fanwright:

Her words were few yet measured, slow, so that he could understand her, almost challenging him to speak, booming through the sparse command deck, “Ты говоришь по-русски.” 

– You speak Russian.

A small laugh escaped, a question that was more a statement, and his head rose to meet her steady gaze, pondering his his next words, “… Маленький. Целесообразно изучать пути своего противника. Вы не думаете?”

– A little. It is wise to study the ways of one’s adversary. Don’t you think?

She quirked an eyebrow and her lips curled into an amused, almost interested smile, “It is.”

fanwright:

Her breath hitched as his lips pressed against the pale skin of her back and her voice shivered as she spoke, “Do you know how mad I am at you?”

A hand found her hips, another gently glided up her exposed back, kneading the tension from her tired muscles as she felt his weight sink into the bed next to her.

His lips made her way to the back of her bare shoulders, breathing through his nose, eyes closed, worshipping her with his trembling voice, “Oh… can’t imagine, really.”

The hand on her bare hip slid lower, kneading her buttocks, the other snaking around as his fingers caressed her chest. 

She hummed as she basked in his touch, his lips kissing her neck, “You’re probably furious though. I took your gun away.”

He pinched and squeezed as he leaned into her, insistent, desperate. 

She merely chuckled, a husky and devious whimper of pleasure jolting through her body, her hand reaching back and raking harshly through his hair as he nibbled her ear, pressing her to the mattress, “Mmm… I feel naked without it.”

---

(Yes, this is over three sentences, I can count too.)

fanwright:

“This wasn’t what I was expecting when you told me to get undressed.”

She groaned and he could just picture the way she rolled her eyes at him as he lay on his stomach, Azula straddling him as she sat atop his buttocks, a hand kneading his back, urging him to stay down.

“Surprise, surprise,” she muttered, “Now quit squirming.”

With a flick of a switch the auto-ink pen buzzed to life and with a steady hand Azula pressed the tip to his shoulder blade, marking him, an ambitious smile playing at her lips as complicated caricatures and intricate designs ran through her mind.

Sokka winced at the pain, eye twitching and teeth gritted, but he endured like the soldier he was.

He risked a question, resting his head on his knuckles, “You do this often? Doing tattoos I mean?”

A small pause, the pen buzzing as the point trailed a sharp line over his skin, “Early on. I did myself, covering up the Cerberus shit they inked into my skin.”

Another pause, another long stroke with the pen, a dream of crafting a work of art worthy of the murals of antiquity on his skin.

Her voice was distant, but her hands stayed steady, “Barcodes, numbers, blood type, everyone of them covered up. There is no part of me that’s not bathed in my own ink. Hard to keep steady when you do yourself though…”

His eyes widened and he chose his words with a measured tone, “Do you do tattoos for others?”

Her hands recoiled slightly and the pen lifted from his skin only for a moment, her body tensing up, before she continued. “No. No one’s asked for one. No one really mattered enough to give one either.”

“What am I getting?”

Her body eased up and her pelvis sank against his buttocks, this time flicking the switch on the pen off to ponder his words and look at the work she had done so far. She leaned forward and rested an elbow on his his back, resting her head in her palm, a finger playing at his skin.

Her voice was deceitfully playful, “Hm. A tramp stamp. Yes, gaudy and feminine. The great Captain Sokka, sloshed out his skull, hooking up with some slutty asari, waking up the day after with his mark of shame. The Extra-Net’s going to salivate over the story.”

He chuckled, “They’d believe it. I am popular with the asari after all.”

She flicked his ear twice. “No blue-skinned squid-head looking skank is going to fuck you. I find them, they get a biotic bitch-slap so hard it’ll crack their neck and send them across the room.”

“Oh, quite the turn on. I love a girl who can dish out the punishment.”

She laughed, unabashed, and leaned down to lay herself on his back, kissing his neck. His scent drove her mad.

“I love a man who can dish it out harder than me,” she whispered, kissing his neck again, “Not talking biotics either.”

Sokka quirked an eyebrow. “Of course you aren’t.”

A long stare, her deep yellow eyes peering into his soul, “Hm… when I’m done here, we wait for the ink to settle. After that, you show me how an Alliance Trooper brings the hurt.”

His face lit up, and she couldn’t help but love the spark of mischief kindling behind his blue eyes, “Might need a provocation.”

“Heh. Don’t worry, soldier boy,” she said, flicking the switch on the pen to continue her work, “I know just how to get you worked up.” 

---

(So, this is clearly three sentences. I had fun with it though.) 

fanwright:

As the armorers that tended to her tighten the straps to her gauntlets and greaves she locked her eyes on him, “The women of this nation learned long ago – those without swords can still die upon them. I fear neither death nor pain.”

With one last tug the men stepped away to see to their other duties, one handing her a sword, which she hastily girt around her waist. Sokka watched, fascinated and puzzled. 

His words were measured, “What do you fear, Azula?”

She paused, contemplating her life, from the day she first gripped a sword to this very moment, armed for war and caressed by steel.

“A cage. To live behind gilded bars. To see the seasons pass in soft living and feel my bones wither beneath my skin, until all chance of valor is gone beyond recall or desire.”

Sokka lifted his head and saw the truth in her eyes, “You’re a warrior. A daughter born of kings. Your fate is what you decide it to be. If valor on the battlefield is what you want, then take it. Its yours.”

Her back straightened and with resurgent pride she made his way to him, clasping his shoulder, “I will.”

fanwright:

Salt and sand, the ruins of a great city swallowed by the dunes, a distant, shimmering mirage roasting under the merciless sun, a world of steel and blood quenched in the fires of armageddon.

Azula looked far across the hell-blasted lands, searching futilely for anything worth the trouble of traveling to, “… ‘where must we go, we who wander this wasteland searching for our better selves?’”

Breathing out smoke through his nose as he threw the cigarette stub into the sand, Sokka turned to her, a song ringing in his head “… ‘oh, where the water is freshest, the ground the greenest, the shade the shadiest, the air the coolest…’”

She scoffed, “The world is dead, Sokka. The men of Way Back killed it. You hope too much.”

“Hope? All I hope for is some anti-seed for my lil’ pinkie here,” he tapped the sawed-off shotgun holstered at his side, “So’s I can squeeze her off a raunchy few times and watch something die. Save lots for the schlangers… and one for me, so Big Bad Death can go fuck itself.”

“Optimistic, as usual. Not enough lead in the world for that fine luxury.”

“Opti-what now? You stand tall ‘cause a your big words, don’t you?”

“Of course, love, it comes naturally,” she said, eyes glued to the dusty horizon, “Too many klicks… too many klicks in all directions. And sand, always sand.”

“And click-clak, click-clak, whiz-bang goes our rusty buggy. She’s good for a long jog, but she’ll gag on the dust.”

“You’ll rez her. If you were a War-boy, love, V8 would have blessed you with the digits to breathe life into her again.”

A toothy grin and chuckle, “Just a few raunchy turns here n’ there, bolts into nuts n’ what not, and she’s growlin’ like a proper beast.”

She smiled, “So we fang it then. Head west where the sun sleeps. Follow the Black Roads and past the Plains of Salt. We have guzzoline for days.”

“Paints a pretty target for Rust Buzzards, don’t it?”

“And so? I’ll fight historic against anyone that thinks to fuck us over. Death will stay his hand and envy at my bloody work.”

Sokka chuckled, “Oh, Mamzel Death. What a lovely red day that will be.”

He looked west, seeing the dust clouds and thunder growl in the distance, “We’ll do it then?”

“Of course! We won’t get a better chance…” she said, voice growing distant.

He looked to her, “At what?”

She paused, choosing her words before she could look at him, determination in her eyes, “Redemption.”

fanwright:

The cop in the front seat reached his arm around and held the lighter out through the metal screen. Sokka leaned forward in his seat and held the tip of the cigarette over the little flame. He took a long drag and breathed out, smoke searing his lungs until he was numb, relief washing over him as he leaned back and slouched in his seat.

“Hey,” she said, voice as ragged she looked, hair a mess and clothes all but torn and stained, grime with blood.

He looked at her warily, “What’s up?”

She sighed, resting her back against the seat, scrounging for a pack cigarettes in her pocket, “Let me ask you something, so there won’t be any more trouble… which side do you want to be on?”

“Which side, huh? Well…” he took another long drag, lost in thought, the day slipping away as the sun set over the ocean just outside the window.

It all seemed like a blur to him now. His days were filled with as much excitement as there was danger. He never asked for any of it, never asked to get kidnapped or to get taken hostage, left for dead by his company. He was just another salaryman to them, a spare cog in a massive machine.

And so he did what he had to do – survive. Make the most of things and hammer out a life with criminals and scum in the tropical hell hole collectively called Roanapur. He chose his side without even realizing it – chose to be what he was now. Prove it to his new friends. There was no turning back.

He rolled the cigarette between his teeth, “… I’m right here where I’m sitting, Azula. I’m not anywhere else.”

She gave him a hard, searing look, weighing his soul with her eyes, and then she sighed, relaxing a bit in her seat, head bobbing as the cop car rumbled its way over the rugged roads of the inner-city.

“Sokka…” she groaned, running her fingers through her long messy hair, “… huh, whatever. Give me a light.”

“What? The cop’s got it in the front seat.”

“The one in your mouth, genius.”

He blinked, “Oh. yeah.”

She rolled her eyes, “Give it here.”

Leaning forward, he held the cigarette between two fingers as he kept it in his mouth. Azula leaned in to meet him half-way. He kept his eyes trained on the burning paper and away from her opened shirt. The scent of tobacco filled his nostrils.

“What a fucked up day,” she muttered between her teeth. He could see the bags under her eyes and the sweat glistening off her neck. She smelled like whiskey on the rocks and cordite from a spent bullet casing. 

“Yeah,” he mumbled, the tip of his cigarette touching her’s, slowly lighting it. 

He lingered for a while, holding his cigarette to her’s, and then the weight of his fatigue set in, losing focus on the now and wondering just how soft her skin would be pressed against his.

Her eyes met his for only moment, lonely and broken, “Shit… I’m so tired, Sokka.”

Azula slowly pulled away, the lit cigarette hanging loosely from her mouth as she reclined back into her seat, sighing as a puff of smoke escaped her lungs, “Just want to go to sleep. Give this day a rest.”

With a nod, he felt the same grogginess encroach on his battered body and leaned back against the leather to close his eyes, “Yeah. Hell of a day.”