Avatar The Last Airbender Fan Fiction ❯ Owned by Fire ❯ Burnt top Ashes - part II ( Chapter 5 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: Andartha 
Being a slave in the Fire Nation is not as bad as it seems….but then things get much, much worse.
Non Anime: Avatar The Last Airbender Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Romance / Drama / Adventure / Angst | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 01.05.2011 | Pages: 3 | Words: 6.3K | Visits: 258 | Status: Completed
Being a slave in the Fire Nation is not as bad as it seems….but then things get much, much worse.
Non Anime: Avatar The Last Airbender Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Romance / Drama / Adventure / Angst | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 01.05.2011 | Pages: 3 | Words: 6.3K | Visits: 258 | Status: Completed
Disclaimer: Avatar: The last Airbender and all the characters therein are the intellectual property of Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko and I, like all the other fans, only get to play with them every once in a while.
Summary: Being a slave in the Fire Nation is not as bad as it seems….but then things get much, much worse.
Author’s note:
Pairing Ozai/OC.
Het.
Flashback that start 18 years before the series.
Sequel to the previous chapters, but following “Burnt to Ashes – part I”, it can also be read as a stand-alone.
Warnings: Use of drugs, some swearing, violence and non-con. NC-17.
She thinks nothing of it as she returns one day to find soldiers at the doctor’s practice. There’s a small garrison nearby where young recruits are trained and every time one of them gets sick or hurt, they bring him or her to the old doctor to take care of it.
She snickers and then sighs as she contemplates patching up one of the recruits yet again. It’s probably Su-Zen. This’d be the third time in just as many months that he’s injured himself pulling one of his wild stunts while trying very hard to impress Hanashi, two years older than he is and one cohort further along in their training. She wonders if she should give him a hint that Hanashi is actually into the bookish type.
That reminds her that tomorrow, she should make a run up to the garrison. Old man Szhen, who teaches strategy and tactics, is running low on his arthritis medicine and she should look in on Lee, who broke his leg falling from a Komodo-Rhino gone wild a month ago.
Lee was pretty down when he couldn’t dispatch to the front with the rest of his squadron, but for her part, she’s pretty happy that he won’t leave until the next cohort does, which is still about half a year away. She likes the young man, who reminds her a bit of her brother, even if he’s more serious and uptight than Hakoda ever was. But Lee always takes responsibility for everybody around him and he has a kind heart.
Hell, the kid once even got in a fight with one of the teachers who was picking on one of the other recruits. Got Lee a month in the bunker as he had known it would. It’s no secret that the Fire Nation Army frowns upon insubordination of any kind. But darn if that teacher didn’t walk away from the confrontation with a broken nose; and he sure as anything never picked on any of the recruits like that again. She still has to suppress a grin each time she sees the guy and the crooked hook that passes for his nose these days.
To some extent, many of the young soldiers here, girls and boy alike, are like Lee when they first arrive at the garrison: kind of heart, friendly and filled with a sense of responsibility. She’s seen a few of them return from the front though, mostly as trainers for the garrison, and the way their once friendly eyes usually have gone hard and cold raises her hackles and makes her growl like a polar bear dog that has scented a pack of armadillo wolves.
Sometimes, she just wishes she could burn all the books that teach these kids so much rubbish about the world and gag the teachers when they start spouting propaganda about how the Fire Nation is superior to all others and how this war, this stupid, horrific war, is justified.
She has had her weak and desperate moments, when she thinks of how some of these young men and women might one day fight her Tribe, her people. Every half year, when another cohort dispatches to the front, her nightmares get worse as she dreams of soot, bloodied snow and the scorched ruins of her home. Sometimes, when she wakes up from one of those nightmares, teeth chattering and tears streaking her face, she considers trying to take as many of the recruits out as she can, maybe with poison, maybe with her waterbending….but then her hands start shaking at the thought of seeing them dead, their blood on her hands and she just can’t do it.
They love their home as much as she loves hers. They are young, naïve and they’ve been lied to all their lives. Not a crime worth being killed for. Besides, none of them would understand why she attacked them. They’d just see it as a barbarous act of betrayal and it would steel their resolve to hunt and kill their enemies in order to protect themselves and their nation.
There’s little enough she can do to fight the war, but that doesn’t keep her from trying. She tells watertribe stories to the village kids, who come to the kitchen window to beg some cookies from her when she bakes them for the old doctor and if any of them ever end up at the South Pole, he or she won’t think only of the glory of the Fire Nation, but also of how Tarrak the Hunter outwitted the Snow Witch or of how Sanee won the secret of ice-fishing from the Turtle-Seals. The Army will have a darn hard time trying to teach these kids that the Water Tribe People are nothing but barbarians that need to be brought into line.
For the trainees, she recommends rest when they get hurt, lots and lots of it, and thanks to that, a few handful of them have been quite late in being dispatched to their posts. Yes, lots of rest is her favourite remedy. It’s just a bit of stalling though, a drop in the ocean in the fight to halt the war.
The soldiers that are waiting at the doctor’s practice…. she does not know them. They haven’t brought anyone sick or injured for treatment either. When the old doctor curtly informs her that a few days ago, someone bought her for quite a steep price, some kind of military commander, and that her new owner has now sent his men to come and collect his property, she feels like the floor has suddenly dropped away beneath her.
The last few years she has quietly and contentedly done the doctor’s bidding…but then, he never asked her to do anything that she didn’t want to do. She knew that even though people considered her a slave, she was safe here, in this village and that she had nothing to fear from the doctor or anybody really, as long as she didn’t attract undue attention to herself. A new owner, and a military man at that, is likely to be a whole different kind of fish: the kind that will capsize her boat and then rip her apart with teeth sharper than her brother’s best knife.
The soldiers have to drag her from the house, screaming and kicking, leaving the old, bewildered man behind. It takes four men to chain her and drag her into the prison cart, a windowless metal box on wheels, and when the door clangs shut behind her, the sighs of relief from the soldiers are audible.
She is screams until she is hoarse and hammers at the walls until her hands bleed, then, tired and beaten, she sags into a corner and cries.
What her new owner wants her for….there are two major alternatives and neither of them is good.
He could have bought her for her healing abilities, but that’s just a slim chance. She’s no officially trained Fire Nation Doctor or Healer, but maybe word got out that she’s good. It’s a hope worth clinging too, because she can live with being someone’s healer, as long as she’s not dragged to the battlefront. She won’t speed up the healing of wounded soldiers so they can conquer the rest of the world just that much faster…she WON’T. But she might not be given much choice.
The other reason why he might have bought her….just thinking about it makes her nauseous. He might be looking for someone to warm his bed…and if it comes to the worst, the beds of his men too.
What in the names of the spirits shall she do if it comes to that?
Living as someone’s slave is harsh enough…
Living as someone’s whore? Bitter death seems sweet compared to that.
The thought that she’d go down fighting brings little respite.
The journey takes five days. She receives little food and even less water. They blindfold her when they let her out to relieve herself and she has no idea where they are going. Fortunately, the Fire Lord has seen to it that all the roads in his Empire are in fine condition, so at least she isn’t too sore from being bumped around. The first two days she can’t sleep, not one wink, sick with worry of what her future will bring. When she finally dozes off some time during the third day, it is anything but restful. She dreams of cold golden eyes and she wakes up panting for breath and bathed in sweat. When they finally arrive at their destination, she is weak from lack of food and crazy from thirst. This time, it only takes one guard to bring her under control and he hardly needs to make an effort at all.
She is dragged through arching hallways and artfully decorated cast iron gates, but she can hardly keep her eyes open to pay attention and she is as unsteady on her feet as if she were falling down drunk.
They dump her in front of a prim, stern looking guy who haughtily informs her that he is the head steward and that it is his duty to see to it that the new slaves are clean and properly clothed before beginning their service. And that, if a new slave is good and obedient, it will get some water and will be fed.
The new slave in question it too worn out and to tired to care about her fate anymore. The only thing she cares about is getting at least one sip of water and only too late she notices the funny taste when they finally hand her something to drink.
She was in no shape to fight when she arrived and whatever is in the food and water that they hand her keeps it that way. As they scrub her down, wash and trim the hair on her head, remove whatever hair she has left in other places, bathe her, and soften her skin with rich lotions she is as compliant and helpless as a newborn kitten.
Only dimly does she notice when a smith comes in and replaces the slave rings on her wrists and ankles with new ones which are plated with gold and fitted with an additional, smaller ring on a hinge on the outside. Even in her stupor, she shivers as she thinks about how easy this will make it for her new owner to tie her up, should he wish to do so.
In the evening, she is locked into a simple and clean cell, containing no more than a pallet and blanket. The woolly feeling in her head and in her limbs turns into a dreamless sleep as soon as she lies down. For the next few days the routine is repeated almost exactly. A drug laced breakfast which will be forced down her throat if she won’t eat it on her own, followed by a bath, a massage with scented oils, more food, more trimming and grooming of her body, until what she sees when she catches a glance at herself in a mirror might just as well be a pretty doll, the favourite toy of a young girl with rich parents.
One morning, she awakes and they don’t come for her. The jug of water that has been left for her tastes clean and pure. She waits. She paces. She sits on the pallet and picks apart the threads of her blanket. She tries singing to herself and reciting poems. She waits.
In the late afternoon, they fetch her. She contemplates fighting them, but they’d only drug her again and so she doesn’t. She’d rather go to her doom with a clear mind and a body that’s ready to fight, than with a mind as fuzzy as a ball of tangled wool and limbs as pliable as a dolls’. She offers no resistance as they bathe her, wash her hair and then finally dress her in soft layers of robes, first pink, then purple, then red. They give her a light meal of fruit and rice cakes and she takes it. No sense in going into battle all weak from lack of sustenance, even if the food feels like it’s a condemned man’s last meal and every bite remains tasteless in her mouth.
After the meal, as the head steward and a set of guards usher her through dimly lit corridors and empty hallways, guarded gates and vast courtyards, her palms are sweaty and her heart hammers as violently as if it were trying to dig a way out of her chest.
The last set of gates they pass lead them right into a set of luxurious living quarters. She does not know much about art or whatever extravagances the rich waste their wealth on, but the colours of lavish tapestries, the intricate shapes of statues, the delicate patterns decorating vases and doors, the books and scrolls littering shelves and desks, the sheer amount of rooms they lead her through….it staggers her mind.
If a whole family of her tribe can live in one single tent, then how can one man require so much space and so many things?
She unconsciously chews her lips as she thinks of the amount of guards such a man can afford and command. Her feet tell her to run, to make a mad dash for the nearest exit, to find some water, even if it is just a puddle and to use it to clear her path…but in her heart, she knows that whatever she does, she’ll be dead or re-captured before she has as much as reached the outer walls of this building.
Her musings are cut short as the head steward pinches her elbow and snidely tells her to stop mangling her mouth since it was hard enough to make her look presentable as it is.
They stop before a large door, inlaid with a pattern of golden flames. The head steward opens the door and goes through with her, leaving the guards that escorted them behind. The room is brightly lit by a sea of candles, and it blinds her for a moment. Before her eyes can adjust, the head steward beside her has bowed deeply, turned and left the room again, shutting the door with an audible click. She couldn’t stand the guy, but now, suddenly, she fervently wishes he was still here by her side.
As she starts taking in her surroundings, she has to ball her hands into fist to keep them from visibly shaking. The gigantic bed in the middle of the room, its drapes flaming in scarlet and copper, is bad enough.
But the thing that makes her mouth goes dry with fear is the man standing at the wide open door that opens up to a small garden.
His back is turned towards her, but she can tell that he is tall, more than a head taller than her and she is no small woman, even though she is slender. His shoulders are broad and the dark red robe he wears does not hide the fact that he has the physique of a well trained warrior. Some of his sable hair is tied up in a topknot, like almost all Fire Nation men wear, but the rest of it hangs open, reaching down to the middle of his back.
Some small and frantic part of her had hoped that her new owner would be old and decrepit. Or maybe he would be very young. Or crippled. Somebody…anybody she could fight or bargain with. But the man she sees before her? She has a snowball’s chance in hell of defending her honour against him.
As if held by an evil spell, she can’t move, she can’t think. All she can do is listen to the rushing of blood in her ears as her body goes cold as ice.
Then the man turns and she falls into the very golden eyes that have haunted her sweetest dreams as well as her nightmares for more than ten years.
“Hello there, little thief.” he purrs. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
She swallows. His voice has deepened. He has grown a chin-beard that adds to the compelling lines of his face and his shoulders are broader than they were when they first met.
Before her stands a man, fully grown, strong, powerful, confident and not the young man barely out of his teens she met over a decade ago. But it is him.
And yes, he can still make butterflies flutter in her stomach, despite the fact that he is Fire Nation and despite the fact that he was the one who captured her and sent her to prison.
And yes, at the sight of him, her loathing for what he is still blazes forth like heat from a furnace, now more than ever.
The heated rush of hatred unfreezes the spell and fills her like an ocean trying to fit itself inside a teacup. All doubt and all fear are swept away and her eyes narrow and she slips into a fighting stance Hakoda drilled into her when she was twelve.
If the guy wants to pick things up where they left off the last time, fine, so be it.
What she knows of fighting won’t buy her victory, but she WILL hurt him before she goes down.
He just chuckles at her antics and leisurely walks towards her, stopping just outside her reach.
Like a buyer at a cattle market, he looks her up and down, as if considering if she was worth the asking price. There’s a smirk on his face and she feels her cheeks grow hot.
The low growl coming from her throat doesn’t seem quite human and she sneers at him.
“You waited for me? Too bad. I was hoping I’d never see your ugly mug again. You were an arrogant asshole prick when we first met and now you look like someone died and made you King of all the Asshole Pricks in the World.”
She hadn’t expected him to laugh at that, a slow, rolling laugh like thunder in the distance. A smirk curls his lips like fire will curl burning leaves, all heat and ashes.
“And I thought you might have learned your place by now. But don’t worry, I’ll show you.”
Then he starts to circle her, slowly, like a lionshark, knowing his prey can’t get away, but drawing out the hunt and the kill just for the fun of it. She turns with him, eyes fixed on his every move, trying to be ready for when he finally attacks. But keeping the fighting stance while turning requires fancy footwork and she never got a full training as a warrior.
There’s no tell-tale movement of the eyes or the shoulders when he comes for her. He is good, terribly good and it’s only the patient teachings of her brother that save her.
“If they’re tall, go for the feet” Hakoda used to tell her, so in the last instant, she manages to drop into a crouch, narrowly avoiding his blow to her midriff. With a turning kick she aims for his shin. She gets lucky, or maybe it’s just his arrogance that made him underestimate her, but her kick manages to connect, right above the outer side of his ankle, and there’s an audible little crack. He spits out a curse and to her great satisfaction, the arrogant smirk on his face is replaced with an angry snarl. She has gotten under his skin; good.
She rolls out of his way and comes up again, but he is fast, too fast for her, and she hadn’t expected him to use his hurt leg for a kick of his own. He sweeps her from her feet and she has to roll again to get away before she comes up once more.
They face each other, circling around each other like a pair of angry cats. He is smiling again and she can feel cold sweat trickling down her back. Her nerve breaks and she attacks first, but he is waiting for her, grabbing her arm and shoulder and throws her over his hip. She hits the floor, hard, and before she can move out of the way, he is on top of her, just like when they first met, but she has been waiting for this and she bites his shoulder. With a yell, he rears back and she follows up with a punch to his throat, but he’s barely within reach, so she doesn’t do more than graze his skin.
He backhands her and she sees stars. Before her head clears, he has stood up and lifted her up in his arms, cradling her for a heartbeat like a lover would. Her ears are still ringing as he tosses her onto the bed and follows quickly, covering her body with his once more.
She struggles as he takes her arms, one by one, but he is stronger by far and overpowers her with ease. He has no problems fastening her slave rings to the chains set into the upper side of the bed.
They are both panting with exertion as he lies on top of her.
He likes the way her cheeks are flushed with rage.
Her eyes, burning with unrestrained fury, are as blue like the summer sky, just like he remembers them. She clenches her teeth and sneers as she sees the amused sparkle in his.
His breath calms a lot faster than hers does. He keeps his eyes locked on hers as he raises himself on one arm and reaches for her robes with the other. His fingers slip past the layers: red, purple, pink, and then he’s touching her skin. She bucks underneath him, violently, and yells at him to let her go, calls him a bastard and tells him that if he does this, she will hate him forever, but he just waits, his fingers splayed over her chest just below the collarbone, until she has spent all her energy and all her anger. As he begins to slowly explore her body with his hand, she closes her eyes and tears start slipping over her cheeks.
He gently pinches one nipple until it hardens, then opens the sash fastening her robes so he can pull them further apart ever so slowly. He bends down and his mouth, hot and wet, fastens on the hardened nipple and he gently starts suckling, his tongue teasing her with quick little licks and long, sensuous strokes. She shudders and fights to hold the moan back that threatens to spill from her lips. It seems like the warmth of his mouth is spreading in waves from her breast to the rest of her body and an incredible heat gathers low in her belly; a thunderstorm waiting to break.
The only thing still covering her are the sleeves of her robes and she doesn’t even get to keep those. First on one side, then on the other, his hands slip inside the sleeves, pulling them taut. As his fingers slide along the fabric on the inside, the sleeves part and fall away, the tang of burnt silk sharp in the air. Once he’s done, he starts caressing one of her naked arms with his hand and she gasps as he strokes the skin just above the crook of her arm.
His mouth switches to her other nipple, but the pad of his thumb continues to tease the first one and she can’t hold her moans back any longer. The hardness of his cock is pressing into her leg and she knows what is to come and what she will be unable to prevent. Regret, sadness and humiliation mingle with the arousal he has pulled from her unwilling body, but they are not able to douse the flames he has ignited within her.
He pushes himself up further to look at her and slips a bit to one side, his mouth leaving her nipple, and his hand moves deeper. Her eyes fly open, fixing onto his and once more she arches and twists her body, trying to throw him off, but between the chains holding down her arms and his leg, which he has casually flung over hers, he keeps her pinned down. His hand rests on her belly, heavy and warm, until she calms down again. Then his hand continues its journey downwards.
When his fingers dip between the folds of her womanhood, only to find them slick and wet, his smile is that of a cat that got the cream. “Whore” he calls her and she burns with shame.
For the first time in her life, she prays for death, just so this encounter would find an end, but one doesn’t die from having all dignity, all choice stripped away.
Instead, she only grows wetter as his fingers rub and press on the little nub just above her entrance. He laughs and she looks away.
He takes his time, a touch here, a kiss there, exploring every inch of her body that he can reach without letting her go. It doesn’t take long and she comes undone, trembling and crying, a whispered “…no no no no no no….” her mantra, only interrupted when he teases an especially sensitive spot and she can’t hold back a moan, denial and ecstasy fighting for dominance in her voice.
When he stops touching her and sits back, kneeling over her thighs, she is relieved at first. Her breath is coming in fast little pants and her whole body is covered in sweat. A small smile, full of satisfaction, plays around his lips as he gives her time enough to recover. It is not enough time so that she can focus again, but not enough to let the strange mix of tension and languid abandon that has settled inside of her dissipate.
Once he is sure that she is aware enough to understand what he is about to do to her, he reaches for the belt of his robe and slowly, very slowly, unties it. After discarding the belt, he unhurriedly slips his robes from his shoulders. Some distant part in her notes that his shoulders are indeed as broad as she thought them to be; and that his body is as well muscled as it had seemed while it was still hidden beneath his clothes.
She starts shaking her head, as if her denial might change anything. Even knowing it is futile, she starts to beg.
“No, please, don’t do this….please, don’t….please….”
He leans down and silences her with a slow, unexpectedly tender kiss. His fingers however nestle at the strings of his pants with a newfound urgency. A short shift of his body and one shove at the last garment covering him and he is as naked as she is.
One last time she tries to jerk away, but he just uses her movement to wedge a knee between her thighs. He’s lying on top of her now, fully naked, and his kiss grows hungrier, wilder. He slips his other knee between her legs too. His teeth nip at her lips, but she clenches her mouth shut, trying to deny him access to her body. More amused than upset by her attempt to defend her herself, he chuckles and rubs his cock against her cleft.
In vain, she tries to clamp down on the thrill of pleasure that runs through her body like miniature lightning as he repeats the movement.
Then, he hooks his arms beneath her knees and spreads her wide open for him.
“I will teach you to say yes to me” he half-laughs and half-snarls and with a sharp thrust he buries himself inside her to the hilt. She cries out as her maidenhead tears beneath his brutal assault, her voice high and sharp like breaking porcelain. He stops moving, surprised by the fact that he just split a barrier he hadn’t expected to be there anymore.
She feels frozen, inside and out. Touching her in intimate places should have been reserved for someone with whom she wanted to spend the rest of her life with, someone she trusted, someone she loved. But this hateful stranger has viciously taken what should have been rightfully given to one close to her heart. Numbly, she thinks that now, all the water in the oceans won’t be sufficient to clean her of the taint of his touch.
He does not care about any of this. On the contrary, the smile that settles on his face once he has processed the situation is inordinately pleased. He kisses her again and whispers in her ear “I see you’ve been a good girl all these years. Don’t worry, you’ll get something nice tomorrow to reward you for your good behaviour.”
Beneath him, she has started trembling and shivering as if she were freezing to death. Again, he waits for her to calm down, holding himself still above her to give her time to adjust to his length and his girth and to what he is doing with her.
He wants her to pay attention to him and him only when he fucks her, and not to whatever thoughts might be bothering her. She is his slave and he will teach her that every inch of her and every thought she has are his now.
Once she has quieted down, he starts moving inside of her, slowly at first but going faster ever so patiently. His mouth is back on her nipple, sucking, licking, while his hands stroke and tease all the sensitive spots he mapped out earlier. He’s playing her like an instrument and she can’t stop herself from coming alive under his touch, just like before, moaning as his thrusts hit something….something inside her and it’s as unstoppable and undeniable as waves cresting and crashing onto a cliff. He fills her in places she didn’t know were empty and aching for someone to fill them and without thinking about it, she arches her hips to meet his.
It’s a gradual change, but his control is slipping too. His breath comes faster and the hands caressing her moments before are now grasping her hard, almost bruising her flesh. She hardly notices, fighting not be washed away by the tide he has called up inside her. He buries his face in her hair, inhaling deeply and marvelling at her scent, a mix of salt and foreign spices and smoke and snow; he feels like a blind man amazed by the sudden sight of the rising sun.
She loses her fight, not sure she wants to win anymore, and white hot pleasure fills every part of her, overpowering her, body, mind and soul, drowning out conscious thought.
The last thing she sees is the sight of him arching back, eyes scrunched closed, lips slightly parting in ecstasy.
The last thing she feels is his seed spilling into her.
The last thing she hears is his voice, half-growl, half-moan, saying “MINE.”
Author’s note:
Non-Con fantasies. I’ve wondered for quite some time what makes them so interesting to read / write. The answer I’ve come up with is this: We live in a society where we are often taught that sex is “bad” and that people, especially girls / women shouldn’t actively want it. If a girl actually wants sex, then she’s a “bad girl”. The only way to have sex AND stay a “good girl” is to have sex that you’re not responsible for because you DON’T want it: non-con. Non-con fantasies let you eat the cake and keep it too.
Does this mean that girls / women want non-con for realz? Uhm, no. Non-con is fun as long as it remains a fantasy, pretty much like watching Jurassic Park or one of the Aliens movies is fun. It’s great to watch, but you sure as hell wouldn’t want to actually experience that kind of situation.
Also, just so we’re clear on this: What Ozai does to Kian in this chapter isn’t dub-con or a case of “the lady doth protest too much”. It’s rape. Full, flat-out rape.
Someone might say “But she’s attracted to him!” and yes, she is…but she also says “No” and means it and it’s that “No” which is important. Kian’s a fully grown woman and she knows what she wants from a bed-partner and that sure as hell is more than just hotness.
So…what about a rape victim feeling pleasure while being raped? Well, often, human bodies just react to physical stimuli, regardless of how we feel or think about it, and it’s not uncommon for rape victims to be physically stimulated by what is being done to them. If you don’t believe me: ever tried to voluntarily stop shivering when you’re really, really cold?
Feeling physical pleasure doesn’t make the experience of being raped less degrading or less awful…quite the contrary actually, because a lot of victims are ashamed of the way their bodies reacted and they wonder if they might be in part responsible. They’re not. “No” means exactly that: NO.
On the subject of virginity:
When I grew up in the 80’s there were a lot of romance novels out there where the heroine is deflowered by the hero with much breaching of barriers and bleeding on the sheets.
Most of the time, in real life, that’s complete humbug.
The hymen or corona usually degrades into almost nothing as a woman / girl grows older. It stretches with physical activity too. Plus, it doesn’t fully cover a woman’s entrance anyway, otherwise we’d be in real trouble once our monthlies set in.
So mostly, when someone who is past puberty does the horizontal mambo for the first time, there’s usually not much left that can act as a barrier in any form. However, I’ve taken the liberty of making Kian one of the rather small percentage of women that have a rather thick corona, so yeah, we get the whole “breaching of barriers and bleeding on the sheets” thing.
It made sense for Kian to be still a virgin since she’s been on the run and/or living in enemy territory for all her adult life and there just never was anybody she would have felt comfortable about getting in the sheets with. Plus, there was that pesky memory of a pair of golden eyes looking at her.
As for Ozai, he has all kinds of things he’s telling himself to justify what he’s doing…but I didn’t want “hey, she’s damaged goods anyway” to be one of them. I’m an 8o’s girl, so sue me. ^_~
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Summary: Being a slave in the Fire Nation is not as bad as it seems….but then things get much, much worse.
Author’s note:
Pairing Ozai/OC.
Het.
Flashback that start 18 years before the series.
Sequel to the previous chapters, but following “Burnt to Ashes – part I”, it can also be read as a stand-alone.
Warnings: Use of drugs, some swearing, violence and non-con. NC-17.
She thinks nothing of it as she returns one day to find soldiers at the doctor’s practice. There’s a small garrison nearby where young recruits are trained and every time one of them gets sick or hurt, they bring him or her to the old doctor to take care of it.
She snickers and then sighs as she contemplates patching up one of the recruits yet again. It’s probably Su-Zen. This’d be the third time in just as many months that he’s injured himself pulling one of his wild stunts while trying very hard to impress Hanashi, two years older than he is and one cohort further along in their training. She wonders if she should give him a hint that Hanashi is actually into the bookish type.
That reminds her that tomorrow, she should make a run up to the garrison. Old man Szhen, who teaches strategy and tactics, is running low on his arthritis medicine and she should look in on Lee, who broke his leg falling from a Komodo-Rhino gone wild a month ago.
Lee was pretty down when he couldn’t dispatch to the front with the rest of his squadron, but for her part, she’s pretty happy that he won’t leave until the next cohort does, which is still about half a year away. She likes the young man, who reminds her a bit of her brother, even if he’s more serious and uptight than Hakoda ever was. But Lee always takes responsibility for everybody around him and he has a kind heart.
Hell, the kid once even got in a fight with one of the teachers who was picking on one of the other recruits. Got Lee a month in the bunker as he had known it would. It’s no secret that the Fire Nation Army frowns upon insubordination of any kind. But darn if that teacher didn’t walk away from the confrontation with a broken nose; and he sure as anything never picked on any of the recruits like that again. She still has to suppress a grin each time she sees the guy and the crooked hook that passes for his nose these days.
To some extent, many of the young soldiers here, girls and boy alike, are like Lee when they first arrive at the garrison: kind of heart, friendly and filled with a sense of responsibility. She’s seen a few of them return from the front though, mostly as trainers for the garrison, and the way their once friendly eyes usually have gone hard and cold raises her hackles and makes her growl like a polar bear dog that has scented a pack of armadillo wolves.
Sometimes, she just wishes she could burn all the books that teach these kids so much rubbish about the world and gag the teachers when they start spouting propaganda about how the Fire Nation is superior to all others and how this war, this stupid, horrific war, is justified.
She has had her weak and desperate moments, when she thinks of how some of these young men and women might one day fight her Tribe, her people. Every half year, when another cohort dispatches to the front, her nightmares get worse as she dreams of soot, bloodied snow and the scorched ruins of her home. Sometimes, when she wakes up from one of those nightmares, teeth chattering and tears streaking her face, she considers trying to take as many of the recruits out as she can, maybe with poison, maybe with her waterbending….but then her hands start shaking at the thought of seeing them dead, their blood on her hands and she just can’t do it.
They love their home as much as she loves hers. They are young, naïve and they’ve been lied to all their lives. Not a crime worth being killed for. Besides, none of them would understand why she attacked them. They’d just see it as a barbarous act of betrayal and it would steel their resolve to hunt and kill their enemies in order to protect themselves and their nation.
There’s little enough she can do to fight the war, but that doesn’t keep her from trying. She tells watertribe stories to the village kids, who come to the kitchen window to beg some cookies from her when she bakes them for the old doctor and if any of them ever end up at the South Pole, he or she won’t think only of the glory of the Fire Nation, but also of how Tarrak the Hunter outwitted the Snow Witch or of how Sanee won the secret of ice-fishing from the Turtle-Seals. The Army will have a darn hard time trying to teach these kids that the Water Tribe People are nothing but barbarians that need to be brought into line.
For the trainees, she recommends rest when they get hurt, lots and lots of it, and thanks to that, a few handful of them have been quite late in being dispatched to their posts. Yes, lots of rest is her favourite remedy. It’s just a bit of stalling though, a drop in the ocean in the fight to halt the war.
The soldiers that are waiting at the doctor’s practice…. she does not know them. They haven’t brought anyone sick or injured for treatment either. When the old doctor curtly informs her that a few days ago, someone bought her for quite a steep price, some kind of military commander, and that her new owner has now sent his men to come and collect his property, she feels like the floor has suddenly dropped away beneath her.
The last few years she has quietly and contentedly done the doctor’s bidding…but then, he never asked her to do anything that she didn’t want to do. She knew that even though people considered her a slave, she was safe here, in this village and that she had nothing to fear from the doctor or anybody really, as long as she didn’t attract undue attention to herself. A new owner, and a military man at that, is likely to be a whole different kind of fish: the kind that will capsize her boat and then rip her apart with teeth sharper than her brother’s best knife.
The soldiers have to drag her from the house, screaming and kicking, leaving the old, bewildered man behind. It takes four men to chain her and drag her into the prison cart, a windowless metal box on wheels, and when the door clangs shut behind her, the sighs of relief from the soldiers are audible.
She is screams until she is hoarse and hammers at the walls until her hands bleed, then, tired and beaten, she sags into a corner and cries.
What her new owner wants her for….there are two major alternatives and neither of them is good.
He could have bought her for her healing abilities, but that’s just a slim chance. She’s no officially trained Fire Nation Doctor or Healer, but maybe word got out that she’s good. It’s a hope worth clinging too, because she can live with being someone’s healer, as long as she’s not dragged to the battlefront. She won’t speed up the healing of wounded soldiers so they can conquer the rest of the world just that much faster…she WON’T. But she might not be given much choice.
The other reason why he might have bought her….just thinking about it makes her nauseous. He might be looking for someone to warm his bed…and if it comes to the worst, the beds of his men too.
What in the names of the spirits shall she do if it comes to that?
Living as someone’s slave is harsh enough…
Living as someone’s whore? Bitter death seems sweet compared to that.
The thought that she’d go down fighting brings little respite.
The journey takes five days. She receives little food and even less water. They blindfold her when they let her out to relieve herself and she has no idea where they are going. Fortunately, the Fire Lord has seen to it that all the roads in his Empire are in fine condition, so at least she isn’t too sore from being bumped around. The first two days she can’t sleep, not one wink, sick with worry of what her future will bring. When she finally dozes off some time during the third day, it is anything but restful. She dreams of cold golden eyes and she wakes up panting for breath and bathed in sweat. When they finally arrive at their destination, she is weak from lack of food and crazy from thirst. This time, it only takes one guard to bring her under control and he hardly needs to make an effort at all.
She is dragged through arching hallways and artfully decorated cast iron gates, but she can hardly keep her eyes open to pay attention and she is as unsteady on her feet as if she were falling down drunk.
They dump her in front of a prim, stern looking guy who haughtily informs her that he is the head steward and that it is his duty to see to it that the new slaves are clean and properly clothed before beginning their service. And that, if a new slave is good and obedient, it will get some water and will be fed.
The new slave in question it too worn out and to tired to care about her fate anymore. The only thing she cares about is getting at least one sip of water and only too late she notices the funny taste when they finally hand her something to drink.
She was in no shape to fight when she arrived and whatever is in the food and water that they hand her keeps it that way. As they scrub her down, wash and trim the hair on her head, remove whatever hair she has left in other places, bathe her, and soften her skin with rich lotions she is as compliant and helpless as a newborn kitten.
Only dimly does she notice when a smith comes in and replaces the slave rings on her wrists and ankles with new ones which are plated with gold and fitted with an additional, smaller ring on a hinge on the outside. Even in her stupor, she shivers as she thinks about how easy this will make it for her new owner to tie her up, should he wish to do so.
In the evening, she is locked into a simple and clean cell, containing no more than a pallet and blanket. The woolly feeling in her head and in her limbs turns into a dreamless sleep as soon as she lies down. For the next few days the routine is repeated almost exactly. A drug laced breakfast which will be forced down her throat if she won’t eat it on her own, followed by a bath, a massage with scented oils, more food, more trimming and grooming of her body, until what she sees when she catches a glance at herself in a mirror might just as well be a pretty doll, the favourite toy of a young girl with rich parents.
One morning, she awakes and they don’t come for her. The jug of water that has been left for her tastes clean and pure. She waits. She paces. She sits on the pallet and picks apart the threads of her blanket. She tries singing to herself and reciting poems. She waits.
In the late afternoon, they fetch her. She contemplates fighting them, but they’d only drug her again and so she doesn’t. She’d rather go to her doom with a clear mind and a body that’s ready to fight, than with a mind as fuzzy as a ball of tangled wool and limbs as pliable as a dolls’. She offers no resistance as they bathe her, wash her hair and then finally dress her in soft layers of robes, first pink, then purple, then red. They give her a light meal of fruit and rice cakes and she takes it. No sense in going into battle all weak from lack of sustenance, even if the food feels like it’s a condemned man’s last meal and every bite remains tasteless in her mouth.
After the meal, as the head steward and a set of guards usher her through dimly lit corridors and empty hallways, guarded gates and vast courtyards, her palms are sweaty and her heart hammers as violently as if it were trying to dig a way out of her chest.
The last set of gates they pass lead them right into a set of luxurious living quarters. She does not know much about art or whatever extravagances the rich waste their wealth on, but the colours of lavish tapestries, the intricate shapes of statues, the delicate patterns decorating vases and doors, the books and scrolls littering shelves and desks, the sheer amount of rooms they lead her through….it staggers her mind.
If a whole family of her tribe can live in one single tent, then how can one man require so much space and so many things?
She unconsciously chews her lips as she thinks of the amount of guards such a man can afford and command. Her feet tell her to run, to make a mad dash for the nearest exit, to find some water, even if it is just a puddle and to use it to clear her path…but in her heart, she knows that whatever she does, she’ll be dead or re-captured before she has as much as reached the outer walls of this building.
Her musings are cut short as the head steward pinches her elbow and snidely tells her to stop mangling her mouth since it was hard enough to make her look presentable as it is.
They stop before a large door, inlaid with a pattern of golden flames. The head steward opens the door and goes through with her, leaving the guards that escorted them behind. The room is brightly lit by a sea of candles, and it blinds her for a moment. Before her eyes can adjust, the head steward beside her has bowed deeply, turned and left the room again, shutting the door with an audible click. She couldn’t stand the guy, but now, suddenly, she fervently wishes he was still here by her side.
As she starts taking in her surroundings, she has to ball her hands into fist to keep them from visibly shaking. The gigantic bed in the middle of the room, its drapes flaming in scarlet and copper, is bad enough.
But the thing that makes her mouth goes dry with fear is the man standing at the wide open door that opens up to a small garden.
His back is turned towards her, but she can tell that he is tall, more than a head taller than her and she is no small woman, even though she is slender. His shoulders are broad and the dark red robe he wears does not hide the fact that he has the physique of a well trained warrior. Some of his sable hair is tied up in a topknot, like almost all Fire Nation men wear, but the rest of it hangs open, reaching down to the middle of his back.
Some small and frantic part of her had hoped that her new owner would be old and decrepit. Or maybe he would be very young. Or crippled. Somebody…anybody she could fight or bargain with. But the man she sees before her? She has a snowball’s chance in hell of defending her honour against him.
As if held by an evil spell, she can’t move, she can’t think. All she can do is listen to the rushing of blood in her ears as her body goes cold as ice.
Then the man turns and she falls into the very golden eyes that have haunted her sweetest dreams as well as her nightmares for more than ten years.
“Hello there, little thief.” he purrs. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
She swallows. His voice has deepened. He has grown a chin-beard that adds to the compelling lines of his face and his shoulders are broader than they were when they first met.
Before her stands a man, fully grown, strong, powerful, confident and not the young man barely out of his teens she met over a decade ago. But it is him.
And yes, he can still make butterflies flutter in her stomach, despite the fact that he is Fire Nation and despite the fact that he was the one who captured her and sent her to prison.
And yes, at the sight of him, her loathing for what he is still blazes forth like heat from a furnace, now more than ever.
The heated rush of hatred unfreezes the spell and fills her like an ocean trying to fit itself inside a teacup. All doubt and all fear are swept away and her eyes narrow and she slips into a fighting stance Hakoda drilled into her when she was twelve.
If the guy wants to pick things up where they left off the last time, fine, so be it.
What she knows of fighting won’t buy her victory, but she WILL hurt him before she goes down.
He just chuckles at her antics and leisurely walks towards her, stopping just outside her reach.
Like a buyer at a cattle market, he looks her up and down, as if considering if she was worth the asking price. There’s a smirk on his face and she feels her cheeks grow hot.
The low growl coming from her throat doesn’t seem quite human and she sneers at him.
“You waited for me? Too bad. I was hoping I’d never see your ugly mug again. You were an arrogant asshole prick when we first met and now you look like someone died and made you King of all the Asshole Pricks in the World.”
She hadn’t expected him to laugh at that, a slow, rolling laugh like thunder in the distance. A smirk curls his lips like fire will curl burning leaves, all heat and ashes.
“And I thought you might have learned your place by now. But don’t worry, I’ll show you.”
Then he starts to circle her, slowly, like a lionshark, knowing his prey can’t get away, but drawing out the hunt and the kill just for the fun of it. She turns with him, eyes fixed on his every move, trying to be ready for when he finally attacks. But keeping the fighting stance while turning requires fancy footwork and she never got a full training as a warrior.
There’s no tell-tale movement of the eyes or the shoulders when he comes for her. He is good, terribly good and it’s only the patient teachings of her brother that save her.
“If they’re tall, go for the feet” Hakoda used to tell her, so in the last instant, she manages to drop into a crouch, narrowly avoiding his blow to her midriff. With a turning kick she aims for his shin. She gets lucky, or maybe it’s just his arrogance that made him underestimate her, but her kick manages to connect, right above the outer side of his ankle, and there’s an audible little crack. He spits out a curse and to her great satisfaction, the arrogant smirk on his face is replaced with an angry snarl. She has gotten under his skin; good.
She rolls out of his way and comes up again, but he is fast, too fast for her, and she hadn’t expected him to use his hurt leg for a kick of his own. He sweeps her from her feet and she has to roll again to get away before she comes up once more.
They face each other, circling around each other like a pair of angry cats. He is smiling again and she can feel cold sweat trickling down her back. Her nerve breaks and she attacks first, but he is waiting for her, grabbing her arm and shoulder and throws her over his hip. She hits the floor, hard, and before she can move out of the way, he is on top of her, just like when they first met, but she has been waiting for this and she bites his shoulder. With a yell, he rears back and she follows up with a punch to his throat, but he’s barely within reach, so she doesn’t do more than graze his skin.
He backhands her and she sees stars. Before her head clears, he has stood up and lifted her up in his arms, cradling her for a heartbeat like a lover would. Her ears are still ringing as he tosses her onto the bed and follows quickly, covering her body with his once more.
She struggles as he takes her arms, one by one, but he is stronger by far and overpowers her with ease. He has no problems fastening her slave rings to the chains set into the upper side of the bed.
They are both panting with exertion as he lies on top of her.
He likes the way her cheeks are flushed with rage.
Her eyes, burning with unrestrained fury, are as blue like the summer sky, just like he remembers them. She clenches her teeth and sneers as she sees the amused sparkle in his.
His breath calms a lot faster than hers does. He keeps his eyes locked on hers as he raises himself on one arm and reaches for her robes with the other. His fingers slip past the layers: red, purple, pink, and then he’s touching her skin. She bucks underneath him, violently, and yells at him to let her go, calls him a bastard and tells him that if he does this, she will hate him forever, but he just waits, his fingers splayed over her chest just below the collarbone, until she has spent all her energy and all her anger. As he begins to slowly explore her body with his hand, she closes her eyes and tears start slipping over her cheeks.
He gently pinches one nipple until it hardens, then opens the sash fastening her robes so he can pull them further apart ever so slowly. He bends down and his mouth, hot and wet, fastens on the hardened nipple and he gently starts suckling, his tongue teasing her with quick little licks and long, sensuous strokes. She shudders and fights to hold the moan back that threatens to spill from her lips. It seems like the warmth of his mouth is spreading in waves from her breast to the rest of her body and an incredible heat gathers low in her belly; a thunderstorm waiting to break.
The only thing still covering her are the sleeves of her robes and she doesn’t even get to keep those. First on one side, then on the other, his hands slip inside the sleeves, pulling them taut. As his fingers slide along the fabric on the inside, the sleeves part and fall away, the tang of burnt silk sharp in the air. Once he’s done, he starts caressing one of her naked arms with his hand and she gasps as he strokes the skin just above the crook of her arm.
His mouth switches to her other nipple, but the pad of his thumb continues to tease the first one and she can’t hold her moans back any longer. The hardness of his cock is pressing into her leg and she knows what is to come and what she will be unable to prevent. Regret, sadness and humiliation mingle with the arousal he has pulled from her unwilling body, but they are not able to douse the flames he has ignited within her.
He pushes himself up further to look at her and slips a bit to one side, his mouth leaving her nipple, and his hand moves deeper. Her eyes fly open, fixing onto his and once more she arches and twists her body, trying to throw him off, but between the chains holding down her arms and his leg, which he has casually flung over hers, he keeps her pinned down. His hand rests on her belly, heavy and warm, until she calms down again. Then his hand continues its journey downwards.
When his fingers dip between the folds of her womanhood, only to find them slick and wet, his smile is that of a cat that got the cream. “Whore” he calls her and she burns with shame.
For the first time in her life, she prays for death, just so this encounter would find an end, but one doesn’t die from having all dignity, all choice stripped away.
Instead, she only grows wetter as his fingers rub and press on the little nub just above her entrance. He laughs and she looks away.
He takes his time, a touch here, a kiss there, exploring every inch of her body that he can reach without letting her go. It doesn’t take long and she comes undone, trembling and crying, a whispered “…no no no no no no….” her mantra, only interrupted when he teases an especially sensitive spot and she can’t hold back a moan, denial and ecstasy fighting for dominance in her voice.
When he stops touching her and sits back, kneeling over her thighs, she is relieved at first. Her breath is coming in fast little pants and her whole body is covered in sweat. A small smile, full of satisfaction, plays around his lips as he gives her time enough to recover. It is not enough time so that she can focus again, but not enough to let the strange mix of tension and languid abandon that has settled inside of her dissipate.
Once he is sure that she is aware enough to understand what he is about to do to her, he reaches for the belt of his robe and slowly, very slowly, unties it. After discarding the belt, he unhurriedly slips his robes from his shoulders. Some distant part in her notes that his shoulders are indeed as broad as she thought them to be; and that his body is as well muscled as it had seemed while it was still hidden beneath his clothes.
She starts shaking her head, as if her denial might change anything. Even knowing it is futile, she starts to beg.
“No, please, don’t do this….please, don’t….please….”
He leans down and silences her with a slow, unexpectedly tender kiss. His fingers however nestle at the strings of his pants with a newfound urgency. A short shift of his body and one shove at the last garment covering him and he is as naked as she is.
One last time she tries to jerk away, but he just uses her movement to wedge a knee between her thighs. He’s lying on top of her now, fully naked, and his kiss grows hungrier, wilder. He slips his other knee between her legs too. His teeth nip at her lips, but she clenches her mouth shut, trying to deny him access to her body. More amused than upset by her attempt to defend her herself, he chuckles and rubs his cock against her cleft.
In vain, she tries to clamp down on the thrill of pleasure that runs through her body like miniature lightning as he repeats the movement.
Then, he hooks his arms beneath her knees and spreads her wide open for him.
“I will teach you to say yes to me” he half-laughs and half-snarls and with a sharp thrust he buries himself inside her to the hilt. She cries out as her maidenhead tears beneath his brutal assault, her voice high and sharp like breaking porcelain. He stops moving, surprised by the fact that he just split a barrier he hadn’t expected to be there anymore.
She feels frozen, inside and out. Touching her in intimate places should have been reserved for someone with whom she wanted to spend the rest of her life with, someone she trusted, someone she loved. But this hateful stranger has viciously taken what should have been rightfully given to one close to her heart. Numbly, she thinks that now, all the water in the oceans won’t be sufficient to clean her of the taint of his touch.
He does not care about any of this. On the contrary, the smile that settles on his face once he has processed the situation is inordinately pleased. He kisses her again and whispers in her ear “I see you’ve been a good girl all these years. Don’t worry, you’ll get something nice tomorrow to reward you for your good behaviour.”
Beneath him, she has started trembling and shivering as if she were freezing to death. Again, he waits for her to calm down, holding himself still above her to give her time to adjust to his length and his girth and to what he is doing with her.
He wants her to pay attention to him and him only when he fucks her, and not to whatever thoughts might be bothering her. She is his slave and he will teach her that every inch of her and every thought she has are his now.
Once she has quieted down, he starts moving inside of her, slowly at first but going faster ever so patiently. His mouth is back on her nipple, sucking, licking, while his hands stroke and tease all the sensitive spots he mapped out earlier. He’s playing her like an instrument and she can’t stop herself from coming alive under his touch, just like before, moaning as his thrusts hit something….something inside her and it’s as unstoppable and undeniable as waves cresting and crashing onto a cliff. He fills her in places she didn’t know were empty and aching for someone to fill them and without thinking about it, she arches her hips to meet his.
It’s a gradual change, but his control is slipping too. His breath comes faster and the hands caressing her moments before are now grasping her hard, almost bruising her flesh. She hardly notices, fighting not be washed away by the tide he has called up inside her. He buries his face in her hair, inhaling deeply and marvelling at her scent, a mix of salt and foreign spices and smoke and snow; he feels like a blind man amazed by the sudden sight of the rising sun.
She loses her fight, not sure she wants to win anymore, and white hot pleasure fills every part of her, overpowering her, body, mind and soul, drowning out conscious thought.
The last thing she sees is the sight of him arching back, eyes scrunched closed, lips slightly parting in ecstasy.
The last thing she feels is his seed spilling into her.
The last thing she hears is his voice, half-growl, half-moan, saying “MINE.”
Author’s note:
Non-Con fantasies. I’ve wondered for quite some time what makes them so interesting to read / write. The answer I’ve come up with is this: We live in a society where we are often taught that sex is “bad” and that people, especially girls / women shouldn’t actively want it. If a girl actually wants sex, then she’s a “bad girl”. The only way to have sex AND stay a “good girl” is to have sex that you’re not responsible for because you DON’T want it: non-con. Non-con fantasies let you eat the cake and keep it too.
Does this mean that girls / women want non-con for realz? Uhm, no. Non-con is fun as long as it remains a fantasy, pretty much like watching Jurassic Park or one of the Aliens movies is fun. It’s great to watch, but you sure as hell wouldn’t want to actually experience that kind of situation.
Also, just so we’re clear on this: What Ozai does to Kian in this chapter isn’t dub-con or a case of “the lady doth protest too much”. It’s rape. Full, flat-out rape.
Someone might say “But she’s attracted to him!” and yes, she is…but she also says “No” and means it and it’s that “No” which is important. Kian’s a fully grown woman and she knows what she wants from a bed-partner and that sure as hell is more than just hotness.
So…what about a rape victim feeling pleasure while being raped? Well, often, human bodies just react to physical stimuli, regardless of how we feel or think about it, and it’s not uncommon for rape victims to be physically stimulated by what is being done to them. If you don’t believe me: ever tried to voluntarily stop shivering when you’re really, really cold?
Feeling physical pleasure doesn’t make the experience of being raped less degrading or less awful…quite the contrary actually, because a lot of victims are ashamed of the way their bodies reacted and they wonder if they might be in part responsible. They’re not. “No” means exactly that: NO.
On the subject of virginity:
When I grew up in the 80’s there were a lot of romance novels out there where the heroine is deflowered by the hero with much breaching of barriers and bleeding on the sheets.
Most of the time, in real life, that’s complete humbug.
The hymen or corona usually degrades into almost nothing as a woman / girl grows older. It stretches with physical activity too. Plus, it doesn’t fully cover a woman’s entrance anyway, otherwise we’d be in real trouble once our monthlies set in.
So mostly, when someone who is past puberty does the horizontal mambo for the first time, there’s usually not much left that can act as a barrier in any form. However, I’ve taken the liberty of making Kian one of the rather small percentage of women that have a rather thick corona, so yeah, we get the whole “breaching of barriers and bleeding on the sheets” thing.
It made sense for Kian to be still a virgin since she’s been on the run and/or living in enemy territory for all her adult life and there just never was anybody she would have felt comfortable about getting in the sheets with. Plus, there was that pesky memory of a pair of golden eyes looking at her.
As for Ozai, he has all kinds of things he’s telling himself to justify what he’s doing…but I didn’t want “hey, she’s damaged goods anyway” to be one of them. I’m an 8o’s girl, so sue me. ^_~
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