always be there…"
He looked at her fully.
No Avatar.
No duty.
Just him.
Just Aang.
"I loved you in your absence. I think I will for the rest of my life."
There it was.
The line that once would have ruined her.
Would have made her stay.
Hope.
Shrink.
Now—
she only felt tired tenderness.
For him.
For herself.
For the younger versions of them who had loved badly, strongly, and too late.
She stepped closer.
Touched his arms.
Once.
A pity.
And smiled.
Sad.
Soft.
Final.
"I know."
His breath stuttered.
Because somehow, that hurt more than anger.
Because somehow, that hurt more than her absence.
She continued gently, "You loved me too late."
"…Yeah"
"And I loved you too early."
The truth sat between them like something sacred yet contagous.
"There was a time I would have given up everything to hear you say that"she said
A pause.
A lifetime inside it.
"But that girl… she doesn't exist anymore"
He nodded.
Because what else was there to do?
Beg?
She had spent years learning how to belong to herself.
She would not abandon herself again.
"I dont love you that way now," she said.
Not cruel.
Just clean.
"I care for you. I always will. Like how family care for each other. But I am no longer waiting for you to choose me. I dont even want you to do that. I stopped building my life around that a long time ago."
Tears threatend to leave his eyes.
And he let them.
For the first time in a long while.
He cried.
And she smiled.
"You thought me something important, Aang"
His voice was barely there.
"What?"
"That love is not always a place you should stay."
Silence.
Then, almost lightly:
"And for the record, confessing to me while married is incredibly selfish of you"
He laughed.
Wet.
Broken.
And human.
"I know"
"Very terrible timing and choice"
"My specialty"
"That and emotional desparation"
"That too"
She squezzed his arms once before letting go.
A goodbye.
Not a maybe.
Just kindness.
"I'm glad you loved me," she said.
His face broke quietly.
She smiled.
"But I'm more glad that I learned to survive when you didn't."
And that, more than anything—
was the truth.
Katara knew.
Not the word at first, but the shape of it.
Because love changes the way people grieve.
And Aang grieved her absence like someone mourning a future he had only realized he wanted after it was already gone.
Years later, one quiet night, with the children asleep in their room, and the house too honest in its silence, she sat beside him and asked:
"Did you love her?"
Aang went still.
Then, honesty gave courage to his coward mouth:
"Yes"
Katara nodded once.
"For how long?"
A sad laugh.
"I'm not sure if it stopped"
There it was.
Truth opening an old wound she thought had healed.
Or maybe a knife giving her a new one?
There was no betrayal.
Just truth.
She thought, absurdly, 'I won… Didn't I?'
She got the life.
The marriage.
The children.
She was chosen.
So why did it feel like she just lost a fight she didn't even stand a chance on?
Because sometimes first love is sunlight.
And greatest love is air.
Forever present, not seen, but is felt greatly.
And Katara was perceptive enought to know the difference.
Did she hate her?
Sometimes.
In the quitest corners of herself.
Because she understand exactly why Aang loved her.
She was freedom.
She was movement.
She was the air he once breathe.
And there is something cruel about being the one someone stayed with while they spend the rest of their life haunted by the one who didn't.
Did she hate Aang?
No.
Sometimes she wants to.
Mostly when she's tired.
Because love is complicated and marriage is often just choosing which truths you can live beside.
One night, much later, she asked him:
"If she had stayed… would you have choosen differently?"
Aang closed his eyes long enough that she almost told him not to answer.
Then he whispered
"Ye—Maybe"
Katara cried silently, because hearing it aloud turned suspicion into history.
He reached for her.
She let him.
Because despite everything, she loved him.
And because love is sometimes not forgiveness, but the quiet decision to remain.
After a long time, she said into the dark:
"I think I will always be a little angry with both of you."
And Aang, voice breaking softly said "I know"
She laughed through the tears. Sharp and tired.
"Good. I'd hate for this to be graceful"
And somehow, that was the marriage.
Not perfect.
Not tragic.
Just raw.
Just humane.
She left again.
No dramatic farewell.
Just one morning.
A bag.
And the wind.
Toph, half-asleep from her doorway, muttering:
"If you die somehwere stupid, I'm haunting you."
She grinned
"If I die somehwere impressive, you have to brag about me."
"Deal"
And Aang, he stood farther away.
Not asking.
Not stopping.
Finally understanding that love is sometimes the decision not to reach out.
She looked at him once.
Warmly.
Kindly.
Gratefully.
Like someone honoring a grave and not a future.
Then she turned to walk towards the horizon.
He loved her still.
He would love her when his hair silvered.
When his children laughed.
When history turned him into a statue and memory into myth.
He would love her in quiet places.
In the wind.
In regret.
In gratitude.
He would love her forever.
And she—
she would keep walking.
Not lonely.
Never lost.
Just free.
Some people are homes.
Some people are storms
He had spent trying to make her into the first.
Only to realize— far too late—
She had always been the second.
And storms, even when loved,
Were never meant to stay.
The first thing she felt was heat.
Not warmth— heat. Suffocating, feverish, the kind that made her bones feel too heavy for her own body. It pressed against her skin, crawled down her throat, sat in her chest like something alive.
And voices. Too many voices.
Far away at first, like she was underwater.
"—she's burning up—"
"Amihan—hey, hey, baby, look at me—"
"Katara, is she supposed to be shaking like that?!"
"No, Sokka, obviously not!"
"I'm just asking!"
The world tilted.
Something wet touched her forehead.
A hand.
Katara?
Amihan wanted to say she was fine. It sat on her mind, but when she opened her mouth, all that came out was a broken sound— small and humiliating and far too close to a sob. "Ma… Maman?"
next>>
a/n: I hope you had a blast reading this chapter! my hands cramped up when i typed them!
some inaccuracies were deliberate (except for wrong spellings and grammar)
and pls give me artist and song reco. listening to laufey is not good for my single ass.
next chapter will be next week! hopefully.
pls like, comment, reblog, and follow!
The royal dining room smelled like braised komodo chicken, warm spices, and impending chaos. That last ingredient was entirely Sokka’s fault.
He had arrived two days ago under the very reasonable pretense of a “diplomatic visit,” which everyone in the palace understood to mean he had eaten all the sea prunes in the South Pole and needed a change of scenery. He had immediately made himself at home in the most aggressively Sokka way possible—reorganizing the palace kitchen’s meat storage, loudly critiquing the royal chefs’ spice choices, and staging what he called a “cultural exchange” that mostly involved teaching three Imperial Guards how to play Pai Sho wrong.
Zuko was handling it with the strained, tight-jawed dignity of a man who genuinely loved his brother-in-arms and also, genuinely, desperately wished he would go home.
You, on the other hand, were having the time of your life.
“The problem,” Sokka announced, gesturing with his chopsticks at nobody in particular, “is that Fire Nation desserts don’t hit right. Too much spice. Not enough—I don’t know—comfort.”
“They’re not supposed to be comfortable,” Zuko said flatly, not looking up from his bowl. “They’re supposed to be refined.”
“Refined.” Sokka repeated it like a curse word. He looked at you across the wide lacquered table. “Y/N, back me up. You’ve eaten in the North. You know what a good dessert tastes like.”
“I’m staying out of this,” you said serenely, pouring yourself a cup of jasmine tea.
“Smart woman.” Zuko reached for his own tea.
“Traitor,” Sokka said to you, but his tone was fond. He jabbed his chopsticks toward the small porcelain dish near the center of the table. It was a delicate Fire Nation layered cake, dark red bean paste between thin sheets of honey sponge, dusted with powdered cinnamon. “I’ll admit, though. That thing looks dangerous. In a good way.”
“It’s yuèbing-style,” you said, leaning forward slightly to inspect it. “Fire Nation adaptation. They bake it with dragon fruit reduction instead of lotus paste.”
Sokka’s eyes lit up with the specific enthusiasm he reserved for food and battle strategy. “Okay. Okay, that sounds incredible, actually—”
“It is,” you confirmed. You picked up a small serving spoon, cut a neat portion, and held it out. Not toward Sokka, but toward the man sitting directly to your left.
Zuko stiffened.
It was a nearly imperceptible thing. A millimeter of tension across his broad shoulders, a slight sharpening of his gaze as it dropped to the spoon now hovering in the space between you. The cake sat there, perfectly portioned, an earnest little offering from his fiancée.
He looked at it. He looked at Sokka, who was watching the exchange with the focused, calculating attention of a man who had once tracked a sea serpent across open water for three days on a bet.
Zuko looked back at the spoon.
“I have my own utensils,” he said.
You blinked. “I know. I’m offering you mine.”
“I can feed myself.”
“Zuko—”
“I’m thirty years old.”
The silence that followed was exquisite. You held his gaze for one long beat. He held it back, expression perfectly composed, jaw set at the precise angle you had privately catalogued as his I am the Fire Lord and I am not flustered, what are you talking about, I am completely fine angle.
You lowered the spoon.
Across the table, Sokka made a sound that wasn’t quite a cough and wasn’t quite a laugh, but existed somewhere in the loaded territory between them. You caught his eye.
Something passed between you. It was wordless, instantaneous, and absolutely damning. It was the specific telepathy that develops between two people who both find the same man endearing in his mortifying stubbornness.
You looked back down at the spoon in your hand. Then, with the serene composure of someone who had absolutely no ulterior motive whatsoever, you turned slightly in your seat and extended the spoon across the table toward Sokka instead.
“Sokka,” you said pleasantly. “Do you want to try it?”
Sokka’s expression went from conspiratorial delight to the studied, innocent blankness of a seasoned chaos agent. He straightened in his seat. He placed a solemn hand over his heart.
“I,” he said gravely, “would be honored.”
He leaned forward. He accepted the spoon. He closed his eyes as he tasted it with the theatrical reverence of a man experiencing a religious event, and then he let out a low, appreciative groan that was at least forty percent louder than necessary.
“Oh,” Sokka breathed. “Oh, that’s—Y/N. Y/N, this is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”
“Isn’t it?” you agreed warmly.
“I might have to move into the Fire Nation palace permanently.”
“We have a lovely east wing.”
“Perfect. I’ll take it.”
The temperature in the dining room had been climbing for approximately twelve seconds. You felt it before you looked. It was the specific, simmering heat that radiated off Zuko when his composure was being tested. The barely-leashed inner fire usually only made itself known when he was in the middle of a council session gone wrong, or when his fiancée had just deliberately fed another man dessert right in front of him.
You looked.
Zuko was staring at Sokka with an expression so flat and so incinerating it could have stripped paint from the walls.
Sokka, to his eternal credit, met that stare with the breezy, untroubled grin of a man who had survived a war and therefore had genuinely recalibrated his fear threshold. He set the spoon down on the table between you with a small, precise click.
“I mean,” Sokka said, in the tone of someone making a completely reasonable observation, “you did turn it down.”
You pressed your lips together very hard.
“You specifically said,” you added, with perfect innocence, “that you could feed yourself.”
Zuko turned to look at you. The flat expression had not moved. If anything, it had intensified. His golden eyes tracked from your face to the spoon to Sokka’s deeply satisfied expression and back to your face again, and you watched the precise moment he decided he was not going to dignify this with a response.
He reached across the table. He picked up the spoon. He cut himself a portion of the cake with the silent, deliberate calm of a man who was certainly not bothered. He ate it. He set the spoon down.
“It’s fine,” he said.
“Just fine?” Sokka asked.
“It’s cake, Sokka.”
“Y/N said it was incredible—”
“The conversation,” Zuko said, with a finality that had once ended full council meetings, “is over.”
You and Sokka thought it was funny.
Well. Your little prank is not so funny now.
Because right now, you are in the Fire Lord’s private chambers, stripped bare and face-down across his lap with the heavy silk sheets bunched uselessly beneath your palms, rapidly revising your opinion of the entire spoon incident.
He had been very calm about it. That was the most unnerving part. No raised voice, no dramatic declaration. Just the quiet deliberate efficiency of a man with a point to make and absolutely no intention of rushing. He walked you through the mahogany doors, turned the lock, sat down on the edge of the mattress, and looked at you. That was all it took. One look, and here you were: his large calloused hand resting light and warm at the small of your back, the blistering heat of his thighs radiating straight through your bare skin, the horrible charged anticipation of waiting.
“You thought that was funny,” he said. Not a question. His voice was low, that gravelly unhurried register that did something catastrophic to your better judgment.
“A little,” you admitted, into the sheets.
His hand lifted. It came down with a sharp deliberate crack across the curve of your backside, and the sound that tore out of you was not dignified in any conceivable way.
“Zuko—”
“A little.” He repeated it perfectly even. His palm smoothed immediately over the sting, the scorching heat of his hand pressing into the bloom of warmth he had left behind. Your whole body clenched involuntarily at the contrast, the sharp bite of it dissolving almost instantly into a spreading maddening heat that pooled low and heavy in your core. “We’ll revisit that.”
He did it again. And again. Slow and measured, with that ruthless patience he applied to absolutely everything—council sessions, fire katas, and the systematic dismantling of your composure. Each strike was followed by the same soothing pass of his palm, his thumb tracing the flushed curve of your skin almost tenderly, and the combination of it was genuinely unhinged. Your fingers twisted into the silk. Your hips rolled without your permission. You heard the low dark exhale that came from him in response.
That was the thing about him. Zuko’s jealousy was a quiet, suffocating weight. He operated with the exact same obsessive, single-minded intensity that had once driven him across the globe for three years. Now, all of that relentless focus was trapped inside this room, directed entirely at stripping away your composure until you remembered exactly who claimed you.
You supposed that’s just how Fire Lord Zuko is. The jealous type.
By the time he finally stilled his hand, your skin was flushed a vivid burning pink, radiating its own warmth, every trace of your natural waterbender’s cold chased clean out of you. Your breathing was a wreck. The sheets beneath your palms were damp from the faint frost that had spiked off your overwhelmed skin and melted instantly against the furnace heat of his thighs.
“There,” Zuko murmured, his hand resting warm and still against your lower back. His voice had dropped into something quieter. Not soft exactly, but settled. Certain. “There you are.”
What came after was not gentle, and it was not quick.
He put you on all fours. His hands were sure and unhurried as he arranged you exactly where he wanted you, and the first stroke of his cock splitting you open dragged a completely ruined sound out of your throat that you felt no shame about whatsoever. He was thick and devastating at this angle, every thrust bottoming out so deep you felt it behind your navel, his hips snapping into the still-flushed spanked curve of your ass with a sharp filthy sound that filled the entire chamber. His long dark hair had come loose from its tie and fell around his face as he leaned over you, the ends brushing your spine, and even half-wrecked as you were the sight of him in your peripheral vision made it worse—that sharp jaw locked tight, those golden eyes dark with focus, the broad scarred expanse of his chest sheened faintly with exertion, lean muscle shifting with every drive of his hips.
He fucked you thoroughly. Properly. Deep hard strokes at a pace that left you completely incoherent, your arms trembling, your face pressing into the pillow as your own voice became entirely unrecognizable to you. Tears tracked silently down your cheeks, the bright overwhelmed kind that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with the total dissolution of every last piece of your composure. You came with a broken sob muffled into the silk, clenching hard around him, and he followed close after with a low wrecked groan pressed between your shoulder blades, his hands gripping your hips so tight you’d feel it tomorrow.
For a moment, you both just breathed.
Then he drew you up.
He positioned you with those large certain hands, your back against his chest, his legs bracketing yours, the scorching wall of him solid at your spine. You were facing the mirror at the foot of the bed. You understood immediately, completely, why it was where it was.
You looked absolutely catastrophic. Your hair was a total wreck, dark strands plastered to your flushed tear-damp cheeks. Your lips were swollen. Your eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide, the look of someone who had been thoroughly taken apart and hadn’t been put back together yet. Your cool skin was flushed with heat and steaming faintly where it pressed against the blistering heat of his chest, the fire-and-ice contrast rendered almost obscene in the amber glow of the hearth.
And then there was Zuko behind you, which was a genuinely unfair thing to have to look at in this particular state. His dark hair was fully loose now, falling in thick dishevelled waves past his jaw and brushing his scarred collarbone. His chest was bare, broad and heavily muscled with the lean hard lines of a man who had trained every day of his life, old battle scars mapping his torso in silver and pale gold. His jaw was tight, a muscle feathering in his scarred cheek. His golden eyes burned steady in the low firelight, fixed entirely on you. He looked like something forged from fire and focused want. You looked like you’d been hit by a wave and hadn’t surfaced yet.
The contrast was genuinely criminal.
His chin hooked over your shoulder. His golden eyes found yours in the glass and held.
“Don’t look away, princess,” he said quietly.
His hand slid down your stomach.
You were already so sensitized that when his fingers found your clit, your whole body jolted on pure reflex. His other arm banded across your ribs immediately, dragging you back flush against him, keeping you exactly and inescapably in place.
“Zuko—” His name fractured in your throat. “I can’t, I’m already—”
“I know,” he said. He didn’t stop.
His fingers worked your clit in tight relentless circles, the direct pressure against something so oversensitized from everything before that every stroke felt like too much and not enough at the same time. His other hand slid up to cup your left breast, squeezing the soft weight of it before his fingers found your nipple and pinched, sharp enough to make you gasp and clench and dig your nails into his forearm hard enough to leave marks.
“Look at the mirror,” he said against your ear.
You looked. You wished briefly that you hadn’t. Your face was a complete disaster, mouth open, eyes wet, cheeks scarlet, expression stripped down to pure sensation with nothing held back at all. The image of you coming apart while he remained so devastatingly composed behind you, his dark eyes tracking your every reaction with that consuming focused attention, was enough to make your thighs shake all over again.
His fingers tightened on your nipple, a rolling pinch that sent a sharp spike straight down to your already screaming clit. Then the hand at your core shifted, two fingers curling inside you while his thumb flicked directly over your swollen bud, and you actually sobbed. Loud and undignified and completely beyond caring.
“Still think it was funny?” he murmured against your ear, low and dark and almost conversational. His fingers never lost their rhythm for a single second.
You opened your mouth. You were going to say a little. You had fully intended to say a little, purely on principle, right up until his thumb pressed down firm and his fingers curled deeper and his other hand delivered one sharp stinging flick directly to your clit. Your entire spine arced off his chest.
What came out instead was his name. Just his name, over and over, increasingly incoherent.
“That’s what I thought,” he said, low and rough against your temple.
The orgasm hit so hard your vision went white at the edges, your whole body shaking, thighs clamping shut around his hand. His arm was the only thing keeping you from sliding completely off the mattress. He worked you through every convulsing shuddering second of it without mercy, fingers pumping steadily through the clench of your walls, thumb drawing slow circles over your hypersensitive clit until the sounds you were making were mostly just breath and the occasional broken fragment of please.
He finally, mercifully, stilled.
The room was very quiet. The hearth crackled. Your chest heaved. His chin was still hooked over your shoulder and in the mirror his expression had shifted into something quieter. Still dark, still certain, but underneath it the faintest trace of the thing he could never quite say out loud in dining rooms and corridors. The thing that only ever came out like this.
A thin curl of steam rose where your sweat-damp skin pressed against the furnace of his chest. The hearth fire guttered once, sympathetically.
He lowered you both down onto the mattress slowly, tucking you against his chest the same way he always did, with that quiet absolute possessiveness, like the decision had been made a long time ago and he had no interest in revisiting it. His hand settled heavy and warm at the curve of your waist. His thumb began its slow idle circle.
You lay there completely and entirely destroyed, listening to his heartbeat gradually decelerate against your cheek. The burn of him had faded from overwhelming to something grounding, a steady bone-deep warmth seeping into places the cold had lived for years.
“For the record,” you said, into the quiet.
“Mm.”
“You could have just eaten the cake.”
A beat. Then, low and dry, his voice rumbling against your cheek. “I’m aware of that.”
“Would have been easier.”
“I said I’m aware, princess.”
You smiled against his skin. “I’m just saying. For future reference. If I offer you a spoon—”
“I’ll take the spoon.”
“Good.”
“Don’t test me again.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you murmured, partially lying as you pressed a soft kiss to the scar over his eye.
prologue ⧽ read more
this is actually a bonus chapter from the main ‘sublimation’ universe ;)
༊*·˚ 18+, mdni, jealous!aang x brat!reader, reader purposely makes aang jealous, dom!aang, brattamer!aang, rough sex, mating press, doggy, hair-pulling, mirror sex, nsfw, heavy plot
༊*·˚ jealous type series : table of contents
────୨ৎ────
ㅤㅤㅤㅤThe day that the Fire Nation finally surrendered and went into Zuko’s hands, peace surrounded the world. The group rebuilt cities alongside its people, Zuko became the Fire Lord, Toph formed the Beifong Metalbending Academy while you, Aang, Katara, and Sokka focused on dismantling the Fire Nation colonies in the Earth Kingdom to restore harmony.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤEventually after years of hardwork, both Zuko and Aang transformed the oldest Fire Nation colonies into the United Republic of Nations—quite known as the Republic City.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤRepublic City glittered under the night sky, strung with lanterns that swayed gently in the warm breeze. Music echoed through the streets, drums and flutes blending with laughter as dancers filled every open space. The Harmony Festival had become a symbol of everything they fought for—every nation together, no fear, no borders.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤAnd at the center of it all—was the Avatar.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤAang stood among friends, smiling easily, greeting people as if the weight of the world had never rested on his shoulders. He moved through the crowd with that same lightness people admired—kind, patient, endlessly warm.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤBut there was one thing about Aang that most people didn’t notice.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤHe wasn’t as unshakable as he seemed.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤNot when it came to you.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ
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ㅤㅤㅤㅤ
ㅤㅤㅤㅤAang prides himself in being a monk. He was vegan, practiced non-attachment, compassion, and a pacifist. He was always patient, kind, and everyone felt safe around him.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤThe world around him celebrated for another year in finally restoring peace and balance to the world. They celebrated around him like he was the symbol of peace—balance even—and unwavering goodness. And believe me, he is.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤBut that’s the problem. People only saw the version of him that saved them—that saved the world.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤThey didn’t see what it cost to hold that kind of power so carefully. To choose and pick over and over again—to be compassionate—to be a leader that everyone needed and wanted.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤBut you—the one who stood so beautifully under the Harmony Festival's glow—saw right through him.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤYou held him in his arms just when he was about to break. You reached out to him when he lost control of his Avatar state. You who’d seen how tired he was in the middle of all this chaos and still manages to be a kind hearted man.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤYou hated that—not really—but more like disliked how he puts himself aside.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤJust like now, he stood in the middle of the festival, greeting people like they were old friends. He looked so warm and open but he looked too composed for your liking.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤYou’ve seen Aang lose his patience once and that was the time he lost Appa in the desert. It was a rough moment because at some points, he left you and the group alone to search for his beloved bison. But that didn’t stop you from teasing him for it after.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“Hey Aang, how come you’re so patient with me?” You asked him the night when you reached Ba Sing Se as he helped you comb your hair. He hummed as he shrugged, though still sensitive, held more control when he’s talking to you and only to you.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“I just love you too much.” He replied with that bright smile that you love dearly.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤBut now as you stared at him laughing like nothing could truly ever get under his skin after that incident, you decided you were going to be a problem tonight.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤThe plan was simple—talk to someone easy to get, laugh alongside them, and hopefully—hopefully—Aang notices and that calm, happy composure he held dearly will break.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤYou stand close to a dinner bar, smiling so brightly at the man who stood behind the table who gawked at your presence.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤNow you weren’t as powerful as your boyfriend or friends, but you were an earth bender that used earth bending in a different way. A way that you used your own bending as a weapon.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“Can I have a beer please?” You asked the man who stood behind it, tilting your head as you smiled as you watched the man fumble with his words and poured you a beer.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤSomeone sat beside you, deliberate—hinting at something—as he slid his money to pay for her drink.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤYou pretended to listen as he talked to you—heck you barely even caught his name. But you didn’t care.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤYou laughed—light, effortless, and just a little louder than necessary. It wasn’t real but convincing enough that it made you pause at the intense stare on your back.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤYou didn’t need to turn to know whose eyes were those. You could practically feel it.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤSlowly, you glanced over and sure enough—Aang was staring. Not openly enough for others to notice but enough for you to notice.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤOh dear spirits, you always notice.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤJudging by the way Aang had gone very still across the plaza, you deemed your plan was working.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤYou hid your smile behind the rim of your drink, pretending to listen as the guy beside you kept talking—yapping. You can give it to him—he was nice—but he was too obvious with his interest for her but then again, useful.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“—so I’ve been coming to this festival every year.” He was saying.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“Really now?” You replied, tilting your head as you let your voice soften a bit. “That’s adorable.”
ㅤㅤㅤㅤYou didn’t miss the way he lit up at that.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤOr the way Aang’s posture stiffened in the distance.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤPerfect.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤYou laughed again and this time, you let your hand brush the stranger’s arm for just a second.
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ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“Aang.”
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“I’m not going over there.”
ㅤㅤㅤㅤSokka snorted. “You’ve been saying that for the past two minutes.”
ㅤㅤㅤㅤAang glared, rubbing his temples as he turned around. “I’m fine.” He said flatly as he felt something twisting tight in his chest.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“You need to breathe.”
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“I am breathing.”
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“You look like you’re about to start a new war.” Aang didn’t respond after that because you laughed again and this time—you didn’t look at him at all.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤSomething low and unsettled stirred under his ribs—something he didn’t like, something he didn’t recognize in himself.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤHe trusts you, of course he does. But that was the problem. He knew you were an extrovert, just as extroverted as he is, but watching someone else have your attention—your laughter—made something stir inside his guts.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤHe watched as you both locked eyes, his own narrowing as if saying to not start with him making you smirk and look back at the guy you were talking to.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“She’s doing it on purpose.” He said firmly, eyes not leaving her back as he tilted his head with this intense stare. “Why?”
ㅤㅤㅤㅤSokka glanced at him as he leaned back against the chair with a cup in hand. “Because she knows you.”
ㅤㅤㅤㅤThat didn’t help him, if anything—it made it worse. You knew exactly what this would do to him and you were still doing it anyway.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤJust as he glanced back at her, the guy placed his hand on something that was his. You. And before Aang could think, he was already moving.
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ㅤㅤㅤㅤYou felt him before you saw him. The small cold shift in the air, the grounding presence, that pull. And yet you don’t turn to look at him as you smiled.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“Care to join me for a walk?” The guy asked, trying to be as polite as possible as his hands betrayed him and held her lower back.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤYou smiled, a bit coldly but tried to keep it natural as you shook your head and chuckled. “No thanks, my boyfriend is on the way.” You said and just in time you turned around and met a broad chest. Aang’s chest.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤYou swallowed as you felt his hands, much bigger than yours, held your lower back and looked at the guy with quiet authority and dominance. The guy shrank upon realizing whose girlfriend he as hitting on as Aang stared him down.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤAs he and the guy had a staring contest, you gulped as you didn’t move from your spot, your mind racing as you can smell the masculine perfume on his chest as he pulled you closer. You were much smaller than him, probably only the same height as Katara, and that did wonders to your mind.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤHis hand held yours softly but you knew he was at his limit when you felt his eyes bore into yours as you looked around smiling innocently. His eyes were on you—once that held softness now gone in a blink.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“You seem to be enjoying yourself.” He said as he gave the bartender your unfinished beer back for you.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤYou smiled, tilting your head and feigning innocence. “I was! He had lots of interesting stories.” You said giggling as you looked up at him.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤAang hummed as he listened to you ramble, his eyes trailing down your neck to your lips. Oh he wasn’t listening anymore. His mind is occupied with things on how he’s going to deal with you, how he’s going to put discipline into that innocent mind of yours.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤYou knew he was planning something in his mind and that only made you more determined to push him further.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?” He said, his voice low with no hesitation. You smiled lightly, slow and deliberate. “Yeah.” You respond with no hesitation.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤBeside you, the poor guy who had unknowingly been pulled into this shifted awkwardly, glancing between the two of you as if only just realizing he had stepped into something far too heavy for him to understand completely.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“Maybe I should—”
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“Go.” Aang said, his eyes never leaving yours as he only glanced up for a moment with the look of coldness in his eyes—and that made the tension sharpen.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤThe guy scrambled to his feet, smiling and bidding the two goodbye and have a great festival. He slipped away quickly and ran to the crowd, leaving behind a space that suddenly felt too small despite the noise surrounding them.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤNow that you two were alone, you felt him pull you away from the food stall and towards Appa. He didn’t say anything—and that made you nervous. Nervously excited.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤYou and him flew away from the festival with him on Appa’s head. You gulped as you stared at him, his broad back lingering in your mind as you imagined your nails trailing on his back–
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“You’re jealous.” The words left your lips, touched with that same careless amusement you’d been wearing all night as if this were still a game that you could dip in and out of whenever you pleased.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤAang didn’t reply but could feel the shift in the air as he adjusted the way he sat as he descended from the skies and landed perfectly on their house. He looked at you, eyes never wavering as he jumped down from Appa and helped you. “Yeah.”
ㅤㅤㅤㅤThe admission came low, unguarded, settling between you with a weight that made something in your chest tighten before you could stop it.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤFor a second, it stole the breath right out of you.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤBut you recovered quickly—of course you did.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤYour lips curved, slow and deliberate, that familiar spark of mischief slipping back into place as you tilted your head, letting your gaze drag just slightly across his face.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“Good.”
ㅤㅤㅤㅤYou expected something—anything.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤA protest. A sigh. That quiet, patient disappointment he sometimes slipped into when you pushed too far.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤInstead, Aang stepped forward.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤNot abruptly.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤNot emotionally.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤBut with a kind of controlled intention that made the movement feel heavier than it should have. Measured and certain.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤAnd suddenly, the space between you—the one you had been playing within, stretching, controlling was gone.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“Is that what you wanted?” he asked.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤHis voice was lower now, stripped of its usual softness, grounded in something that didn’t bend around you the way it normally did. It settled into you.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤYour pulse stuttered. Still, you held your expression, lifting your chin just slightly, refusing to give up the upper hand you’d been clinging to all night.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“Maybe,” you replied. The word came out lighter than you felt.
Aang’s gaze didn’t flicker. Not even for a second.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“You wanted me to get jealous,” he continued, his tone even, almost thoughtful—but there was something coiled beneath it now, something restrained, something aware, “so you flirt with someone else right in front of me.”
ㅤㅤㅤㅤIt wasn’t a question. And that—more than anything—made your breath catch. Because he wasn’t guessing, he knew.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤYou swallowed, barely noticeable, and forced your shoulders into a loose shrug. “It worked, didn’t it?”
ㅤㅤㅤㅤFor a moment, nothing changed.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤThen Aang exhaled—slow, quiet, like he was letting something settle rather than pushing it away.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤAnd then his hand moved. You didn’t even realize it until his fingers closed around your wrist.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤWarm.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤFirm.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤUnyielding.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤNot rough—not even close—but anchored. Like he wasn’t going to let you slip out of this one.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“Yeah,” he said. “It did.”
ㅤㅤㅤㅤThe contact sent a sharp, unexpected awareness up your arm, settling somewhere deeper than you were prepared for.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤYour breath hitched—soft, involuntary—and he noticed.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤOf course he did.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤBecause his grip tightened just slightly—not enough to hurt, just enough to make you aware of it. Of him. Of how easily he could hold your attention now the same way you’d been pulling his all night.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“You like pushing me,” Aang said, quieter now. His thumb shifted faintly against your wrist—slow, deliberate, not absent-minded in the slightest. “Seeing how far you can go.”
ㅤㅤㅤㅤYour heartbeat stumbled, but you lifted your chin anyway, meeting his gaze head-on, refusing to let the shift unsettle you—not completely. “And you like pretending nothing gets to you,” you shot back.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤFor a brief moment—so quick most people wouldn’t have caught it—something flickered in his expression. Not irritation. Not anger.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤSomething sharper. Something that looked almost like… recognition.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“Careful,” he murmured.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤThe word wasn’t raised, wasn’t harsh, but it landed heavier than anything else he’d said.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤYour breath caught again, traitorously, your pulse quickening in a way that had nothing to do with the festival anymore. His head tilted with unamused eyes as he looked down at you with authority—one that commanded you to test him now that he was in front of him—challenged you.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“You wanted a reaction,” he continued, his voice low and tempting—filled with the desire to push you up against the wall—as he stepped closer—not invading nor forcing, just closing the space with quiet certainty.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤHis finger held your chin, lifting your head to let your shocked and flustered eyes meet his pent up ones. His thumb grazing over your bottom lip as he gazed at you with a look that you—yourself—don’t even know what you signed up for. “Don’t act surprised when you get one.” He said as he leaned down.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤHis breath was hot against yours as he looked at him with amusement at how you groveled when he stared down at you. “Because I’m afraid you might not be able to take it, my sweet mist.” He whispered against her lips and pulled away.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤBefore he could step away to their room, you looked at him—annoyed yet so beautiful—as your hands fisted on your sides. “Well aren’t you a coward.” You said, making him stop in his steps.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤBingo.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤYou chuckled slowly as you stared at his back, eyes brimming with amusement and need but held a frown when he pulled away, still holding himself back. “If I couldn’t take it, I wouldn’t even start talking with that guy.”
ㅤㅤㅤㅤThe tension shifted again—less sharp, more real. You walked to him as your hand pressed faintly into his chest without you realizing, grounding yourself against him.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“…Then show me,” you murmured, your voice as defiant as you looked as you frowned and looked at him. “Show me how you lose composure or I’ll unravel you myself.”
ㅤㅤㅤㅤThat was it.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤAang looked at you, chuckling slowly at the audacity of how you could be such a brat. His hand caught hers and the other held her jaw, eyes dark with no mercy. His thumb grazed your bottom lip—your breath hitched while your heart raced against your chest, unable to process how he looked at her..
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“You better take it like a good girl.”
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ㅤㅤㅤㅤYou once thought that Aang wouldn’t be a rough fucker since whenever you two make love, he was always loving—careful even—but not until he had you on a mean mating press with your legs locked on his shoulders as he pinned your hands above your head.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“There we go, take it baby.” He said, smiling darkly as he pushed inside you so carefully—so hauntingly that you could feel every pulse of his erection.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤYou barely even had time to react when he suddenly thrusts inside with full force and spirits does it make you feel so full.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤYour cries echoed the room as he held you down on the mattress, his body crushing you under him as you could only cry and arch your back. “Aang! Go slowly!” You moaned, whimpering loudly when he thrusts inside once more.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“You told me you’ll take it, remember baby?” He taunted, chuckling loudly as his pace got faster—harder—as the bed creaked at every move he made.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤHis weight pressed her into the sheets as his hands roamed possessively over your body—waist, hips, thighs—before setting firmly against the bare skin of her back. Your back arched, eyes closed as you let out a shaky moan while he leaned down and kissed your neck.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“Such a good girl.” His breath whispered against your skin, smiling as he unraveled you—slowly. He dragged his tongue down to your collarbone, sucking your neck just enough to leave a mark.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤAang’s grip on her wrists tightened as he looked at you. You panted as your eyes showed submission as you whimpered when he thrusted back in. His mind wandered off, thinking of how he always—always—wanted to go rough on you.But he was nice—that nice golden retriever avatar everyone loved—he didn’t dislike the idea just skeptical of how you’ll react.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤAnd now that he has you underneath him—begging and whining for him and his cock—why in the world would he stop now?
ㅤㅤㅤㅤYou barely had the time to gasp before he pulled out. Your heart racing but confusion etched your face as you looked up at him. “Why did you stop?” You asked, holding his arm while your glossy eyes looked up at him.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤOh how your eyes begged for him to ruin you. How you looked at him with want. A need to be satisfied. But he wasn’t satisfied with it. No, He wouldn’t be satisfied with you only coming on his fingers earlier.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“Would that gentleman fuck you this good baby hm?” Aang said with his head tilted and pushed you back onto the mattress again, throwing you around so you laid on your stomach. He pulled you up on all fours while facing the mirror at the end of the bed.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤAnd dear Gods, does he love the look of confusion and submission when he sees you through that mirror. He chuckled, spreading your ass before delivering a mean smack on your ass making you cry out.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤYou cried—shocked—but the way your walls clenched in thin air made him smile at you and pull your hair up so you looked at yourself. “Look at yourself baby.” He whispered as he leaned down while looking at you.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“Look at how much of a wreck you are.” Your eye widens and let out a loud whimper when he suddenly pushed in. He could’ve given you a warning, but he knew you would’ve liked it better if he didn’t.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤHis thrusts got meaner and meaner. Pulling your head back as he made you look at yourself in the mirror crying for him. “Would that man satisfy you as much as I do?” He whispered again, groaning.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤHe had never seen you this beautiful. So wrecked, so fucked, so wet. But he was far from done.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤYou cried when he bit your bare shoulder, his other hand slid down between your legs. His fingers trailed on your inner thigh, your juices cleaned his fingers as you moaned. “Aang please–!”
ㅤㅤㅤㅤHis thrusts stops as his head lifted up, his eyes glowing a faint blue hue. He lifted his hand, humming in reply as he sucked on his fingers. “Please let me cum.” You begged, tired of him denying you of your release.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“Have you learned your place?” He asked gently, his hand holding your jaw as he made you look at the mirror, eyes dark with intent as he kissed the side of your ear. “Do you know who do you belong to now?” He asked.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤYou who started the ‘make Aang jealous and lose his composure’ was rendered speechless. You never knew how this man—the same gentle and patient man—was being this dominating. You wouldn’t even know how he always wanted to fuck you this bad.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤA thrust woke you up from your day dream making you cry out a moan as he continues holding you. “Do you baby?” He whispered again as he looked at you waiting like a predator for its prey.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤYou gulped, feeling his hand slowly etched around your numb clit—whining and head falling onto the mattress until he pulled it back up with a mean thrust. “You!” You cried. “I belong to you!”
ㅤㅤㅤㅤAang chuckled, dark and breathless as he felt your body tense against him.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤHe leaned down, his breath hot against her skin as he nipped at her ear, his teeth grazing the shella s he whispered, “Good girl.”
ㅤㅤㅤㅤHe released the hand that held your hair, slowly threading through your hair to your neck and held you, making you cry but loved it so much that you managed to push your hips back again as if signalling him to thrust again making he groan with a satisfied smile.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“That wasn’t so hard was it?”
ㅤㅤㅤㅤThat night, you couldn’t argue. And most importantly–
ㅤㅤㅤㅤYou learned that night that even the Avatar—a strong man with patience—can also lose composure in desire.
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ㅤㅤㅤㅤHi everyone! I hope you enjoyed the first chapter of the Jealous Type Series!
ㅤㅤㅤㅤThank you all for the love, support, and feedback for the series and I sure hope you'll enjoy the next chapter!
ㅤㅤㅤㅤBut I know when I can, I'll be sure to update the Series with more characters when I can ;)
Loving Zuko Is Not easy Zuko x reader aangst, comfort
synopsis: loving Zuko is not easy. not because of his temper, his mood, his throne. no. that would have been easy.
word counts: 1902 words
warning: angst with comfort.
zuko x reader
Loving Zuko is not easy, not because he’s temperamental, moody, and someone who is under pressure.
No.
It was never that.
That part is easy. It’s simple.
And most days you wish it was just that.
Because you can learn the rhythm of his anger, the silence that follows, and the way it curls in on itself like smoke after fire.
That is easy.
But no, loving Zuko is hard because you start noticing what he never says out loud.
The first thing you learned was Zuko loved being praised, but not the empty kind where he is worshipped. He loved it when his hard work is noticed, when his reforms are upheld, when Iroh praise his fire-bending and his maturing calmness.
But there were days where he would pull out a hidden copy of his family portrait. One where he was younger, not knowing anything better. Sometimes wondering about the what could’ve been if the fire nation weren’t greedy or if his father chooses affection over power.
Would his father praise him for being one of the integral part in uniting the nations again or would he call him foolish?
Would his mother embrace him and tell him how proud she is of him?
Would Azula look at him smugly?
During those days, he would crawl on your bed, stay the night, kiss you all over. Promising you a life, a family. The kind that he was not fortunate enough to have.
The second thing you learned was that Zuko doesn’t know how to rest without guilt.
It doesn’t matter how peaceful the days have been, how steady the palace halls feel when war is no longer pressing against the walls like a living thing. It doesn’t matter if there is no crisis, no council meeting bleeding into midnight, no urgent messenger breaking the quiet with bad news.
If there is stillness, Zuko doesn’t know what to do with it. He becomes restless in it.
At first, you thought it was boredom. Or maybe a habit—the body remembering war even after the war is done… But it is not that simple.
It never was.
Because when he rests, he looks like someone waiting to be punished.
He sits down, exhales, and within minutes his mind begins to wander somewhere you cannot follow. His eyes grew distant in a way that is not peaceful, but searching.
As if silence itself is a doorway and he is afraid of what might come through if he stays too long.
Sometimes you find him standing near the balcony long after sunset, not looking at anything in particular. Just existing in a space where he doesn’t have to be anything yet cannot escape being himself.
And when you ask him to come back to bed, he does.
Slowly.
Like even rest has to be earned through resistance and order.
There are nights where he lie down beside you, finally feeling light and free and peaceful, only to wake up minutes or hours later with a sharp inhale—like something in him forgot it was safe to sleep.
He doesn’t wake up screaming or thrashing and that’s the third thing you learn. What followed is the worse.
Screaming would be something. A noise. A signal. A crack in the armor where you could slip through and engulf him in a hug and whisper “I’m here.”
But Zuko wakes up in silence.
His eyes open. His body stills. His breathing leveled. And for a long moment… he just lies there. Staring at the ceiling. Or the wall. Or the space where the moonlight doesn’t reach.
You learned to wake up when he does.
Not because he makes a sound.
Because the air around him changes.
Silence gets heavier.
And air is tighter.
Like the room is holding its breath.
You don’t touch him right away. That’s the fourth lesson you learned. Because when he’s like this, touch feels like an accusation.
Instead, you wait.
You lie beside him, still as he is, and you wait for him to remember where he is, who he’s with, and what year it is.
Sometimes it takes seconds.
Sometimes it takes minutes.
Sometimes it takes hours.
You counted. You have too.
You watched the ceiling with him,
The two of you suspended in something that wasn’t quite darkness and wasn’t quite dawn either.
He doesn’t apologize for that one. He never apologizes.
And that’s the fifth thing you learn.
He never say sorry for the nights he can’t sleep. Never say sorry for the way he flinches when you touch his scar. Never says sorry for the question he ask himself—you know he does—the one that goes “Do I deserve this?”
He doesn’t apologize because he doesn’t know how to say: “I’m sorry you have to carry this with me”
So, you say it for him.
Not out loud. That would embarrass him.
You say it in the way you stay. In the way you don’t flinch back when he flinches first. In the way you learn the shape of his silences the same way people learn the shape of a loved one’s hands. Because that’s the sixth thing you learned.
Zuko is not empty in those silence. He is crowded.
With voices,
With memories.
With the weight of every version of himself he has ever been told to abandon or become or erase.
And some days, it felt like he is still arguing with them all at once.
And you found traces of them in the smallest things.
The way he hesitate before making decisions, as if expecting someone to correct him mid-thought.
The way he overcompensates when he believes he made a mistake, like every error must be corrected immediately or it will grow teeth.
The way he sometimes flinches at respect, as if it is a trick to lull him in complacency that leads to mockery.
He never says these things out loud… because Zuko doesn’t ask for comfort the way other people do.
He doesn’t know how—no—he doesn’t allow himself to show weakness.
He doesn’t say stay.
He doesn’t say I’m afraid.
He doesn’t say I need you.
Instead, he appears.
He would show up at your doorway at night without explanation. Standing there like he is unsure if he is allowed to enter. He sits on the bed without speaking. His presence heavy with everything he refuses—don’t know how to put into words.
And when you finally reach for him, he does not pull away.
But he also doesn’t fully relax.
Its as if affection is something he has to negotiate with himself before accepting.
There are moments when he will lean into you touch so quietly that it almost feels like and accident. As if his body forgets, briefly, that it is supposed to remain guarded.
And then he remembers… and pulls himself back together again.
The seventh thing you learned was the hardest to understand, because it does not look like pain at first.
It looks like duty.
Zuko is a good ruler. The best Fire Lord the Fire Nation have had in a century. He’s better with his duties than he is with responsibility. There is a difference, and he knows it intimately. He carries responsibility like it is something sacred and fragile, something that will shatter if he loosens his grip even for a second.
But underneath it, is fear
A fear that if he stops moving, even briefly, everything he has done to become better will collapse backward into what he used to be.
So, he keeps going.
Even when he is exhausted. Even when his body aches with the kind of fatigue that sleep can not fix. Even his eyes lose their sharpness and become something older, something heavier.
Because stillness feels like failure.
And you realize that loving Zuko means learning how to exist beside someone who believes that are always one mistake away from becoming unworthy again.
The eighth thing you learned was that Zuko loves like he is trying to rewrite history with his own hands.
Carefully.
Desperately.
As if gentleness can undo what fire once destroyed.
He does not love lightly.
He loves like it is a vow he is afraid to break.
So, when he touches you, he is deliberate. When he speaks softly, it is intentional. When he stays, its not casual. He chooses to be there with you, over and over again. Like he is constantly aware that that space beside you will no longer be his if he’s not careful enough.
He lost his chair, his place, his throne once, he’s certain that he will again if he doesn’t show you that he’s worthy enough to be graced by your presence.
The ninth thing you learned about Zuko is that his past doesn’t stay in the past.
It follows him.
Not as a story.
But as ghosts of his reflexes.
There are days when his jaw tightens for reason you can not see. Days where his hands curl slight on air before he realizes he is no longer holding sword. Days where his eyes harden at nothing at all, reacting to enemies that doesn’t exist in front of him.
And you understood then that healing is not the absence of ghosts.
It learning how to live without letter them speak for you.
And Zuko is still learning how to keep hem quiet.
The tenth thing she learned was that loving Zuko is not about saving him.
It’s about witnessing him.
It is about sitting beside someone who is constantly trying to outrun the version of himself that hurts others, and refusing to look away when the running gets painful.
Its about staying when he can not believe staying is possible.
It is about knowing that some nights, he will crawl into your bed like he was searching for proof that he is allowed to exist without punishment.
And you will give it to him, not because it erases anything, but because it tells him that erasure is not the only alternative.
And yet… despite everything—loving Zuko remains to not be easy.
Not because he is too much. He never even is!
But because he has spent so long believing he is only ever too much, or never enough, that teaching him otherwise feels like trying to change the shape of the fire without extinguishing it.
You wonder, sometimes, if the shame will ever leave him.
You wonder if he’ll ever look in the mirror and see what you see: not the scar, not the new Fire Lord, not the banished prince, not the boy who made the wrong choices until he started making the right ones, not the boy mistreated and left behind by the ones who should’ve loved him.
Just… him. Zuko. A man worth staying and loving.
And sometimes, you wonder, whether love is enough to rewrite what shame has already written into him.
But then he comes to you again.
Not to be fixed.
Just asking to be near something that does not disappear when he looks directly at it.
And you stay.
Because some forms of love are not gentle in the beginning.
Some of them are simply the act of refusing to let someone be along in the long, slow process of becoming someone they can finally stand to look at in the mirror.
a/n: sometimes i wonder if im hyporcite for writing things i knew i couldnt do or decided to put a plug on it.
anywayssss I hope you had a great experience reading it! Like, comment, and reblog is highly appreciated!
Marine Corps Ball - [Dr. Stone] Stanley Snyder x Reader
The sun was setting over the vast, arid training grounds of Marine Corps Base Camp El Paso, Texas. The air was dry and hot, carrying the scent of dust and juniper. Master Sergeant Stanley Snyder stood at ease on the porch of his on-base residence, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon. In his hand was the formal, embossed invitation for the Marine Corps Ball. A night of tradition, honor, and remembrance.
And for the first time in his career, the thought of attending alone felt... inefficient. Incomplete.
His special someone, [Y/N], was a civilian, a geologist who worked out of El Paso. You’d met when his unit coordinated a terrain analysis exercise with your department. He’d been impressed by your no-nonsense expertise and your calm demeanor in the blistering heat—a resilience that, while different from a soldier's, he found deeply respectable.
He found you at a quiet local diner off-base, the kind with worn vinyl booths and excellent coffee. You were studying a geological survey map when his shadow fell across the table. He moved with a silence that belied his size.
"[Y/N]," he stated, his voice cutting through the low hum of the diner.
You looked up, a smile instantly breaking through your concentration. "Stanley. I thought you were in the field all week."
"The field is a state of mind. And the mission changes," he said, sitting down with perfect posture. He slid the invitation across the Formica table. It looked out of place, stark and formal next to your annotated map. "The Marine Corps Ball is in fourteen days. I am requisitioning you as my plus-one."
You picked it up, raising an eyebrow at the formal language. "Requisitioning? Am I a piece of equipment, Sergeant?"
"You are a strategic asset," he corrected, his face utterly serious. "And my attendance will be suboptimal if you are not present. I want you there."
The bluntness of it, the way he framed a desire as a tactical necessity, was profoundly him. You were touched. "This is a big night for you, isn't it?"
"It is the foundation of our culture. It commemorates the birth of our Corps in Tun Tavern. There will be ceremony, a reading of the Commandant's message, the recognition of the oldest and youngest Marine present." He leaned forward slightly, his voice low and steady. "It is the one night we wear our dress blues. I will be in mine. I expect you to be there to witness it."
The sheer, unvarnished pride in his statement was more compelling than any poetic invitation. "So, you're asking me to be your date to the most important formal event of your year?"
"Affirmative. You will be my wingman for this operation," he confirmed, a glint of absolute certainty in his eyes. "Your objective is to be at my side. There will be protocol. Speeches. The cutting of the cake. Dinner. And social dancing."
"Dancing? You, Stanley Snyder, are going to dance?" you quirked an eyebrow at you look at his form, amuse by the mere thought of the serious Stanley dancing.
"I am a United States Marine Master Sergeant. I am trained to achieve dominance in any environment, be it a battlefield or a ballroom. I have observed your physical coordination and deem you a capable partner."
You couldn't help but laugh, your heart feeling light. He was asking you on a date using the language of a after-action report, and it was the most romantic thing you'd ever heard. You placed your hand over his. His skin was rough and warm.
"Then consider me deployed, Sergeant."
He gave a single, sharp nod of approval. "Outstanding. The uniform for you is formal evening wear. I will procure your corsage. All further operational parameters will be transmitted to you. Dismissed."
He stood, executed a perfect about-face, and walked out of the diner with a stride that ate up the ground. You watched him go, the invitation held tightly in your hand, the Texas sun warming your back.
The Night of the Ball
The Grand Ballroom at the El Paso convention center was buzzing, a sea of crisp navy blue and scarlet. Stanley stood near his unit, a statue of military perfection. His dress blues were razor-sharp, his medals a testament to a career of service, his cover held rigidly under his arm. He was the epitome of a Marine NCO. But beneath the calm exterior, his mind was conducting a tactical assessment of the entrance, a low-grade alertness in his system.
Then he acquired his target.
You entered, and the room seemed to fade. Your gown, the way you carried yourself—it all met his high standards. The moment your eyes found his, his mission focus narrowed to a single, clear objective: You.
He crossed the room with purposeful strides, not a single movement wasted. He stopped directly before you, his gaze performing a quick, approving inspection.
"[Y/N]. You are... mission-ready."
You knew that from him, that was a five-star review. "You clean up pretty well yourself, Stanley. Very sharp."
"Maintaining standards is non-negotiable," he replied, but you saw the faintest hint of a smile in his eyes. He presented a small box, opening it to reveal a classic white corsage. "This identifies you as part of my unit for the evening."
His hands, which could field-strip a rifle in total darkness, were incredibly gentle as he pinned the flowers to your dress. The ceremony was solemn and powerful. Stanley was in his element, his voice resonant during the traditions, his posture rigid with respect during the tribute to the fallen. His hand found yours, his grip a steady, reassuring anchor.
When the formalities concluded and the band struck up a classic swing tune, he turned to you. "The dance floor is the next phase."
He led you out, his posture never faltering. He wasn't a flashy dancer, but he was precise, strong, and lead with absolute confidence. It was a practiced, effective style, and it made you feel secure and centered.
"Having a good time, soldier?" you asked, smiling up at him.
He looked down, the lights glinting in his focused eyes. "This event is a reaffirmation of my duty. To the Corps. To my Marines. To this nation." He pulled you just a bit closer, his voice dropping to a low rumble meant only for you. "But having you here... it reaffirms my commitment to a new front."
"Oh? And what front is that?"
"The home front," he said, simple and direct, as if reporting a confirmed fact. "You are my most vital ally. And tonight, you are the most beautiful woman in the theater of operations. This is my final assessment."
In that moment, surrounded by the pride and tradition he embodied, you didn't feel like a guest. You felt like you had been integrated into his world, trusted with a part of him few ever saw.
"Assessment confirmed, Master Sergeant," you whispered, leaning your head against his shoulder, moving in perfect, synchronized step with him.
Loving Zuko Is Not easy Zuko x reader aangst, comfort
synopsis: loving Zuko is not easy. not because of his temper, his mood, his throne. no. that would have been easy.
word counts: 1902 words
warning: angst with comfort.
zuko x reader
Loving Zuko is not easy, not because he’s temperamental, moody, and someone who is under pressure.
No.
It was never that.
That part is easy. It’s simple.
And most days you wish it was just that.
Because you can learn the rhythm of his anger, the silence that follows, and the way it curls in on itself like smoke after fire.
That is easy.
But no, loving Zuko is hard because you start noticing what he never says out loud.
The first thing you learned was Zuko loved being praised, but not the empty kind where he is worshipped. He loved it when his hard work is noticed, when his reforms are upheld, when Iroh praise his fire-bending and his maturing calmness.
But there were days where he would pull out a hidden copy of his family portrait. One where he was younger, not knowing anything better. Sometimes wondering about the what could’ve been if the fire nation weren’t greedy or if his father chooses affection over power.
Would his father praise him for being one of the integral part in uniting the nations again or would he call him foolish?
Would his mother embrace him and tell him how proud she is of him?
Would Azula look at him smugly?
During those days, he would crawl on your bed, stay the night, kiss you all over. Promising you a life, a family. The kind that he was not fortunate enough to have.
The second thing you learned was that Zuko doesn’t know how to rest without guilt.
It doesn’t matter how peaceful the days have been, how steady the palace halls feel when war is no longer pressing against the walls like a living thing. It doesn’t matter if there is no crisis, no council meeting bleeding into midnight, no urgent messenger breaking the quiet with bad news.
If there is stillness, Zuko doesn’t know what to do with it. He becomes restless in it.
At first, you thought it was boredom. Or maybe a habit—the body remembering war even after the war is done… But it is not that simple.
It never was.
Because when he rests, he looks like someone waiting to be punished.
He sits down, exhales, and within minutes his mind begins to wander somewhere you cannot follow. His eyes grew distant in a way that is not peaceful, but searching.
As if silence itself is a doorway and he is afraid of what might come through if he stays too long.
Sometimes you find him standing near the balcony long after sunset, not looking at anything in particular. Just existing in a space where he doesn’t have to be anything yet cannot escape being himself.
And when you ask him to come back to bed, he does.
Slowly.
Like even rest has to be earned through resistance and order.
There are nights where he lie down beside you, finally feeling light and free and peaceful, only to wake up minutes or hours later with a sharp inhale—like something in him forgot it was safe to sleep.
He doesn’t wake up screaming or thrashing and that’s the third thing you learn. What followed is the worse.
Screaming would be something. A noise. A signal. A crack in the armor where you could slip through and engulf him in a hug and whisper “I’m here.”
But Zuko wakes up in silence.
His eyes open. His body stills. His breathing leveled. And for a long moment… he just lies there. Staring at the ceiling. Or the wall. Or the space where the moonlight doesn’t reach.
You learned to wake up when he does.
Not because he makes a sound.
Because the air around him changes.
Silence gets heavier.
And air is tighter.
Like the room is holding its breath.
You don’t touch him right away. That’s the fourth lesson you learned. Because when he’s like this, touch feels like an accusation.
Instead, you wait.
You lie beside him, still as he is, and you wait for him to remember where he is, who he’s with, and what year it is.
Sometimes it takes seconds.
Sometimes it takes minutes.
Sometimes it takes hours.
You counted. You have too.
You watched the ceiling with him,
The two of you suspended in something that wasn’t quite darkness and wasn’t quite dawn either.
He doesn’t apologize for that one. He never apologizes.
And that’s the fifth thing you learn.
He never say sorry for the nights he can’t sleep. Never say sorry for the way he flinches when you touch his scar. Never says sorry for the question he ask himself—you know he does—the one that goes “Do I deserve this?”
He doesn’t apologize because he doesn’t know how to say: “I’m sorry you have to carry this with me”
So, you say it for him.
Not out loud. That would embarrass him.
You say it in the way you stay. In the way you don’t flinch back when he flinches first. In the way you learn the shape of his silences the same way people learn the shape of a loved one’s hands. Because that’s the sixth thing you learned.
Zuko is not empty in those silence. He is crowded.
With voices,
With memories.
With the weight of every version of himself he has ever been told to abandon or become or erase.
And some days, it felt like he is still arguing with them all at once.
And you found traces of them in the smallest things.
The way he hesitate before making decisions, as if expecting someone to correct him mid-thought.
The way he overcompensates when he believes he made a mistake, like every error must be corrected immediately or it will grow teeth.
The way he sometimes flinches at respect, as if it is a trick to lull him in complacency that leads to mockery.
He never says these things out loud… because Zuko doesn’t ask for comfort the way other people do.
He doesn’t know how—no—he doesn’t allow himself to show weakness.
He doesn’t say stay.
He doesn’t say I’m afraid.
He doesn’t say I need you.
Instead, he appears.
He would show up at your doorway at night without explanation. Standing there like he is unsure if he is allowed to enter. He sits on the bed without speaking. His presence heavy with everything he refuses—don’t know how to put into words.
And when you finally reach for him, he does not pull away.
But he also doesn’t fully relax.
Its as if affection is something he has to negotiate with himself before accepting.
There are moments when he will lean into you touch so quietly that it almost feels like and accident. As if his body forgets, briefly, that it is supposed to remain guarded.
And then he remembers… and pulls himself back together again.
The seventh thing you learned was the hardest to understand, because it does not look like pain at first.
It looks like duty.
Zuko is a good ruler. The best Fire Lord the Fire Nation have had in a century. He’s better with his duties than he is with responsibility. There is a difference, and he knows it intimately. He carries responsibility like it is something sacred and fragile, something that will shatter if he loosens his grip even for a second.
But underneath it, is fear
A fear that if he stops moving, even briefly, everything he has done to become better will collapse backward into what he used to be.
So, he keeps going.
Even when he is exhausted. Even when his body aches with the kind of fatigue that sleep can not fix. Even his eyes lose their sharpness and become something older, something heavier.
Because stillness feels like failure.
And you realize that loving Zuko means learning how to exist beside someone who believes that are always one mistake away from becoming unworthy again.
The eighth thing you learned was that Zuko loves like he is trying to rewrite history with his own hands.
Carefully.
Desperately.
As if gentleness can undo what fire once destroyed.
He does not love lightly.
He loves like it is a vow he is afraid to break.
So, when he touches you, he is deliberate. When he speaks softly, it is intentional. When he stays, its not casual. He chooses to be there with you, over and over again. Like he is constantly aware that that space beside you will no longer be his if he’s not careful enough.
He lost his chair, his place, his throne once, he’s certain that he will again if he doesn’t show you that he’s worthy enough to be graced by your presence.
The ninth thing you learned about Zuko is that his past doesn’t stay in the past.
It follows him.
Not as a story.
But as ghosts of his reflexes.
There are days when his jaw tightens for reason you can not see. Days where his hands curl slight on air before he realizes he is no longer holding sword. Days where his eyes harden at nothing at all, reacting to enemies that doesn’t exist in front of him.
And you understood then that healing is not the absence of ghosts.
It learning how to live without letter them speak for you.
And Zuko is still learning how to keep hem quiet.
The tenth thing she learned was that loving Zuko is not about saving him.
It’s about witnessing him.
It is about sitting beside someone who is constantly trying to outrun the version of himself that hurts others, and refusing to look away when the running gets painful.
Its about staying when he can not believe staying is possible.
It is about knowing that some nights, he will crawl into your bed like he was searching for proof that he is allowed to exist without punishment.
And you will give it to him, not because it erases anything, but because it tells him that erasure is not the only alternative.
And yet… despite everything—loving Zuko remains to not be easy.
Not because he is too much. He never even is!
But because he has spent so long believing he is only ever too much, or never enough, that teaching him otherwise feels like trying to change the shape of the fire without extinguishing it.
You wonder, sometimes, if the shame will ever leave him.
You wonder if he’ll ever look in the mirror and see what you see: not the scar, not the new Fire Lord, not the banished prince, not the boy who made the wrong choices until he started making the right ones, not the boy mistreated and left behind by the ones who should’ve loved him.
Just… him. Zuko. A man worth staying and loving.
And sometimes, you wonder, whether love is enough to rewrite what shame has already written into him.
But then he comes to you again.
Not to be fixed.
Just asking to be near something that does not disappear when he looks directly at it.
And you stay.
Because some forms of love are not gentle in the beginning.
Some of them are simply the act of refusing to let someone be along in the long, slow process of becoming someone they can finally stand to look at in the mirror.
a/n: sometimes i wonder if im hyporcite for writing things i knew i couldnt do or decided to put a plug on it.
anywayssss I hope you had a great experience reading it! Like, comment, and reblog is highly appreciated!
writing this reminded me of the days i loved a man so broken that i didn’t even realize i was breaking myself just to love him the way i thought he deserved to be.
loving a broken person is not a walk in the park. sometimes you ask yourself if you’re doing enough, if you should be doing more, if you’re loving them correctly. but i hope people realize that loving someone does not mean you have to stay with them till you're broken.
they also need to learn how to heal and help themselves, because being broken was never the problem. refusing to heal while asking someone else to survive the damage with you is.
and if the person you love leaves, in whatever way that means, it does not mean you failed them. they knew you loved them. they knew you tried.
sometimes the hurt is just too deep. sometimes the void wins. sometimes the silence becomes louder than every good thing around them.
please don’t destroy yourself trying to take responsibility for a pain that was never fully yours to carry alone.
breakdancer!aang was born from the thought of him being a really good dancer. and his airbending reminds of breakdancing at times so i was like, "wait a second 🤔"
plus i really love the idea of aang being a well-known breakdancer and choreographer and i wish i could expand further on this but just...aang dancing in low-raise sweatpants, i may have to think about this further because what about reader who signs up to take aang's dance class and there's immediate chemistry between them???
Loving Zuko Is Not easy Zuko x reader aangst, comfort
synopsis: loving Zuko is not easy. not because of his temper, his mood, his throne. no. that would have been easy.
word counts: 1902 words
warning: angst with comfort.
zuko x reader
Loving Zuko is not easy, not because he’s temperamental, moody, and someone who is under pressure.
No.
It was never that.
That part is easy. It’s simple.
And most days you wish it was just that.
Because you can learn the rhythm of his anger, the silence that follows, and the way it curls in on itself like smoke after fire.
That is easy.
But no, loving Zuko is hard because you start noticing what he never says out loud.
The first thing you learned was Zuko loved being praised, but not the empty kind where he is worshipped. He loved it when his hard work is noticed, when his reforms are upheld, when Iroh praise his fire-bending and his maturing calmness.
But there were days where he would pull out a hidden copy of his family portrait. One where he was younger, not knowing anything better. Sometimes wondering about the what could’ve been if the fire nation weren’t greedy or if his father chooses affection over power.
Would his father praise him for being one of the integral part in uniting the nations again or would he call him foolish?
Would his mother embrace him and tell him how proud she is of him?
Would Azula look at him smugly?
During those days, he would crawl on your bed, stay the night, kiss you all over. Promising you a life, a family. The kind that he was not fortunate enough to have.
The second thing you learned was that Zuko doesn’t know how to rest without guilt.
It doesn’t matter how peaceful the days have been, how steady the palace halls feel when war is no longer pressing against the walls like a living thing. It doesn’t matter if there is no crisis, no council meeting bleeding into midnight, no urgent messenger breaking the quiet with bad news.
If there is stillness, Zuko doesn’t know what to do with it. He becomes restless in it.
At first, you thought it was boredom. Or maybe a habit—the body remembering war even after the war is done… But it is not that simple.
It never was.
Because when he rests, he looks like someone waiting to be punished.
He sits down, exhales, and within minutes his mind begins to wander somewhere you cannot follow. His eyes grew distant in a way that is not peaceful, but searching.
As if silence itself is a doorway and he is afraid of what might come through if he stays too long.
Sometimes you find him standing near the balcony long after sunset, not looking at anything in particular. Just existing in a space where he doesn’t have to be anything yet cannot escape being himself.
And when you ask him to come back to bed, he does.
Slowly.
Like even rest has to be earned through resistance and order.
There are nights where he lie down beside you, finally feeling light and free and peaceful, only to wake up minutes or hours later with a sharp inhale—like something in him forgot it was safe to sleep.
He doesn’t wake up screaming or thrashing and that’s the third thing you learn. What followed is the worse.
Screaming would be something. A noise. A signal. A crack in the armor where you could slip through and engulf him in a hug and whisper “I’m here.”
But Zuko wakes up in silence.
His eyes open. His body stills. His breathing leveled. And for a long moment… he just lies there. Staring at the ceiling. Or the wall. Or the space where the moonlight doesn’t reach.
You learned to wake up when he does.
Not because he makes a sound.
Because the air around him changes.
Silence gets heavier.
And air is tighter.
Like the room is holding its breath.
You don’t touch him right away. That’s the fourth lesson you learned. Because when he’s like this, touch feels like an accusation.
Instead, you wait.
You lie beside him, still as he is, and you wait for him to remember where he is, who he’s with, and what year it is.
Sometimes it takes seconds.
Sometimes it takes minutes.
Sometimes it takes hours.
You counted. You have too.
You watched the ceiling with him,
The two of you suspended in something that wasn’t quite darkness and wasn’t quite dawn either.
He doesn’t apologize for that one. He never apologizes.
And that’s the fifth thing you learn.
He never say sorry for the nights he can’t sleep. Never say sorry for the way he flinches when you touch his scar. Never says sorry for the question he ask himself—you know he does—the one that goes “Do I deserve this?”
He doesn’t apologize because he doesn’t know how to say: “I’m sorry you have to carry this with me”
So, you say it for him.
Not out loud. That would embarrass him.
You say it in the way you stay. In the way you don’t flinch back when he flinches first. In the way you learn the shape of his silences the same way people learn the shape of a loved one’s hands. Because that’s the sixth thing you learned.
Zuko is not empty in those silence. He is crowded.
With voices,
With memories.
With the weight of every version of himself he has ever been told to abandon or become or erase.
And some days, it felt like he is still arguing with them all at once.
And you found traces of them in the smallest things.
The way he hesitate before making decisions, as if expecting someone to correct him mid-thought.
The way he overcompensates when he believes he made a mistake, like every error must be corrected immediately or it will grow teeth.
The way he sometimes flinches at respect, as if it is a trick to lull him in complacency that leads to mockery.
He never says these things out loud… because Zuko doesn’t ask for comfort the way other people do.
He doesn’t know how—no—he doesn’t allow himself to show weakness.
He doesn’t say stay.
He doesn’t say I’m afraid.
He doesn’t say I need you.
Instead, he appears.
He would show up at your doorway at night without explanation. Standing there like he is unsure if he is allowed to enter. He sits on the bed without speaking. His presence heavy with everything he refuses—don’t know how to put into words.
And when you finally reach for him, he does not pull away.
But he also doesn’t fully relax.
Its as if affection is something he has to negotiate with himself before accepting.
There are moments when he will lean into you touch so quietly that it almost feels like and accident. As if his body forgets, briefly, that it is supposed to remain guarded.
And then he remembers… and pulls himself back together again.
The seventh thing you learned was the hardest to understand, because it does not look like pain at first.
It looks like duty.
Zuko is a good ruler. The best Fire Lord the Fire Nation have had in a century. He’s better with his duties than he is with responsibility. There is a difference, and he knows it intimately. He carries responsibility like it is something sacred and fragile, something that will shatter if he loosens his grip even for a second.
But underneath it, is fear
A fear that if he stops moving, even briefly, everything he has done to become better will collapse backward into what he used to be.
So, he keeps going.
Even when he is exhausted. Even when his body aches with the kind of fatigue that sleep can not fix. Even his eyes lose their sharpness and become something older, something heavier.
Because stillness feels like failure.
And you realize that loving Zuko means learning how to exist beside someone who believes that are always one mistake away from becoming unworthy again.
The eighth thing you learned was that Zuko loves like he is trying to rewrite history with his own hands.
Carefully.
Desperately.
As if gentleness can undo what fire once destroyed.
He does not love lightly.
He loves like it is a vow he is afraid to break.
So, when he touches you, he is deliberate. When he speaks softly, it is intentional. When he stays, its not casual. He chooses to be there with you, over and over again. Like he is constantly aware that that space beside you will no longer be his if he’s not careful enough.
He lost his chair, his place, his throne once, he’s certain that he will again if he doesn’t show you that he’s worthy enough to be graced by your presence.
The ninth thing you learned about Zuko is that his past doesn’t stay in the past.
It follows him.
Not as a story.
But as ghosts of his reflexes.
There are days when his jaw tightens for reason you can not see. Days where his hands curl slight on air before he realizes he is no longer holding sword. Days where his eyes harden at nothing at all, reacting to enemies that doesn’t exist in front of him.
And you understood then that healing is not the absence of ghosts.
It learning how to live without letter them speak for you.
And Zuko is still learning how to keep hem quiet.
The tenth thing she learned was that loving Zuko is not about saving him.
It’s about witnessing him.
It is about sitting beside someone who is constantly trying to outrun the version of himself that hurts others, and refusing to look away when the running gets painful.
Its about staying when he can not believe staying is possible.
It is about knowing that some nights, he will crawl into your bed like he was searching for proof that he is allowed to exist without punishment.
And you will give it to him, not because it erases anything, but because it tells him that erasure is not the only alternative.
And yet… despite everything—loving Zuko remains to not be easy.
Not because he is too much. He never even is!
But because he has spent so long believing he is only ever too much, or never enough, that teaching him otherwise feels like trying to change the shape of the fire without extinguishing it.
You wonder, sometimes, if the shame will ever leave him.
You wonder if he’ll ever look in the mirror and see what you see: not the scar, not the new Fire Lord, not the banished prince, not the boy who made the wrong choices until he started making the right ones, not the boy mistreated and left behind by the ones who should’ve loved him.
Just… him. Zuko. A man worth staying and loving.
And sometimes, you wonder, whether love is enough to rewrite what shame has already written into him.
But then he comes to you again.
Not to be fixed.
Just asking to be near something that does not disappear when he looks directly at it.
And you stay.
Because some forms of love are not gentle in the beginning.
Some of them are simply the act of refusing to let someone be along in the long, slow process of becoming someone they can finally stand to look at in the mirror.
a/n: sometimes i wonder if im hyporcite for writing things i knew i couldnt do or decided to put a plug on it.
anywayssss I hope you had a great experience reading it! Like, comment, and reblog is highly appreciated!
The Moon Looks Beautiful Tonight sokka x reader angst
synopsis: when sokka said those words, your heart ached harder than it should.
word count: 1616 words.
an: i didn't know the full moon hit me that hard.
The night had a way of quieting everything, from voices to footsteps, down to restless thoughts that lingers in the mind; until all that was left was the quiet movement of the air, the swaying of the sea, and the steady glow of the mood above.
You saw him before he noticed you.
Seating at the edge of the dock, boomerang laid beside him, playing with a small knife over and over in his hands—not sharpening it, not using it. Just absent mindedly twisting it like a practice movement that keeps his thought at bay.
Sokka always though that he was good at hiding when he needed to be alone—but you had learned the shape of his solitude a long time ago. The way his shoulders curved slightly inward. The way his hands stayed busy, even when there was nothing to do. The way he picked place where the sky was too wide, like wishing for the moon to fall and kiss him good night.
He always long for something
No.
He aches for it.
You almost left him there.
You really should.
This is the part where you turn around, leave him in his lonesome company.
Keep thigs easy.
Keep things safe.
Not for him,
For your own sanity.
But safe felt a lot like silence.
and silence is scarier for a restless heart.
So you stepped forward. The wood creaked under your weight.
Sokka stilled.
Not startled, never that. Just aware… guarded.
“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked, voice softer that you mean it to be.
He didn’t look at you.
“Something like that.”
You huffed a quiet breath, almost a laugh “That’s not a clear answer”
“If you don’t know, I have always been mysterious” he shrugged.
He always has this distinctive pattern when bantering. Its quick enough to show he’s attentive, deflective and just enough humor to keep things from sinking too deep.
You moved closer, lowering yourself to the space beside him while minding the distance like you always do. Close enough that your shoulders could brush if either of you leaned even a little, but far enough that neither of you had to acknowledge it.
He flipped the knife in his hand few more times until he stilled.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
The moon hung low and full, bright enough to cast silver across the sea, across his space, and across the space between you. It softened the edges of everything—turned scars into shadows, turned distance into nothingness.
You hated the moon for that.
For making you want the beauty that exists in stillness, in silence, in the space between wanting and having.
You drew in a breath.
Held it,
Let is out slowly.
“Can I ask you something?” you said.
He didn’t hesitate and quipped “You just did.”
You rolled your eyes and gave him a stinky eye, “Sokka”
He glanced at you, just briefly, something soft flickered in his expression “Yeah?”
Your chest tightened. You almost retract it. You almost let it pass.
Let the moment drift away like everything else you ever dared to hold onto.
But you’re so tired of almost.
“Do you think…” Your voice caught, and you hated that it did. You swallowed, cleared your throat, and forced you voice to be steady. “Do you think you could ever love again?”
The words fell between you like fire.
Scorching.
Scalding.
Burning.
This isn’t what you practice. You created scenarios, you envisioned moments, you plan out conversations you knew will never happen.
You imagine him laughing it off.
You imagined him teasing you.
You imagined him saying yes.
You hadn’t imagined this—this stillness, the weight, this feeling like one wrong word and will shatter to pieces.
Sokka didn’t answer.
Not right away.
The silence stretched, longer than it should’ve, longer than you could bear without feeling it start to crack at the edges.
You turned your head, just slightly, enough to see him without being obvious about it.
And he was already looking at you.
With recognition, with care.
With that quiet, steady warmth he gave so easily to people he love.
And something else…?
Something uncertain.
For a moment you thought
‘Maybe…’
Maybe he’d say yes, and say your name.
Maybe he’d reach across the careful distance and close it.
His lips parted, like he was about to speak.
And then—he looked away and up to the moon.
You felt the shift happen then.
The way whatever had been there—whatever fragile, fleeting things had almost existed between you—slipped through your fingers before you could even feel its shape.
His shoulders dripped, just slightly, like he’d given into something instead of fighting it.
He exhaled softly.
“How can I…” he started, voice quieter now, like it belonged more to the night than to you.
Like he was sharing a secret only he and the moon knew.
He let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh but there was no humor in it. Only something worn thin with time.
“How can I love someone…” his eyes fixed on the sky, on that distant, glowing thing that neither of you can touch. “… when the moon looks this lovely tonight.”
You followed his gaze, because if this was the thing that held him—if this was what he choose, again and again, without even meaning to—then you needed to see it too.
The moon.
Bright. Whole.
Untouchable.
You tried to feel something—to feel what he felt when he looked at it. Tried to understand how something so far away could still mean everything.
But all you felt was the distance.
All you saw was the space it put between you.
And you realized, that his heart still belongs to another.
To someone where the distance between them is immeasurable.
“She must’ve been amazing” you said, word quieter than you had intended.
Sokka’s breath hitched.
It was small.
Barely there.
But you felt it like a crack through something solid.
His grip tightened around the knife in his hands—not enough to hurt. Just enough to ground himself. Like he need something real to hold on to.
“She was…” he said under his breath.
Not defensive. Not guarded.
Just true.
That hurts more than anything because it wasn’t a comparison.
It wasn’t you versus her.
There wasn’t even a competition.
It was just you standing in front of something that had never ended.
Something that didn’t have space for anything else—not because he didn’t want to.
But because he didn’t know how to let it.
No.
He didn’t let it.
You let out a slow breath, one that trembled despite your best effort to keep it steady.
“I think…” You paused, searching for words that didn’t sound like it was breaking “I think she’d want you to be happy.”
Sokka let out a quiet huff, something almost like a smile but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Yeah,” he said “She would… She does”
But he didn’t look at you.
Didn’t move.
The space between you felt wider now.
Like something had been drawn across it.
A line neither of you could cross.
Your hand shift, just slightly, your hand brushing against the wood between you. For a second you thought about reaching out. About closing the distance yourself. About being the one to choose, even if he couldn’t.
But you didn’t.
Because you knew.
If he wouldn’t meet you halfway the it wouldn’t be the same.
It wouldn’t be real.
So you let your hand rest there instead.
In the space where the line had been drawn.
Close.
But not touching.
“I don’t think I can compete with the moon not when the sky hold it close to his heart” you said, trying for something light, something easy, but it came out too honest.
Sokka flinched.
Not visibly. Not in a way anyone else would catch.
You saw the way his jaw tightened, the way his hand stilled, the way something like guild flickered across his face before he could hide it.
“You’re not—” he started then stopped.
Because what could he say?
That you mattered?
That you didn’t have to compete?
That you’re important?
You knew that.
You felt that.
But its not the same as what you long for.
It’s not going to ease the growing ache your chest is harboring.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty.
It was full of everything neither of you could fix or hide.
After a while you pushed yourself to your feet.
The movement felt heavier that it should have, like you were leaving more than just a conversation behind.
He didn’t stop you.
But this time—he looked at you.
With hesitation.
With guilt.
With that quiet, aching something that said he wished things were different—even though he didn’t know how to make them so.
Your chest tightened.
You gave him a small smile, softer now, gentler. “Goodnight, Sokka.”
He opened his mouth, like he was going to say something.
Like he wants to say he can.
Like he wanted to tell you that he wants to love you too.
But those were just your wishful thoughts
“Goodnight,” he said instead
You nodded and started walking away.
Your steps were slow, just slightly.
Like you were waiting,
Willing for his footsteps to follow you.
Wishing that he’d hug you.
Waiting for him to say your name.
But all you hear was the water.
And the echo of something that never became real.
And when you finally let yourself to glance back—
He was still there.
Sitting at the edge of the dock.
Still looking up at the moon.
Like it was the only thing he knew to reach for.
a/n: full moon blues, i guess. i wrote it with the thought of silent hope and calm acceptance. the moon can also make me sad at times but often times it calms me down. i cant hate it at all.
I hope you had a great experience reading it! Like, comment, and reblog is highly appreciated!
