samekoblogs

[samekoblogs]

Truly one of his greatest quotes.

[samekoblogs]

"You are the product of everything you fear. Violence... Darkness... Helplessness... All that remains is for you to watch as I drag your beloved Gotham into oblivion."

...

I didn't expect to fall for him so hard. I mean, hard was expected but the extent it reached surprises even a diehard fan of skeletal-looking characters like me. So Arkham!Scarecrow nation, come scream at me, I beg you.

[samekoblogs]

Say Yes to Heaven (Say Yes to Me)

Written for Amorra Week 2023 @amorraweek2023 for Day 3: Political Marriage.

Rating: E.

Tags: Semi-Public Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Finger Sucking, Resolved Sexual Tension, Clothed Sex, Korra is 18, Sensory Deprivation, Praise Kink.

Summary: (...)does she fear him, or does she fear getting closer to him?

Notes: I don't know if I'll post other stories for the Week, so I want to thank you all for the support shown! Special thanks go to the organizers of the event, who had the commitment to planning an Amorra Week after all this time! Thank you so much, it's been a fun ride!

The fanfic is under the cut if you're more comfortable reading on Tumblr.

NSFW content below.

~~~

“I’ll never get used to this.” 

Korra sags on the plush sofa she’s sitting on, her bored eyes traveling over the crowds of high-ranked public personalities passing by. None of them approach her luckily – she can’t deal with having the same conversation again for the bazillion time while the press tails her at her every step.

The ballroom shines from the illumination of a dozen electrical chandeliers decorated with crystal pendants. Reds, greens and blues apparels traverse the hall, mingle with each other, form and leave groups like oil that floats in the water following its currents. The chitchat and the heat produced by the lights would make for a comforting atmosphere, if it wasn’t for the tension that kept gnawing at her shoulders despite her attempt to ignore it.

She had to behave, Tarrlok warned her. A few more public appearances and the Council will be ready to announce the engagement to the press.

Too bad the novelty of galas long wore off and she would gladly spend the evening at Air Temple Island babysitting the kids for Pema.

Bolin, her one shoulder to lean on most of the time, hums sympathetically at her. 

“It’s not that bad though,” he says, putting on an encouraging smile. “We can see each other outside of training at these parties.”

“Wouldn’t you prefer to eat out together to this?” she asks, gesturing at the packed hall.

“Of course I would,” Bolin says. He’s fidgeting with his hands on his lap, petting Pabu’s head from time to time. “It’s just… I’m glad me and Mako can be here for you, and in the end, I don’t care if we aren’t having fun. I want to be a good friend to you, regardless of where we are.”

“You are being a good friend, Bolin,” Korra reassures him, brushing his arm. She gets past his mention of Mako. “Really, don’t worry about me. I’m doing fine all in all.”

It’s Tarrlok’s comments ringing back in her head from time to time that make this situation unnerving.

Maybe they’ll be popular enough to be crowned ‘Couple of the Year’ by every tabloid of Republic City.

Korra scoffs at the memory of those words, at how much malleable the rest of the Council had been when the motion had been presented and approved. Back then Korra had thought the Council was comprised of reasonable people when the Pro-Bending final match hadn’t been canceled. What a bunch of spineless fools, the attack at the stadium should have been proof enough that the Equalists had violent intentions in mind and public commotion in the future. Even as sheltered as she is, she saw it from a mile away. And yet… here she is. Forced to play their game on their behalf, just to keep peace. She wouldn’t back out, not with how much is at stake, but she wishes, now more than ever, that peace could be achievable by fighting, not by stepping back and arranging her life, her entire future. Is this punishment for having retired from Tarrlok’s task force? Is this what her refusal and fear led her to? If she had been brave enough when the situation asked for it, would that have spared her from this?

Perhaps it wouldn’t have made any difference. Tenzin feared an escalation since the attack at the stadium and, for how much unbearable he is sometimes, deep down Korra knows her airbending master is usually right. And this marriage could save lives. 

Perhaps she didn’t fight enough. Perhaps, if she had known what the future reserved for her, she wouldn’t have been such a… coward. A coward.

Korra gulps down a sip of her champagne. It tastes sour on her tongue, with the regretful thoughts clouding her mind and blocking out the sounds from the reception.

Likely sensing her ill mood, Pabu hops over to her lap, squeaking to get her attention. Korra rubs the fire ferret under his cute, little muzzle, the fur there white and soft. How she wishes she could have brought Naga. But a polar bear dog is too massive of a pet and, she has to admit, she’s not as well-behaved as Pabu when it comes to big crowds.

“Korra?”

She blinks, brought back from her musings by Bolin.

“Sorry, I wasn’t listening,” she mutters, trying to not let it show on her face the longing veiling her heart. “Did you say something?”

“I just said that… we could get us something to snack on,” Bolin proposes with a cheery smile, extending his arm to pat Pabu on his back.

Korra shakes her head.

“I’d like to but,” She looks around, trying to spot some journalists among the guests. “I can’t be seen with you for too long at this event.”

Or even at the next ones, maybe not until the union will be officialized. She frowns with disappointment, unsated vexation forcing her to press her tongue against her palate. Her betrothed is nowhere to be seen, and she’s supposed to wait for him already like a good wife. She’s no wife, she didn’t plan to be, her whole life had been devoted to training, her sole wish was to be the best Avatar she could ever aspire to become. Marriage never had been in her foreseeable plans. What will she tell her parents? She left the South Pole to learn airbending and, right now, she’s not close to bending any air and instead betrothed to a man that promised to take away her ability to ever bend again the three elements she mastered, let alone air. Part of the accord is that he, under no circumstance, can take away her bending, and she doesn’t doubt he has enough honor to carry out that term of the agreement – he gave her proof of that at Aang’s Memorial Island. Spirits, how she wishes that night never happened.

“I know we can’t do much about it,” Bolin sighs, his green eyes searching hers. “I’ll bring you something from the buffet then. Anything you particularly want on your menu?”

“Y’know, you wouldn’t be so bad as a waiter,” she jokes, with a sly grin. Bolin snorts, and she clings to that carefree sound, just as much as she clings to Bolin’s presence altogether. She doesn’t know how she would have distracted herself otherwise.

Then Tarrlok – damn Tarrlok – steps in between them, with his shit-eating grin and his sickening stench of cologne.

Annoyance comes back at the center of her chest in full force anticipating what’s about to come.

“Avatar Korra, I’m pleased to see you are mingling with the guests. And such in an intimate way too,” Tarrlok says, looking at Bolin with an affable expression holding a hint of disdain. Bolin cowers a little under that gaze, and it makes her loathe Tarrlok just a tad more than she already does. “Shouldn’t you be doing this with your companion? You came at the event together, after all…”

Korra juts out her lip. She disregards Bolin’s hand tightening around hers.

“Yeah, what about that? What about my companion, who’s nowhere to be seen?” she replies with bite. She doesn’t care if other guests will turn their heads in their direction. She’ll speak her mind however and whenever she likes.

Tarrlok doesn’t falters, doesn’t do much more than briefly lowering his eyes with a patient smile, as if she is being the unreasonable one, when it was her they gave up like a sacrificial lamb. The fact she was trying to adapt to the situation didn’t undermine the vileness of their actions, nor did her increasingly intruding thoughts about… about…

“Why, your companion is delightfully securing himself a place in the high society. He’s charming them all with his rather eloquent way of speaking.” Tarrlok places a hand on her shoulder. It’s not an amiable gesture, since his fingers are resting firmly on her clavicula. Pabu hisses quietly in her lap. She wouldn’t stop the fire ferret if he jumps on Tarrlok’s perfect hair and scratches that smug expression from his face. “You should try to show some of your charm too, Avatar Korra. The public goes into rapture when your speeches get heated.”

“My speeches…?” She tries to stall when Tarrlok gently but forcibly makes her get up from the sofa. Pabu scurries over to Bolin’s lap the moment she’s forced to, squeaking disgruntled. “This isn’t a press conference.”

“It doesn’t mean that you can’t spare a few words for a different type of audience,” Tarrlok insists, dragging her along.

Korra shoots Bolin a desolate glance. He looks back helplessly at her. Tarrlok didn’t even acknowledge his presence, as if he was just some passerby boy from the streets. Unimportant. Unwanted. A sensation Bolin must have grown painfully familiar with in life.

Korra glares angrily at Tarrlok. She shrugs away his hand from her shoulder and plants one foot down to halt his saunter.

“I accepted the agreement for peace’s sake. Not to be Amon’s little tick,” she challenges the councilman with bitter venom flooding her mouth.

“And you shouldn’t be, Korra. The role of the dutiful wife doesn’t suit you, between you and me.” Tarrlok smiles, as he so much did when he feigned to be on her side. Instead, he had been always looking left and right for a way to exploit her. He found one and, still, he wouldn’t leave her alone. “You’re not meant to be on his side. You’re meant to pose a threat to Amon. And you can do that by staying closer to him.”

“I understand this,” she manages out between her teeth. 

Or maybe I could be a threat to you, her mind warns, loud and fiery.

“Then, this is your chance to start doing your part,” he says, nodding with his chin toward the mildly dense crowd gravitating around a single man. Tarrlok nudges her forward, enough to bring her a little closer to the side of the ballroom where Equalist’s masks are hovering in between the maskless faces of intellectuals and businessmen and women. “Don’t you agree?”

Korra represses her urge to frown back at Tarrlok. She pushes into his hands her flute of champagne.

“Keep it warm for me, will ya?” she recommends, bitingly sarcastic. She then makes her way through the guests. The crowd parts as soon as she’s recognized as the Avatar. Whispers reach her ears in between some snippets of conversation. She presses forward relentlessly, mumbling excuses until she’s face to face with Amon’s second-in-command, the Lieutenant.

The man, him too in formal attire for the occasion, stops her as if she’s some kind of menace, or unwelcomed heckler. His stare doesn’t soften even when he recognizes her. Korra doesn’t wish for it to do so, their history of electrocuting and kicking each other’s asses – mostly her kicking his ass – isn’t something she intends to forget this easily. Especially the part in which it was her who mostly kicked his ass.

“Avatar. State your business,” he says, cold and professional.

“Getting around you, since I’m your boss’ companion for this gala,” she responds, drily. “In case even he forgot this.”

The Lieutenant nods at her, unblinking behind the goggles. She doesn’t believe for one second that seeing her doesn’t cause any emotion in him.

“Amon thought it would have been best for both of you to first sort out your most urgent affairs,” he says.

“Lucky for Amon, all my affairs are sorted out,” she says, proceeding to get past the Lieutenant. The man, however, doesn’t leave her be and escorts her to his leader, watching meticulously her every movement. It stresses Korra a little, but it’s a beneficial kind of stress: at least, she knows what to expect from a circumspect Lieutenant.

Amon is flanked by two equalist fighters whose identities are hidden under layers of uniform. They’re meant to be his guards beside the Lieutenant. Amon is the only Equalist present who donned himself up for the gala. He’s wearing a double-breasted black coat rather long on the tail. A burgundy sash is fastened around his middle as décor, on the hem of it the Equalist’s symbol is embroidered in white and golden threads. He didn’t leave his mask at home, so the ghostly whiteness of his public face reflects the gala’s lights, the hood of the coat furtherly hides his features. He’s elegant, no doubt, but still too recognizable as the leader of the Equalist, whose masked visage is disseminated across the city. Mere weeks ago, wanted posters had been plastered on all the newspapers. Once the agreement was sealed, their propaganda posters came back in full force; Korra must suppress a shiver every time she happens to meet those papery eyes in the streets.

Amon is conversing with Mr. Sato and what she guesses is one of Sato’s clients or close friends, judging by the warmness of Asami’s father. Korra still can’t believe that Mr. Sato seems a good candidate for being an Equalist sympathizer, when taking into account that he sponsored their Pro-bending team. Perhaps she’s jumping to conclusions, but him being so at ease around the equalists doesn’t sit well with her.

Amon’s mask turns toward what she presumes is her direction. He’s the first to notice her approaching, followed by his two interlocutors. Korra meets his stare right away, despite the slight heat spreading in her stomach. He still has this effect on her, since that terrifying encounter at Memorial Island.

“Miss Korra, it’s good to see you,” Mr. Sato salutes her, almost making her regret having suspicions about this man.

“Good evening, Mr. Sato,” she says, glancing then at his friend slash client. “You too, sir…?”

“There’s no need for sir, Miss Korra,” said man replies, taking her hand in one of his. He has Earth Kingdom’s features and a color palette to his clothes that matches them. “I’m simply honored to meet the Avatar.”

Korra shakes his hand politely, while Mr. Sato smiles friendly at the man.

“I told you Jing, that you would have your chance to meet her. He’s a big fan of yours, Miss Korra,” he adds, almost in a confabulatory manner.

“I’m happy to hear this,” she says, more sincerely this time. After quitting Tarrlok’s Task Squad, she feels like she has no supporters at all left.

Korra looks over to Amon, who’s been silent from the moment she appeared. Steadying her shoulders, she puts a hand on his forearm, gentle and discreet. It’s what she’s meant to do. It’s what she has to do. His muscles flex a little under the smooth texture of his coat. Her heart speeds up for a second, going back to a mostly normal pace once he finished bending his arm as if to welcome her hand there. As if this is a natural gesture for them. They did this at previous parties. Yet, the gesture doesn’t feel familiar enough for her. Will it ever be? Does she want it to be?

“Gentlemen, will you excuse us for a moment?” Amon says. Korra quirks an eyebrow at him. “I must discuss some private affairs with the Avatar.”

“Of course, sir,” Mr. Sato replies, raising his flute. “The gala is far from over and there will surely be more chances for us to talk. Right Jing?”

“Yes,” Jing says, nodding. Maybe with too much nodding.

The Lieutenant makes a move to follow them, but halts when Amon raises a hand.

“There’s no need for your presence, Lieutenant. Rest.”

The Lieutenant’s blue eyes stay unmoving on Amon. Korra can see from his stance alone, tense and rigid, that he’s thoroughly unhappy about that order.

“Yes, Amon.” He obeys nonetheless.

Amon takes his leave with her, guiding them through the room under the arched portal decorated with abstract patterns which leads to the doors. A doorman opens one for them. They’re out of the suffocating hall within a couple of seconds, and already the air feels cleaner, fresher. Since they’re no longer in the spotlight of the city’s elite, Korra leaves the man’s side, puts half of a foot distance away from him. The phantom touch of his arm brushing near her chest remains and gives her the chills.

“Private affairs?” she parrots him. “What do you want from me, Amon?”

She says his name as if just saying it could reignite the fire of her bravado and keep it ardent and at her disposal for a fight.

Amon clasps his hands behind his back. He appears much bigger, with his chest in full display like this. Korra tries to focus only on the holes of the mask shrouded in semi-darkness.

“Your behavior made it seem like you wanted something from me,” he replies, no fire, no discernible tone either. Just his voice stating a fact. “However, you presume too much. I don’t want anything from you.”

“Why are we here then?” she inquires, deeply furrowing her brows.

Amon’s head moves imperceptibly, his hood does too.

“An agreement was made, young Avatar,” he says, moving to one of the elongated windows along the hallway, which gives a view of the nocturnal landscape of the metropolis. “I have every intention to honor it and adhere to the terms presented to me. I don’t consider you my enemy much more than I did before, so don’t expect your hostility to be met with equal hostility.”

“I accepted that agreement too, you know,” she responds, joining him at the window to keep challenging him head-on. “And you’re not making it easy for me, if you leave me alone for the evening when we’re supposed to be seen together.”

“We already fulfilled that part of the agreement at this event, and at other events in the past,” he replies, after a second of pause.

If there ever had been one time she wished she could agree with this man, this is the one time.

“Tell that to Tarrlok,” she grumbles. “Just to be clear, it’s him that sent me looking for you. Just to be clear.”

It needs to be said, to put a barrier between them, however thin it might be proven to be. She already tried to build as many barriers as she could in the past, and despite the unfortunate end they met, she can’t give up. She can’t give up on getting a grip on herself.

Amon is surveying the faraway city lights, their reflections trembling over the sea’s waves.

“This phase will be over soon,” he says. “There will come times when the agreement won’t weigh as much as it does now.”

In the subsequent silence, Korra quietly urges those times to come soon, so she won’t have people breathing down on her neck and dumping expectations on her she wasn’t supposed to have. She then finds herself mulling over his words more carefully. The agreement does take its toll on her, but on Amon? Does it too, judging by his way of wording?

“What part of this weigh on you?” she asks, quizzically and much more accusatory when she resumes speaking. “You seem perfectly happy to be treated as a normal politician instead of a terrorist.”

“Not this part, of course. It certainly is advantageous to me and my movement,” he replies with unfiltered honesty. There wouldn’t have been any point in denying such an obvious fact anyway.

“So what?” she pries.

Amon’s eyes rest on her. Korra can make out their elongated shape, being bathed as they are in the moonlight, shining and as azure as marine gemstones. They have a pensive quality to them, which puzzles Korra together with his lack of a quick response. She had never been this close to him to see his eye color. It reminisces so much those of her nation. 

“I didn’t picture myself being a spouse,” he says in the end.

Korra clicks her tongue, dejected.

“Count me in,” she huffs. Maybe it could have been a nice thought in, let’s say, at least five years into the future. Right now, the perspective makes her nervous, and the sure fact that one day she will be married to Amon… it makes her queasy inside. Weak at her knees. Like the invisible bond marriage would put on her feels a little too much to bear, a sensation too strong unlike anything else she experienced. Much like the fear of him. Much like the weight of his icy stare on her own eyes and face. “Though, I guess… now it’s inevitable. I am in too deep to back down.”

“There will be the agreement’s terms to abide by,” Amon says, with the inflection of someone who’s starting a speech. “But, there will be also the marriage’s rules to abide by.”

“What do you mean?”

“Our rules. Rules made by you and me, to assure a peaceful coexistence,” Amon clarifies. 

Korra nods. That makes sense, of course.

“Okay, rule number one,” she says, raising her index. “Don’t make me go search for you again, I hate it.”

Mostly because of Tarrlok. A minuscule part of her, however, is embarrassed by the fact she had to search for Amon this evening and, on top of that, put a hand on his arm of her own volition to pretend something is going on between them. As if they’re really a couple in the making, or… something. She isn’t good with subtlety, it doesn’t bode well with her in general. She feels not herself, a liar, when hiding behind an act. She recognizes though, that it’s necessary to do in some cases. Such as this one. 

“I thought you would have enjoyed some time for yourself,” he says, and it sounds… thoughtful, almost. Korra isn’t sure if she’s projecting emotions that aren’t there on him.

“Well, I did,” she says, sincerely. “I wished it could have lasted longer, but alas, I did.”

“It won’t be the last time it happens,” he says, his words more akin to a promise than whatever she ever heard coming from his lips. “Do you have other rules in mind?”

“Right now, I guess not.” She takes a moment to think of activities and boundaries a normal couple should know about each other. Or basic info, now that she’s at it. It isn’t that she hasn’t any questions to ask him. It’s the opposite: she has far too many to choose from. “I had been wondering… how old are you?”

“Older than you are. I was a teenage boy I remember, when I heard the news of your reincarnation.”

Korra hums.

“So, you are a man,” she murmurs.

She swears Amon’s eyebrows furrow behind the mask, judging by the lines around his eyes.

“Yes. I am a man,” he confirms. Although there’s a questioning tone in his reply, which prompts her to stammer out an explanation.

“I-I always saw you masked, you could have been a woman with a very deep voice for all I know. Not that I would have had any issue with that,” she says, her cheeks warming a bit. It sounds a little stupid this thought she had, now that she’s exposing it out loud. “You’re in disguise even now. But I guess I’ll see your face, eventually.”

“Eventually?” he repeats, and Korra is starting to feel like she’s under some form of interrogation, which turns her tone quieter, her words more mumbled.

“Well… y-you know. Maybe we’ll be living together, in the same space in, in the future. To keep up with the façade. You’ll have to bathe at some point, or change clothes.”

She desperately keeps her attention focused on his pearly white mask to not conjure up images of a domestic life she’s nervous about having.

Amon stays silent for a couple of seconds.

“It makes sense,” he agrees. He was probably thinking she was an idiot and debating if he should say it. She doesn’t care if he considers her an idiot. Why she should? Her heart, however, begs to differ. Its beating is a little too quick for comfort.

“Just…” She thinks of Mako and Asami, and a shadow falls on her heart. “Just how much older than me are you?”

“Too old to be betrothed to you,” he says. As if this fact troubles him… makes him ashamed. Not at the Council, but rather at himself. His tone indicated such and he made no effort to hide it.

“Oh…” She doesn’t know what else to add to that. “Well… you didn’t choose to want me,” she says. Even as she feels inadequate inside, ashamed of herself for a totally different reason. She should be relieved that he sees the wrong in this forced arrangement, and she is in part. There has been a time in which she wished she had been enough for Mako. But she isn’t. Asami is enough for Mako. Now that the Council had made its decision, she’ll never be enough for anybody. They took her chances away from her. She looks up at Amon, her... future husband. “So, it’s alright.”

She tells this to herself too. That it’ll be alright. She’ll be enough in other ways. After all, her number one priority is being the Avatar. Everything else… is second thought.

“I didn’t choose to want you,” Amon agrees with her, repeating her exact words. “Never, I could have thought I wanted you.”

“Neither did I. After all, you…” She takes a quick breath. “You said you wanted to destroy me.”

Coldness runs down her spine, cooling her blood in its path. How small had she had been in his grasp, under his stare, he had seemed much more imposing shrouded in the deep shadows of the memorial. That experience brought with it the realization that her enemy is a man, tangible and real, not volatile and uncatchable and unchallengeable as the nightmarish Amon of her dreams. She can fight a human being, a man. Break his jaw with a jab. Touch his arm with a gentle hand. He can be spoken to and reasoned with, and her chest swells with a deep, powerful sensation, that prompts her to exhale softly. She had been thinking about it ever since. Perhaps even too much to admit it, without feeling her fingers tremble with the urge of closing them into fists, to suppress a surge of discomfort at the thought of someone finding out that she had been humanizing her adversary ever since, much more than it’s healthy. She tried to go back to the person she was before the ambush, but to no avail. Fear changed her. For better or worse, she can’t decide. Not when Amon’s presence puts her in a state of unrest.

“Yes,” Amon says. She hears the rustle of his hood, he’s no longer facing the window: he’s facing her. “And I should have remained on that path.”

His blue eyes are piercing in hers, through hers.

She gulps – she can’t help it, just as she can’t refrain herself from relying on her bravado to prevent her voice from abandoning her.

“If you think I would have made it easy for you to—”

“It wasn’t a threat, Avatar. I bore no killing intent towards you, and I always knew that our paths were meant to collide with each other. I never desired for them to converge at such an unfortunate meeting point,” Amon interrupts her, speaking with a grave tone. “It shouldn’t have happened like this. It shouldn’t have happened at all.”

“L-look,” Her voice trembles while she combs her hair with one hand. “I’d have preferred too if we could have battled each other tooth and nails.”

“Do you?”

His inquiry freezes her. He’s not letting her express herself, which is weird, not at all like him.

“W-what?”

“I remember a terrified girl, yet too stubborn to give in to fear and surrender. The last time I saw that girl, it had been weeks ago.” Amon draws nearer to her, not so suddenly to make her step back. “What did it change?”

“Change?” Korra sputters, indignantly. “What was supposed to change? Just because of that stupid agreement, you think I’m less wary of you? Or because you’re not trying to be intimidating on purpose, suddenly I’m not scared of you? Guess what asshole, I still am.” And she has no issue in admitting it to him, while her palpitating heart is making a steady climb to her throat. Her cheeks are hot as hell. “But I don’t want my fear to define me. I don’t want…”

She grabs the fabric of her dress, over where her heart is threatening to consume her breath. It’s a contest with herself she has been losing ever since, not willing to admit her defeat time and time again when she wonders, asks herself cornered by her own judging mind: does she fear him, or does she fear getting closer to him?

A phantom touch grazes her chin. She thinks she’s imagining it. Her eyes shoot open the moment she recognizes the feeling of skin against skin, the heat of someone else’s hand. She stares at Amon’s chest, much nearer than it had been mere seconds ago.

“This?” His question is a whisper. It makes her skin prickle where he’s barely touching her. “You don’t want this?”

She can’t speak. Mouth agape, her words are no more. She feels like she never learned to speak at all. She can only stare at the eyeholes of Amon’s mask, blue glinting back at her.

When he retreats his hand, a soft, whistling sound barely audible to her reaches her eardrums. It was his breathing, passing through the mouth slit of the mask.

“I will take my leave,” he says, his voice feels much louder to her than before, like a booming thunder shaking the darkness. “That was inappropriate.”

“Then why did you do it?” she asks before he could even think of giving her his back.

Amon’s face is slightly tilted to the side, an indication that he might not be looking her in the eye.

“To prove a point.”

Korra narrows her eyes.

“Oh y-yeah?” she sasses him. “To-to whom? To me, or to you?”

Amon stays mute. He always has words in his mouth worth three lifetimes, and now he chooses to be silent?

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he declares, tries to turn away from her.

Korra grabs him by one flap of his collar. It’s a habit she has when her nerves get the best of her… she didn’t expect herself to fall into that instinct with Amon too.

“Y-you…” she stutters, close to his figurative mouth. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare run away on me. I didn’t. So you don’t get a chance too.”

She bares her teeth, her heart is beating so loud she feels its thumps in her gums. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter anymore, as Amon eloquently said. No emotion she feels for him will ever be right. Fear isn’t what the Council, Tarrlok and the city expect from her. And neither is this urge she once felt for Mako. So why bother? Why bother hiding the real nature of her feelings and thoughts? No one bothered to care when they gave her up to what is supposed to be her enemy and number one fear. Too bad for them that Amon stopped being that a long time ago.

She grabs him by the remaining flap of his collar. Their chests are brushing against each other, Amon makes no move to back away, or press forward. His icy blue eyes are scrutinizing her, definitely larger than they normally are. He can’t feel him breathe, despite their proximity.

“Is this what you want?”

Too focused on her stubbornness and spite mixed with dizzying physical reactions, she almost missed him asking.

She nods, slow and unsure at first.

“Yes,” she says, to make her decision final.

For a couple of seconds, nothing happens.

It’s a pregnant pause before disaster. Before jumping over a line inside the jaws of uncertainty.

When Amon’s hands find her waist, his warmth filters through her dress despite his touch being light and respectful. He climbs up her torso, until his palms rest on the sides of her neck. She shudders all the way, keeping her eyes trained on his. He’s cupping her face, warming it, his fingers massaging her scalp, his thumbs caressing her cheeks.

Korra relaxes her hold on his flaps at his touch. It’s simple, yet it feels so intimate, unlike anything else in her everyday life.

She presses herself against him, giving in to that temptation she felt for Mako a lifetime ago. She kisses him on the slit of the mask, the next thing she has available for a mouth. It’s entirely different from that kiss with Mako. That had been impulse, newborn envy, and no thought. She had thought about this for a long time, trying to deny these thoughts even existed. Now they exist, and they are reality. This kiss is exciting, it’s unordinary, and it shouldn’t have ever happened. Yet it’s happening – and she loves it. She loves the smooth texture of the mask on her lips, she loves the quickening breaths transpiring through the slit, she loves how one of his hands buries itself in her hair.

She reaches to the side of the mask, trying to find a way to get it off or unclip it.

Swift as when using chi-blocking, Amon snatches her wrist.

Korra is startled. He doesn’t appear angry and he’s not trying to hurt her either, his hold is solid yet not harmful. The message, nevertheless, is clear: don’t remove it.

“I want to kiss you for real,” Korra protests, staring deep into those heated glaciers, trying to convince him, to be incentivizing. “Don’t you want it too?”

Amon’s fingers curl furtherly around her wrist. He makes her put it down, his glare regaining a placid light.

“Yes,” he says, a whisper that makes her yearn for that kiss even more. “Step back against the wall.”

Korra obliges. She didn’t expect though for Amon to stalk her every step back toward the wall farthest from the windows and the hall of the gala, his almost predatorial stance giving her goosebumps. The training ingrained into her body urges her to correct her own stance and prepare for an attack. That instinct is snuffed out by the hand Amon raises to cover her eyes during her last step.

Her back meets the wall and Korra can’t help the exhale escaping her. She’s blind, darkness overcoming her eyesight, so she strains her ears to figure out what’s going on.

She hears the rustle of fabric, the sound of leather being manipulated.

It’s her sense of touch that informs her of what’s happening next. A breeze fans over her lips, causing a shiver to run down her inert arms.

She parts her lips, craving him like water, like oxygen. Lips brush over her upper lip, soft and inviting. He gives her a chaste kiss that makes her heart skip a beat, that devolves into one full of greediness and want, so much of it. Korra closes her eyes, leans into his warmth, into the caresses of his lips and tongue. She feels around to find leverage on the man’s shoulders, deepening the kiss to the point she becomes breathless, lightheaded – and still wants more. 

Amon descends lower, tracing her jawline with his parted mouth, leaving kisses under her chin where her skin starts to prickle with pleasant goosebumps. She inadvertently exposes more of her neck, which grants him better access to it. Every touch of his lips on her tender flesh is amplified when she can’t see a thing and has only the feeling of his mouth, his nose and the faint brush of his cheek telling her he’s showering her with an attention that’s a bit overwhelming at times for how much pleasurable it is.

When Amon’s deft fingers push a little aside the collar of her dress to press kisses on her claviculae, she feels a sudden want for him to go further. Lower.

“W-wait,” she says, gently pulling him away. “Help me get the surcoat off, p-please. I’ll keep my eyes closed.”

Korra undoes the morbid belt around her waist, before reaching for the lower part of the surcoat. Amon helps her lift it over her head so she can slip out.

“Are you sure about this?” Korra stops her fingers over the first button of her dress upon hearing his voice. “You don’t need to overdo it.”

Somehow, that makes her neck and jowls hotter. Is he looking out for her? Does he think she feels obliged to do this?

“As long as no one busts us,” She smirks blindly up to where she guesses his face is. “We can do whatever we want. Can’t we?”

She doesn’t know a whole lot about erotic stuff or whatnot, but she’s eager to learn, to give in and discover more.

“Reckless girl,” he whispers, as he goes back to cover her eyes.

Something jolts in her stomach at his light reprimand, like a handful of embers caught fire in it.

Korra gulps, flattening her shoulders only when no more reprimands follow.

She unbuttons the first button, the second and so on. Her own nails and fingertips against her skin fill her with a never experienced anticipation tugging at her ribcage.

She rests her hands over where the last button is, at hip height, unsure where she should go next, if she should say something to the man she’s baring herself for. It’s not usual for her to be this… shy.

Amon’s stronger, larger hand covers hers, in a gesture of reassurance she guesses. It has this effect on her and it surprises her how well it works on her, how the nervous beating of her heart subsides as if it had been cradled by someone’s loving arms.

It seems Amon can tell when she’s ready and her mind completely made up, because his hand rises to her chest at the right time. His fingers skim over her sternum to her bosom, feather-light touches leaving streaks of shivers in their wake. He palms through the bra, her flesh plies so easily under his touch and she trembly exhales.

She puts her hand on his arm when Amon slips a hand under her bra to grope at her breasts, his mouth lowers from her shoulder to her chest and he- he takes her nipple into his mouth. Korra can’t help the small noise of surprise at the wet heat enveloping her, which soon morphs into a hum of appreciation as he suckles on it, slow and sensual and with the added scrape of teeth rendering her all too sensible, all too happy to place her other hand at the back of his head to spur him. His hair is on the longer side, soft thick locks that she treads along with her fingers. She wonders about its color, how it would feel to press her nose and face against it, and butterflies flutters in her stomach. Would it be possible such a scenario with him? With a man so reserved, so elusive? She hopes it is – she hopes this gentleness he’s displaying is just the superficial part of a whole thing. 

Her unconscious smile broadens when he moves to mouth at her stomach, her abdomen solid with muscles. He doesn’t stop there, goes further to where the dress barely covers the hem of her panties. Amon lifts her gown, the fabric pooling up her thigh exposes her leg to the air. Him, caressing the inside of her knee up to her inner thigh, mouthing at her jugular with faint breaths heating up her skin and agitated blood, is leading her mind to places she didn’t know it could go. He’s inching closer to her groin, contracting the closer he gets.

He hooks the hem of her panties, sheds them. Just as with everything that came before, Amon isn’t fretful, or impatient, which is better than okay for her. She’s glad he understands, thus sparing her from having to admit her inexperience. He takes his sweet time stroking her thighs, before he reaches her wet sex. She gasps, tensing for a split second before willing her muscles to ease back, the tender circles he traces around her labia aiding her.

Tension is tying her groin into a knot, mostly tolerable at the moment. That could change soon however, if he keeps this up.

“Korra.” She’s stunned by the sound of her name rolling down his tongue, in severe syllables. “Open your mouth.”

“Ye… yes…” she says, while her blood seems to be rushing to her cheeks, but much more of it is taking the opposite direction, plunging into her loins.

Feeling his digits smoothing over her lower lip, Korra parts her mouth more to take them in.

“Good girl…” he praises her – praises her – with a hushed, husky tone of voice. Korra is dumbfounded at first, giddy as soon as his words sink in. “Now, wet them.”

She nods, swirling her tongue around them. A saline taste hits her tastebuds, one she recognizes from the sporadic night she spent pleasuring herself. She sucks on them more eagerly, more excited and pleased, coating his fingers thoroughly with saliva.

Amon hums above her, a light rumble in his throat that sounds like approval, like satisfaction. So she seductively pops her lips while he slips his fingers out.

A few more motions around her sex and she feels him prodding at her entrance.

“Are you ready?”

“Y-yes,” she replies, limbs trembling from anticipation.

He pushes delicately into her, Korra takes a quick breath as he does. His digit slides easily inside and it makes her shudder, the thought a piece of him is inside such an intimate part of her, the fact he might be looking at her every movement, every expanding of her chest and widening of her lips, all of this is so hot to her.

Amon pumps inside her, slow and deliberate to spread her, the longer he does the more Korra opens her legs. His thumb brushes against her clit, causing her to buckle her hips, an incandescent gush of arousal slithers in her pelvis once his touches become intense.

Her breath itches, a delighted sound bubbles in her throat at the second finger he pushes inside and curls inside of her stimulating her inner walls in a way that makes her throb and moan softly. Amon seems to suppress a growl close to her ear, his powerful body is pressed flushed against hers as he pumps into her faster, harder.

She wets her lips swollen from their kisses, trying to speak.

“What a-about you?” she manages to ask.

“Don’t think about it,” he says, soft-voiced, his timber hoarse. “Is this good?”

“Yes, please.” It’s too late to stop that plea and, she realizes, she doesn’t care. “D-don’t stop.”

Pleasure is steadily mounting in her tingling, boiling core and she doesn’t ever want him to stop. Korra wraps her arms around his neck, she feels the hard muscles of his chest against her turgid breasts.

Amon breathes out against her hair, she almost misses the trembling in his breathing.

“Beautiful…” he purrs. Korra can’t believe at first she heard that coming from him, she just can’t fathom it. He suspires over her lips. “You’re so beautiful, breathtaking…”

Those words sink deep in her, cutting like a blade, tender and warm and enthralling like the embrace of a hot spring. They wash over her in a wave. And they echo.

Beautiful.

Beautiful.

Breathtaking.

She never knew she craved to be called that by anyone. Yet it brings such unbelievable joy to her. Such desire.

“A-Amon…” she calls him, she reclaims him with another frenzied kiss that’s met with unbridled need. He’s stroking her labia up to her pulsating clit, smearing her fluids to bring her to her peak. She’s close, so very close, her insides are coiled up in need, her heart is mercilessly hammering into her ribcage and ears, his tongue sliding against hers, him rubbing her clit, it’s too much.

It all comes crashing down on her in a hot, white flare. Her body arches, spams, her moan consumes itself against Amon’s assertive mouth.

She slumps, panting hard, and there’s an arm latching around her waist to keep her erect. Korra leans forward and lets her head fall against Amon’s shoulder, her arms embracing the expanse of his back.

He’s no longer covering her eyes; instead, that hand is now stroking her hair free from the hairdo. She can’t take a peek at his face from this angle, but she wouldn’t even try to. if that isn’t what he wants, she’ll wait.

She buries her nose into his coat, taking in the smell of his cologne, stark and crisp, the gentle rise and fall of his chest. She feels like she might belong here, where she is now. Perhaps she will, if things play out as they should. She hopes so.

“We should refresh ourselves and go back to the gala,” Amon says when she has come down enough to form coherent thoughts back. And the gala isn’t at the forefront of her mind.

“Let’s… do it again sometime soon… ‘kay?”

She has still the most delirious smile pulling at her lips. She wants him to say yes – she needs him to say yes.

Amon caresses the back of her head in a loving manner, he leans with his cheek on her wavy hair.

“I share the same sentiment,” he says, gracefully. Wishfully.

It makes her heart and soul soar.

[samekoblogs]

Sunbeam of the Soul

Written for Amorra Week 2023 @amorraweek2023 for Day 2: Wrestling.

Rating: G.

Tags: Post-Season/Series 01, Training, Bonding, First Kiss, Fluff.

Summary: Korra. The person who looks at him like, someday, things could be better.

Notes: The fanfic is under the cut if you're more comfortable reading on Tumblr!

~~~

He doesn’t recall the last time people looked at him – really looked at him – in public. No one got close enough to see beyond the mask, the identity he was forging for himself to delete, banish the one a pathetic and vengeful man tried to engrave into him through abuse and fear. During everyday life, he was invisible and undistinguishable amongst a crowd, no one paid a second thought to a man not unlike many from his place of birth. He has been a ghost, since he started his movement.

Now, there’s no movement anymore. No equalists, none at least he can get in contact with while under custody on this island. And no mask. He lost it in the water and he’s not used to people seeing this old skin of his. He doesn’t know to whom it belongs anymore. Tarrlok had called him brother, and he had called him a brother as well. But he’s not that brother Tarrlok was referring to – he tried so hard to cancel that person, cursed since birth and almost molded into a monster. Perhaps, that had been why Tarrlok made his decision. He’s no longer a sibling, just a person loathed by all just like him, because of their bending and their accursed father.

Thinking about Tarrlok now, when his brother is still unconscious in bed, casts a shadow over his heart and soul. He has yet to wake up, the damage his body sustained far too great for him to recover in a short time. He is still recovering, his wounds albeit in process of closing hurt terribly at night and disturb his sleep. The fractured bones will never heal completely, and Tarrlok’s face will always bear unfading scars. Yet they’re alive, still in this world. They’ll meet each other someday, and they’ll talk. He asked for this as soon as he knew of his brother’s survival. He was promised this – and he’s trying to go on each day, just to see that moment in which they’ll ask each other: What now?. Even death rejected them, so what is left for individuals hated by the living and repudiated from the otherworld? It’s an answer he can’t find on his own.

A monk employed in the temple happens to cross paths with him. He’s a limping man, who gets tired too easily to be considered a threat. Yet this monk lowers his gaze and hurries past him and his designed guard, the Avatar. Korra.

“Seems like you have yet to lose your charm,” she comments, directing a small smile at him. She’s by his side, ready to steady him if he happens to lose his footing at any time. He’s not that prideful – not much anymore – to feel vexation for her acts of care, since he’s in need of them.

“Seems I quite lost it, I notice,” he replies, resuming his slow walk down the wooden hallway leading to one of the courtyards. He’s referring to the monk, obviously.

Korra snickers.

“People used to run away from you and still do. You still got it,” she says, making fun of him in good faith. As he came to learn, the Avatar is an outstandingly outgoing individual and a social butterfly like not many others. After all, she was able to find in her the courage – or the recklessness – to bond with him of all people.

He hums at her joke, not having the strength in him to argue back. He’s tired of spiels and his old logic that no one wants to follow anymore. He’s just tired of battling. He’s been living without an identity for a few weeks now, not Amon, but neither that young boy from a remote Northern Tribe village. He’s a mere nameless shadow, that others can refer to however they like. He won’t complain. He doesn’t care to.

They reach the courtyard the girl uses as a training ground a couple of minutes later. The spacious clay patio is basked in the morning sun, the salt-scented air blowing from the sea is warmed by its rays. Weather this mild doesn’t happen often in the winter season of Republic City.

He lowers himself down on the creaking stairs of the porch, where sunlight falls gently on his face. He inhales through his nose, taking in his surroundings with his other senses. The smell of the sea and the bare bark of the trees fill his nostrils. The heat warms his eyelids. He hears the faraway sounds of the waves and the Avatar’s confident steps down the porch and onto the training ground.

She’s stretching her muscly arms towards the sky above when he opens his eyes. She has shed her parka and left it beside him, her flesh twitching from the muscles flexing underneath it.

The girl falls then into position for her warm-up routine. She’ll bend the elements soon, and the element she usually starts with is the one most reflective of her personality: fire. She bends fire like a natural, like a native-born. Her punches are powerful, her kicks are wide, yet she’s not careless with the surrounding environment comprised of flammable wood and vegetation. Next is water, the flexibility of which allows her to get creative with the range and the type of assaults she dishes out. Earth is the third element, which aids her in both attack and a rare show of defense for such a straightforward personality. Last is air, where her inexperience and young age finally filter through; she bends air as if she’s bending fire or earth, ignorant of the similarities water and air share in terms of adaptability. He had studied for years each style of bending to gain knowledge on how to best counterattack each one. It’s instinctive for his mind to latch onto an analytical approach when his body can’t respond to the stimuli.

He can’t explain what came to him when he found out the Avatar, somehow, regained the use of her elements. The mix of shock, confusion, rage, and ultimately futileness overwhelming him had been too much to process at once. So he didn’t react at all at the start. The next days, every single one of those emotions came out in various ways – him losing sleep thinking of the way she recovered her lost bending, him demanding explanations, him closing in on himself to try and reign over the sheer fury pervading him and the suffocating, ruinous realization of his failure. It took a lot from him to deal with his distressing emotions, on top of the emotional luggage he already carried. He had let apathy win in the end, because he was tired, and couldn’t take any more blows from fate.

Watching the Avatar bend causes nothing to react, to recoil in him. He’s just a passive observer that doesn’t allow himself to act, apart from silently admiring her body at work, no matter if she’s bending or not. The only thing he remotely yearns for is to get back into training too when he’ll recover enough of his old strength. He can’t tolerate any longer staying in bed all day every day.

“Whew, nice show I put up for you, don’t you think?”

Her speaking interrupts his private mulling. Her forehead and arms are shiny from the sweat, her crooked smile cheers up her entire face. When she smiles, she does it with her mouth, eyes, cheeks, eyebrows. It’s a smile that takes over her whole being.

He hums, almost undetectably.

“Your execution is rather sloppy in some parts,” he says, honest. “You waste too much energy you could store back to amp up your stamina.”

“You’d be a pain in the ass as a teacher,” she says, huffing slightly. Then her smile turns challenging. “Why don’t you show me some moves, Mr. know-it-all?”

He merely lifts his eyebrows a bit at the teasing tone of the girl. He doesn’t know how, or why she’s this carefree with him, treating him like someone she has known far longer, far deeper. Someone she can trust to show the whole magnitude of her personality. It didn’t happen overnight and he doubts she hasn’t some reserves towards him, but it’s baffling they reached this point at all. Perhaps it’s because his mission failed and he has nothing to strive for, or someone to feel enmity for anymore. Perhaps it’s the Avatar’s lack of intention of doing the same, and her way of headbutting into people’s lives – for the better, or for the worse – just like she seems to do with everything in her path. She had to have bonded with his brother to discover his heritage. Somehow, she ended up forming some kind of relationship with him too.

The lack of an answer from him spurs Korra to approach him, hands on her hips.

“Come on. I know it can do you good. No use sitting there pouting, you need to get back into shape,” she says, her challenging tone mitigating, a gentle smirk playing on her lips. “What do you say?”

He looks up at the girl’s juvenile face, kissed by the sun. Does she really want him to get back into shape and possibly overcome her for good?

“You are… either a bold one, or a naive one, Avatar,” he says. He has been thinking this way for some time. “What part of me getting back into shape does favor you?”

“The part where you can see how sloppy I truly am. Also, training while someone is in a terrible mood puts me down,” she explains, sarcastically. She offers him a hand.

He wanders with his gaze over her palm and extended arm, maybe for a little too long because Korra flexes her fingers to urge him.

“Come on, or do you want me to call you lazybones?”

“That would be undignified,” he comments, to which Korra snorts.

“Then stop sulking and let’s busy ourselves with something else, okay? Just for a few minutes,” she furtherly tries to convince him, her eyebrows forming a soft curve over her blue eyes. She’s a mix of encouraging and understanding that feels different, fresh. Like a spring newly formed into the earth.

He ponders over it, finding in the end no real cons aside from the fact that the respected identity he built for the sake of the equalists would end up buried a few more inches deeper into the ground. But he’s not that man anymore. He lost the right to be Amon.

He stands up on his feet by holding on to the handrail. The Avatar’s hand only helps steady him to take the first step into the yard. The rest are his own to take.

“Good, now we’re just missing one more friend,” she says, her fingers near her mouth.

Before he can form any guess about said friend, Korra produces a long, piercing whistle.

“Naga!” she calls, whistling again. “Naga! Come girl!”

She’s calling an animal. He knows which animal it is, so it’s no surprise to him when he spots an enormous polar bear dog rushing out of the bare bushes and dead trees. The animal runs a circle around Korra before snuggling her massive head against her stomach, leaving a lot of her white fur on the young Avatar’s training clothes.

“Naga, darling,” Korra coos, petting the polar bear dog under her muzzle and in between her ears. “You’re so lively today, girl. Such a good, good girl!”

The dog grunts and pushes against Korra’s waist, mindful of the reduced size of her human friend. It’s only when Korra lowers herself near her muzzle and directs the animal’s attention to him that ‘Naga’ seems to take notice of his presence. She should have taken notice before, or at least shown some kind of acknowledgment. Perhaps, she doesn’t see him as a threat as long as Korra isn’t wary of him. Animals are intelligent like that after all.

“Naga, he’ll be our training partner for today,” she explains to the dog’s black, attentive eyes. “He’s in a bit of a bad shape though, so you’ll be helping him stay on his feet. Got it?”

Naga looks at Korra for a moment, then goes straight to him.

He isn’t afraid of the big animal – he can sense she’s a docile spirit, despite the ferociousness for which her wild counterparts are feared. He hovers with his hand near the muzzle of the polar bear dog, for her to sniff his palm. She dampens it a little with her wet nose in doing so.

“I am capable to stand on my feet,” he says meanwhile. He’s weak and gets easily fatigued, yes, but not that much.

Korra caresses the head of the polar bear dog, murmuring yet more praises to her animal companion.

“It doesn’t hurt telling Naga to aid you, just in case,” she objects, with a sympathetic smile. “Shall we begin, huh?”

At his nod of confirmation, Korra pats the side of Naga’s neck. The pet scurries outside the training area with her tail wagging in – he guesses – a display of playfulness.

He tries to not get distracted by the presence of the dog and… Korra. He’s used to training alone, but he can make an exception this time. It’s been too long since he made any use of his muscles to pass up this opportunity.

He begins with his breathing exercises, coupled with slow movements of his arms, shoulders and back, all of which synched with his breaths. He resorted to these breathing exercises many times while confined in bed. They help him center himself, get in the right mindset for training and hush his fervent mind. This last effect is the most beneficial to him. There was never a time in his life when his mind had been mercifully quiet, it’s solely with training that he can silence it for a while.

He completes a few rounds, then he widens his stance to take up the first form of one of his training exercises.

A movement in his peripheral vision prompts him to turn his head. The Avatar is in a stance too, which is reminiscent enough of his form. Is she imitating him?

Korra turns her head too.

“What?” she asks. “What’s the next form?” His furrowed eyebrows cause Korra’s eyebrows to furrow in tandem. “Can’t I copy you?”

“You’re welcomed to try,” he says, conceding.

He performs the second form of the series, stepping forward while his right hand curve in the air with a fluid, water-like movement, his left hand near his torso.

Korra steps forward too, still with her head turned and a lopsided smile.

“I’d happily try,” She says. They perform the third form, him first, Korra soon after. Naga is ever vigilant in her observation of their training. It really seems like she’s looking out for him, yet he quickly brushes that thought away. “Learning fighting techniques is my raison d'être. Did you develop these forms on your own?”

“They are derivative of waterbending forms, as you can see,” he replies, rather drily. When he notices that Korra is still listening, he feels like adding something else. “There are also certain forms I integrated from chi-blocking and the Kyoshi Warriors’ fighting style. It primarily fixes on dodging and counterattacking the opponent.”

“I could learn a thing or two from familiarizing myself with chi-blocking and the Kyoshi Warriors,” Korra admits, making small conversation with him. It appears to come naturally to her.

They continue to perform together until he expends all his usual series of exercises. He’s regrettably a bit out of breath and he must rely back on some breathing techniques to regain his composure. But training did good to him and that’s what matters. His muscles feel awake, reinvigorated, like they haven’t been in weeks. The comfort of knowing he could soon rely back on his body far surpasses the annoying itching of his burns rubbing against the bandages.

“Should we spar a little?” Korra suggests, still full of energy compared to him. He pushes back the awkward sensation of feeling like an old, decrepit man compared to her. This is just temporary, he reminds himself. He’ll regain back his physical prowess, if he’ll be allowed to do so. This is not the norm for him.

“It promises to be a duel of the ages, when taking into account one of the opponents is currently incapacitated,” he says.

Korra snorts at him behind her knuckles. That’s when he realizes the excessive dose of sarcasm he had put into his answer. He wasn’t a stranger to it when used sparingly with his most trusted equalists. None of them laughed at his sarcasm anyway, because when he resorted to it he was especially displeased.

The girl, noticing his stare, waves a hand in a pacifying manner.

“If you put it like that, my very innocent proposal seems rather mean-spirited.” She circles around him with her hands resting on her belt. “I just thought, we are warmed up now, so why not use all this energy in sparring? Without going overboard, of course.”

He hums at the girl currently looking at him with her chin raised, the sun making her round blue eyes sparkle.

“Very well.”

Korra grins. She doesn’t waste time in assuming a proud, confident fighting stance at the opposite side of the courtyard.

He stands in front of her, discreetly testing the flexibility of his knee and ankle joints, the areas where the stress of sudden movements will fall on harder.

In the meantime, the polar bear dog got up on her four paws and is rounding up the courtyard, her tail swishing a little. He pays little mind to her.

“When you’re ready,” he says.

“Hey, first you complain I propose a sparring session to you, then you want me, the uninjured one, to come at you?” she rebuts, her lamenting tone every bit friendly nonetheless. “No no, you come at me.”

“As you wish.”

He doesn’t mind one bit, especially for how refreshing it is when such a strong-headed personality challenges him this much.

He takes his time to approach the Avatar. He’s in no rush to attempt an attack, since he intends to preserve energy for what is surely about to come, with him still not making any move to engage in combat and the girl being an impatient person. Her muscles are twitching in preparation, in tension. Her bottom lip is ever so gradually inching out. 

Any time.

Any time soon.

His arm shoots forward to redirect Korra’s punch. Her knuckles collide against one of his bandaged burns underneath the tunic, and he steadies his jaw to suppress the pain.

“Sorry,” Korra says sheepishly, withdrawing her first. “You were taking too long.”

“That is no excuse to initiate a fight,” he says.

“Yeah, so—”

He aims for the center of her chest and hits her solar plexus with the thenar of his hand.

Korra gasps from the pain rapidly invading her lungs. She loses her footing and plummets on her rear, sputtering.

“Oh- oh spirits…” She’s grasping at her sternum, eyes wide and incredulous. “You’re… you cheated.”

“I was taking too long,” he reminds her, standing tall over her. He didn’t hit her with the intention to hurt, it must be an exaggerated bewilderment that’s keeping her on the ground.

He steps back to avoid her low swipe.

With a thrust of her back, Korra stands up again and lunges at him with a self-assured smirk.

The fight ensues, but it doesn’t take him long to notice she’s not giving her all in her blows. He’s blocking every single one of them at the best of his current abilities, although they’re not aggressive in the slightest. The fist she aims at his face is easy for him to capture in his own fist. So is the next one simple to dodge by stepping aside. The jab she deals to his briefly uncovered side gets redirected down as if it packed barely any force. And it didn’t.

“For all the honor you pride yourself on,” Korra says. A faint smile is playing on her lips. Her nose is brushing against his chin. She’s… close to him. Really close. He can feel her light exhales on his neck, the natural smell of her youthful, brown skin. “You surely have no honor, to have taken advantage of me like that for a cheap blow.”

“Every blow,” He lowers his head. “Is a crucial blow, in a fight. Avatar.”

“Really?” she grins up at him. Mischievously. “Then, by that logic—”

She goes for a kick aimed at his middle. He parries it with his forearm and he’s about to push away her leg with his remaining hand. Something – a paw – swipes at his ankles. He stumbles a bit and ends up with his back flushed against a large, furry surface.

Startled, he lifts his head up to the polar bear dog’s panting muzzle, whose black beady eyes have assumed a cheery shape.

He stares at Korra, hard.

“What? I said we could spar, and Naga is part of 'we',” she says, with a wide grin. “And you said—"

“Yes. I got your point, Avatar,” he interrupts, trying to push himself off the dog, but he does so too late. Naga plops on her stomach with a grunt and he ends up on the ground as well, propped up against the animal’s stomach. He feels ridiculous for what just happened, but Korra doesn’t laugh or make fun of him. She just proceeds to sit too, stretching her arms on the fluffy fur behind her, her joints popping.

He… he guesses they’ll rest now. Which isn’t a bad thing in hindsight. He needs the rest.

“Why don’t you just call me Korra for once?” she asks, so suddenly the question takes him aback.

“Should I?”

He hears the girl make a troubled sound with her tongue.

“Well, why not? It’s my name.”

She seems a little offended judging by her huff. She ignores how complicated are names as a topic for him at this time.

Why not, indeed? The reason is simple: it would imply too much familiarity between them. Too much of a thing he’s not used to having anymore. And it intimidates him, even more if he is to receive it from a person he sought to destroy for so long. He never had anything against Korra on a personal level, they were enemies because she’s the Avatar. If she had not been, they would have stayed out of each other’s way. That man however, enemy and adversary to her… sometimes, he feels like he drowned in the sea the moment he lost the mask. He stays silent however about these reasons.

“I will call you such if I see fit to do so,” he says, with a soothed tone. Perhaps even gentle, if one looks deep enough into it.

“Then I just have to give you a reason?” she asks, sounding pensive.

He arches an eyebrow at her. Why does this matter interest her so?

Korra cackles nervously, her index twisting Naga’s neck fur.

“How about…” she murmurs, soulful blue eyes twinkling at him. “How about this?”

She leans on him, hands in her lap. The soft contact of her lips doesn’t register on his cheek at first – he doesn’t register it.

When Korra moves away and the lingering sensation of her lips still tickles his skin, he turns his head towards her. He’s speechless, and it happens so rarely he doesn’t remember the last time it occurred.

Seconds pass and he gives up on trying to find words he doesn’t have for the expression she’s regarding him with, so open, full of life. Kind.

He reaches up to follow with his thumb the curve of her cheek, the outline of her round face.

Korra’s eyes are transfixed on him, dreamy. It’s as if she’s looking at someone that’s not him, that can’t possibly be him.

She kisses him then, she silences his mind with lips that taste like the warm sun they’re bathed by, like the murmuring sea all around them, like the soft sweetness of a peach. It’s a kiss brief like youth, but it leaves such a lasting impact on him that when Korra parts from him, gleefully giggling, her aura of life is still filling up his swollen chest. He feels… whole. Alive.

“So, what’s my name, Noatak?” she asks, beaming.

Her name rests on his tongue for a bit. Names are a complicated topic for him at this time... in some cases though, they don't have to be. He doesn't wish for her name to be a part of this issue.

So he utters it with a slow exhale.

“Korra.”

It surprises him how easily it rolls off his tongue. It shouldn't though. She's been 'Korra' in his mind for some time now.

The girl tilts her head to rest it on his shoulder.

“See, Naga?” she says to the polar bear dog, who grunts in response. “I told you this would work.”

Korra’s jowls are flushed, her eyes squinted from happiness. As if just him saying her name could make her entire day. He understands though now, why it was so important to her.

He says it one more time in his thoughts.

Korra. The person who looks at him like, someday, things could be better.

[samekoblogs]

Haunted

Written for Amorra Week 2023 @amorraweek2023 for Day 1: Scars.

Rating: T for discussions of some heavy topics ahead.

Tags: Post-Season/Series 01, Pre-Relationship, Korra-centric, Introspection, Description-heavy, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Angst.

Summary: She presses her knuckles against her forehead, out of tiredness and anxiety.

“I can’t escape you, can I?” she whispers.

In one way or another, it seems he’ll always find a way to haunt her.

Notes: Fic is also under the cut if you're more comfortable reading on Tumblr! Also it's my first time posting here, please have patience 🤧.

~~~

Her parents used to tell her all kinds of bedtime stories when she lived with them. Stories about the southern spirits, made of flesh like humans, of energy and life from beyond another plane of existence; stories about benders of the past, about the many strife and victories her nation faced over the centuries. She remembers only a couple of those from her infancy days, and not with many details. One of those narrated the troubled story of a water princess forced to be locked away and hidden inside a palace of ice, her powers too violent for the world to witness, her emotions too strong even for her family to bear. She was a prisoner in a home that was no longer hers.

Later, she found out that it was common for women in the Northern Tribe to be made to stay in their houses and barely leave them, excluded from taking part in traditions that in the Southern Tribe are shared equally. That people losing control of their bending could be dangerous. Terrifying. A gift turned into a curse. That emotions can be sometimes too much to bear, they come out inadvertently and you can’t force them down. And they become an inconvenience to the people around you. Cages are everywhere, inside or outside everyone, they’re cold to the touch, or scalding as fiery-hot steel.

Perhaps, that’s why she feels cold on her skin and heat in her stomach, as she climbs up the stairs of one of the towers of the Air Temple. The wood creaks under her boots, as she makes her way up to reach the garret atop it. Korra doesn’t know what this tower was used for before; she does know its purpose now.

It was the report of a stolen motorboat that alerted Tenzin and former Chief Beifong. Amid the chaos following Amon’s escape and Tarrlok’s disappearance, it has been rather fortuitous that they didn’t overlook this report.

When they found him, the man without the mask in raggedy clothes, wounds open and bloody, and the unrecognizable body of his brother amidst the wreckage of the ship, they opted to keep the news of his arrest a secret until things would be remotely settled down in Republic City, to prevent further Equalist’s action. Korra doesn’t know when things will settle down. Once again, she’s faced with issues she can’t even begin to untangle. She’s too young. Her prowess alone can’t take her far. She’s powerless, even with her bending returned to her thanks to Aang. She can’t punch away her problems, she can’t kick away this uselessness she feels inside knowing Tenzin and the Council are working relentlessly to maintain order in the disarrayed city. The one thing she’s good at is useless in helping her deal with the aftermath of this mess. So she’s stuck. Irremediably stuck. And does whatever she can to make herself useful, just as to not feel the fear and the pressure and the inadequacy. Unbearable, every single one of them, she isn’t supposed to feel like this, not after all the training she did since she was five.

At the end of the winding staircase there’s a trapdoor. Korra pushes it open and puts the medical supplies she was carrying on the floor. Then, she hauls herself up in the garret.

Amon’s “chambers” are a box comprised of metal and wood, constructed by the inhabitants of the island with the help of Chief Beifong’s most loyal colleagues. She didn’t entrust anyone else with the knowledge of the dangerous prisoner they were dealing with. Although, troublesome isn’t a word that’s appliable to Amon anymore: he’s weak, severely wounded to the point bending doesn’t come to him, and he’s constantly drugged so he can be kept tame. The cage, at this point, is just an overkill measure to ensure he won’t get away this time. Not that Korra will complain about it anytime soon – or ever.

In between the reticle of the bars, Amon’s form peeks out. He’s sitting on the cot, cross-legged. His hands are resting on his stomach. It’s as if he’s deep in a relaxation technique of sorts, his shoulders under the simple tunic are rising and falling in a slow rhythm. His abdomen is pushing lightly against his palms until compelled to compress itself by the pressure of his hands.

Korra doesn’t furrow so much at the activity itself, but more at the fact that he’s up and alert enough to do so. Amon being alert makes the hair behind her neck stand up – the ghost of his fingers pressing against her forehead and taking away all her work, all her achievements in bending, her role and pride, everything—

His icy eyes slide open and rest on her.

Korra pushes down the saliva stagnating in her mouth.

“I’m here to change your bandages. Same as usual,” she announces, forcing herself to step forward. She won’t concede herself even a second of hesitance. He’s more alert, yes, but he’s still too weak for bending, too weak to be a threat and steal away anything from her again. He’ll be a little more loquacious than usual perhaps, but that isn’t a matter she can’t take in her hands either. She could have conversations with literal rocks with the right amount of stubbornness. She can push down the unease once again in the presence of the Equalist Leader and hide the lingering fear from him. She can face anything if she gets it into her head: she has a pretty long line of reincarnations proving this.

Korra retrieves the medical supplies from the floor. All the while, she feels his eyes on her, as if she’s doing anything remotely of interest. Maybe he’s just that bored.

He slowly tears his stare away from her the moment she gets back on both her feet and approaches the… cage. His cage.

“Proceed to do so,” Amon says. As if she had been asking for permission in the first place – not that she would do anything he doesn’t like or makes him uncomfortable. She is neither evil, nor cruel. Perhaps he just had nothing else to say and he naturally fell back on speaking in a rather commanding tone. Korra has still a hard time reading him, although she must admit she’s getting better at it. Whether that’s a good thing or not. She decides it’s a good thing, if it can aid her through this task she had been entrusted with. She pestered Tenzin to death to let her do this. Not only because they needed someone trusted to heal Amon’s injuries, but because she needed to prove she could succeed. Tame her fear and be the Korra she once was.

She fishes a key out of her pocket and opens the door to the cage. She trained her body enough not to jump at the sound of the lock mechanism. She used to leave the door open when Amon was still barely conscious, a hazard for sure, but she couldn’t bear to be alone in close spaces with him, even when accompanied by at least one of her friends every time. As soon as Amon regained some strength, she started closing the door and working on keeping her nerves at bay. It became easier with each visit dictated by a reinforced, ritualistic series of actions.

Amon is already tugging at the tunic to try and take it off on his own. She helped him with it from time to time prior, so she does it this time too, even if the coordination of his movements seems to have improved. Amon lets her help him. He didn’t protest against it when he had been conscious enough to take notice of his clothes being removed, but with his back and torso bared she had noticed the tensity a piece of garments would have otherwise concealed. She found a strange kind of comfort in the fact he had been, apparently, unsure in doing that. They were both in a similar boat, which back then reassured Korra he wouldn’t try anything funny. Not something she could prevent or counterattack at least.

She leaves the tunic on his lap before sitting down behind him, the cot sinking under her added weight. It takes a little patience to unroll the bandages and, in general, do any medical intervention without bending. But it's wiser to make him believe she's still the almost powerless girl that, against all odds, managed to defenestrate him and unmask his lies for the city to see. She's a little smug about it even weeks after. However, her smugness soon disappears when she sees the goosebumps flourish on his uncovered flesh. He’s cold. That’s such a basic thing for a human to experience, yet it still clashes with the image of the looming figure tormenting her sleep. She shouldn’t be so surprised, she had always known there was a human under that mask, but a part of her couldn’t associate a human visage with such a menacing – terrifying – character. She still has difficulty humanizing him, despite tending to his wounds almost daily.

“I’ll make it quick,” she says, spontaneously. He doesn’t need reassurance, he’s Amon. It just feels like the right thing to say and so she does. The wintry weather isn’t getting any better. Pema and the kids downstairs are keeping the stove working day and night. Maybe the room temperature is too low, despite him being of Water Tribe heritage.

Amon’s head slightly turns back to her, his eyes not quite looking at her. Instead, it’s as if he’s acknowledging her speaking. His hair is still short, leaving his head almost bare. They had to cut it to clean the wounds and facilitate the healing of his burns there. Whatever accident involved him and Tarrlok, he took the blow of the explosion from behind. He's lucky he survived at all.

The stitches are keeping the wounds closed, but they still have such an angry-looking red color. The burns must hurt all the same and hinder his movements. They’ll all scar. And they’re not the first scars he’ll receive in his life. There are far older ones marrying his body and small patches of discolored skin as well. They’re so randomly positioned that Korra can’t put her finger on what caused them. She has been speculating ever since seeing them for the first time.

“I’ll…” she starts, breaking the silence. She doesn’t like this man’s silence, gelid and unpleasant. Like a blow of wind cooling the tears rolling down your cheeks. “I’ll bring some extra blankets for you. It’s snowing nonstop outside.”

“I can tell,” he replies.

“It’s the smell, right?” she asks, not truly needing an answer. “Snow has such a distinct smell.”

Even here at Republic City, where its odor has an unsavory quality to it, due to the fumes and pollution of the city.

“Yes,” he says, bordering on a mumble. Far from the authoritative voice she heard him speak with on the radio or during his speeches. 

Korra hums at him. They’re from the Water Tribe. Both of them. They have so many words for snow in their native language. A word for when it’s soft and granular. A word for when it’s hard and old. A word for when it’s freshly fallen. At some point in life, he must have used these words to talk to his father, his mother. His brother. She doesn’t want him to indulge in the thought of ever seeing the light of day. He never will, for everyone’s sake and her well-being. Thus, she drops the subject and continues with her work, applying lotion to the burns.

She should be happy the man that tried to ruin her is in such a state that even conversation comes hard to him. She used to be relieved, more at the idea that he couldn’t hurt her future anymore. But happy? No. Laughing at someone else’s misery isn’t like her, even if said misery benefits her. 

“Your wounds will heal,” she says, with a bit of a soft tone, leaning on cheery. “It’ll take some time, sure. But you’ll feel better.”

“You should remove my bending, Avatar. As your predecessor did with Yakone,” Amon suddenly says.

Korra stops.

“To… him?” she murmurs. Tentatively. Perhaps threading over dangerous waters. She doesn’t refer to Yakone as his father. She fears it would be crossing a line that unburies yet more pain other than the physical one and the grief haunting his mourning eyes. She shouldn’t care, yet she does. Because she’s not a cruel, horrible person, and she cares enough to not add salt to already infected wounds.

“Yes,” Amon says. “A non-bender is treated more humanly than a bender in prison. They wouldn’t have to use coercive methods to ensure I don’t escape.” Amon’s stare becomes vacant in the brief pause that follows. “It would prevent me from ever taking away bending again. Like I did with you.”

Korra narrows her eyes. Is he trying to remind her of that to instill anger in her? To prompt an impulsive action? Little does he know that she retrieved her bending.

“I’ll think about it,” she says. “And not because I’m swayed by your manipulations.”

“You agree that it would be the safer thing to do,” he affirms. 

Yes. It would be.

She sighs. And it would be mercy for him, because before he could return in shape enough to practice any bending, he would be transported to the nearest max security prison and locked away. Bending would be impossible for him anyway.

“I…” she trails off, not knowing where she wants to go with her words. Instead, she takes the syringe filled with the narcotic drug from the box.

“I spared you once, for my own motives,” he reminds her while offering his arm, causing a shiver to run down her spine. She tightens the tourniquet around his biceps to suppress it. “Now, you could spare me for your own motives too.”

Korra moves her lips nervously. She stills her hand before plunging the needle and emptying the syringe. His reasoning is sound, unfortunately. Yet there’s something amiss, something she can’t place that feels weird in his voice. It’s like, through his apathetic tone, something had threatened to break through the surface. She looks at the back of his neck and diverted face, a sliver of blue in his eye glinting with something raw. Primal.

He’s… he’s desperate. For her help.

Somehow, that terrifies her more than if he looked at her with fury, or hate. Does he think himself incapable of escaping his bonds once restrained in a prison? A remarkable bender like him should have more confidence in his abilities. Not that she would offer words of encouragement to fuel said confidence. Are the restraints worrying him this much? Is it the lack of human interaction? The isolation? He did lose his brother, in unknown circumstances. She guesses he must feel isolated right now, lonely. One thing is being alive knowing you have people you care about still living. One thing is being alive and everyone you know is dead, or has turned their back on you.

Perhaps that’s the issue. The fact he survived and, by all accounts, he shouldn’t have.

“You plan to take your own life?” she asks. Silence. Korra can’t help the trembling she feels in her chest. “W-why?”

To her, any concept of terminating your own life is inconceivable. It’s horrible, it fills her with a cold sensation of dread.

“I don’t plan to take my own life, Avatar.” He uses that appellative as if he wants to distance himself from her. But that’s a lie, the one he spoke. She didn’t imagine the vulnerability from before.

“You want me to take away your bending because, if I don’t, you won’t be able to go through it under strict surveillance,” she explains, embers in her throat. “Worse, if I snitch on you, you won’t have a moment in which you’re alone and unsupervised. It’d be impossible.”

Amon exhales through his nose. Slowly.

“You are not an unmerciful person, Avatar. Nor uncaring. Granting death isn’t an immoral act to do. Your previous lives learned this. My brother, he thought too this would be best for both of us,” he says, soft-spoken as she never heard him before. “You have the chance to undo what wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“I don’t want to send anyone to their death. I’m not a murderer.” 

She clenches a fist while her whole body rejects the idea of taking life. A human life. 

“My death won’t be on you, Avatar. Only on myself. You are young, but… you are not without reasoning.”

Korra twists her head, as if to smack away from her ears his voice. Her heart is pounding so hard in her chest.

“No. I can’t. I couldn’t,” she says, to him and herself. She can’t. She would feel responsible despite him telling her it wouldn’t be her fault. He’s just saying that because he didn’t get through to her and he’s grasping at straws at this point. Maybe it’s the drug that’s making him less cautious, clumsy with what he’s letting transpire. “You need to lie down,” she suggests, forcing down the lump in her throat. Him not moving to obey prompts her to her feet.

When she retrieves the tunic from his lap, she sees Amon’s vacant eyes following her with difficulty. They’re glassy and lost. She can’t look at them while she helps him put the tunic back on.

She places a hand on his back and one on his arm, to guide him down on the cot.

“Avatar…”

“Lie down,” she commands this time, moving her hand from his arm to his wrist to firmly take it. “Just, lie down. You aren’t lucid.”

If he was, she would know nothing of this. He’s unreadable to her under normal circumstances. It feels wrong, to be able to read a man like him so promptly. It is so, so wrong. She doesn’t feel like leaving him alone after what she heard. It scares her, that he might try something and she would return the next day only to find a dead body. And it would be her fault, for leaving him alone and ignoring the signals.

She presses her knuckles against her forehead, out of tiredness and anxiety.

“I can’t escape you, can I?” she whispers.

In one way or another, it seems he’ll always find a way to haunt her.

She turns to him. He’s observing her through half-lidded, heavy eyes. He’s close to drifting off, the frown on his face ever so slowly relaxing.

Korra lets her hand fall between her thighs.

“Sleep, please,” she murmurs. It’ll be better if she doesn’t have to meet his stare anymore.

It takes one minute for Amon to fall asleep.

It takes longer for his blue eyes weakly looking up at her to blur into her mind and disappear, while she listens to the sounds of creaking wood and the whistling of the wind outside, soft breathing next to her.

She opens her palm, a small flame dances on her fingertips. It’ll be a cold night. She can do well with the cold. But she’s not alone. So, she fuels the flame as darkness descends. A lifeline in the void of the night.

A light, for when there’s no more light left.