A/N: Um. So I'm not sure what this is. Basically my sister's been forcing me to listen to her pop-y Bruno Mars music. So I've taken revenge and used it against Aang. Poor Aang. This is modernized (kind of). Honestly, I'm not sure just what this'll fall under. It's just vague enough for you too fill in the blanks. Well, this will probably just be a space for drabbles. I get bored easily and they're so much easier to write than actually plot-filled stories. Plus I'm just too lazy. Review, please? I take requests.


Just The Way You Are

"Zuko. I need your help."

"With what?"

"…mrphgrl's."

"Excuse me?"

"Girls! I need your help with girls! Okay? Geez!"

"Fine. Fine. Calm down. What about girls?"

"Well, there's this girl I like–"

"Katara."

"No! …alright yeah. But I don't know what to do."

"Why don't you go ask Sokka for help?"

"Been there. Done that. Not going back."

"Okay, fine, but you owe me. Here's what Uncle's told me about girls…"

o0o0o0o0o

Her laugh, her laugh; she hates, but I think it's so sexy.

"I'm sorry," she starts, palm latched over her mouth. "My laugh is really obnoxious."

"Who's that singer all those girls like again? Um…Bruno Mars! Listen to some of his songs–that might help."

Bruno Mars. Bruno Mars. Bruno Mars. You can do this.

"No, I think it's sexy."

It's not sexy, actually. It really is obnoxious. It's a combination of snorts and giggles that tumble out her lips accompanied by a red face and loud gasps for breath.

Not the epitome of sexy at all.

Another fresh wave of snorts spill out her mouth. When she realizes that I'm not laughing with her, she stops. Suddenly her hand is on my forehead and contemplativeness is scratched onto her features. She tilts her head to the side and her brown ponytail swishes with the movement.

"Are you feeling okay?" she asks tentatively, withdrawing her hand from my now bright scarlet face. How embarrassing. No, worse than embarrassing. I was mortified. No, even worse than that.

I was embarrified, which is, without a doubt, the most awful thing you can be.

I ducked my head to the side to try to hide my blush. "Your face is on fire," she states, aghast. No such luck.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

Her natural motherly concern is normally endearing. But right now I'd find it a whole lot better if the 'motherly' was dropped from it.

"Just fine," I mutter under my breath.

Curse Zuko.

Curse Uncle.

Curse Bruno Mars and his songs full of lies.