she could kill him now and she won't; there's rough stone scraping his back where she's pushed him to the ground, heat radiating off her flushed skin, and he's painfully, painfully hard. oh, she's angry— he got a lucky shot at her stomach for once and it's left an ugly brand, a brief rush of ownership— but this torture is far more her style. the jerk of her hips on his cock, the sight of her breasts heaving against that thin sarashi—
when she was barely eleven (not so long ago), he challenged her to an agni kai; maybe he'd humble daddy's little prodigy, who'd been strutting around the war room like she owned it since lord ozai banished her more-mouth-than-brains brother, or find out if her bending was as transcendental and arresting as the courtiers claimed. she brought him to his knees all blue fire and crackling ozone, and from then on he's been tangled up in her, unable to withdraw his gaze. siren song. she's horrifying and vulgar and a human death wish, yet he can't slither away.
(afterwards, she wore that damn armor even in the hottest months out of sheer spite. this is soso much worse.)
"remember your place, captain," she snarls, and bites his collarbone savagely, drawing a coppery smear of blood. agni, he hates her. he hates her with such fucking intensity it burns, this supposed girl with vicious predator eyes and a spill of void-dark hair and god fire— how she's clawed her way inside him and won't release her lien for anything. he hates her enough to scrape the marrow from her bones, break open her ribcage to see if her heart really does pulsate.
paying penance. she's won, she's always had the sun on her side, and he refuses to flinch when those sharp teeth go further down, down, down.