(no subject)
Who: Azula (sofaultless) and Zuko (soburned)
What: Azula going into his bedroom at night, sitting on his bed, and waking him up. Really.
When: Later into the evening after this.
Where: Zuko’s bedroom.
Rating: PG-13. I think.
He was such a durable plaything.
She walked with a storm in her step, loudly. It was a battle step, the type of walk one applied to jets of fire, not your everyday motion. Azula walked like she had something to prove, like she had been biding her time and was now about to unleash her frustration. No one tried to best her. Her jaw was set, her eyes were narrowed, and once more she was the picture of calmness to any but those that knew her well.
She hadn’t been bested, not even close, but the fact that he had the gall to try, that he had the gall to believe he was strong enough to resist her, that aroused anger in her. Zuko was the underdog, the pathetic one in the family, and how dare he raise his head in front of her, after everything he had done. Azula did not tolerate that nonsense.
He could talk of taking the high road all he wanted, he would always be scum to her. He would always be a failure. He would always be miserable and she would guarantee it, she trusted that as long as they were both alive, she was going to be merciless.
When she approached his door, her footsteps grew calmer. She gripped his doorknob in an iron vice, twisted it, and pushed it open. She slipped into his room silently, unnoticed, and she held the doorknob twisted until she had set it back into the catch. It was relatively soundless, and in the dim light, she could see his sleeping form perfectly.
It would be so fun to play with him, just as they had, together, as children. She mused on it for an instant, as she let one hand slide against one of the posts on his bed, and she rounded it almost playfully, coming up alongside him.
He slept like a baby.
But not for much longer. She sat down, quite deliberately, by his knees, and she opened up one palm, letting a handful of flames surge up there. It threw the room into relief, and she examined his face for a second longer, leaning forward over him, to say, hushed-but-not-quite, sing-song, but again, not quite:
“Safe from all harm...”
And she waited, viciously, for him to wake up to the crackle of blue fire in her hand, casting a blue-white light around the room that flickered and shook violently.
What: Azula going into his bedroom at night, sitting on his bed, and waking him up. Really.
When: Later into the evening after this.
Where: Zuko’s bedroom.
Rating: PG-13. I think.
He was such a durable plaything.
She walked with a storm in her step, loudly. It was a battle step, the type of walk one applied to jets of fire, not your everyday motion. Azula walked like she had something to prove, like she had been biding her time and was now about to unleash her frustration. No one tried to best her. Her jaw was set, her eyes were narrowed, and once more she was the picture of calmness to any but those that knew her well.
She hadn’t been bested, not even close, but the fact that he had the gall to try, that he had the gall to believe he was strong enough to resist her, that aroused anger in her. Zuko was the underdog, the pathetic one in the family, and how dare he raise his head in front of her, after everything he had done. Azula did not tolerate that nonsense.
He could talk of taking the high road all he wanted, he would always be scum to her. He would always be a failure. He would always be miserable and she would guarantee it, she trusted that as long as they were both alive, she was going to be merciless.
When she approached his door, her footsteps grew calmer. She gripped his doorknob in an iron vice, twisted it, and pushed it open. She slipped into his room silently, unnoticed, and she held the doorknob twisted until she had set it back into the catch. It was relatively soundless, and in the dim light, she could see his sleeping form perfectly.
It would be so fun to play with him, just as they had, together, as children. She mused on it for an instant, as she let one hand slide against one of the posts on his bed, and she rounded it almost playfully, coming up alongside him.
He slept like a baby.
But not for much longer. She sat down, quite deliberately, by his knees, and she opened up one palm, letting a handful of flames surge up there. It threw the room into relief, and she examined his face for a second longer, leaning forward over him, to say, hushed-but-not-quite, sing-song, but again, not quite:
“Safe from all harm...”
And she waited, viciously, for him to wake up to the crackle of blue fire in her hand, casting a blue-white light around the room that flickered and shook violently.