#feel freeeee to send me drabble requests if ya want. and ill see if i can do em

[lazyveran]

Kazula cuddles tysm

wrote this out in under, like, 20 minutes and havent reread it but HERE! thank u for getting my brain going anon.

(set in the arranged marriage verse, a good few years along)

“Darling—”

“Five more minutes.”

Katara huffs. Loud enough, she hopes, to rouse her wife from the document that was clearly more important to her than her own wife.

Azula huffs back. Louder, more punctuated (because of course, the blasted woman practiced her sighs, categorised them by inflection and level to convey adequate messages) and taps her caligraphy brush against the table.

“You’ve been working all day.” Katara says, internally denies the whine that carries her words, “And besides, didn’t we both agree to no work in the bedroom?”

Azula flips the parchment, places it neatly in the pile next to her. It was one that had grown in recent days, now obnoxiously tall where it was stacked on the desk.

Her wife murmurs something under her breath. Then, “Would you really have the entire east coast collapse for—” A pause. From the bed, Katara watches her tilt her head (this one was at a forty-five-degree angle – her mocking confusion angle), “cuddles?”

“Yes.”  

“Of course.” Azula sighs. “Water Tribe predilection. It’s a shame I never—”

“Do not finish that sentence.”

Azula sighs again. At once, the second document is placed on the pile, and she turns. Golden sharp eyes, hair straying into her face as undone from its top knot. It was domestic, as far as a woman like Azula could ever be.

It’s that sharp, golden softness that trails down Katara’s bare body, lingering, before neatly returning to her eyes.

“Really?” She deadpans.

Katara smirks. “Water Tribe predilection.”

She rolls her eyes. “And subtlety. Fine—” Azula rises to stand. Clad in her dressing gown, wrists and hands bared to show marred, delicate flesh, she crosses the room. “Though you’ll find I lack the energy for any extracurricular activities.”

A laugh escapes her. “Only you would call sex ‘extracurricular activities.’” Katara watches her wife roll her eyes and grins. “My love.”

She grumbles. “To think I put up with you.”

The red silk robe is laid neatly over the chaise lounge. Bared to Katara’s indulgent eye, Azula finally approaches the bed. One sharp eyebrow raises – expectant, awaiting. Requests or demands, she stills in the face of both.

Katara softens. It was a wonder, sometimes, how easily Azula trusted her, how much she’d give to her if only she asked. She often finds a fear buried deep within her throat, to ask too much of Azula and see the woman break herself apart without a thought for it.

Tempering the woman’s love was something she had never thought to do, in the years past. Since then;

“We won’t do anything, love. You’re tired, I know.” Katara cocks her head. “Only curricular activities tonight.”

Azula loosens. Though her tone is still sharp, “Must you?”

“Yes.”

“I should ask for a divorce,” She climbs into the bed.

“You won’t.”

Azula opens her arms, shifting the silken sheets to accommodate her space, “No, I won’t.”

The heat of the woman is like a blanket in of itself. Katara is greedy, she finds, in these moments where Azula surrenders. Still sharp, but oh so soft.

She wriggles into her warm embrace. Often, she wonders if Azula specifically regulated her body heat in these moments. It was never too hot, never too cold, and wrapped into the soft, steelcord of her arms, Katara thinks this is what Heaven would feel like.

Azula rests her chin on the crown of her head, tangling their legs. Pressed to her chest, she feels a delicate breath leave Azula.

“Thank you,” She murmurs. Those were rare, only whispered in the dark – the only time Azula ever relaxed.

Katara noses along her collarbone. Takes a moment to press a kiss to the halberd wound carved there. When she reaches the base of Azula’s throat, she smiles into it. She gets a shiver in response.

“Someone has to look after you.”

“Mmh,” Hands reflexively tighten around Katara. Often, Azula clings so hard it hurts. “What rotten work.”

A kiss to the hollow of her throat. “Never.”