Agent Hong Yan, Lady Gyunghui, and Mingxia are all original characters of mine, from my in-progress Dai Li romance fic Love, Dai Li, And Tea.
This fic takes place about five years before the canon series, and features things like masturbation, a sexual delight in killing, rough sex, male dominance, the Dai Li doing very fucked up things in general, and implied threesomes. That should cover it all.
As usual, I own no part of A:TLA. Nickelodeon, Mike, and Bryan do.
Hong is pretty sure that both Gyunghui and Mingxia are able to tell at this point when he's needed to kill someone on a shift. Needed is of course, is the operative word here.
Like all agents of the Dai Li, Hong is hardly unaware of the dreaded reputation his elite team of brothers has among the people of Ba Sing Se, especially in the Lower and Middle Rings. Oh, those who are caught talking about the things they do underneath the lake by an agent or informant are chastised, threatened, even re-educated if need be, just like with any talk about the war.
But you can't keep a lid on everything. People can have relapses after a conversion. People leak things, hint at things, figure out the truth on their own.
What the Reeducation Division of the Dai Li does to people's minds in the name of keeping the city peaceful, keeping it safe and united, is something that even Hong finds to be a twisted, unsettling thing at times-but ultimately, he knows it's a far better option then having to permanently imprison the person, beat them into compliance, or put them to death. A crippled or dead civilian produces resentment, and is unable to contribute to either the city's labor force or tax base, among other negatives.
But there are also times when he's had no choice but to deploy those deadly, marvelous stone gloves with lethal force, when a criminal or dissenter attacked him first, as part of a group, or just proved too skilled and experienced for Hong and his partner to take alive. They both have wives that want them to come back home.
And when Hong does step out of the carriage on those mornings or evenings, flushed and seething with exhaustion from spent adrenaline and relief that he was the one who walked away and the triumphant, primal, singular rush that only a man who has successfully felled an enemy in battle can understand, there's something that runs hot and glowing through his groin and thighs, that demands release.
Sex and killing. An act that creates life, and an act that destroys it, both performed within hours of each other in very different contexts, both arising from that same fountain of male yang energy within Hong, and he's become so accepting by now that they're as firmly linked to each other as his stone bracelets are to his gloves.
He might still be in uniform when he returns, he might've already changed into civilian clothing in his private room underneath the lake, but Hong always silently, quivering, takes either his wife or his concubine in his arms and just clasps her to him for a few long, grateful moments before uttering some earnest, stupid-sounding demand that one of the two women join him post haste in the master bedroom.
At these times, he knows that they know what he's done as part of his duties, both to Ba Sing Se and to them.
As they slide naked against each other, his larger, toned form clutching and rocking against one of or sometimes even both their soft, slender ones, Hong both feels so Goddess-damned alive at this time-but oddly, is also doing it to remind himself that he's alive as well.
Whether coupling with wife or concubine, he takes her almost roughly, savagely, after having killed, like the male civet-mink he once saw breeding a female on the shoreline of the lake, clamping down on the sleek nape of her neck to help pin her against the gravel while she bared her fangs in outrage and fear and tried to writhe out from underneath him as she hissed.
Hong doesn't go quite that far, of course. He doesn't want Gyunghui or Mingxia to experience terror or injury while they screw-but he'd be lying if he said he doesn't stop just shy of that point.
And sometimes he doesn't even use one of them for release after putting one of his fellow men to death, but just bends and locks the door of his bedroom or study behind him before getting intimate with his element in an even deeper manner then bending, grinding the heel of a stone boot between his butt cheeks, sliding himself back and forth on a smooth, blunted cylinder of stone jutting from the floor as he gasps and sweats.
At times, Hong thinks that's the best way, the only just, appropriate way to relieve his urges. What sort of man ever deserves to enjoy a woman's love and touch after having just killed someone? When he's completely fine with his co-workers brainwashing people? When he gets a hard-on after all the shouting and action and flying stone is done?
Either way, the scarlet flood of elation always drains away with that last wonderful shudder.
And Agent Hong lets himself collapse down into the sheets, to sleep the untroubled slumber of the innocent killer.