something short - i am alive - review me please - it encourages me that people are reading this and want more! you do, don't you? tell me you want it.

sorry for the typos (if any) i am writing this on a bus to new york. also sorry for too many sexies. no i'm not just kidding.

xoxoxo - scorpiaux.


Big City White Boys

He mourned Suki in parts. The few times he did shower in the weeks following her departure, he would writhe in displeasure at his own naked body, his resonant loneliness in the large bathroom meant for the entire dorm floor. Often, they had sex here.

Delicious only because it was forbidden, he would sneak her through the back steps to the boys' floor when everyone was asleep, usually early Sunday morning or very late Wednesday night, right after a major exam. While his fellow students were at parties elsewhere, on more accommodating and spacious parts of campus, he would relish in Suki's slippery breasts and hips, grimy water pouring over them, splattering at their feet to dampen their moaning and laughter.

The venue was not appetizing: often Suki complained of having to bring her shower slippers, body gel, and shampoo (Sokka only ever owned a single, shriveled bar of green soap) in a basket, which she cautiously carried in the crook of her elbow, eyes glinting and darting like a thief. She could have left these items at his dormitory, but he would refuse – sneaking here to do it in the bathrooms, Sokka reasoned, made this fun. He lived for the days she was vulnerable for him, laughing so wide her gums gleaned pink in the poor light above the showerhead. Once, bent over at the hip with her boyfriend and the water stream propelling behind, she had slipped on his little bar of soap, forcing his exit right as he was finishing. The result was a wall newly decorated with a white, accidental "S." It would become a running joke, and since then, they only ever used that particular stall. S for Sokka, S for Suki. S for sex.

If their sex was the highlight, their friendship was the bright red pen. It corrected and brought attention to corrections; it was dynamic and constantly revised. Suki was his first friend at Four Nations. She was his sparring partner, his tutor, his counselor. She mediated arguments between him and his baby sister, so intimate was their trust in her levelheadedness (though Katara often groaned when having to return the favor). Even on those tired nights, when neither had the energy to please the other, they would arrange themselves in his bed and watch television, a little twelve-inch monitor Sokka procured from a graduate student, as Suki drew figure eights on his bare chest with her fingers until her tracing slowed and she fell, compliantly, asleep.

His mourning, on these days, was so crippling that he could not leave his bed. He would hear Aang knocking on his door, his sister texting him to ask where he was. His grandmother called him and left fifteen minute voicemails. Even Ty Lee sent him a short text – nothing obtuse or demanding, just asking if he was doing okay as she had not seen him around campus. But responding – the energy to respond – was gone, dissipating as quickly as the steam from those far away showers. To get himself out of it, he thought of Suki's less appealing qualities. Her pressure, for example, for him to propose after his graduation this year. Her belittling of him (never outright, never malicious, but her offhand comments about him "being here too long" or giving him "seniority" in an argument stung him in ways he could not articulate to her without being further ridiculed). He hated that she did not give head unless it was his birthday or he got an A. He hated her proximity to Katara – though at first endearing, he grew tired of it when the two sided together against him.

Suki was possessive, he reminded himself, and underhanded in her possessiveness. She distanced herself from "those desperate girls" who needed a text every hour to feel secure – needed to spend the night every night to ensure they were the only ones fulfilling that looming sexual need in their counterpart. She scoffed at girls who stalked their boyfriends' exes on social media, proud in not having her own self-promoting page, proud of her lack of desire to sign up for one.

Though she claimed his exes did not bother her, they did, and on a level so primal no amount of bigotry or faux aloofness could suggest otherwise. A young woman named Yue, two classes above Sokka, had appropriated his virginity his sophomore year. Suki, then only his friend, heard all about it in the agonizing, pubescent detail a boy would use with his shower room chums.

Though Yue now worked for Boiling Rock, a graduate school in the Fire Nation, and though the affair had lasted less than a month almost three years ago, Sokka knew better than to ever mention it. And no girl, sweet as she may be, could envy Suki or blame her. Yue was gorgeous. She worked as a model in high school, won several Moon Festival pageants with her thick, stark white hair and narrow shoulders, her soft-spoken mannerisms, her full legs and sharply contoured hips. She spoke in the Water Tribe dialect Sokka knew, and she had cooked for him whenever he asked for it. Suki was not a cook nor would she ever become one. Early in their relationship, he had yelled the wrong name at the point of climax and was doomed, for months, to rue it. Suki refused to sleep with him until he didn't "need Yue to get off anymore."

There were other things, too. Small. Unimportant but enlarged and explored in hindsight. She never waxed – no time, she said, and so expensive – and the brush from the razor annoyed him. She had a habit of talking too openly about their relationship to anyone within ten feet of her. She was honest to the point of tactlessness and never humored him. His penis was average, his chest was not great. But his arms. Ah, that's where he had it all. He could have any woman in the world with those arms, did he know that? His arms were her harbor. He was a great kisser. But only upstairs ("When you learn to do that better, then we'll talk about more head!") He was cheap with her but overly generous with alcohol. He had daddy issues, an inferiority complex bred from his waterbending little sister, and too much pride for someone so clumsy. He could pick up girls drunk, but sober he was as antisocial and awkward as a baby sea turtle being swept into the ocean, its new roaring, roiling home. He was tongue-tied in the presence of beautiful women despite the cool exterior he often wore. All of this he learned about himself, because of his bitchy, big-mouthed, honest, loving, lavish, excessive, impassive, determined, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful ex-girlfriend, Suki Kyoshi. The one who got away.

So what little friends and family he had were right. He was mourning her. But his absence from their lives had little to do with Suki. He mourned Suki mostly at night. Nor did it have anything to do with the reason Suki left him; since bringing Ty Lee home weeks ago, he had not seen her again and did not have the appetite to reach out to her. During the day, when not in class, he was spending time smoking behind Omashu's, pounding the blind, sultry barista girl against the brick wall until she screamed into the fabric over his shoulder. He bought groceries for the week: several packages of condoms and cigarettes, salty sesame crackers, and chocolate. She liked chocolate turtle-ducks, asked for them, a treat her father used to bring home to her when she was little. They would eat after they were done, craving salt and sugar; then he would pick up his unfinished cigarette and hold it against the match tip until it took. They never said "I love you" or "I like you" or even "What is this" or "Yes" or "So good." She never invited him anywhere and he was scared to ask her or invite her. Save for the moment her back would arch with pleasure, she was cold told him, almost cruel. Her fogged irises could still communicate displeasure and curiosity; even abandon during her orgasm, or shock at his own. She had similarities to Suki, though, he noticed. "Pinky's average," she told him this morning, straightening the work skirt and bestowing a nickname that, by any account, made no sense. "But your arms. Spirits. Your fucking arms."