For Aang week! Warning, Mature content.
His name from her lips was like an orchestra playing in the middle of a volcano. Majestic, terrifying, and awe-inspiring. Aang was taken from his realm of heroic, earthly guide to that of a possessed god before he laid a hand on her. He sat in a blue loveseat in the rented, presidential suite, gray gaze unwavering from the woman of his dreams and nightmares, locked into place without the aids of chains or bending. The thought did occur if perhaps the woman before him, dressed simply in a red robe with golden trimming, was actually bending the air from his lungs.
His heart skipped three beats as she danced before his eyes. Her teasing was relentless and unapologetic with slow movements of slim hips and quick glimpses of the ample bosom spilling from her robe. He took a deep breath, yellow pants stretching to make room for the reaction to her sweet scent. She noticed it, instantly, evidenced by the curve of her ruby lips curving upward in a signature smirk. He was throbbing by the time she finished her enchanting dance, ending the play on all fours, giving him a full view of what she offered and what was his choice to take. He did not need to be told that it was not a choice at this point, nor did he dare move from his place in the chair when she looked back with lust-filled eyes and a flicker of her tongue before rising to her knees and shedding away her robe like the opening curtain.
Far from his 130-year-old mind were the consequences of his actions. Farther still were the repercussions he would face due to hers. They had done this before and would do it again, without a doubt, a mandatory encore. Two artists creating a rhythm as old as time, older than Aang, himself.
They weren't a couple for multiple reasons, but knew one another's bodies like professional musicians, able to strike keynotes with as little as a glance across the Fire Temple's ballroom or a coded political exchange in Republic City's City Hall. A simple business exchange would end in high pitched melodies on The Avatar's office desk or a friendly visit to his best friend's palace events could result in a drumline replica from the princess's lavish headboard.
When Azula, the conductor's, warm hand grips him from outside his trousers, The Avatar is at attention. Need surges low and thoughts are vanquished when he meets the open air and heated breaths from the same ruby lips that once entranced a thousand men in the undergrounds of The Impenetrable City with a single speech. The lone man center stage has no hope of resisting when the fire princess shines the spotlight of her golden gaze on him.
The Avatar is known for his luck with the ladies and with fangirls, galore, Aang is used to attention from gorgeous women no matter their location. Azula, however, is in a league of her own and she knows it. No shame in her submission when he holds her neck, the vibrating waves striking every chord in the powerful man's body as she places her hands strategically on his knees. She plays him like a lead saxophonist, watching his every move and acting accordingly. She knows when to linger on a single note from the very tip when he pants with primal need to the lowest octave, making him groan her name in harmony.
He fights for control with violent jerks and spasms that never throw her off beat before giving in, sweat dripping from his arrow in animalistic release, letting her savor the waves of power in quantities, engulfing the taste of victory with a standing ovation.
A knock at the door reminds them of their intermission, so they pull away from the other and quickly assume their public identities, making a break for different exits, until the next number. Princess Azula reapplies her ruby lipstick as she has her brother and niece to meet while Avatar Aang exchanges his yellow trousers for a suit to greet his wife and children in the restaurant down the street.
