Chapter 4: The Exchange
The outfitting station was a blur of bleached wood, stiff new furs, and the sharp smell of brine on cold air. Sokka moved through the familiar rituals on autopilot, selecting parkas, testing sealskin gloves, negotiating with the stocky Northern merchants with practiced ease. His entire nervous system was tuned to a single frequency: Zuko.
Zuko, who had quietly worn a thin black tunic for the excursion, a minor concession that did nothing to lessen the intense focus he aimed at Sokka’s back. Zuko, who had accepted a strip of dried seal jerky from Sokka’s fingers on the docks with a lingering press of lips that was absolutely not necessary for the bite. The ruby piercings were hidden under cloth, but Sokka knew they were there. A secret they shared. The knowledge was a live wire under his skin.
They spoke only of practical things. Layer count. Wind resistance. The storm brewing on the northwestern horizon that could delay them by a day.
But every brush of Zuko’s hand against his as they carried the new gear back to the ship, every low murmur about the drape of a hood, felt like a deliberate act of arson. The crew’s knowing glances, the half-hidden smiles, it all built a silent, screaming pressure in Sokka’s chest. By the time they crossed the gangplank back onto the royal cutter, his heart was hammering against his ribs like it wanted to escape.
The door to their cabin shut behind them with a final, solid thud.
The world outside ceased to exist.
The bundled furs hit the floor with a soft whump. Sokka barely heard it. He was turning, a casual comment about stowing the gear already forming on his lips.
Zuko moved.
One hand planted flat on the door by Sokka’s head. The other fisted in the front of Sokka’s new tunic, spinning and pinning him back against the solid oak in one fluid motion. The air left Sokka’s lungs in a surprised gust. Zuko was a line of heat against him, golden eyes dark, searching his face with an intensity that felt like a physical touch.
“So,” Zuko said, his voice a rough scrape. “All that teasing. All that… effortless flirting for years.” His gaze dropped to Sokka’s mouth, then back up. “You’re really that vanilla?”
Sokka’s brain short-circuited. The question wasn’t mocking. It was earnest, almost bewildered. As if Zuko, who carried his scars and his crown and his hidden piercings with the same fierce gravity, couldn’t reconcile the image of the quick-talking ambassador with any kind of deeper, private hunger.
A laugh bubbled up in Sokka’s throat, half-nervous, half-relieved. The pretense was gone. The political theater was outside the door. Here, it was just this. Just Zuko’s heat and his demanding eyes and the unbelievable reality of his body holding Sokka in place.
“I’ve… thought about it,” Sokka admitted, the words leaving him in a rush. “Of course I have. You don’t spend five years orbiting someone like you and just think about… hand-holding, Zuko.”
Zuko’s nostrils flared. His grip on Sokka’s tunic tightened. “What kind of thoughts?”
“Nuh-uh.” Sokka shook his head, a spark of his old defiance cutting through the dizziness. “That’s not a fair interrogation. No context.” He licked his lips, saw Zuko’s eyes track the movement. “Deal. One fantasy each. Right now. You go first.”
A muscle jumped in Zuko’s jaw. He was silent for a long moment, the only sound their mingled breathing in the cramped space. “You first,” he countered, low.
“Coward.”
“Realist. Mine will scare you off.”
“Try me.”
Zuko’s gaze burned into him. He leaned in closer, his mouth a breath from Sokka’s ear. “Fine. You want my fantasy?” The words were a hot, private rumble. “It’s you. In my throne room. On your knees in front of the dais. And everyone watching finally understands exactly who you belong to.”
The image hit Sokka with the force of a physical blow. The vivid, violent possessiveness of it, the stark contrast to Zuko’s usual controlled diplomacy, left him lightheaded. It wasn’t scary. It was a furnace door swinging open, revealing a fire he’d only ever felt the warmth of from a distance.
“Spirits,” Sokka breathed out.
“Told you.” Zuko pulled back just enough to see his face, watching for any sign of retreat. He found none. “Your turn.”
Sokka’s mind raced. A dozen images flickered—complicated scenarios, tender things, wild things. But the truth, the one that felt most viscerally his, was simpler. It was from this morning.
“You,” Sokka said, his voice gaining strength as he looked his fill: the intense eyes, the fall of dark hair over Zuko’s shoulder, the hint of black silk at the waistband of his pants. “In my clothes. That… that really does it for me. The idea of you wrapped up in something of mine. And the…” He reached up, his fingertips hovering just over the left side of Zuko’s chest, not quite touching the hidden ruby through the fabric. “The piercings. Knowing they’re there. Knowing they’re for me. It’s… yeah.”
Zuko’s expression shifted. The fierce possessiveness melted into something warmer, more intimate. A slow, understanding smile touched his lips. He ducked his head, his brow resting against Sokka’s shoulder for a second, as if overcome.
When he looked up, his eyes were liquid gold. “You figured out I like my hair pulled,” he murmured, the words vibrating against the column of Sokka’s throat where his lips now brushed. “But I have a preference for when.”
He paused, letting the anticipation coil tight in Sokka’s gut.
“Preferably,” Zuko growled, the sound going straight through Sokka, “while I’m choking on your dick later.”
Zuko grins as he says it, a sharp, predatory flash of white in the dim cabin light. The crude words hang there, molten and shocking, but the grin transforms them. It’s not a leer. It’s a challenge, bright and daring, inviting Sokka into the boldness of it.
Sokka’s breath hitched. The blunt imagery collided with the playful glint in Zuko’s eyes, short-circuiting his panic into something else entirely. A startled laugh punched out of him. “Okay,” he breathed, his own voice shaky with adrenaline and want. “That’s… specific.”
“I’ve had time to think about it.” Zuko’s grin softened into something more familiar, more Zuko—that barely-there smile that always felt like a secret victory. He didn’t move back. His hands slid from Sokka’s tunic to his hips, a grounding, possessive weight. “Your turn to look scared.”
“I’m not scared.” Sokka wasn’t. The initial shock was burning away, replaced by a thrilling curl of heat in his gut. He lifted his chin. “I’m cataloguing logistics. The throne room’s marble is really hard on the knees.”
Zuko’s laugh was a quiet, surprised huff against his throat. “Noted. We’ll get a cushion.”
“Priorities.” Sokka’s hands finally moved, coming up to rest on Zuko’s bare arms. The muscle there was tight, coiled. “So. One fantasy negotiated. Do we have a… schedule for the other?”
“I’m flexible.” Zuko’s thumbs rubbed circles on Sokka’s hipbones through the fabric. “The choking part, I mean. The ‘later’ part is non-negotiable.”
“Obviously.” Sokka’s mind was racing ahead, the theoretical crashing headlong into the imminent. The cabin air felt too thick, too warm. He could smell the salt on Zuko’s skin from their trip ashore, underlaid with the clean, spicy scent of his soap. “We should probably… stow the gear.”
“Probably.” Zuko didn’t move.
“The furs are on the floor.”
“I see them.”
“They’re expensive.”
“Send the bill to the Fire Lord.” Zuko finally leaned back, just enough to look at him properly. His golden eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. The playful edge was still there, but beneath it ran a current of sheer, focused need that made Sokka’s knees feel weak. “You’re stalling.”
“I’m being responsible!”
“You’re deflecting.” Zuko’s hands slid around to the small of Sokka’s back, pulling their bodies flush together again. The evidence of his own interest was firm and unmistakable against Sokka’s thigh. “You always talk more when you’re nervous.”
“I always talk more, period.” Sokka’s protest was half-hearted. His fingers dug into Zuko’s arms. “This is just… a lot. In a good way. In the best way. But it’s a gearshift from ‘secret pining’ to ‘throne room blowjobs’ in under twelve hours.”
Zuko’s expression softened. The intensity didn’t fade, but it gentled, becoming more patient. He nudged Sokka’s nose with his own. “We don’t have to do anything you outlined. Ever. The fantasy is just the… shape of the want. The reality can be whatever we make it.”
The words were so unexpectedly careful, so Zuko, that Sokka’s heart squeezed. This was the man who’d literally just growled about choking, now offering him an out with tender precision. It was the contrast that undid him completely.
“I don’t want an out.” Sokka turned his head, catching Zuko’s lips in a slow, deep kiss. It was less frantic than the night before, more sure. When he pulled back, he was smiling. “I want the reality. I specifically want the reality of you, here, now. The throne room can wait its turn.”
A true, full smile broke across Zuko’s face then, breathtaking in its unguarded relief. “Okay.” He kissed Sokka again, quick and hard. “Okay.” He released him, stepping back. The absence of his heat was immediately felt. “Then we should actually stow the gear. Because if we don’t, I’m going to bend you over that trunk and we’ll break all the new insulation.”
Sokka barked a laugh, the tension shattering into giddy anticipation. “A compelling argument for tidiness.” He bent to gather the armful of furs, his movements slightly uncoordinated. Zuko collected the other half, their shoulders brushing as they moved the few steps to the storage lockers built into the hull.
The simple, mundane task felt wildly intimate. They worked in sync, folding and tucking, their silence now comfortable, charged. Sokka could feel Zuko’s eyes on him, tracking the line of his shoulders, the bend of his waist. Every glance was a physical touch.
As Sokka straightened from shoving the last bundle into a locker, Zuko’s hand closed around his wrist. His touch was warm, his grip firm but not tight.
“Hey.” Zuko’s voice was low.
Sokka turned. “Hey.”
Zuko didn’t speak for a moment. He just looked at him, his gaze tracing Sokka’s features like he was memorizing them in this new context. The lantern light caught the ruby in his ear, a droplet of fire. “The piercings,” he said, as if answering a question Sokka hadn’t asked. “They’re not just a Fire Nation thing. Not for me.”
Sokka waited, his pulse thrumming under Zuko’s fingers.
“They’re a… reclamation.” Zuko’s thumb stroked the inside of Sokka’s wrist. “Putting something beautiful on a part of me that was only ever seen as damaged. It’s private. I’ve never explained that to anyone.”
The confession landed softly between them, more vulnerable than any carnal fantasy. Sokka understood. He saw the truth of it in the slight tension in Zuko’s jaw, the way he held his scarred side just a fraction more openly.
“Thank you,” Sokka said, his voice rough. “For showing me.” He turned his wrist, lacing their fingers together. “They’re incredible. You’re incredible.”
Zuko exhaled, a slow release of air that seemed to let go of a final, deep-held worry. He tugged Sokka toward the bunk. “The ‘later’ I mentioned?” he said, his tone shifting back into that low, promising rumble. “I’m revising the timeline.”
Sokka followed, his blood singing. “Oh yeah?”
“Mhm.” Zuko sat on the edge of the thin mattress, pulling Sokka to stand between his knees. He looked up, his hair falling over his shoulders, his hands settling on Sokka’s hips. “Turns out I’m not that patient.”
Zuko grins as he leans forward, his mouth hovering over the front of Sokka’s trousers. His eyes, glowing with intent, lock onto Sokka’s. “Unless,” he murmurs, the word a hot breath through the fabric, “you have any logistical objections?”
Sokka’s mind blanked. All logistical functions, all higher thought, evaporated. His throat worked, but no sound came out. The only point of reality in the universe was the heat of Zuko’s mouth through the worn fabric of his trousers and the unwavering, molten-gold gaze holding his own.
Zuko watched the struggle play out across Sokka’s face—the parted lips, the dilated pupils, the frantic swallow. A slow, wicked smirk curved his mouth. He didn’t need a verbal answer.
He got an idea and smirked. “Hold on a second.”
He released Sokka and stood in one fluid motion, disappearing into the cramped bathroom. The door clicked shut. Sokka stood rooted to the spot, the absence of Zuko’s heat a physical ache. He heard the faint rustle of fabric, a soft clink that might have been a belt hook.
The door opened.
Zuko stepped out.
He was wearing just a lightweight, oversized jacket. Sokka’s jacket. The blue one from the Southern Water Tribe, worn soft from years of use. It hung open, unzipped just past his sternum. The deep blue fabric made the sun-kissed gold of his skin and the dark fall of his hair look like a painting.
He clearly wasn’t wearing pants underneath.
The hem of the jacket hit him mid-thigh. Every shift of his muscles was visible through the open front. The rubies glittered against his chest, no longer hidden, openly displayed in the V of blue fabric. Sokka’s brain short-circuited, his eyes dragging downward. He swears he saw a bit of blue lace, the same color as the jacket, peeking out from underneath the hem. A sly, matching secret.
Zuko was clearly pleased with himself as Sokka struggled to pick his jaw up off the floor.
He sauntered back to the bunk, the movement a study in casual ownership. He sat on the edge of the mattress and resumed their previous position, pulling Sokka to stand between his spread knees again. The jacket fell open even more. He looked up, practically purring.
“Like it?”
Sokka was painfully hard and speechless for once in his life. The sight was a direct, devastating hit to every fantasy he’d just confessed. Zuko, wrapped in his clothes, wearing nothing but lace and jewelry and a look that promised ruin. He could only nod eagerly, his fingers twitching at his sides with the need to touch.
“Good.” Zuko’s hands went to the fastenings of Sokka’s trousers. His fingers were sure, quick. “It’s really a shame that we have things to do tomorrow.”
The button came undone. The zipper rasped down. Cool air hit Sokka’s skin, followed immediately by the scorching heat of Zuko’s palm.
“If I had it my way,” Zuko continued, his voice dropping to that low, thrilling growl as he pulled Sokka free, “neither of us would be able to walk tomorrow.”
He paused, his hand stilling. He looked from the length of him in his grip back up to Sokka’s face, his expression fierce and wanting. He leaned forward, running his tongue up the shaft in one slow, deliberate stripe.
Sokka gasped, his hands flying to Zuko’s shoulders for balance.
“That doesn’t mean,” Zuko murmured against his skin, the words vibrating through Sokka’s entire body, “I don’t still want you to flip me over, smack my ass, and fuck me until the only thing I can remember is your name, though.”
Sokka choked on air at the purred words. The crude, vivid command, wrapped in Zuko’s royal diction, was impossibly hot. It stripped away every last pretense. Before he could even attempt a reply, Zuko chose that moment to swallow his dick, keeping eye contact the whole way down.
Before he could even attempt a reply, Zuko chose that moment to swallow his dick, keeping eye contact the whole way down.
The sensation was instantaneous and total. The wet, searing heat, the impossible pressure, the visual of Zuko’s lips stretched around him—it short-circuited every nerve ending Sokka possessed. A raw, punched-out sound escaped him. His knees buckled, and his hands, moving on pure instinct, fisted violently in Zuko’s long, dark hair.
Zuko’s eyes fluttered shut, a low, ragged groan vibrating around him. He began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that was brutally efficient. Each pull was a study in controlled greed, each push a claim. Sokka could only hold on, his breath coming in sharp, shattered gasps, his world dissolving into feeling.
Zuko swallowed around him, a tight, deliberate pulse, and pulled off long enough to say, “Talk to me, Sokka.”
His voice was wrecked, dark with want, but his gaze was insistent. He didn’t wait for an answer. He swallowed him back down to the root effortlessly, giving a pleased hum that sent vibrations straight to Sokka’s soul when Sokka’s hands instinctively tightened in his hair.
“Zuko—Spirits—” The words were ripped from him, ragged and honest. “Right there, please—your mouth, it’s—”
He couldn’t form a coherent thought. Praise, filth, adoration—it all jumbled together in a desperate stream. He chanted Zuko’s name, gasped about the rubies glinting in the lamplight, about the blue fabric of his own jacket brushing his thighs. Every syllable made Zuko redouble his efforts, his fingers digging into Sokka’s hips hard enough to bruise.
Sokka was unraveling too fast. The pressure coiled at the base of his spine, white-hot and urgent. He tried to tug Zuko’s hair, a warning. “I’m close, I’m gonna—”
Zuko pulled off again, breathing heavily. A string of saliva connected his swollen lips to Sokka’s tip. His golden eyes were fever-bright. “Yeah? Already?” he teased, his thumb sweeping over the leaking head. “We haven’t even gotten to the hair-pulling part. Not really.”
“You’re going to kill me.” Sokka panted, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding back.
“I have other plans.” Zuko leaned forward, nuzzling the inside of Sokka’s thigh. His breath was hot. “Let go. I want to taste it.”
The permission, delivered as a growled command, shattered the last of Sokka’s control. He came with a choked cry, his vision spotting. Zuko took him deep, swallowing every pulse, his throat working, a low, continuous hum of satisfaction thrumming through Sokka until he was oversensitive and shaking.
When Zuko finally released him, licking his lips with a focused leisure that made Sokka’s spent body jolt, he looked utterly, devastatingly pleased with himself. He leaned back on his hands, the blue jacket falling open completely.
“Okay,” Sokka breathed, sliding bonelessly down the wall to kneel on the floorboards, level with him. He was wrecked. “You win. That was… a persuasive opening argument.”
Zuko’s smirk was smug. He carded his fingers through Sokka’s sweaty hair. “Just the opening?”
Sokka caught his wrist, turning his head to press a kiss to his palm. He could taste himself on Zuko’s skin, salty and intimate. The thrill of it was electric. “You mentioned a sequel. Involving a… spatial rearrangement.”
“I did.” Zuko shifted on the bunk, lying back against the thin pillow. The jacket pooled around him, a banner of blue on the rumpled sheets. He hooked a finger in the waistband of the blue lace he was wearing. “Your move, Ambassador.”
Sokka pushed himself up, crawling onto the bunk over him. He bracketed Zuko’s hips with his knees, staring down at the beautiful, impossible sight. The Fire Lord, laid out in his clothes, wearing lace for him, lips still shiny and pink. The rubies were a twin challenge on his chest.
“I want to take these off with my teeth,” Sokka said, tapping one of the gems lightly.
“Be my guest.” Zuko’s voice was husky. He was already hard again, the lace straining. “They’re screw-backs. Don’t lose them.”
Sokka bent, his mouth finding Zuko’s skin. He licked around the metal post, felt Zuko arch beneath him, a sharp inhale cutting the air. He worked the first one free with careful nips of his teeth, setting the tiny ruby on the shelf by the bunk. The second followed. He kissed the now-bare skin, feeling the small, hardened ridges of the piercings’ channels.
“Better?” Zuko breathed, his hands coming up to clutch at Sokka’s shoulders.
“Perfect.” Sokka kissed a trail down his sternum, over the tense plane of his stomach. His teeth caught the blue lace. He looked up, meeting Zuko’s heavy-lidded gaze. “This, though? This is my favorite part of the outfit.”
He tore the flimsy fabric with a sharp tug.
Zuko cried out, a raw, unfiltered sound of surprise and sheer want. His hips jerked off the bed. “Agni, Sokka—”
Sokka didn’t give him time to recover. He took him in his mouth, replicating the same deep, consuming rhythm Zuko had used on him. It was messy, less practiced, but fueled by years of want and the fresh, intoxicating power of hearing Zuko come completely undone above him.
Zuko’s hands flew back to his hair, not fisting, but clinging. His thighs trembled against Sokka’s ears. “Wait—Sokka, stop, I won’t last—”
Sokka pulled off, relishing the broken quality of Zuko’s voice. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You don’t want to?”
“I want—” Zuko gasped, trying to pull him back up. “I want you inside me. Now. Please.”
The ‘please’ did it. Sokka kissed him, deep and filthy, letting Zuko taste himself. He fumbled for the small vial of oil from his own travel kit—a practical item for cold-weather skin that now served a vastly different purpose. He coated his fingers, his movements hurried, clumsy with need.
He pressed one finger against him, and Zuko’s entire body went taut, then pliant, melting into the mattress with a sigh that was pure relief. “Yes.”
Sokka worked him open with a focused intensity, watching every shift in his face—the pinch of his brow, the flutter of his eyelashes, the way his mouth went soft and slack. When he added a second, curling them just so, Zuko chanted a string of Fire Nation curses into the crook of his own arm.
“Ready?” Sokka’s own voice was barely recognizable.
“Been ready for years,” Zuko gritted out, pulling his knees up higher. “Don’t you dare be gentle.”
Sokka wasn’t. He pushed in with one steady, unforgiving thrust, sheathing himself completely. The sound Zuko made was swallowed by Sokka’s mouth as he kissed him. It was tight, almost unbearably hot, and perfect.
For a moment, they just stayed there, fused, breathing each other’s air, foreheads pressed together. The ship rolled beneath them. The world outside was cold and vast. In here, there was only this furnace of skin and shared breath.
“Move,” Zuko pleaded, biting Sokka’s lower lip.
Sokka moved. He set a relentless, driving pace, each snap of his hips punching a ragged sound from Zuko’s throat. Zuko matched him thrust for thrust, his heels digging into the small of Sokka’s back, his hands scrambling for purchase on the sweat-slick jacket he still wore.
“My jacket,” Sokka grunted, leaning down to mouth at the ruby in Zuko’s ear. “Looks better on you.”
“Everything’s—ah!—better on me,” Zuko gasped, his composure in tatters. “Faster.”
Sokka obliged, the bunk slamming against the wall with a rhythmic, protesting creak. He knew the crew could probably hear. The thought, instead of shaming him, sent a bolt of possessive heat straight to his gut. Let them hear. Let them know.
Zuko was close. Sokka could feel it in the tightening coil of his muscles, in the broken, hiccupping rhythm of his breath. He slid a hand between them, wrapping his fingers around him.
Zuko’s eyes flew open, wide and wild. “Sokka—”
“Come on,” Sokka urged, his own release building again, a fire stoked from the inside. “Let me see you.”
It was the look on Zuko’s face that did it—the utter abandonment, the complete surrender of a man who never surrendered. He came with a soundless cry, his body arching off the bunk, spilling over Sokka’s fingers and his own stomach. The clenching heat around Sokka dragged him over the edge a second later, his own release torn from him with Zuko’s name.
He collapsed, half on Zuko, half on the bunk, their harsh breathing the only sound in the cabin. The air smelled of sex, salt, and spilled oil. Slowly, the world reassembled itself: the chill seeping through the hull, the distant call of a watchman on deck, the steady beat of Zuko’s heart under his ear.
Zuko’s hand, trembling slightly, came up to stroke his damp hair. “So,” he rasped. “Not vanilla.”
Sokka huffed a weak laugh against his skin. “Shut up.” He pressed a kiss to Zuko’s chest. “Your fantasy was better.”
“We can do that one tomorrow.” Zuko’s voice was already slurring with exhaustion. “After the formal greetings with Arnook. I’ll need the distraction.”
Reality, cold and diplomatic, began to trickle back in. The North Pole. The political performance. Sokka nuzzled closer, inhaling the mingled scent of them both on his own jacket. “We’re going to be terrible at this. Everyone will know.”
“Good.” Zuko’s arms tightened around him. His next words were mumbled, already half-asleep. “Let them know.”
Sokka knew they should clean up. They were sticky and the bunk was a wreck. But Zuko’s breathing was deepening, his body going heavy and lax beneath him. The warmth they’d generated was a cocoon against the Arctic cold waiting outside. Sokka closed his eyes, one hand splayed over Zuko’s heartbeat, the other still tangled in the soft, blue fabric of his own jacket.
Just for a few minutes, he thought. Then they’d face the world.