The house is quiet. Noatak likes to think that it isn't resignation that causes the near-silence, but rather a tentative alliance with his brother. There's no hate. There's nothing, really. Noatak and Tarrlok both have their fair share of scars, though Noatak has all of his limbs intact and none of his nerves frayed.
The living room consists of a recliner and a couch, a small coffee table with an aged radio. The wallpaper is peeling and stained from water leaking through the roof. A single bookshelf holds mostly informative books on history and culture. They are worn and have pages missing. The room reeks of mildew and sage.
Every morning, Noatak checks the bowl of water kept out for stray animals before he goes to work, leaving his brother to himself. How many times has he steeled himself to find Tarrlok dead when he returns home? However, his younger brother takes refuge in sleep, a less permanent oblivion that keeps him at a good distance from the world.
After dusk passes, the front door slams open. So much for being discreet. Noatak resists the urge to roll his eyes, not even moving to uncross his legs and take his eyes off of the book in his lap.
He says tiredly, "What is it now?" He doesn't need to surmise why she's here in the welcoming veil of night.
"Wow, rude," Korra says, her hands resting on her hips. "You're supposed to bow when your Avatar graces you with her esteemed presence, especially when said Avatar has been so merciful."
When Noatak looks, she's dressed rather nicely. "Do I need to repeat our last performance?" Korra says, turning slightly, hands knotted into loose fists when Tarrlok enters the room. He leans against the entranceway. He looks so different with his unassuming clothes and his hair shorn. One sleeve tapers down uselessly.
"Greetings, Avatar Korra," says Tarrlok quietly as he bows his head. "I am at your service."
She flippantly points at Tarrlok and cocks her head at Noatak cheekily. "See?" Noatak releases an undignified snort. His brother is always the self-serving politician masquerading around as a wounded lamb-fawn. Secretly, Tarrlok no doubt finds amusement in the Avatar tormenting his darling brother. Avatar Korra restored his bending, but only after four years. By then, it was mostly for soothing his pangs without having to ask for his brother's assistance, which Tarrlok has recently been too obdurate to do.
"I apologize that I'm not your chosen evil," Noatak says to the Avatar matter-of-factly, "but I suppose it's just like you to choose the 'lesser' of two evils and carry yourself with haughtiness."
Korra huffs. "I don't choose an evil." He can't speak to her about goodness; he has no right. She's the Avatar, and he's a former terrorist. A master at lying. A monster. A stupid, scarred, smug, repentant monster who almost broke down when Tarrlok nearly perished, who begged that she not separate him from his baby brother again.
"Correct," Noatak replies, tilting his head to mock her as he narrows his eyes, "you choose both of them." She's not a child, not a scrap of rabbit-fox meat for the wolves to fight over; she's an adult who is fully capable of making her own decisions.
Tarrlok says nothing for the sake of his brother. Best not to tempt the spirits. Why shouldn't they abide to her requests? This situation is better than where they should be, Tarrlok thinks darkly, better than being in the many pieces they should be at the bottom of the ocean past the Republic City bay.
Deciding that it's best to ignore the first former bane of her existence, Korra says amicably to the other former bane of her existence, "Are you holding up okay?"
Tarrlok sighs. "I've been worse."
Noatak rubs his neck idly. "The scars on my back have been flaring up recently."
"Whatever. Shut up, Noatak."
"Very eloquent." He raises an eyebrow and says coolly, "Make me, Avatar."
Korra shrugs. "Alright, be like that. You can just watch. Tarrlok, come here." She closes the distance between her and the former Councilman, wrapping her arms around his neck. Tarrlok refrains from grimacing; while Korra doesn't callously disregard his scars, she often forgets that she can't be so abrupt. Tenderness isn't in her nature.
"Hmm, I can't wait to see what you have in store." Noatak uncrosses his legs, setting his feet down resolutely on the wood floor. "May I insert helpful tips?"
"No," Tarrlok says, staring at his brother balefully, "you may not."
"My apologies, brother." Noatak alters his voice to mimic a true apology. "I was addressing our austere overseer." He stands, his joints popping as he does so. Somewhat to his surprise, the Avatar breaks away from Tarrlok and walk over to him. He regards her blankly.
"Noatak." She lifts a hand and gently touches his cheek. His jaw is set firmly, his eyes softening.
Pain flares on Noatak's cheek as Korra smacks him across the face. He'd anticipated that. The Avatar isn't very imaginative after a few rounds. As someone with an endless abundance of regrets, he delights in her cruelty, in the nights where she takes him entirely.
"Should I add fire?" Korra asks with eyes widening in false curiosity.
"Please do," Noatak replies, expression unwavering. "It reminds me of such fond times."
With certainty, she raises her chin imperiously and doesn't investigate the dark undercurrent in his voice at those last words. "I'm the Avatar. Not a half-baked Avatar—" Tarrlok lowers his head solemnly, though Korra doesn't remove her attention from his brother. "—but a fully realized one." She pokes Noatak's chest. "You've gotta deal with it, pal. I have a pretty strong hand." It's a warning for him to break before she easily pulls him over her knees. Again.
He chuckles and feels her pulse quicken. It's his luck that she doesn't possess the ability to so easily attune herself to his heartbeat. "You're quite full of yourself, aren't you?"
Korra laughs. "I think that's like Oogi calling Naga too big and white." How infuriating he is. How he just pulls in all of his emotions and conceals them when she's seen that he's not quite so heartless. Stupid Noatak—Amon, Noatamon, Amoatak—and his stupid (figurative) mask.
"Get on the floor," Korra commands Tarrlok as she turns her head slightly, breaking contact with Noatak's cold eyes, her voice surprisingly steady for someone so expressive. "On your back."
She returns her gaze to Noatak as there's the rustling of discarded fabric; Korra examines him, stifling amused laughter as she peers down. "I know you're pretty stoic and all, but you're kinda branching out there, pal."
Noatak nods offhandedly. "I thought you'd find it admirable, given your insistence that old men are less virile than your bumbling firebending toy."
She chooses not to engage him about insulting her friends. She's already punished him for it twice. Perhaps on a later date, though it seems that Mako does have a habit of his former squeezes moving onto older men. "Did I hurt your pride?" Korra teases.
"Hardly," Noatak replies dryly, "I've lived long enough to disregard the words of an amateur bender."
"You're a bender too." She scoffs. "You're so creepy. Getting it up just by me hitting you?"
He says languidly, "Don't flatter yourself. I have other methods of helping myself." Noatak takes away a hint of satisfaction as Korra's mouth curls down and her nose wrinkles.
She physically recoils. "Ugh! That's sick!"
"It causes no harm to anyone."
Dryly, Korra counters, "Well, I'd say there's no fear of impalement." With that, she goes to attend to her own, less visible needs.
Tarrlok prostrates himself before her, fully naked, and she runs her fingers through his hair as if he's a koala-puppy. Korra sadly peruses all of his scars, notices how Tarrlok had wobbled when he bent down, thinking of how she almost did this herself when he'd been crawling away from her during their heated fight that began in his office. Granted, it wasn't as if she'd been unprovoked and that Tarrlok had done nothing to raise her ire, but he'd been defenseless when she charged him with fists full of flames.
It's all too somber for Noatak, which is a complaint he's unaccustomed to forming, especially given his poor record in the humor department. He much prefers the Avatar's ludricrous posturing to any displays of pity. Once again, she's not supposed to be a creature of any sort of gentle affections, at least with them. Nothing maternal or even like a concerned lover.
Without another word, she begins undressing, pulling off her silken blouse, unravelling her wrappings. The air in the room breaks out goosebumps on her arms. When her chest wrappings fall, Korra hooks her fingers at the waist of her pants. Sitting back down, doing nothing about the throbbing in his trousers, Noatak soon finds himself impassionately, candidly analyzing the Avatar's bare buttocks.
Oh please, Noatak thinks as she pushes Tarrlok flat on his back with brash force and straddles him. His brother is just as filthy. They both are adept at twisting words to their favor. Instead of appearing nonchalant, Tarrlok aims to garner sympathy. Noatak has no time for such maudlin sentiments and saccharine pretenses.
Korra sits atop Tarrlok, making no attempt to get intimately close—besides their joining, that is. The cold that Korra felt is replaced by heat. She can feel Noatak watching them, and she hopes it hurts.
As she guides the pace, her hands on his chest, Tarrlok takes his own hand and caresses her—brushing a ponytail over her shoulder, the fingers glancing over the side of a breast, his thumb teasing the underside. So sweet, so tender. The way he gazes at her with this frivolous devotion. Yes, Noatak decides, Tarrlok certainly knows how to overcompensate.
The Avatar emits breathy moans and sighs, and Noatak can tell by the expression on his brother's face that he desires more contact. Neither Noatak nor his brother nor the Avatar are paragons of decency. They've all been responsible for others being hurt or killed. In a way, he and his brother have destroyed her. She went from the wide-eyed, ignorant girl to someone who had their confidence chipped away until she finally lashed back with brute force. She isn't scared to draw blood.
With a set purpose, Noatak stands and kneels to the side. Tarrlok turns his head away and closes his eyes, and Korra regards him warily. Noatak rubs her cheek with the back of his hand, a gesture as delicate as her touch before she assaulted him. She flinches slightly. His fingers trail down the path of her neck, roaming along an artery throbbing under his palm.
Suddenly, there's a surge of blood rushing to her loins as he roves downward. Korra grits her teeth for a moment, struggling to be coherent through the haze of pleasure. "What—are—you—doing?"
He—Noatak, Amon, the man who tried to take everything from her—drinks in her form: her fiery, hateful eyes; her supple breasts; her hips with their violent sway.
This is a game of pretending, and Noatak excels at that. Feigning goodwill, he murmurs, "Is it not my obligation to serve you?"
She glowers. "You're, you—!"
"Noatak, you've promised," Tarrlok says, watching him with a frown, his eyes a startling shade. It reminds Noatak of the child who would hardly leave his side.
"Is it truly hard for you to believe that I can use my power for anything other than harm?"
Tarrlok closes his eyes again, the lines in his visage clearly pronounced. "We both know the answer to that."
"Really, it's not so different from the Avatar bending water into your—"
Korra snarls. "Didn't I already say this? Shut. Up." Not exactly having something handy to tie around his mouth or anything mildly creative to insert beyond his lips to muffle him, she slaps her fingers against his closed mouth briefly and then, angrily, twists around and jerks forward to kiss him. Korra pricks his bottom lip with her teeth.
She clings to Noatak with her nails biting into his skin. They're both touching her, and the air is heated and frantic. Korra shivers even with the sweat trickling down her temple. What is she doing here? Oh spirits, she hates when reason actually seeps through the fogginess.
She's the Avatar. When she sees the past Avatars' lives, they're all dignified. Wow, can they check in on her right now from the spirit world? Are they ashamed of her, disappointed? Surely they've never done something so wrong—nothing as crass as sleeping with two cruel, unstable men and enjoying it, relishing in the mixed power dynamic.
Korra breaks the kiss after baring her teeth down on Noatak's tongue. He growls. Carefully, she climbs off of Tarrlok, though it's not an action he expected. It leaves them both unsated.
Tarrlok leans up with his elbow as she pulls back. She is on all fours, her body trembling. She looks up at Noatak, and they exchange their intense, tacit emotions for several seconds before Korra says icily, "Hurry up before I change my mind."
She doesn't have to wait long; Noatak is neither as hesitant nor as considerate as his brother. He doesn't even waste time to strip his garments off. Korra gasps at the harsh grip on her hips. He doesn't ease into her, doesn't insert his fingers inside of her before he enters her wholly. Then again, she's already slick enough.
Korra rolls against the pressure building up below her belly, riding it as her bleary eyes meet Tarrlok's. She nods to him, and he lifts his elbow and inches closer to her, squatting before her. Fatigued, eyes heavy-lidded and knees sore, Korra blocks out the sounds around her, ducking her head as Tarrlok cups her chin with his one hand, smooths two fingers along her neck. Weird that they're brothers and so close to each other in this action, aroused and uncaring about the presence of each other at both sides of her. When extremes meet, indeed.
"I hate you," she whispers, and she's unsure if it's for Noatak or both of them. Tarrlok doesn't acknowledge it, and she wonders if she even said it aloud, and he massages her shoulder as she unsteadily lowers herself to put her lips on him, one hand at the base of his shaft. That elicits a groan, and Korra removes her lips and rests her temple against his stomach, one shoulder rubbing against his thigh, hair spilling over them both where it isn't clasped by a band and has fallen out. She tries to convince herself for the fiftieth time that this isn't a mistake, that her sexual conduct has little to do with her Avatar duties, that she's not hurting anyone here.
Her closeness, Korra's warm hand pleasing him, it all causes an onslaught of confusion and hunger, sympathy and resentment. Tarrlok cries out, and she raises her head and they level their gazes at each other. Foreheads touching, hair sticking to their skin from the sweat. He delicately supports her, holding her shoulder, his palm at her collarbone.
Korra settles, the wood uninviting on her skin. She smells of spices and perspiration, undulating against Tarrlok as Noatak pushes her forward. It's miserable, so much energy exerted and no release, only this varying swell inside of her. Korra knows that stupid, stupid Amon-Noatak-Mister Spirit-Blessed Savior is intentionally keeping the tension building as long as he possibly can.
Please.
Panting heavily, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from emitting a frustrated groan, she bucks against Noatak with all of the force she can muster. She's the Avatar, and there's no way she's letting Amon ruin this in his attempt to retake control.
When her climax comes, Korra restrains herself, her limbs turning into liquid as she holds back a yelp. She's pressed into Tarrlok and he wipes the tired, empty tears from her cheeks. It's always the worst after all of it is said is done, because then Korra doesn't have all of the distractions to hinder her from reminding herself who she's with. Even with the lies she tells, she can't pretend. No other people give her such inner turmoil, such gratification and sickness.
She feels the stickiness of her own wetness, another warmth on her thigh as the man behind her is no longer inside of her and comes. When it's over, Korra collapses, and Tarrlok holds her with an arm awkwardly around her. Her vision tunnels for a moment.
In the hours after, Korra is too exhausted and conflicted to even consider returning to the air temple and facing her mentor, the man who's patiently taught her when she's fought and resisted his advice, who argued with Tarrlok and was bloodbent by him, who was captured by the Equalists with his wife and newborn imprisoned as he and his other three children were tied up as Noawhatever gloated about how powerful she was. She'll look him in the eye tomorrow like she always does and lie. He won't question any of her flimsy stories; after all, she's an adult.
Korra bathes alone, curled into herself and with her palms resting against her eyelids until they throb. She has to take her rumpled day clothes with her, put them on again because Noatak and Tarrlok don't wear clothes her size unless she's feeling particularly adventurous. She sleeps in a bed with them both. Tarrlok faces her without making any move to encompass her, as if waiting for her approval. She gives none. Noatak sleeps with his back to her, saying absolutely nothing for the rest of her stay.
It's nothing that deviates from their usual routine, whatever "usual" is for them. Despite the hatred and the tears and the passion, none of them move a great deal until the morning, and Korra almost takes it upon herself to fantasize that she's cocooned between two people she loves dearly and enjoys being with. Oddly enough, it's probably the Avatar's craziest dream yet.