Author's Note: This fic is set between ATLA and Korra; all characters are intended to be 18+. This was inspired by a breathtaking piece of fanart by cabout on Tumblr.

Disclaimer: Toph and Sokka are property of Bryke and Nickelodeon.

For all the useful techniques that certain books and scrolls had to offer, none of them ever told Sokka how hard it was to breathe down there, and after seven years with Toph he still had not mastered this particular part of oral pleasure.

When he was into it – really into it, like he was now – breathing was impossible. His nose was buried in her soft curls and pressing hard against her skin; his mouth was sliding seamlessly over the sensitive flesh of her nether lips; he would swirl his tongue over her clit, then fly down her slit to dart inside her and caress the warmth he so relished, then reemerge and disappear again in an endless cycle. There was no space, no time for breathing – just little sniffs and snuffles, all filled with the musky smell of her arousal.

The breathing problem wasn't helped by the fact that she always squeezed his head a little too much. And not just with her steel thighs – the woman's hands had tremendous grip as well. In fact, the first time he'd done this, she had used both hands to press him to her needy loins and almost (quite seriously) suffocated him – which is why she was now limited to just one hand, thank you very much – she could push him down with one hand and not put him in any danger. But aside from their first night's mishap, he never once complained about her forceful handling – it was worth it, enduring the pain for her. If she ever suspected his discomfort and asked him about it, he'd make sure that he was standing on wood when he gave his answer.

Still, a little relief would be welcome.

He slid his hands inside the space between her groin and thigh, his fingers ghosting over her skin light as a feather. Toph moaned and squirmed and spread her legs just wide enough and Sokka instantly felt twenty times better.

As a rule he liked to keep his eyes closed during this – it helped him focus on the task at hand and not become distracted by the other and numerous areas of Toph's body that he could lay siege to. But for once his eyelids flew open to gaze upon her face, but not before glancing at those perfect breasts. Her eyes were closed, her mouth half open, and her lips turned upwards in a smile of pure bliss and contentment, though her face occasionally twitched as the tension in her body increased with Sokka's continuing ministrations. Toph's left hand was entangled in her hair and she twisted and pulled the strands with every motion the warrior made between her legs.

It was during moments like this that Sokka wished Toph could see herself – not with the murky, sometimes rough images that her seismic sense gave to her, but with the vibrant, clear and luscious colors that he could see now…the rosy flush along her body, most concentrated on her face…the dark brown of her nipples…the jet black waves of her hair, always so magnificent when she let it down from her customary bun…the creamy quality of her skin, decorated with the scars of war and work and sex …the pink of her lips above and below…

He sometimes wondered, if she had been born with normal sight, whether or not her eyes would've been green instead of gray. He hoped it was the latter. Her gray eyes gave her character…strength…something unique and impossible to find anywhere else. Even without the benefit of pupils, her eyes had always been wonderfully expressive. They could turn stormy in her anger and give an air of comfort when you were feeling lost.

It was nice to think about "what ifs?" of life...but in truth, he wouldn't change anything about Toph. She was already perfect as is.

Suddenly, Toph's thighs reasserted their forceful grip. She was getting close to the end, and Sokka obliged by putting all his effort, all his knowledge, all his love and care into his movements. And just when Sokka feared she might split his skull in two from the pressure, Toph's back arched and her body curled into the air; she let out a wail of relief, her legs relaxed, and she sank back down onto the bedsheets, sated and exhausted.

As the scent of her release flooded his nose and his tongue tasted the fruits of his labor, Sokka thought back to his original query.

Breathing, he decided, was highly overrated.