It is a strange, hungry force that brings them together, night after night, their bodies colliding in a desperate attempt for heat and reassurance. Her hands roam his muscular chest and shoulders freely, as his lips grind out her name in the hollow of her neck. She moans and he takes it for encouragement, pulling her tighter to him, one of his hands winding itself in her long braid, the other gravitating to the soft silk of the small of her back. In a moment, they are even further tangled than before, and she twists herself around him, intertwining herself around his body, whispering into his ear and asking for more, please more.
And then, all too soon, it is over, and he is putting the mask back on, clasping his swords to his belt and exiting silently through the window, while Song leans back into her old, willowy chair, undoing what is left of her braid, combing it out as a new day dawns behind her.
Song asks politely if you would comment. Zuko, on the other hand, is pulling out his broadswords.