I Won't Let Go (Avatar: the Last Airbender, for jaspreetpink)
Title: I Won't Let Go
Author: overthetiber
Recipient: jaspreetpink
Fandom: Avatar: the Last Airbender
Pairing: Katara/Azula
Rating: PG-13
Word count: ~1150
Disclaimer: Avatar: the Last Airbender belongs to Nickelodeon, Michael Dante DiMartino and Brian Konietzko.
Warnings: oblique but possibly triggering sexual violence
Summary: Katara won't let go. Azula might not want her to.
Notes: Some parts adapted from an entry (mine) in Porn Battle IX. Prompt - "struggle." Title is from an instrumental track on Janelle Monáe's album The Audition.
The cell is dim and cold. Not quite a cooler, but close. It reeks of sweat, and shit, and suffocating shame. Azula tries not to squirm in her bonds, forces her rage inside. With her bending blocked, there is no ordered way to let it out.
“Hold still,” the water witch commands, careful to keep her eyes off Azula’s naked body. Ice swallows Azula’s already-bound limbs, ensuring her obedience. The witch’s face changes: the face of a healer. Water swirls over the wounds, cooling and numbing. But the motion of her hands is impersonal, practiced; no trace of hatred, no wonder, no contempt. Till she leans in.
“Who did this?” she asks. She barely mouths the words. But Azula hears steel in her voice, a mix of pity and outrage that’s never been meant for her. The waterbender’s fingers skim over Azula’s bruises, gently trace her battered breasts. There is no lasciviousness, just concern.
Azula meets her eyes.
“Who hurt you?” the waterbender repeats.
Azula ducks her chin like she means her to come closer. The action humiliates her, but they’re watching outside, men and men and men…
The witch’s lips are close, so close. Her musky smell is only partly masked by perfumes. Her face looks soft. There are fine, small hairs all over her skin, and they tremble when she breathes. If things were right, Azula might have kept her-a slave, to have whenever she pleased. Which would have been often.
A moment of indecision, and her heart feels like it’s breaking (strongproudfastperfect, perfect, perfect, even in defeat you must not show weakness), but Azula smiles. The waterbender looks confused.
“I’m sorry, do you expect me to believe you’re on my side now?” Azula laughs. “Sisterhood is powerful, all that syrupy feel-good garbage? Your pathetic conceits amuse me.”
Anger flickers across the waterbender’s face, followed by…something else. Is Azula really that transparent? She pulls another mocking smile, ignoring the horrible feeling in her stomach.
“I don’t believe you,” the witch says.
The healing finishes in silence.
When the witch has dressed her, when she’s looking outside, pretending she doesn’t care where she’s going or how long it’ll be till she comes back, the witch says, “I’m not giving up, Azula.”
“You will address me as Princess-“ Azula grits out, then turns away.
“I’ll be here again. Soon.”
“Don’t hurry back,” hisses Azula; but when the door shuts, she crumples in the corner. Only a matter of time.
-
They hurt her again, because she’s beautiful and arrogant, and because the drugs they give her make it easy. Azula doesn’t own her body anymore. They make sure she knows it.
She dreams of killing them, every one, slowly. She dreams of killing Zuko, but it makes her sick. She dreams she killed her mother, wakes up thrashing and screaming. She dreams of the witch. Katara.
Katara stands over her, smiling (like Mai smiles at Zuko, like Azula used to smile at Ty Lee). Katara is silent and sweet, nipples velvety-dark and doe eyes impossibly blue. She calls waves back to the horizon, rides at the head of a tsunami.
Katara’s hair is all in tentacles, fading into black water. Her smile is bottomless. Azula feels sharp, feels swallowed. The water moves around her, around the point of her weapon. She cannot penetrate or dominate, conquer or claim. The witch takes her hand. Her grip is warm. In the ice around them, the only warm thing.
After she awakens, she smashes her hand into the cell wall.
-
“You still won’t tell me who did this?” The witch is trying to meet her eyes, but Azula avoids it. Despite the drug haze, every muscle in her body feels tensed.
The witch sighs deeply, too deeply for such a small person. Azula tracks the movement of her dress’s fabric over her chest. Stretch, wrinkle. Taut, release. Every part of her is soft and convex, and Azula feels the urge to crush, to destroy, rise within her anew.
Katara’s hands are nimble and gentle, but she can’t disguise their calluses. Rough skin grazes the delicate underside of Azula’s wrist. She remembers who she is. She remembers who Katara is. And no matter what Katara asks, no matter how much she wants to answer, she cannot speak.
-
One day they take her to a larger cell. There are several other prisoners waiting in shackles: older men, one boy, and one woman who looks much older than she probably is. A complement of five guards follow Azula in.
By the time she realizes what's going on, the head guard is already unbuckling his belt.
-
Afterwards, while his back is turned, the woman slips her a knife.
-
They drag her unresisting body back, throw her down. Slumping in the corner, Azula curls her fingers around the blade.
Her veins sing with rightness, despite the filth and ache and debasement. There is a way out, as soon as she can stand again.
In the morning, they will find her, and her blood will be spilt on the stone, and she will join the ancestors as unsoiled and honorable as any ancient king.
-
Blue eyes, a smile she’s never seen before. A room, not her cell, with a window and light streaming in.
“You’re alive!” Katara whispers. Her hand comes down like it wants to cup Azula’s face, but quickly gets drawn back again. She can’t seem to stop smiling.
Azula blinks. She tries to move, wishes she hadn’t. She failed. She is alive.
“You’re never going back there. Never.”
“I failed,” says Azula faintly. “Dirty peasant. I-“
“Don’t worry,” says Katara. “You’re alive, and that’s all that matters. Rest now.” She brushes the hair from Azula’s forehead. The touch is like being enveloped in a vast, warm blanket, and Azula is powerless to disobey her.
-
Sometime after midnight, footsteps rouse Azula from her sleep. Even with closed eyes, she knows who it is. Katara walks to the edge of her bed, stands there watching. Azula pretends to be asleep.
Katara’s face is grim, afraid. “I killed them.”
“Good.”
“I made them walk off the roof. They deserved it, but…”
“They deserved it.”
“They deserved it, right? I mean…”
Azula motions her closer, pulls her down. Tears have streaked her face. Azula touches her cheek, kisses her. Azula is still very weak, and both their mouths are dry, but it feels important. A pledge of loyalty. But loyalty to whom?
“I love you,” says Azula, and Katara says, “I will take care of you, however I can.”
“I love you,” Azula repeats brokenly, and Katara kisses her again. There’s room in the bed, so Katara gets in. Katara's hands are still rough, and her hair is coarse and brown, but her warmth and her breath soon lull Azula to sleep again.
Author: overthetiber
Recipient: jaspreetpink
Fandom: Avatar: the Last Airbender
Pairing: Katara/Azula
Rating: PG-13
Word count: ~1150
Disclaimer: Avatar: the Last Airbender belongs to Nickelodeon, Michael Dante DiMartino and Brian Konietzko.
Warnings: oblique but possibly triggering sexual violence
Summary: Katara won't let go. Azula might not want her to.
Notes: Some parts adapted from an entry (mine) in Porn Battle IX. Prompt - "struggle." Title is from an instrumental track on Janelle Monáe's album The Audition.
The cell is dim and cold. Not quite a cooler, but close. It reeks of sweat, and shit, and suffocating shame. Azula tries not to squirm in her bonds, forces her rage inside. With her bending blocked, there is no ordered way to let it out.
“Hold still,” the water witch commands, careful to keep her eyes off Azula’s naked body. Ice swallows Azula’s already-bound limbs, ensuring her obedience. The witch’s face changes: the face of a healer. Water swirls over the wounds, cooling and numbing. But the motion of her hands is impersonal, practiced; no trace of hatred, no wonder, no contempt. Till she leans in.
“Who did this?” she asks. She barely mouths the words. But Azula hears steel in her voice, a mix of pity and outrage that’s never been meant for her. The waterbender’s fingers skim over Azula’s bruises, gently trace her battered breasts. There is no lasciviousness, just concern.
Azula meets her eyes.
“Who hurt you?” the waterbender repeats.
Azula ducks her chin like she means her to come closer. The action humiliates her, but they’re watching outside, men and men and men…
The witch’s lips are close, so close. Her musky smell is only partly masked by perfumes. Her face looks soft. There are fine, small hairs all over her skin, and they tremble when she breathes. If things were right, Azula might have kept her-a slave, to have whenever she pleased. Which would have been often.
A moment of indecision, and her heart feels like it’s breaking (strongproudfastperfect, perfect, perfect, even in defeat you must not show weakness), but Azula smiles. The waterbender looks confused.
“I’m sorry, do you expect me to believe you’re on my side now?” Azula laughs. “Sisterhood is powerful, all that syrupy feel-good garbage? Your pathetic conceits amuse me.”
Anger flickers across the waterbender’s face, followed by…something else. Is Azula really that transparent? She pulls another mocking smile, ignoring the horrible feeling in her stomach.
“I don’t believe you,” the witch says.
The healing finishes in silence.
When the witch has dressed her, when she’s looking outside, pretending she doesn’t care where she’s going or how long it’ll be till she comes back, the witch says, “I’m not giving up, Azula.”
“You will address me as Princess-“ Azula grits out, then turns away.
“I’ll be here again. Soon.”
“Don’t hurry back,” hisses Azula; but when the door shuts, she crumples in the corner. Only a matter of time.
-
They hurt her again, because she’s beautiful and arrogant, and because the drugs they give her make it easy. Azula doesn’t own her body anymore. They make sure she knows it.
She dreams of killing them, every one, slowly. She dreams of killing Zuko, but it makes her sick. She dreams she killed her mother, wakes up thrashing and screaming. She dreams of the witch. Katara.
Katara stands over her, smiling (like Mai smiles at Zuko, like Azula used to smile at Ty Lee). Katara is silent and sweet, nipples velvety-dark and doe eyes impossibly blue. She calls waves back to the horizon, rides at the head of a tsunami.
Katara’s hair is all in tentacles, fading into black water. Her smile is bottomless. Azula feels sharp, feels swallowed. The water moves around her, around the point of her weapon. She cannot penetrate or dominate, conquer or claim. The witch takes her hand. Her grip is warm. In the ice around them, the only warm thing.
After she awakens, she smashes her hand into the cell wall.
-
“You still won’t tell me who did this?” The witch is trying to meet her eyes, but Azula avoids it. Despite the drug haze, every muscle in her body feels tensed.
The witch sighs deeply, too deeply for such a small person. Azula tracks the movement of her dress’s fabric over her chest. Stretch, wrinkle. Taut, release. Every part of her is soft and convex, and Azula feels the urge to crush, to destroy, rise within her anew.
Katara’s hands are nimble and gentle, but she can’t disguise their calluses. Rough skin grazes the delicate underside of Azula’s wrist. She remembers who she is. She remembers who Katara is. And no matter what Katara asks, no matter how much she wants to answer, she cannot speak.
-
One day they take her to a larger cell. There are several other prisoners waiting in shackles: older men, one boy, and one woman who looks much older than she probably is. A complement of five guards follow Azula in.
By the time she realizes what's going on, the head guard is already unbuckling his belt.
-
Afterwards, while his back is turned, the woman slips her a knife.
-
They drag her unresisting body back, throw her down. Slumping in the corner, Azula curls her fingers around the blade.
Her veins sing with rightness, despite the filth and ache and debasement. There is a way out, as soon as she can stand again.
In the morning, they will find her, and her blood will be spilt on the stone, and she will join the ancestors as unsoiled and honorable as any ancient king.
-
Blue eyes, a smile she’s never seen before. A room, not her cell, with a window and light streaming in.
“You’re alive!” Katara whispers. Her hand comes down like it wants to cup Azula’s face, but quickly gets drawn back again. She can’t seem to stop smiling.
Azula blinks. She tries to move, wishes she hadn’t. She failed. She is alive.
“You’re never going back there. Never.”
“I failed,” says Azula faintly. “Dirty peasant. I-“
“Don’t worry,” says Katara. “You’re alive, and that’s all that matters. Rest now.” She brushes the hair from Azula’s forehead. The touch is like being enveloped in a vast, warm blanket, and Azula is powerless to disobey her.
-
Sometime after midnight, footsteps rouse Azula from her sleep. Even with closed eyes, she knows who it is. Katara walks to the edge of her bed, stands there watching. Azula pretends to be asleep.
Katara’s face is grim, afraid. “I killed them.”
“Good.”
“I made them walk off the roof. They deserved it, but…”
“They deserved it.”
“They deserved it, right? I mean…”
Azula motions her closer, pulls her down. Tears have streaked her face. Azula touches her cheek, kisses her. Azula is still very weak, and both their mouths are dry, but it feels important. A pledge of loyalty. But loyalty to whom?
“I love you,” says Azula, and Katara says, “I will take care of you, however I can.”
“I love you,” Azula repeats brokenly, and Katara kisses her again. There’s room in the bed, so Katara gets in. Katara's hands are still rough, and her hair is coarse and brown, but her warmth and her breath soon lull Azula to sleep again.