You are, quite possibly, the last person on Earth he wanted to fall for and somehow, the one person he could never stop loving.

Walking around the palace in your tiny brassieres and low waisted skirts—what man could resist you? Not to mention that killer smile of yours, slow and sultry with the loveliest glint in your eyes.

He wants to reach out and touch it. Trace the curve of your lips and see if it holds up. Slip that brassiere from your chest and hear you gasp. Slip his fingers up your skirt and feel the wonders you hide. And he just knows, it would be incredible, that there would an undeniable synergy between the two of you. You would love everything he does—because he’s not doing it to you. He’s doing it for you. For your pleasure. And pleasure, heat, desire you are no stranger to.

But worship is something you would never recognise, if it presents itself to you. And worship is all Zuko has to offer.

You may be his father’s concubine—but you are Queen of Zuko’s heart.

He hates to think of it—the old man’s hands upon your young body. He doesn’t deserve it. Doesn’t deserve you. But Ozai has a habit of taking pretty things and caging them. Of making good use of them, before casting them out. And Zuko cannot bear you suffering the same fate.

You are innocent in a way no one believes of concubines. He finds you sprawled out in the courtyard, often, reading books in silly little voices to yourself—because whores do not have the luxury of friendship. They live solitary lives, punished for the lust of the kings who own them.

Sometimes, you’ll interrupt servants in their paths and kindly take the linens from their hands. Offer to help carry heavy loads or change the sheets of nobles whom you have danced for, the night prior, in your grand shows.

Because no little girl dreams of being a whore. And no whore wants to be regarded as a whore. You are human being, with a heart and spirit and desires beyond flesh. And Zuko can see it, so clearly. It makes his mouth water, makes his chest ache with yearning.

He speaks to you, whenever he gets the chance. Keeps his expression placid, tries to imitate your charm, though charm has never come so easily to him.

Hello, little miss…. Staying out of trouble?

One time, he is fortunate enough that you trip beside him and he catches you by the arm. Tells you to mind your step. You smile in that slow, Coquettish way that dizzies him.

“Thank you, my Lord.” Is all you say and it makes him want to tell you everything.

Tell you that his heart weeps for you on lonely nights. Tell you that looks for you in every room he enters. Tell you that the only person who knows you so well as yourself—is him. Tell you that the thought of father’s cock inside you haunts him and that he dreams of scrubbing you clean, just to dirty you all over again.

Tell you that if he were given a chance, he would love you with all the tenderness in the world.

But he is weak. So he does not.

The fire nation hosts a grand feast and, as always, you are its centre piece. You do the most provocative gyrations, arch your back beautifully against the marble floor and the bells at your ankles tinkle prettily. A scarf is hanged around your neck and you create pleasing shapes with it, an easy smile upon your face. He knows, if anything, you enjoy performing for others. That is your one solace.

You come forward he thinks you’re making a line for the King—but the scarf is suddenly draped around his neck. You’ve pulled him in and he falls into it, rather helplessly. Your noses brush, his cheeks burn, and you smile, like you know what you’ve done to him. It’s like everyone else in the zoom has burned to ash. Only you and him remain. But it only lasts a few seconds. You’re gone before he knows it, dancing in the centre once more.

Azula sniggers cruelly beside him.

He cannot take it any longer. His father be damned.

Tonight, he vows, he will make you his own. So when he stalks to your chambers, after the feast, and knocks on your door—he tells himself that this was inevitable.