Chapter Text
The bags in her arms are surprisingly heavy as she fumbles with the apartment key.
The late afternoon sun filters through the windows of their apartment building’s hallway, and it casts a warm illumination on the worn carpet.
Out on errands after her afternoon lecture, she arrives at home. At twenty-one, she has to navigate her junior year with a combination of determination and exhaustion. The tension in her shoulders eases when she comes home.
The apartment is a comfortable two-bedroom setup she secured last semester, shared with her closest friend. Aang, with his effortless smile and boundless energy, makes the dull space feel like home.
She's never told him how her heart flutters when he brushes past her in the kitchen or how she lingers a second too long when their eyes meet during movie nights on the couch. It's a secret she has buried within her, convinced that the risk is too much.
Katara pushes the door open with her hip, and the familiar creak welcomes her. The living room is tidy as always—Aang's influence, since he's the one who insists on keeping things organized amid her scattered textbooks.
The air smells faintly of the incense he burns to clear his mind, a habit from his meditation apps. She kicks off her sneakers by the door, balancing the bags as she heads toward the kitchen counter.
“Aang? Are you finally home?” she calls out, her voice light and teasing.
No response comes, but she hears a muffled sound from down the hall. The door to his bedroom is slightly ajar, which is unusual. He is either awake and cannot hear her or lost in one of the virtual lectures that he hates.
Setting the groceries down with a soft thud, Katara stretches her arms, rolling her neck to work out the kink from carrying the heavy load.
Milk, bread, and fresh vegetables for stir-fry tonight. She mentally ticks off the list, proud of sticking to their budget.
Living with Aang has taught her practicality; he's always the one calculating shared expenses with that boyish grin she has come to love. She glances at the clock on the microwave: 4:30 PM. Plenty of time to cook and spend the rest of the day relaxing. She would like to surprise him with an early dinner, but she is not sure it would be much of one.
Curiosity pulls her toward the hallway.
The sound from his room becomes clearer. A constant rustle, low and insistent, mixed with a breathy exhale that sends an unexpected shiver down her spine. She pauses, hand hovering near the doorframe.
Privacy isn't much of an issue between them besides the obvious; they've walked in on each other changing or showering plenty of times.
Sometimes accidental, those moments are not supposed to mean anything, but they meant something to her.
This feels different, it is not similar to those situations at all. The walls are thin, too thin at times, but she has become used to them.
Realistically, she should not do this. She should warn him, call out to him that she is outside the door.
A moment later, she nudges the door open and peeks inside without another thought.
A mix of concern and something warmer stirs in her chest as her pulse quickens.
What she sees stops her cold; her breath hitches audibly before she clamps her mouth shut.
The room is a mess, for someone who preaches cleanliness. Numerous mountain landscapes roughly taped to the walls, a backpack slung over the desk chair, laundry half-folded on the floor.
Aang is on his bed, shirtless, his lean, toned body stretched out against the rumpled sheets.
Sunlight filters through his half-drawn curtains, highlighting the sheen of sweat on his skin and the way his chest rises and falls with quick, uneven breaths.
His shorts are shoved down to his thighs, boxers tangled with them. Aang has his large hand wrapped around his cock, moving in steady, deliberate strokes. His eyes are closed while his head tips back against the pillow, lips parted as another soft moan escapes from his mouth.
She had never seen him like this; she was not even sure he did this.
The tattoos on the backs of his hands, the ones she would trace under her fingers while he was asleep, flex with each passing motion.
It draws her focus onto the marks of his arm. Various bruises and scars that he tries to avoid, but she comes to admire.
Katara's breath catches in her throat and her hand flies to her mouth to stifle the noise.
She should leave. Turn around, act like she hadn't seen this—hadn’t seen him in one of his most intimate moments.
That would be the best solution to this. No one would know what she saw, and she could find the resilience to overlook this.
None of that occurs, and her body betrays her.
Katara becomes rooted to the floor under her, and she traces the lines of him with her eyes.
The faint trail of dark hair that leads down from his navel, the way his hips shift subtly, seeking more friction that he does not have. The subtle flex of his abs as he breathes in—it overwhelms her.
A flush creeps up her neck as heat blooms low in her belly.
This is her best friend, the man whom she has loved since the two of them were teens.
Seeing him like this, vulnerable and lost in pleasure, ignites something uncontrollable and forbidden within her.
She remembers the times when he would emerge from the shower with a certain shine to him, towel slung low, or when they wrestled over the remote, his body pressing close to her in a playful struggle.
Those moments never made her feel like this, not even close.
He doesn't notice her, too concentrated on his own world. His free hand grips the sheets on the bed, knuckles whitening, as his strokes quicken slightly, then slow again. Almost like he was teasing himself, savoring the buildup.
Aang lets out a shaky exhale, and the sound sends a rush of warmth straight through her.
As her legs start to feel unsteady, she leans against the doorframe for support. This has to be an invasion of their boundaries, she knows that, but the view of him is too much.
An ache stirs between her thighs that she cannot ignore.
There is a moment where her mind races with visions that she shouldn't entertain. Those visions that she chases in her dreams, too afraid of their existence.
A world where she could be the one who touches him, hearing those sounds up close directed at her. Katara would take care of him; she knows she would.
The apartment's serenity amplifies it all: the faint creak of his bedframe, the soft rustle of sheets, his breathing that grows heavier.
Minutes seem to pass as she watches, unable to turn herself away.
Aang's hand moves with a focused cadence, up and down. His thumb occasionally brushes over the tip to collect the moisture that collects there in a way that makes his body tense.
As if he were lost in a private fantasy, his lips move silently. All of this happens while his eyes are closed; no outside stimulus is needed for him to be so vulnerable like this.
She wonders what or who is on his mind, and that consideration makes her heart race faster. A mix of envy and longing twists in her gut.
Aang does not date in the traditional sense, she is not even sure if he has even been with someone before. He has never told her if he has.
A deeper, more ominous part of her is exuberant about that, but she keeps that to herself.
She shifts her weight, the floorboard sounds off a small creak that she prays he doesn't hear over his own noise. Aang does not react, his focus inward, his cock visibly throbs in his grip, skin flushed and glistening slightly from the effort.
The heat in her own body builds steadily, mirroring his. A tingling sensation spreads across her skin as one of her hands traces against the fabric of her bra.
Within a moment, her hand drifts to the hem of her shirt, fingers brushing the soft skin of her stomach.
The room feels smaller, the air thicker, charged with an unknown liveliness. She bites her lip as she watches his movements become more desperate, the sound of his short pants louder than before.
The way his body tenses, muscles stretched and obvious. It mirrors the tension that builds within her, and before she can control it, her hand slips lower, nudging against the front of her skirt.
The contact is immediate and hurried, she rubs in slow circles, matching his rhythm unconsciously. A soft sigh escapes her, but she muffles it with a bitten lip.
She slides her other hand under her shirt to cup her breast, thumb grazing the nipple through the lace.
At any moment, she could be seen and she would not know the outcome.
As waves of warmth radiate from her core, she starts to feel her own arousal gather between her legs. The underwear clings uncomfortably to her now, and she is worried about how fast it occurred.
The shadows hide her, or so she hopes. The thrill of the situation makes her stressed, but her touch is also more insistent. She slides a hand under her skirt with trembling fingers, the sound barely audible over his whines.
Aang is surprisingly loud, and she is not sure how she hasn't caught him before this moment.
Sliding her hand inside, her fingers dip beneath the waistband of her panties, finding the slick warmth there. The first stretch over her sensitive nub draws a silent gasp from her and her hips rock forward slightly as pleasure flashes radiant and insistent.
Aang's groans deepen and his hand works faster now. The slick sounds of his efforts fill the room, but so do the moans from his mouth.
A moment later, he pauses. She assumes he has discovered her as she tries to hide, but he reaches over to the nightstand for a bottle of lotion.
Aang squeezes a bit into his hand, his strokes become smoother, faster, and her subtle noises match his—desperate and rushed.
Her fingers circle with a rising tension. She imagines his hands on her instead, those soft fingers exploring her curves, teasing her until she takes over.
She slips her middle finger lower, tracing the entrance to her warmth, dipping in shallowly before returning to that aching spot.
The sensation builds layer by layer, her body hums with need, thighs pressing together to heighten the friction.
Katara leans more heavily against the frame as her vision tunnels on him.
Aang's hips buck up once, twice, his cock straining in his fist as he twists his wrist on the upstroke. Sweat beads on his forehead, trickling down his temple, and he licks his lips, a low hum vibrating in his throat.
Her own movements quicken, two fingers now pressing and rubbing in tandem, her palm grinding against her clit. The coil in her belly tightens, pleasure spiraling out of her control. She can almost feel the heat of his skin, smell the combination of his sweat and that lotion, taste the salt on her own lips from where she had bit them raw.
Fantasies flood her: crawling onto the bed, replacing his hand with her mouth, feeling him pulse against her tongue; or straddling him, guiding him inside her while he whispers her name.
His pace falters, slowing to deliberate, teasing drags that make his body quiver. He draws it out, chasing the edge without tipping over, and she mirrors him.
Her touches lighten to feather-soft circles that keep her teetering on the brink. Her free hand clutches the doorframe, nails digging into the wood, as she fights to stay silent.
Aang's eyes flutter open briefly, staring at the ceiling, lost in reverie, before closing again with a deep inhale. His hand speeds up once more, urgent now, the sounds wetter, more frantic.
Katara's fingers work deeper, curling inside herself as her thumb works her nub. The sensation pushes her closer. Her legs tremble, breath coming in shallow bursts, she cannot control. She is so close, the pleasure crests like a wave.
A deep moan tears from his throat as his body stirs, and he babbles out loud, “Katara. Katara. Katar—”
The name slips out, husky and desperate, as his release hits. He shudders, hand slowing as pulses of warmth spill over his fingers, his chest heaves with the aftershocks. He says it once more, softer, like an invocation, “Katara..”
The world tilts for her. Her fingers pause, still pressed against her aching center, and the pleasure evaporates into shock. He was thinking of her. Moaning her name as he came. The realization crashes over her like a wave, overwhelming in its intensity.
Love, desire, fear. It all hits her at once.
Tears prick at her eyes, not from sadness, but from the sheer force of her emotions. Her hand withdraws slick and with a shiver. She backs away silently, stumbling down the hall to her own room. The door clicks shut behind her, a barrier against the chaos in her mind.
She collapses onto her bed, face-first into the pillow, the soft fabric cool against her flushed skin. A scream builds in her chest, raw and frustrated, and she lets it out muffled into the cotton, her body curls around the pillow like a shield. Her cheeks burn, the blush spreads down her neck and across her chest, heart pounding so hard it echoes in her ears. The unspent need throbs between her thighs, a reminder of how close she'd been.
She screams once more into the pillow, softer this time, fists clenching the sheets as she buries herself deeper. The groceries sat ignored on the counter, the door still open in Aang's room, but in that moment, all that mattered was the pounding of her heart and the unspoken truth between them.
Minutes pass, or maybe hours. Her mind replays the scene in vivid detail: his voice, her name on his lips, the sight of his body surrendering to the thought of her. The blush lingers, hot and unrelenting, as she lies there, caught between ecstasy and agony.
A knock on the door causes her to jolt upright, “Katara? Are you there?”
Within seconds, she is at the door, cracking it open as she tries to avoid staring at him.
“I saw the groceries on the counter. You okay? Didn't hear you come in.” his voice is concerned, but carries a tone of confusion.
She swallows hard, throat dry as she nods her head, “I’m fine.”
“You sure?” he frowns as he crosses his arms over his chest.
It is obvious he can notice she is not all there, distracted with the situation and her own inner turmoil. She notices his shorts are at his waist, and he looks energized. There is no indication of the vulnerability she had witnessed.
A smile rises on her face, but she forces it, “Aang, I’m fine. Long day, that's all.”
Aang nods back as he reaches over to rub her shoulder, “Ok. Ok. You rest up. I’ll take care of the groceries and dinner.”
“Oh, Aang. You don't have to do that,” she feels him take a step back, like if he were there any longer she might be able to convince him.
“I want to do it,” he chuckles, and he rubs the back of his neck as he walks towards the kitchen, “I’ll knock when it’s done. Get some rest!”
Katara closes the door behind her and leans against the wood. Her pulse thuds in her ears as she tries to unwind, but she cannot.
Shit.