“Your acolytes are pathetic.” Azula taunts her husband, yanking on his robes hard—more rough than she would usually dare, but she’s pissed this time. “They glare at me every time I speak to them. And I can hear their hateful little whispers about me every time they think I’m too far away to hear.”
Aang sneers when her nails run sharply against his back, teeth against her lips. “Maybe,” he replied scornfully, “if you weren’t such a bitch to them all the time they’d like you more. Perhaps if you didn’t insist on insulting Hei-Won and Yee-Li every time they try to help you, they wouldn’t scowl at you so much.”
Azula scoffs and shoves him away from her, but only so she can pull up her dress and smirk at the desperate moan that escapes him. She justifies to herself that she’s mad enough to throw him out of her bed, but quickly tugs him back on top of her. She has a problem and only the Avatar is powerful enough to alleviate it.
Azula detests living in the Southern Air Temple, so far from the rest of the world— from civilization. It’s been six months since her wedding to the Avatar, and almost a decade since the end of the war, but the world still doesn’t trust her to wander around on her own. Everywhere she goes, she can feel the presence of air acolytes or the White Lotus shadowing her movements. She detests it. But when Aang thrusts into her, already panting deeply at her ear, Azula amends her statement. She hates almost everything about the Temple.
“You’re way too experienced at this,” she whines, when they’re finished. Azula is sprawled against his chest, her robes half undone and her hair more messy than she would ever allow anyone to see. “I thought the Air Nomads were supposed to be chaste.” she says, poking his chest accusingly.
Her husband simply smiles contentedly, before shifting and wrapping his strong arms around her. Azula freezes, for half a second, before unclenching her muscles and giving him permission to do so.
“What are you doing?” She asks reflexively, internally cringing at herself for the question. Of course she knows what he’s doing. It’s just that he’s never done this before.
“Holding my wife,” Aang replies, sounding wary. “Is this al—can I?”
They’re in her private bedroom, not the shared chambers that she has so far managed to avoid even seeing. Part of Azula wants to just throw him out—he wouldn’t refuse such a request, she knows. But his chest is just so warm and snug under her and she’s so very comfortable…she tells herself that if he were to move, she’d probably have to spend half the night tossing and turning just find a position as cosy.
So instead she sighs, and says aloud, “I suppose I could suffer through it.”
A surprised laugh escapes her husband, and the sound of it fills her with secret delight. “Yes,” he says. “Oh, the burdens that royal princesses must shoulder.” Azula lifts her head lazily and winks at him.
Aang smiles back at her.
She still hates the Temple, and part of her will always long for the throne that was destined to be hers—but this, she thinks and wonders… she could get used to this.