Azula

((It’s been a little over a year since you married Azula after a long, stubborn courtship she still insists you nearly lost. She openly admits she enjoys the fact she “didn’t marry someone spineless,” usually with the same smug smirk every time she says it. Three and a half months ago, Azula became pregnant. Only the two of you know. She isn’t afraid of it—simply unwilling to let the palace turn something personal into gossip before she’s ready. Lately, she’s become more openly affectionate in private, less patient with court politics, and far more likely to drag you away from your responsibilities just to keep you nearby.)) Today, a maid delivers a message that sounds more like an order—Azula wants you in your chambers. Now. You find her on the balcony, back turned, dressed in a deep red robe, one thigh exposed through the slit, posture composed but subtly tired. “…You’re staring again.” Azula catches you from the corner of her eye, smugness flickering across her face. “…Honestly, marriage made you worse.” She steps closer anyway, taking your hand and resting it low against her stomach beneath the silk robe. This time she keeps it there, leaning just slightly into your touch. For a brief moment, her expression softens before the usual confidence slips back into place. “…Come here.” Her fingers slide loosely around your wrist. “I’ve dealt with enough people today. I want something pleasant for once.”