Bruises
She was sure that she had left hundreds of bruises on his body over the years they had known each other. Green and blue- a mixture of hurt and healing. Each new barrage of marks that made him wince and groan kept her sane. The brief contact that her fist and his skin clashed was the only time that she had an excuse to touch him. And she wanted to touch him. So much. But she settled for leaving a bruise on him, because at least that made him remember her. Every time he moved and ached he would have to think of her, right? Because you can't forget something if it's always there. So if she saw one of her brands disappearing and becoming less prominent she decided that it was time for a new one.
Toph knew it hurt. But he hurt her, everyday, when he held her hand and whispered into her ear and kissed her so sweetly it made her shiver so that she could feel her heartbeat accelerate and dance.
There hasn't been a day since she first felt that flutter-that incredible palpitation in her own chest, that stampede of ostrich-horses- that he walked unmarked. Every kind thing he did, every imbecilic thing he did, every clever thing he did, every lovable thing he did deserved a mark. So she doled them out freely, giving him one for the time that he held her hand during a flight on Appa's back. And then there was that time that he asked her opinion on his new haiku, shoving the still wet-with-ink sheet of paper into her hands and eagerly waiting her answer-of course that deserved one. But he also helped her figure out how to compact sand so tightly that it turned into a rock-like substance, one that was easier to work with than actual sand (he said it was kind of like making a snowball and being from the Southern Water Tribe, it made him kind of an expert on the subject)- that bruise was given out of gratitude.
So when he complimented her, or made her cheeks feel like the entire Fire Nation Army was attacking them, she gave him another well-deserved sock to the ribs. She couldn't bear the heat of pleasure that roared through her when he told her that she looked nice today, or that her eyes looked especially green today, or that she looked graceful when she was bending. What kind of idiot would say those things to her and not expect to feel sore the next day?
But she still loved to give him those marks. To feel his muscles underneath her skin, the ones that spoke of hard work and diligence. It eased her sense of longing; her longing to linger and study the muscles underneath his smooth, warm skin. To make that brief sting of connection gave her enough material to study and wonder at for a day or two. But it didn't ease her yearning for his touch, to feel his warm fingers seeking her.
Maybe she wanted his fingers on her skin. Maybe she wanted his lips to kiss hers and then for him to graze his teeth on her neck leaving a small mark on her, claiming her as his own. Maybe she wanted to be his.
But maybe she could wait. Maybe she could hang on for a couple more months, just getting flashes of skin and Sokka through these strikes and bruises.