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Another Way To Die	By : Kereliah Category: Avatar - The Last Airbender > Het - Male/Female > Azula/Zuko Views: 9691 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own Avatar: The Last Airbender. I don't profit financially off of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Another Way To Die
- 1
Oneshot, reposting on my new account. Named for the song by Alicia Keys and Jack White.
Another Way to Die
It starts with a kiss.
She breaks him down with her mouth, pressed into his like it belongs there. All teeth and tongue. Arms wound around his neck, fingers carding through his hair, she splits him open and surges in – pins him to the wall, hard, and kisses his knees weak. As if to bleed him dry. As if she's extracting a price, a toll, some sweet salty coin she could slide over his tongue and swallow.
She's feral, nearly drawing blood, sucking up bruises on his lower lip—nipping and pecking, with hot tingling pinpricks of teeth—raking her nails down his neck, her grip a vise. Savage. Ruthless. Just like always.
Like always, she tastes of copper, of sweat and smoke and spice, maybe cinnamon. She's steam and gunpowder, mint and ginger, a wave crashing over his shore; her kiss is a caress and an assault. He has to move with her, breathe when she breathes, swell and bob with her tides or be swept away – he could drown in her, in the heat of her sun, in that thick honeyed somewhere inside her.
He feels her push herself against him. Her body crushed into his, she grinds to the heady dark beat of their kissing, again and again like scratching a vicious itch. He's hard and she knows it, wants it, feels it through the damp silk and broadcloth between them. Lets her hips ride a long, slow, deliberate roll.
He jolts. Snags on that blazing pulse of sensation. His head swims, heavy with wanting, but it won't be so easy as that—first she breaks off and grabs him, seizes one ragdoll arm, jerks him over to her bed. They collide in a snarl of limbs.
She lets herself fall under him, this time, and for awhile they go on kissing – wild, sweat-slick, almost violent – like a duel, each grappling for the upper hand. Hunting for the prize of a shudder, a caught breath. A quickening of the heart. Until she breaks, hands twined into his hair, and wrests his head up. Snaps, do it now.
It's not a request. She's hoarse, she's breathless, her brow glistens with sweat but she means what she says; he's never been one to refuse her, and this is no different. She lets him go, shoves him down. Her dressing gown comes loose, with the tug of a knot, and her legs find tense purchase on his shoulders—his arms slide around her hips and then, then he gets a gasp out of her. A short, sharp twitch of breath, at the first touch.
There's no kissing here, no teasing, no games – just the warm, wet swirl of his tongue inside her, gliding over her sweet spots, pushing open her petals. He dips in deep and she shivers, legs tight around his neck. His skims her clit and her hips buck, her back arched, wanting more. She doesn't have to ask. She's trained him well.
He frees an arm and slips two fingers in, all the way. Makes her squirm. Inside he strokes her, fingers flicking and twisting, rubbing her nerves raw—and outside, his tongue drives her mad. One hand on his head, the other twists itself into her bedsheets, seeking anchor in the brewing squall.
Some nights, she'd let him bring her to climax this way – some nights, she'd make him let her inside, her fingers or one of her toys – some nights, most nights – not tonight. Tonight it's not enough. Tonight she gasps, she writhes, she feels his tongue hot against her but it's not enough, and tonight she tells him to stop.
There's no time for questions, not that he's asking them. She takes him by the collar of his robe, pulls him up; none too gently she slams him into the headboard, and comes at him with hunger in her smile. Captures his mouth again. Tangled in her, he feels her legs snare his waist, her weight land in his lap.
He's clumsy about it, as with most things, but he wants this as bad as she does and that helps – makes his hands move faster, untying his belt, working himself loose of damp bunched silk. He's almost dizzy now, so hard it hurts, heart battering his ribs—but that doesn't matter. He never really enters her, so much as she swallows him.
Her body's grip is tight. Slick, sweet, so good he could lose it here. But she'd kill him if he did, so soon in the game, and it's his job to grit his teeth – always, it's his job to be still, and be silent, and let her grind him into her until she's done. Let her focus on the rhythm.
He's not allowed to hold her, or watch her, only maintain while she pumps him in—a little faster, a little harder each time, all the way to the hilt, making her pant—and out. Over and over. Back and forth. She doesn't stop, she doesn't tire, she doesn't slow her pace. She just rides him and purrs deep in her throat, loving every stroke.
After awhile he has to go away, shut down to keep the reins. He can't let himself feel her, can't take that chance, absolutely cannot come before or inside her unless he wants another scar, in a much more sensitive place. She'd do it, too. She's not above it. So he withdraws, lets her work, breathes like he's bracing for a battle; he can hear her, the first whispers of a moan stirring in her chest, and he can feel her hair graze his skin, but other than that nothing gets in. Almost nothing, anyway. She does this much too well.
He starts when she pushes her hand in between them. She'd never ask him to touch her, not now, not so much in the heat of things, but she needs more friction than he gives her—more than the sweatdamp wall of his stomach. Her fingers circle her clit. And now her hips jerk, and now her lips part, and now at last she's moving like she can't finish fast enough.
Then, it's all she can do to grip his shoulders with her free arm, the other crushed numb against him. Only then does he chance a look at her, as she's closing in, through the slit window of his bad eye. Only then, when she's too far gone to punish him for it, does he get a glimpse of her.
Her cheeks are flushed. Her hair is a mess, a dark sticky nest of coils, shoved haphazardly over one shoulder. Her eyes are squeezed shut, her mouth is half-open, her face twitches like a broken dial—and all of a sudden, she peaks. With a guttural, wordless moan she lets go, shaking all over, still moving on him fierce and quick. She strokes herself through the crash. Comes down panting, skin tingling, gooseflesh spreading over her skin; she slickens inside and slackens out, sinew unbound. The piston-pace of her hips finally slows. She goes limp.
And she would. He nearly growls at her. Azula!
She looks up and smirks. Of course. But she lets him push her off, mercifully, leaving him to his own devices; she rolls over and he jerks himself to climax, back arched over the headboard. It only takes a second. Soon enough he comes, chest tense, brow knit, biting back the sound that climbs his throat. He gropes for a towel by her bedside, well aware that she doesn't want his hand wiped on her sheets.
And when he can breathe again, he gets up. With limbs like lead weights. But he never knows when she'll kick him out, so he tries to beat her to it. He shakes out his hair, runs a hand through it, finds his pants and pulls them on; he digs his robe out from a heap of blankets, wrinkled and wet. He's just about to belt it when she looks up. Stay here.
He doesn't protest. Just like always. She extends an arm and he joins her, slipping under the sheet, nestling into her side. She doesn't hold him, not really, and he doesn't hold her—but somehow they fit together, like shards of something broken.
He drops off to sleep, pressed against her, and she rolls her eyes. With a flick of her wrist, she puts out the candles.
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Another Way To Die