#backbender

You smile, kicking off your boots. “The world doesn’t heal itself, Sokka. But it smells like you’ve outdone yourself tonight.” You cross the room, pressing a kiss to his cheek. He leans into it, his hand brushing your waist lightly, but you catch the way his breath hitches at the brief contact. Even the simplest touch sets him off these days.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” he says, plating the stew with chunks of seal meat and root vegetables. “Sit. You look like you’ve been wrestling Appa all day.” He guides you to the table, his calloused hands gentle on your shoulders. There’s that protective streak in him, the one that once made him a fierce warrior, now softened into this eager service.

As you eat, he chatters about the village gossip—the latest invention he’s tinkering with, a better fishing trap—and you listen, letting his voice wash over you like a soothing wave. He’s vocal, always has been, filling silences with humor to mask any vulnerability. But tonight, you notice the way his gaze dips to the neckline of your robe, where the fabric gapes just enough to reveal a hint of cleavage. His fork pauses mid-air, and you see the subtle shift: his cheeks flush, and he shifts in his seat.

“Something on your mind?” you ask, arching a brow.

He clears his throat, forcing a grin. “Just... appreciating the view, angel. You know how I get.” It’s half-joke, half-truth. Sokka’s always been easy to arouse—a flash of skin, a light brush of fingers—and it’s one of the things you love most about him. That all his muscle and bravado crumbles under your attention.

After dinner, he clears the plates without a word, then kneels beside your chair, his strong hands finding your calves. “Massage time,” he murmurs, thumbs digging into the knots from your day. You sigh, leaning back as he works upward, his touch firm but reverent. He’s good at this—better than any formal healer—knowing exactly where the tension hides after you’ve bent water for hours.

His fingers trail higher, grazing your thighs, and you feel him press closer, his breath warm against your knee. “You’re tense here too,” he says, voice dropping lower. There’s a plea in it, unspoken but clear. He wants more, always does.

You tilt his chin up with a finger, meeting his eyes. “Patience, Sokka. We’ve got all night.”

He whines softly, a sound that’s equal parts frustration and need. “Angel, please... just a little?” But he obeys, continuing the massage until your body relaxes fully.

Later, as the fire dies down, you lead him to the bedroom. The air is thick with anticipation. Sokka follows like a puppy, his muscular frame towering over you yet yielding completely. You’re stronger in spirit, in command, and he revels in it—letting you dictate every move despite his physical power.

“Strip,” you command softly, sitting on the edge of the bed. He does, peeling off his tunic to reveal the gym-toned chest, abs rippling under tanned skin, arms thick from endless labor. He flexes unconsciously, a habit, showing off like it means something. You smirk. “All that muscle, Sokka. Think it makes you tough?”

He grins, stepping closer. “Maybe. Want to test it?” There’s that wit, peeking through.

You grab his wrist, pulling him down to his knees between your legs. “Sit down, shut up, and show me.” You guide his head to rest against your thigh, not for eating you out—just there, his cheek pressed to your skin. Your fingers comb through his hair, loosening the tie until it falls disheveled around his face. Nails lightly scratch the back of his neck, and you watch his eyes flutter shut, his entire body softening. The tension melts from his broad shoulders; he sighs, nuzzling closer, peaceful in submission.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” you whisper, tracing his jaw.

“Mmm, angel... anything for you.” His voice is muffled, content.

But peace doesn’t last. You feel him harden against your leg, his cock twitching in his pants. Leaning down, you kiss him—sloppy, deep, tongues tangling as he whimpers into your mouth. He’s perverted in his need, hands clutching your hips, but you pull back first, leaving him panting.

“Bedroom rules,” you say, standing to fetch the leash and cock ring from the drawer. His eyes widen, arousal flaring. You snap the ring on first, tight around the base of his cock as you free it from his pants. He’s already leaking, pre-cum beading at the tip from the mere sight of you.

“On the bed,” you order. He scrambles up, lying back, cock standing rigid. You clip the leash to the ring, tugging lightly. He gasps, hips bucking.

“Tease me, angel? Please?” He’s begging already, voice whiny.

You straddle his thighs, your robe falling open to expose more cleavage. His gaze locks there, cock throbbing visibly. “Look at you, hard from just this.” Your hand ghosts over his length, the slightest touch, and he shakes, moaning low.

“Fuck... yes, touch me more.” He’s vocal, always is, words spilling out.

But you deny, edging him with feather-light strokes, stopping just as his breaths turn ragged. “Not yet.” You lean in, kissing his neck, then lower to his nipples. Your mouth latches on, sucking one peak while pinching the other. He arches, crying out, body trembling under the pleasure.

“Angel! Mommy, please—harder!” He’s desperate, begging to be used, his strong frame quivering like it’s nothing.

You switch sides, teeth grazing, and he’s a mess—moaning, leaking more pre-cum onto his abs. “Who do you belong to?” you ask, hand wrapping around his throat, squeezing just enough.

“You,” he gasps, eyes teary. “All yours, Mommy.”

Satisfied, you release and slide down, your lips brushing his cock but not taking it. Instead, you mark him—red lipstick from your pouch, pressing kisses to his thighs, inner grooves, then his jaw as you crawl up. Finally, to his cock, smearing crimson along the shaft. He watches, dazed, dripping with it.

“Pretty,” you murmur, tugging the leash to pull him up. “On your knees. Beg to eat me out.”

He drops instantly, stronger than you but folding like paper. “Please, angel... let me taste you. I’ll be so good.” His hands grip the sheets, hips bucking into nothing as he pleads.

You lie back, spreading your legs. He dives in, tongue lapping at your pussy eagerly. Looking up, his hair disheveled, eyes teary with effort, he moans softly as you thread fingers through it.

“Good boy,” you praise, and he whimpers, sucking your clit harder, bucking his hips against the bed like he can’t help it.

He eats you out relentlessly, tongue thrusting inside, lips sucking, until you’re close. But you pull him off, edging yourself too, denying release. “Not yet.”

He sobs, face slick. “Mommy, please... fuck me. Jerk me off. Anything!”

You tug the leash, positioning him on all fours. Your hand strokes his cock again, slow, building him up until his brain fogs—moans turning to whimpers of your name. “Y/N... Y/N...” Only that, sobbed out.

“Anything for you, Mommy,” he manages, voice breaking.

You edge him for what feels like hours—stroking, stopping, pinching his nipples until he’s shaking, begging in the worst ways. “Use me, ruin me... please.”

Finally, you lube up, sliding fingers into his ass first, prepping him. He clenches, moaning loud, vocal as ever. “Yes! More!”

When you slide your strap-on in—thick, filling—he cums instantly, body convulsing, cum spilling over the sheets. But the ring keeps him hard, and you thrust deep, fucking him through it.

“Fuck, angel! So good!” He’s wrecked, pushing back despite his strength, folding under you.

You fuck him hard, hand on his throat again. “Mine.”

“Yours!” He screams, another orgasm building.

But you pull out, denying. “Not yet.”

The night stretches—more edging, him humping a pillow on command, whining and leaking as you watch. “Look at you, built like a tank, moaning like a bitch.”

He flexes for you, arms bulging, then whimpers as you ruin him with one hand, stroking to the edge again.

In the village square earlier that day—wait, no, this is flashback in your mind, but you tease him about it now. “Remember this morning? My hand in your pants while no one looked, kissing you hard in front of the traders, then making you wait.”

He nods, teary. “Torture... but I love it.”

Public denial is your game—slipping touches, hard kisses, then home to edge him all day in memory.

Now, you let him rest his head between your thighs again, combing hair, scratching neck. He softens, but hardens too.

“Fuck me again,” he begs.

You do, sliding in slow this time. He cums immediately, sobbing your name, but you keep going, fucking him until he’s dazed, fucked out, lipstick smeared everywhere.

“Thank you,” he whispers, collapsing, body marked and spent.

“Thank you, Mommy.”

I watched them bicker, this strange family they'd built. Watched the easy way they moved around each other, the shorthand of people who'd fought together, bled together, survived together. Something in my chest pulled tight.

Sokka hadn't said a word. He was eating carefully, methodically, like the food required his full attention. But I caught him glancing up, caught him watching me when he thought I wasn't looking.

"How long has it been since you've seen each other?" Aang asked, looking between Katara and me. "You two seem close."

"Years," Katara said softly. "But some friendships don't need time. They just... are."

I met her eyes across the table. Remembered her finding me after the battle, after my husband fell, after I'd fought my way through Fire Nation soldiers with ice-blades and rage. She'd held me while I screamed. Hadn't tried to fix it, hadn't offered empty comfort. Just held on.

"Katara saved my life," I said. "More than once."

"You saved mine first," she countered.

"I'm keeping score."

"You always do."

Toph laughed, sharp and bright. "I like her. She's got spine."

"She's got more than that," Katara said, and there was pride in her voice. "She's one of the best waterbenders I've ever seen. Fought in the northern campaigns, held the line when—"

"Katara." I kept my voice gentle. "They don't need my war stories."

But Aang was leaning forward, interested. "You fought in the war?"

"Everyone fought in the war." I took a sip of water, buying time. "Some of us just came home."

The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.

Sokka's knuckles were white around his cup. I watched him struggle with something, watched him open his mouth and close it again. Finally: "I'm sorry."

Two words. Quiet. Devastating.

I looked at him directly for the first time since we'd sat down. His eyes were the same—bright, blue, full of things he couldn't say. But there were lines around them now, shadows underneath. He'd seen things too. Survived things.

It didn't matter. It didn't change anything.

"For what?" I asked, voice level.

"For—" He gestured helplessly. "For not being here. For not coming back when I said I would. For—"

"It's fine." I cut him off cleanly. "You had your reasons. I'm sure they were good ones."

"They weren't."

"Then they were bad ones. Either way, it's done." I turned to Aang, deliberately shifting the conversation. "How long do you plan to stay in the North?"

Aang glanced at Sokka, then back to me. He was young, but not stupid. "A week, maybe two. We need to consult with the Northern Water Tribe leadership about Fire Nation movements. And Katara wanted to visit the healing temples."

"I can arrange meetings," I said. "The Council knows me. They'll see you."

"Because you're the Lady of the Moon House?" Toph asked.

"Because my husband was Chief of the Northern Fleet before he died. Because I fought beside half of them. Because I know where the bodies are buried." I smiled, thin. "Metaphorically speaking."

Zuko's hood shifted. "And literally?"

I met his amber eyes—still difficult, still triggering, but I held the line. "And literally."

Something passed between us. Recognition, maybe. The understanding of people who'd killed and lived with it.

"You're scary," Toph announced. "I respect that."

Despite everything, I almost laughed.

The meal continued. Conversation flowed around me like water around stone—I was present but separate, participating but protected. Katara told stories about their travels. Aang described the Air Temples he was rebuilding. Toph complained about shoes.

Sokka stayed quiet.

I felt his attention like heat, like standing too close to a fire. Every time I moved, every time I spoke, I felt him tracking it. Not aggressive—not demanding. Just... present. Witnessing.

It made my scars itch.

When the servants brought dessert—frozen berry cream, sweet and cold—I stood. "I'm afraid I have correspondence to attend to. Please, stay as long as you like. The servants will bring anything you need."

"You're leaving?" Katara's disappointment was genuine.

"Duty calls." I touched her shoulder as I passed. "We'll talk tomorrow. I promise."

I made it three steps before Sokka's voice stopped me.

"Can we—can I talk to you? Just for a minute?"

I didn't turn around. "I'm very busy."

"Please."

The word hung in the air like snow before it falls.

I could feel everyone watching. Could feel Katara's concern, Aang's curiosity, Toph's interest. Could feel the weight of history pressing down, demanding resolution.

"Tomorrow," I said. "Perhaps."

Then I walked out, spine straight, head high, every inch the Lady I'd become.

Behind me, I heard Katara say something soft. Heard Sokka's chair scrape. Heard the sound of a man trying very hard not to break.

I kept walking.

My chambers were cold. I'd left the windows open, letting the night air in, and now frost crept across the sills like fingers. I should close them. Should call for a servant to light the fire.

Instead, I stood at the window and looked out at nothing.

The ice stretched forever, blue-white under the moon. Somewhere out there, my husband was buried. Somewhere out there, the war still raged in small, bitter skirmishes. Somewhere out there, the girl I'd been was frozen in time, still waiting for a boy who'd promised to come home.

I pressed my palm against the ice-glass. Felt the cold bite deep.

"I survived you," I whispered to the ghost of that girl. "I survived everything."

The wind answered, howling.

I closed the window and went to bed alone.