art creds @cruxifixe on ig
a/n play this to set the mood or wtv...!! yall this my first time writing full on smut dont flame me
The argument had been building for days.
Not over anything real—not really. You'd been tired, short-tempered, snappish in ways you couldn't explain. He'd been patient at first, the way Aang always was, his calm voice and steady hands trying to soothe you. But even the Avatar has limits.
"You're not listening to me," you'd said, arms crossed, back turned. "I am listening. You're the one who keeps interrupting herself."
You'd spun around, fire in your eyes. "Don't get smart with me."
"I'm not getting smart. I'm stating a fact."
His jaw had tightened. That was when you knew you'd crossed a line—not because he looked angry, but because he went still. The way the air goes still before a storm.
"You want to be factual? Fine. Fact: you've been gone for three weeks. Fact: you came back yesterday. Fact: you expect me to just—fall into your arms like nothing happened. Like I didn't spend twenty-one nights staring at the ceiling wondering if you were alive."
His expression had shifted. Something flickered behind his grey eyes—hurt, maybe, or guilt. But you were too angry to care.
"I can't do this right now," he'd said.
"Then don't." You'd grabbed your pillow. "Sleep on the couch."
You'd slammed the bedroom door behind you. Not locked it—you never locked it—but closed it hard enough to rattle the frame.
That was two minutes ago.
You'd fought him. Or at least tried to. For about half a second. Your hands had pushed at his chest, your teeth had nipped at his lower lip, your body had twisted in his grip. But he hadn't let go. He never let go.
Now you're on your stomach. Your hands are fisted in the sheets. Your back is arched—deep, obscene, the way he likes it. Your knees are spread wide on the mattress, and he's kneeling behind you, one hand on your hip, the other pressing your upper back down into the pillows.
His cock is at your entrance. Not inside yet, the head pressing against your slick folds, teasing.
"Look at you," he says. His voice is different now—lower, rougher, threaded with something that makes your thighs tremble. "All that fire two minutes ago. All that fight. And now you're arched for me like a good girl."
He pushes in. Just the tip. You gasp.
"That's not shutting up."
He pushes deeper. You feel the stretch—the impossible, delicious stretch—and your fingers claw at the sheets.
"You're so tight," he murmurs. "Always so tight for me. Like your body knows what your mouth won't say."
He thrusts. Hard. Bottoming out in one smooth motion, and you scream into the pillow.
"come on...you've taken it before baby"
"s'different...you've been gone for so long.."
"I'm sorry," he says. His voice softens. Just a little. "I'm sorry I was gone so long. I'm sorry I didn't—"
"Don't—ngh—don't apologize while you're inside me—"
"Because I can't—mmph—I can't be mad at you when you're—"
He pulls out. Almost all the way. Then slams back in.
You sob. "When you're fucking me like this—"
He does it again. Harder. The bed creaks. The headboard hits the wall. Your body jolts forward, and his hand presses down on your back, keeping you in place.
You turn your head. Look at him over your shoulder. His grey eyes are dark, intense, fixed on your face. His arrow tattoos are faint against his skin—not glowing, not yet, but there's something simmering beneath the surface. Something that makes your stomach flip.
"I can't be mad at you when you're fucking me like you mean it."
He smiles. It's not a nice smile. It's cocky, a little mean, a little mocking—the kind of smile that makes you want to slap him and kiss him in equal measure.
His hips snap against yours. Hard. Fast. Relentless. The sound of skin on skin fills the room—wet and obscene—and you bury your face in the pillow to muffle your screams.
"None of that." His hand tangles in your hair. Pulls. Your head lifts. "I want to hear you."
He pulls out. Leaves you empty. You whine at the loss, your hips pushing back, searching for him
He pushes back in. One thrust. Deep. You cry out.
His hand reaches around. His palm cups your breast—full, round, soft—and he squeezes.
"So soft," he says. "So perfect. These tits are mine, aren't they?"
He pinches your nipple. Rolls it between his fingers. You moan and push back against him, and he groans—low and guttural.
He gives you harder. His thrusts turn punishing. "I'm going to fill you up," he says. His voice is low, rough, almost a growl. "I'm going to fill you with my cum. With my babies. You want that?"
"You want me to put a baby in you?"
"You want to be round with my child? Swollen and heavy and full?"
"Tell me you know who's fucking you right now."
You whine. High and desperate. "Ngh… Aang…"
"You wanted this." He pulls out almost all the way. Slams back in. "You ignored at me and yelled at me. You made me wait. You made me worry."
He fucks you. Hard. Deep. Ruthless. His hips slam against yours, and the bed creaks, and the headboard hits the wall, and you can't do anything but hold on and moan.
"Listen to you," he says. "So pathetic. So pretty. All those sounds you're making—"
"You're making me—ah—you're making me—"
"I'm here. I've got you baby."
He slows down. Pulls out almost all the way. Teases you with just the tip.
"You're dripping." His voice is low. Dark.
You are. You can feel it—the wetness sliding down your thighs, soaking the sheets, making everything slick and obscene.
He fucks you. Hard. The way he fucks you when he's been gone too long and come home too late and found you waiting, angry and beautiful and so full of love you don't know what to do with it.
His hand leaves your hair. Slides down your spine. Grips your hip. His fingers dig into the soft flesh, hard enough to bruise, and you moan—loud and pathetic—and push back against him.
"So pretty like this," he murmurs. "Arched for me. Taking everything I give you. And you were so mad two minutes ago. So ready to fight."
"I'm still—ngh—still mad—"
He thrusts deeper. Angles his hips. Finds that spot inside you—the one that makes your vision go white, the one that steals your breath and your thoughts and your anger.
"Feel pretty fucking good for someone who's mad."
You can't answer. Your mouth is open, sounds spilling out—soft, desperate little noises that you'd be embarrassed about if you had any shame left.
"I missed you," he says. His voice is softer now. The cockiness fading into something real. "I missed you every day. Every night. I thought about you—"
"I thought about this. About coming home to you. About fucking you until you couldn't remember why you were mad."
He shifts your weight. Pulls you up, your back pressed to his chest. His arm wraps around your waist, holding you against him, and his other hand finds your throat—not squeezing, just resting there, his fingers curled around the column of your neck.
"You feel that?" he asks. His voice is right in your ear. "Feel how deep I am?"
You nod. Can't speak. His cock is inside you at an angle now—deeper than before, hitting places that make your toes curl and your eyes roll back.
"How am I supposed—ngh—how am I supposed to-hic- talk when I'm stuffed with 9 inches of your dick?"
He laughs. Genuinely laughs. The sound vibrates through his chest and into your back, and you feel it everywhere. His hand slides down from your throat to your breast. "You're so soft," he murmurs. "So warm. I dream about this. About you."
"What do you dream about?"
You turn your head. Look at him. His grey eyes are soft now, the darkness fading into something tender. His arrow tattoos are glowing—just faintly, just at the edges, the way they do when he's close.
"This," you whisper. "I dream about this."
He kisses you. Deep and slow and sweet. His tongue slides against yours, and you taste yourself on his lips, and you moan into his mouth.
"I'm sorry I made you wait."
"I'm close," he says. His hips stuttering.
Your body convulses. Your inner walls clamp down on him, squeezing, pulsing. You scream into the pillow—his name, just his name—and your vision goes white, and your ears ring, and you feel everything and nothing all at once.
He follows. His hips stutter. His grip tightens on your hip. And he tattoos glows for a hot second before he spills inside you.
He groans. Low and rough. His head falls back. His body trembles against yours.
You've never heard him curse before. Not like that. Not with that raw, broken edge.
He collapses beside you. Pulls you into his arms. Your back presses to his chest, and his face buries in your hair, and his arms wrap around you like he's afraid you'll disappear.
i was writing this and accidentally deleted the best part of the fic n i cant remember it at all...END ME.
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