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A hand clamps over Korra’s mouth, jolting her from sleep.
She thrashes, all adrenaline, and tries to sit up, tries to scream. A dark figure looms over her bed, and it takes a moment for her panicked eyes to recognize Amon’s shape, the silhouette of his old iconic outfit.
She didn’t expect her heart to be pounding this hard; it feels as if it’s going to seize, rupture. He leans in close, growls into her ear: “If I lift my hand, Young Avatar, are you going to scream?”
Her head vibrates side to side, a panicked no.
“Are you going to fight me?”
Again, she vibrates a no.
He claps her cheek. “Good girl.” His hand lifts from her mouth, and as she lies there trembling, she feels him pause, giving her an opportunity to use the safe word should she choose to utter it. It’s almost on her lips, even though she begged him for this, even though he was the reluctant one. The fear is more intense than she anticipated.
In the end, her intrigue outweighs her fear. “Why are you here?” she whispers, a line in a script that has played over and over again in her mind.
He sits on the bed beside her, and in the dim light trickling in through the window, she can see his eyes: stony. Cold. “I want to reclaim what is mine.” The words could not have been more perfect if she scripted them herself, and a shudder ripples through her.
“I was never yours,” she says. “All that passed between us in that cave was a mistake.”
Instead of responding, he grabs her arm, pulling her to her feet. His hand clamps around the back of her neck, and fear rockets through her; she almost asks him to stop. He shoves her roughly to her knees, the hardwood floor cold and unyielding, and then kneels behind her. His free hand shoves down the back of her pants, and a finger slides between her legs.
“Does this feel like a mistake, Avatar?” he hisses, his finger circling inside her. “You are dripping wet.”
The safe word has faded entirely from her mouth now, replaced by soft gasps. His hand tightens around the back of her neck, shoves her cheek against the floor. He removes his slick finger, and she hears the rustle of fabric behind her, painting the image in her mind: he is lifting his tunic, freeing himself, swirling her juices around the head as he prepares to take her. Her muscles tense with anticipation as he yanks her pants off her hips.
Where his usual first stroke is soft and gentle, this is a violent shove, all the way to the hilt. She cries out, surprised, and his fingers dig into her neck as he bends forward, his breath hot against her ear.
“Make no sound, Avatar,” he says in a rumbling baritone. “This is our secret.”
To accentuate the point, he drives into her again, hard, and she manages to strangle a sob of delight in her chest before it can escape. Then he straightens and his hands move: one presses into the centre of her back, holding her against the floor, while the other claws into her hip. His movements are rough, relentless, and a dizzying glow engulfs her mind. Yes, this is just how she imagined it, all those nights after they had escaped from the cave: his desperation driving him to take her, his usual composure consumed by feral hunger. He is rock-hard inside her, and she knows his body and movements and grunts well enough to recognize that he is already close to orgasm. She counter-thrusts, bucking against him, and for a moment he forgets himself, settles into her rhythm. She gives a pleased hum. This was once their dance: a struggle for domination.
She does not stay in charge for long. His movements slow. Fingers wrap around her throat, carefully placed one at a time. He jerks her into a kneeling position, still joined with her. His other hand snakes around her waist and two fingers slip between her legs, slide against her slickened lips. His touch sparks through her thighs and abdomen, and her entire torso glows with heat. She holds none of the control now: her body will not obey her desire to stay upright, and she sags back against him as he rubs, his fingers practiced and precise. When he starts to thrust again, the separate sensations meld, and all she can hear and feel and taste is the rocking of hard flesh into damp and the warm, growing friction on her clit.
His voice is by her ear again. “You are mine, Avatar. My weakness, my secret.” Harsh breaths sharpen the words into staccato.
“Yours,” she breathes. “I am yours.” He is painfully hard inside her now, slamming so deeply that it hurts, and waves of black spots swim in her vision. “Please,” she whispers, but please what? She doesn’t want him to slow, doesn’t want him to be gentle. This is what she asked for, what haunted her dreams, what kept her awake every night until they found each other again, what tormented her long enough that it became desire instead of nightmare. A whimper escapes, her control slipping, and she feels his breath hot in her ear.
“Show me you are mine, Avatar. Show me how I make you feel.”
Another whimper slips out, and the hand at her throat moves to clamp over her mouth. The sensations are too strong for her to contain, and she needs to break free, needs to stay them for a little longer, because the glow is building too quickly to bear. She writhes and bucks and tries to throw him off her even as she counter-thrusts to take him deeper, and she cannot escape the persistent strokes of his fingers, the dizziness clouding her mind. Her eyes screw shut and the pressure inside her body is cresting, about to release.
The pleasure first paralyses her, then buries her and suffocates her, and she shudders and spasms, falls back against him. He touches her in just the way she likes to carry her through it, gentle and steady and coaxing, as she chokes and sobs into his palm.
The last spasms are just leaving her when he pulls out. She feels him release onto her back with a strangled moan in her ear, so deep that it’s barely audible.
For a moment, they breathe together.
Then they sag to the floor, no longer confused enemies, but lovers. He pulls out a rag to wipe her back clean, and then she rolls to face him. His eyes are soft again, pinched with what might even be concern, so she gives him a gentle smile to let him know that she’s okay. She knows this was a stretch for him, that he was many things back then, but never this. Never what he was in her nightmares.
“Thank you, Amon,” she whispers. “I am yours.” And as his lips seek hers for a soft kiss, she knows that he, too, is hers. Her lover, her weakness, her secret.