(song suggestion: "Brown Skin" by India Arie)
Sensuality at its finest.
The first time he bought her a box of chocolates, it was done on impulse.
He'd been walking through the financial district – one could only stay masked and underground for so many hours at a time – and wandered by a food cart. Three rows of little red boxes were nestled between a tray of dried seaweed and a sign advertising the cart's fresh pentapus soup.
He leaned down to examine the boxes. The cook took notice and immediately made a pitch.
"It's a nine-piece batch," he began, "made by my brother-in-law…he owns a cocoa farm on one of the Fire Nation islands…good quality stuff, I assure you. And for you, friend, it's only one yuan…if you buy a bowl of my soup."
Amon had never put much stock in the radio advertisements hawking chocolates as birthday and anniversary gifts, but getting involved with the Avatar had tempered his skepticism about many things. If nothing else, the gesture would be appreciated, and every move concerning the Avatar, no matter how small, was critical.
Bring her closer to you. Lower her guard. Make her vulnerable. That's why he was doing this.
At least, that's what he told himself.
He handed over a five yuan note, took his purchases and walked towards the waterfront, casually sipping the soup (which was delicious) out of its flimsy paper cup.
Later, when the Avatar came to him, he gave her the box and felt immensely satisfied with himself.
She put the first piece in her mouth, bit down, and immediately spit it out.
That night, he learned the most important rule about buying chocolate: don't skimp.
It's always a fascinating sight, watching her eat: he sees her eyes close in anticipation as the chocolate enters her mouth; as her teeth bite down he notices the hint of resistance just before the substance yields to the force of her jaw; he wonders at the look of rapture on her face as the silky sensation flows over her tongue, hears the moan of appreciation as the flavors fill her mouth, and her eyes re-open, their pupils wide with delight.
He prefers to buy the simplest brands of chocolate. The unity, the purity of each piece's shape and construction appeals to him, appeals to the ideals he hopes that the world will one day come to share.
But bite into those simple squares and underneath lies a complex mix of tastes and sensations – not unlike his relationship with Korra.
She, of course, prefers the more elaborate ones – chocolates with fillings: caramel and lemon and mango and nuts; chocolates sprinkled with coconut or finished with carefully drawn icing designs. He fusses about the cost and admonishes her frivolity but she knows he's full of it; he always honors her requests.
The odd thing is this: Korra never eats milk chocolate, only dark. His curiosity continues to grow and grow until one day it forces him to ask her what contributes to her preference.
The answer surprises him.
She actually prefers the milk – she's never been one for bitter foods – but ever since…this…started, she's eaten nothing but the dark, even when she's not with him.
"But why, Avatar?" he asks incredulously.
"Because every time I bite down it reminds me that there's only one way this can end," says she sadly.
He can only respond with silence. Perhaps the Avatar is wiser than I thought.
One night they lay side-by-side with her back pressed against his chest; he takes her from behind, slowly, painstakingly, listening for every hitch of breath, feeling each squirm of tension. And as he takes it all in – the sweet taste of her skin, the dark color of her nipples, the smell of her locks above and the feeling of her curls below – he can't help but compare the woman writhing in front of him to the treats lying on the bedside table.
A goddess made of chocolate and caramel.
That is what the Avatar is to him.
Author's note: Though Korra doesn't know it, she and Amon share a favorite treat – candied sea prunes dipped in milk chocolate. It reminds them both of home and happier times (more subjective for Noatak).
Paper cups, believe it or not, were invented in 1908.