Author's Note: I lifted a line of dialogue from my favorite Tokka art (here) by the talented LovelyRugby!
Her toes fan out and then curl back in, wiggling against each other to get a good sense of the earth between. A healthy dose of clay, enough sand to make it crumbly but not enough blur her vision, and the softest presence of silt roll over her toes- speaking to her. They tell her about the world, they explain this spot. Great for growing things, too messy to lie your back upon.
It's a shame too, that the sensation of the earth here informs her that it will be inadequate for her purpose, because the sensation she truly desires to indulge is warm against her neck.
His lips are soft and swollen with over-use, dragging along the line of her jaw, just to the tip of her ear- pinching her lobe the slightest bit between his teeth.
"Not here," she tells him, laughing breathlessly.
She can feel the downturn of his mouth against her cheek, the low vibration of his disappointed groan rumbles from deep in his throat and then throughout her body. His sigh sounds like resignation, but just as she is about to interpret the language of the earth for him, his head turns and finds her mouth. It is a small surprise and her own mouth opens in shock, but quickly returns his kiss.
His lips pull at the tip of her tongue when he moves away, "you know, there are perfectly good beds going unused back inside," he reminds her, sliding one hand from her shoulder and down her arm to entwine their fingers.
She does know, but beds are boring and the air inside is still. Out here, in the middle of the night, she can feel so much more. She hears the crickets, the cool air brushes her skin exciting the fine hairs on her neck, the waves crash and grumble, the wind carries the briny scent of the shore and the sweet scent of fire lilies to her nose.
"Let's move closer to the beach," she whispers, taking the lead.
"I'm not getting into the water," he warns, following with an air of petulance.
"I'm not asking you to, you big cry baby."
The moon is new and the stars fill the sky, but they don't brighten the path nearly enough for Sokka to walk unaided. He can barely make out Toph just a step ahead of him in this light and he realizes her own "vision" is becoming clouded when her foot catches a low vine and she falls forward, taking him along for the ride.
His attempt to land beside her instead of on top of her is in vain and he ends up giving the palms of his hands a good scrape in the process. He lands on her, but his face gets the ground just over her shoulder.
"Sand," she explains as she rolls over to face him.
She hears him blow out a cloud of the offending granules, "Yeah, I got that."
She laughs lightly and reaches up, moving one hand down his face to brush away the small grains that remain.
"This spot is good," she tells him. Her words set her up for a myriad of jokes, but he does not take the opportunity. Instead, his groin presses against her suggestively.
While the sand is loose and forgiving at her back, Sokka is firm and uncompromising at her front, she enjoys the juxtaposition so her hips lift slightly to return the action.
"Are you sure?" he asks. His question does not seek consent so much as it seeks a guarantee that they won't be found here. Consent is implied, by the hand she runs along the length of the bulge in his pants.
"I'll know if someone is coming," she promises. Again her statement is fertile ground for sarcasm and again he says nothing. His mouth is too busy against hers. Though his hands are at either side, buried half way in the sand, she still senses them. And she waits for their movement.
It happens after only a further minute of grinding against her when he suddenly pushes away from the ground to rest on his knees.
"Where are you going?" she asks, but she knows he won't tell.
The first touch lands at her ankle. The pants she wears are loose and billowing at the cuff and his hand travels up her leg, beneath the fabric, past her knee and along the inside of her thigh. His fingers pretend to be lost here, caressing her soft skin as if looking for somewhere firm to land. Her hips move again insistently, hoping to coax his indecisive fingers to a ready and willing runway.
His thumb stretches slightly to run along the outside of her underwear, one slow stroke which makes her sigh, before his hand leaves her entirely.
"I hate you," she whispers on a laugh. There is no way to be certain, but she is positive he is smiling.
The next touch is light at her shoulder, his finger hooks the strap of her tunic and pulls it away slowly. His lips move to cover her bare skin, kissing his way gently from her collar bone to the slope of her breast. When he urges the fabric lower he discovers her bindings have been left inside, along with her modesty.
The cool air rushes over her skin as her tunic is pulled to her navel and Sokka quickly moves his mouth lower to cover the tip of her breast, flicking her nipple with his tongue. She knows this move, it is a precursor to something even more exciting and she resists the urge to push his head lower. He moves away after a moment of teasing and kisses his way down her stomach, finally collecting the waistband of her pants in his teeth and pulling them down slightly.
She angles her hips to assist him and his hands move up to take the whole of her outfit away. Left in nothing but her underwear, she shivers. Her instinct is to sit up and help him out of his clothes, but she knows his "ladies first" rule is without clause, so she waits for his third touch.
Predictably, his cold hands make contact with her hips on either side, tugging her underwear lower. His mouth follows suit, just at her pelvis, kissing her hair before the fabric is low enough for his tongue to slip in. He kisses her here as he would her lips, open-mouthed and wanting.
She fights a moan, but it escapes anyway when her back arches and she presses further into his warm mouth. His large hand moves up her abdomen, pushing her down with a gentle firmness, attempting to still her writhing body. His hands are calm, but his tongue becomes frantic the more she disobeys.
"Sokka," she pleads, barely able to get his name out, "wait...Sokka..."
He has no intention of slowing though, so she must break through her haze of pleasure and act. Her hands reach out and connect with his shoulder's pushing him back quickly and she sits up.
Without a word she shoves him back playfully and sits on her knees to face him, the tone switches from sensual to animalistic when she is in control and she removes his shirt in one swift motion. She climbs over him, sitting directly on the stiffness in his pants. Leaning down to kiss his neck, she feels his hands move up to her breasts, running over her hard nipples and down to her hips again, and she realizes he is just as much of a sensation junkie as she is.
Her kisses trail downward, catching his nipple in her mouth and scraping it across her teeth carefully as she continues down. She sits on him still, but pushes her hand between them to move along his erection, slow and teasing.
His eyes have adjusted to the low light and he is so grateful for sight just now, watching her touch him and herself in the same moment, "you are so sexy."
It is the right thing to say and her blush is perceptible in the darkness. Words like these set him apart from the rest. Toph was nineteen when she first felt these sensations from another's hand. Sex was always a thrill for her senses, but no other man has ever managed to accomplish what Sokka does. He makes her feel more than sexy. He makes her feel feminine, which she hates to admit is the biggest turn on of all.
She doesn't allow these thoughts to distract her for long and she pulls herself up slightly to remove his pants without ceremony. Her mouth closes over the tip of him to show her appreciation and he inhales deeply. The low sound of air letting from his lungs, slow and measured in an effort to control himself, is a challenge in Toph's mind. She runs her tongue along him- soft and then firm, but always wet. Her hands come up to assist in building the tension, increasing in speed until his low moans are almost grunts and she stops suddenly.
Before he can say a word, she straddles him again, guiding him inside. They both let out a groan at the change, but for different reasons. The sensation is good for both, but it's more psychological for Toph who appreciates the fulfillment and closeness more than the physical result. She is grateful that Sokka remembers this when his hand moves away from her chest and down to where their bodies meet. His finger slides between them, exciting her further and bringing her back into the corporeal present. Her own hands press against his broad chest giving her leverage as her hips move up and down, crashing into his.
There is a moment when her senses peak and she feels everything, her toes and knees in the sand, the air that swirls around her, the firmness of the muscle in his chest, and the fullness of the man inside her- she cries out when her body begins to fold in on itself- unable to cope with the sensory overload.
When she falters, he is beneath her to kiss and his hips continue moving in, out, and against even faster than before. She kisses his neck and his jaw, finally feeling the tension leave his body by way of their contact. His muscles relax and he lays his arms flat out at the sides for added effect.
They both lay there, catching breath together. The sweat on them both begins to dry and a shiver runs through her body and into his own.
Sokka reaches out to find his tunic and pulls it over her, covering her back. She is curled up on top of him, knees in the sand, still connected. She lifts her head to kiss him once and then settles her cheek against his chest.
His arms encircle her and he sighs, "Nicely done, Chief."
"Not so bad, yourself, Meathead."
He laughs at her retort and the vibration rolls through her. She feels his mouth plant a light kiss on the crown of her head and his hand moves up and down her back, slow and comforting.
"I love you," he tells her.
"You always get so sentimental after sex," she returns, voice muffled against his skin.
"Oh," he says in his best emcee voice, "I'm sorry. The correct answer was, 'I love you too, Sokka.'"
"I love you too, Sokka," she recites with a small chuckle.
His hand pauses on her back, changing course. It travels back down to her side, pinching playfully. Her body jerks and she lets out a yelp, "Stop it!" she shouts. Tickling has never been a sensation she enjoys, in spite of her laughter.
"Can't," he explains on a laugh as he continues to prod her sides, "this is what you get for being a jerk."
She is flailing against him, finally rolling off into the sand to punch his arm with all her strength, which is meager at the moment. He tickles her one more time and climbs over her, brushing a gentle kiss against her lips.
The sensation is love- whole, undivided.
She decides this particular sensation is her favorite. It is everything from tonight all at once and she loves him back entirely.
Even the part that tickles her sides without remorse.