4- you
If he had to choose, Noatak wants nothing more than to remain there, on Korra's rug, pressing solidly at his throat. Phantom tingles of her grip leaves him with something strongly resembling ecstasy; rage and love share the theme of wicked symptoms that one feels in the gut, in the chest, sickness and fever. Furthermore, if he had to delude himself in considering it acceptable, he'd prefer love, though fully aware that rage is all he deserves.
She is giving him neither. It brings out the worst discontent, battling with pleasure, fighting with remorse. The marks are anger, the kisses pity, and for the life of him he cannot decide which one he likes more than the other. Avatar Korra, unjustly youthful, unfairly kind, planting her lips on her victimizer's neck- it is beyond revolting, and he loathes himself for loving it.
Enticing smells waft from the kitchen, unmistakably Water Tribe seaweed and baby tiger seal. Korra obviously lied about being a bad cook, and he asks air and spirits if her low self esteem still lingers as a remnant from long prior. He debates getting up, and decides that joining her is inevitable, willing himself to stand and head towards her kitchen. The house is small, he thinks, humble yellow on the outside and sparsely furnished inside, a testament to modesty under her large title.
Like Avatar Aang, perhaps? A pledge to a simple life with few desires. What would make him, then? Yakone's legacy, irredeemable and revolting; maybe the esteemed Zuko, if he lied to himself. The former firelord changed the superior, xenophobic mentality of the entire Fire Nation, essentially single handedly, from oppressors to active participants of the world surrounding them. Unlike him, the regent's successful efforts to shape history is looked on favorably to this day, vocal detractors significantly diminished. His legacy, on the other hand, no matter how polarizing, is sullied by death.
The ruminations quiet down as Korra flashes him a restrained smile, filling two bowls with seaweed soup, seal meat, and flat cut noodles. He knows that when he smiles it is almost never sincere, but attempts anyway, taking the food and seating himself across the other side of the table, pleasantly surprised at her meal. Certainly, it can't be passable as restaurant quality, but it is impressive regardless.
"It's good," he offers, cursing the weakness of his voice.
Korra is appreciative. They eat in silence, and Noatak finds himself finishing the entire thing. He washes the silverware and bowl, and bores a hole in the ground with downcast eyes. The Avatar clears her throat, and he stands to attention.
"I'm going to take my evening shower, feel free to watch tv until then."
"Then what will we do?" he asks, too eager.
"Probably indulge that weird masochistic desire of yours. I have a lot of tricks, but as the Avatar I can't be caught dead with this fetish."
Discomfort reads plain as day on her face. He theorizes that her sexual proclivities are remnants of Avatar Kyoshi, but declines to comment.
"I'm glad to be of use then," he replies pathetically.
Korra chuckles. "Spirits, considering what you used to be, this is a complete 180. It's kind of amusing."
"I'm still a manipulative asshole," Noatak states, utterly drained. "Now I'm just a manipulative asshole who likes pain and wants to die."
It kills the mood swiftly. She still laughs, but it is empty, leaving for the bathroom as he watches her sculpted back and bare arms, the same as ever. Same face, but less fire. Same voice, but less sting.
After mutely remaining at the kitchen with little purpose for several minutes, he takes her up on the offer and turns on the screen in the living room, flipping to a channel which frequently showcases those strange Fire Nation cartoons. He thinks the employment of gaudy hair colors is annoying at best, and the fact that teens of the real world consider it trendy to replicate the aesthetic is beyond absurd to him. He is, however, entranced by the recurring themes of these shows: a world without bending, replaced by the futuristic settings that Future Industries or their rival companies could only dream of inventing, and protagonists with strong resolves, often coupled with unrealistic power.
He wants to save the world, even now. As Amon, he simply did it the wrong way. This thought occurs to him as a male lead screams about friendship and overcoming adversity for the sake of his friends, and he takes comfort in it, however minute.
"Are you seriously watching that stuff?" Korra inquires with a raised eyebrow, dressed in a plain nightgown.
"Yes, I am 'seriously' watching it," Noatak replies. "Those main characters aren't that much younger than me, and they almost always get happy endings."
She falters, and seats himself close to him. "I never understood their hair."
"The shows tend to have animation styles where they recycle certain faces, and the hair is used to differentiate the characters."
"Sounds lazy, if you ask me."
"Just watch it," he says, the entire situation strangely light. "It's not that bad."
They watch three episodes about young girls granted incredible power for a single wish, in exchange for the difficult task of fighting monsters that plagued the world with despair. Korra peppers their viewing experience with questions and eyerolls, but gradually becomes engrossed. Noatak questions what wish he would give his life for; in the past, it was equality.
The present is harder.
"Whoa, did that thing seriously bite her head off?!" She yelps, and Noatak restrains the urge to laugh. "And I thought it was such a cute show!"
"I told you, it wasn't that bad."
The girls cry. Noatak knows how the story ends; he's watched this series twice before, but if Korra is interested, he doesn't have to spoil the conclusion. She turns the television off with disappointment that the three episodes was all they'd get for that night, and faces him, wearing an expression he cannot read.
"We'll get started," she tells him, and it borders on ominous. Dirty tingles ring inside him, and he observes with morbid curiosity as she obtains a pen from a drawer and unsheaths the edge, revealing a small knife.
"Take off the shirt and sit down."
Her command is clinical, strict. He follows without question, and Korra appears surprised by his frame, nowhere near as bulky as before, but still relatively fit and healthy. She bends forward and makes tiny, flowing cuts on his chest, not enough to scar, but enough to draw blood. His breath escapes in tiny gasps and shivers of wicked delight, and he is thoroughly embarrassed at his arousal, praying she won't notice right away.
"That was fast," she says, deadpan. Noatak smiles nervously. She sheaths the knife and leaves it on the table, grasping him there. He shouts and clamps his legs on instinct. Korra laughs at him, nearing vicious.
"How many girls have you fucked, Noatak?"
"Uh- aaah! As -aah- Noatak, or as Amon?"
"As you, right now."
"Two," he mumbles, in utter disbelief at how quickly she drew this out in him. "Both older women."
"Aaaw, a sugar baby," she teases. "Did they like you?"
"They loved me," he boasts, immediately flustered. Korra straddles his lap and traces her fingers around the drying blood.
"Did they hurt you this way too?"
"No," he replies, his mind scattering off like waves in the sea, sensations too strong, strangled with fear and lust. "They were lonely."
"Charity work with monetary benefits," she says menacingly, and kisses him with hunger.
She is outright savage, and he cannot help but follow as she bites his lower lip and fully exploits his mouth. He grasps her waist as she grinds into him, sharing a mutual shudder. It is both too much and not enough, and she pulls his need from the fabric of his pants and underwear and lowers herself. He's gasping now, bucking and yelping as she leaves a long scattering of bite marks on the curves of his shoulders. It takes a maddening amount of self control not to come right there and then, a record first for him. He feels the strain of his hair being yanked to expose the column of his neck, earlier bruises now accompanied with tooth marks.
It is a far cry from before, because he wants it so desperately, while Korra didn't want what he burdened her with at all. The pronounced difference is staggering, and he almost doesn't want to enjoy it, but he can't help himself, her breasts firm against him, barely sheathed in the layer of silk gown. He's making an awful lot of noise, he realizes, and so is she, nails digging deep into his back and trailing tracks of scratched flesh.
"You little shit, you want this."
"Yes," he says with tiny hitches of breath, her fingers coated with dried, flaking blood, along with new blood, and he can't help himself, he's screaming now, and Korra engulfs his mouth and comes, and he takes it as permission to do the same.
It is stillness and a large expanse of silence for what seems like too long, before she pries herself off, ruffling his hair as an afterthought.
"Wow, you really liked that," she states with a little laugh. "You're so fucked up."
He says nothing, a dopey smile refusing to leave his face. She takes him by the wrist and they shower for a second time, and he scrubs the places she can't reach, dazed with how much he likes it. It feels wrong and disgusting, and he doesn't know whether to approve or not.
But as Korra grins in satisfaction and kisses him again as the water sloshes under their feet, he shoves it at the back of his head.