A/N ; Trying my hand at the Zutara100 "challenge" on LJ. Drabbles aren't connected, won't be linear, and will have various ratings.
Oh, and AtLA isn't mine.
Prompt ; #17 – Lust
Title ; Change
Rating ; T
Word Count ; 509
Summary ; Lots of room to fill in the blanks, but it's little more than steam.
He shouldn't be here.
It is late—far past late, it is early. Early enough that the sun is a glimmer on the horizon, waves cresting golden at what seems the edge of the world. Early enough that the rest of the island sleeps; when day breaks, it will be back to work as usual, to the far corners of the four nations.
They will be gone, and with them the reminder of friendship, of acceptance, of trust.
Four years of kingship have left him as sharp as his crown. He forgets to smile, to laugh, and the feeling of anything more than disdain or duty beneath a polished surface—until he comes here.
Once a year, they promised in the city of walls of secrets. Once a year, an anniversary of their time on Ember Island before the comet came and everything really changed. They could even take in a play, the little earthbender had said, and everyone had laughed.
She is not so little now, just as the Avatar is not so fickle. The Water Tribe boy is not so loud or lanky, and the girl—
Well, she is no longer a girl, for starters.
They are not the only ones who have changed. He is not so naïve he doesn't see the way she looks at him across the fire, feel something stir at her smile, at the way she lingers just a bit longer each year. This is the first time she stays, long after the flames have died, when the others have slipped away, one by one, two by two—even that changed with time.
He shouldn't be here.
And then she begins to dance.
He thinks to himself – not for the first time – that she lacks the grace of his people. She is neither tall nor elegant like the ladies in his court, she has neither the sophistication nor the practiced manners of a woman bred for coquettish intrigue.
But there is something as he watches her. Bending – dancing – and her element is no more fluid than she is, dark and lithe in the silver haze of an ever-approaching dawn.
He watches, and he wants.
The curve of her hip taunts him. As the fabric of her dress slips away he curses it for deceiving him so long—that it would hide how perfectly his hand could fit there if she'd only let him touch her, hold her.
Want becomes need and he watches still.
Her hair is loose and trails past her waist, as wild and free as he ever saw it. It begs to be tangled in his hands, just as her lips beg to be kissed, and slender legs beg to be twined with his. He holds his breath lest the spell be broken; how long has this been building between them?
Their gazes meet and time stops. There's a moment, a choice—
When their mouths crash together he knows this must be what lust is made of—dawning light, saltspray, and the color of the ocean during a storm.