doesn't that make me... off-limits?
(emotionally compromised? damaged goods? forbidden fruit?)
A thousand poor decisions have landed him here, the epitome being his fifth shot of tequila and not even sucking a lime to chase after it.
Zuko grimaces at the slinking warmth in his chest and slams the shot glass down on the bar top. There's a raucous cheer from some guy with a mess of spiky hair. A girl who calls herself Smellerbee wags at the bartender to order him another.
"Mmm— n-no," Zuko slurs, shaking his head in a way that's hardly convincing.
Honestly, nothing sounds better than getting stupidly drunk and fucking some college-age chick. He won't even have to remember her name. But, it's been ten years since he's graduated and Zuko doubts anyone will dig a recent divorcee who's thirty-two and too young to have slivers of grey around his temples. Plus, he has to piss in a bad way.
Zuko says no again, firmer this time, and struggles from his chosen barstool to find the toilets.
He decides he was right to refuse. He's dizzy as hell. The lights overhead are spinning; the faces around him are a blur. Someone has a vice-grip on his arm.
He's wrenched around, swearing under his breath when he comes face to face with a blue-eyed woman. Her nose is level with his sternum, but with her arms crossed and the writhing bodies on the dance floor acting as her backdrop, Zuko's a tiny bit afraid.
"Excuse me!" Her voice carries over the music, her brows creasing so intensely the gap between them all but vanishes.
Zuko blinks at her. She's so shockingly gorgeous it hurts. He doesn't know where to focus: her eyes, her lips, the chestnut skin that disappears into a low-cut red dress. Why is someone so pretty so angry?
The woman seems to take his silence as stupidity; her bright, blue eyes roll up to the ceiling, then back to him.
"Will you move? Please? I'm trying to order a drink, but you and your..." Her gaze slides to the left, drifting over the rift-rafts that befriended him, "...drinking buddies are hogging the bartender."
Zuko finds his voice, "S-sorry, uh—"
He shakes his head, this time trying to clear the fogginess from his thoughts, but it's not the alcohol anymore. Now, he's stuck on the shape of her hips and her legs, how all of her is taut curves and her ass is probably the best in the bar.
When his gaze travels back up, Zuko thinks that her hair is doing her a million favors, down and wavy and the color of chocolate, but he might like it in a bun. He'd be able to see her neck and her collarbones, and if they made their way into the sweaty crowd, he could kiss all the exposed skin; he could suckle the pulse below her ear and make her moan.
Zuko finds her eyes again. She's glaring.
"If you're going to stare at me like you want to eat me, you have to buy me a drink."
"What? I- I wasn't—"
"You weren't?"
"No, I—" She's trapped him, right up against a wall. Well, in this case, it's the bar top. The lip digs into his back, telling him there's no escape. "I just got divorced."
"Random... is that your excuse for the creepy staring?" She doesn't let up, but there's a smile in her eyes.
"No, it—" Zuko huffs and rubs the back of his neck. "Doesn't that make me off-limits?"
The woman laughs, "Did all your paperwork go through?"
"Last week," he says with a touch of bitterness, a touch of freedom, in his tone. Zuko licks his lips. Her eyes are flirty now, and his newfound freedom wins out, "Wouldn't you say I'm emotionally compromised? Damaged goods? Forbidden fruit?"
"I'd say you're funny," she quips. "Then, I'd ask, are you always this funny?"
Zuko gives her a quirky grin. He doesn't quite know what to make of the compliment, if it is a compliment. The way she's looking at him makes him hope it is, but he can't help one more warning.
"I can't commit."
"What makes you think I want commitment?"
"Uh..." His shoulders lift with a half-hearted shrug, "Past experiences?"
She smirks and all she says in response: "My name's Katara, you can call me Kat, and I'm a present experience."
"Zuko."
"Lovely to meet you, Zuko. Now, if you can get through your damaged fruit nonsense, my table's over there." Katara nods to a secluded booth, where a couple is cozied up. "Please be my Prince Charming and save me from this third wheel life."
An hour later, Katara's starting her third margarita and Zuko's thrown his arm around her shoulders, a glass of whiskey in his free hand.
He likes the way her hair tickles his skin, the way she leans into his ribs like she's known him for years. She's soft and warm with him, inviting him into her conversation and her life.
The couple sharing their booth is her brother and his fiancee, who chatter amiably about everything from the last Seahawks game to Biden memes. Whenever something comes up that Zuko doesn't understand, Katara will put her lips to his ear and whisper the answer.
Sokka pretends to retch every time Katara does this; Suki jabs him in the side. Zuko learns that they dragged her out that night; it's a bid to get her own failed relationship off her mind.
Not that the enamored couple makes it easy. When they aren't talking, they're kissing. Or they're just so completely engrossed in the other's eyes that Katara can't get a word in edgewise.
"They're disgusting, aren't they?" Katara mocks her brother's gagging sounds, then takes a sip of her drink as she settles under Zuko's arm. "Can't keep it together for five seconds without going all 'coochie-coochie-coo' on each other."
"Um, we do not sound like that," Sokka snaps back.
Suki only laughs. Maybe she knows Katara is right. Maybe she has no real argument since her arms are still around Sokka's muscled neck and she's pulling him back for another kiss.
"I'm a little needy when I'm drunk," she mumbles, her words muffled by Sokka's lips. "Don't hate me."
"Oh, I could never hate you. You're too pretty to—"
Sokka carries on, but Katara's pulled Zuko's attention from the display.
"Take me dancing."
She announces it, which Zuko admires. Her bright eyes don't leave him any room to question her; her smile is playful and seductive. He thinks she might get him into trouble, but he throws the last of his drink back anyway and pulls her into the crowd.
Surrounded by writhing bodies and thumping bass, Zuko realizes she is trouble. Suddenly, the idea of a twenty-one-year-old crammed into the bathroom stall with him doesn't sound nearly as fun as taking Katara home and making out on his couch for hours.
After he's memorized her lips, he'll spend another hour undressing her, learning every inch of her skin. He'll kiss her neck, lick her breasts, nip at her hips. He'll keep going until his head's between her legs and she's shaking.
Zuko wonders what sounds she'd make, what she'd smell like, taste like; if it'd be a lot like this—
They sway in the middle of the floor, pressed together by a dozen other couples. As crammed as they are, there's too much space between them.
He pulls Katara closer by grabbing her hips. She wraps her arms around his neck. The music rumbles through their limbs, thundering in their bones. It draws them into a rhythm.
She moves, and he follows. She tugs his hair, and he groans. She rakes her fingers down his back, and Zuko mirrors it. His hands play on the small of her back, holding her flush to him. His hips copy the pattern she makes, side-to-side, little figure eights.
It's been years since he's lusted so intensely, but Katara has him aching. His lips beg to taste her, his fingers make pleas to touch every part of her. His cock's hard and throbbing against his thigh, compressed too tight by denim jeans. His veins feel full of molten gold.
Her skin's covered in an iridescent sheen, catching the flash of blue and purple lights. Zuko turns her around, telling himself it's for his own good because he's going to lose himself in her stare; but really, he wants her ass moving on him, he wants to brush her hair away from her neck and nip along her shoulder blade.
Katara moans when he does. She dances harder, twists and winds and rolls with the endless beat.
She must know, she must have some clue how badly he wants her; her mouth curls with the hint of a smile, her head falls back, resting on his shoulder as they move, her eyes devour him. She could be a goddess or some irresistible demon here to drag him to his demise. Zuko wouldn't know the difference; he's damned either way.
He flattens a hand on her stomach. Katara brings her arm up and around his neck. Then, he doesn't care about the way they met or the bodies closing in on them. Zuko holds her tight to him, cups her chin. Katara turns around, and their lips meet in a feverish rush.
Salt. Lime. Tequila. Zuko finds all the flavors on her tongue, and underneath, something sweet and intoxicating. It must be the way her skin tastes, the way her cunt tastes.
He growls, the sound building in his chest, spilling into her mouth. All he wants is that taste. He'd beg for it.
Zuko breaks the kiss, breathes her in. Then pants, "Come home with me."
"Mmm," Katara purrs. It makes his stomach tight. "You're making demands now?"
He laughs, but it gives way to something akin to a desperate plea. "Will you come home with me?"
Her eyes are as dark as midnight. She bites her lip, and Zuko wants to bite it harder, but he waits— waits for her to lift on the tips of her toes, waits for her to nip at his ear and send shivers down his spine when she whispers:
"Can you wait that long, Prince Charming?"
Zuko grips her hand as they stumble out to his car. There's no way in hell he's driving the fifteen minutes back to his flat; he needs his jacket and briefcase if he's going to leave the Charger at the bar.
But, as soon as he unlocks the doors, Katara is the one who can't wait.
She fists his shirt, tugs him down into a wild, sloppy kiss. Her fingers splay on the car behind her, searching for the handle. When she finds it, Katara pulls him into the back seat.
God… he had every intention of getting her home, showering her with attention until the sun came up… But, holy fuck, with her dress bunched up around her waist, with her panties pushed aside and his fingers playing at her slit, he doesn't even remember where he lives.
Zuko yanks the dress's straps off her shoulders with his free hand. His tongue traces around her nipple while his fingers circle her clit. Katara mewls, moans, moves against the heel of his palm and coaxes his fingers inside her.
"Shit, you're so wet," he hisses through his teeth.
One finger, then two, and three— Katara rolls her hips, fucks herself on his hand, throws her head back and croons his name. Zuko can't think of anything better.
She's hot and tight; he fumbles around for his wallet, pulls his fingers from her to rip open a condom.
"No…" Katara whines at the loss of contact. She grinds in his lap, and he can feel how wet she is through his jeans. His cock hurts.
Together, with desperate pants fogging the windows, they undo his belt and his fly and Zuko's boxers are jerked down past his hips. He tries to get the condom down and around his length, but Katara starts with these little fluttering thrusts, tormenting just the tip of him
He grabs her waist and she lifts away, only to work him again by dragging her slick folds up and down every inch.
"Fuck, Kat—"
Zuko gives up any efforts to stop her. He lets her soak him, lets her tease him; she gets herself so close to the edge— he thinks he's going to come, too— that she's shaking above him.
"Come here," he all but growls. Zuko pushes her off him and onto her back. She's smirking, smirking like she's proud of herself for getting around his resolve and getting him undressed in the backseat.
He rolls the condom on, hovering over her with half a smile on his lips. "You're a fucking vixen."
"Am I?" Katara reaches up. She trails her fingers from his sternum to his stomach, then strokes his cock once before cupping his balls. "Is that why you still can't stop staring?"
Zuko laughs, "Shut up," then sinks into her slowly, until she's gasping his name and his hips are flush with hers. He can't breathe, but he manages to pull out, to thrust hard, to moan into her neck. "God… you—"
Katara rakes her nails up his back, leaving goosebumps everywhere her fingers go. She cards through his hair, tugging his head up so she can kiss him.
Against his lips, she hisses, "I'm a vixen, I know."
He all but falls apart after that. They fuck hard and fast, rocking the car, leaving handprints on the windows and bruises on each other's skin. Zuko comes with a growl and Katara follows, her hips hitching erratically with his and her heart beating a rapid pace into his chest.
Zuko goes lax, lays his head down her breasts and listens as Katara catches her breath. It's not long before she does, and she tickles his back with feather-light touches.
He likes it. He wants more of it, and he wants to touch her, too, innocently and affectionately.
"You'll still come over," Zuko says, before he can bite his tongue, "right?"
"I thought you couldn't commit? Something about forbidden limits?"
"It was off-limits and forbidden fruit," he snorts, "but I can commit for one damn night."
Katara kisses his hair. "Commit through breakfast, and you'll have a deal."
"I think I can manage that."
He pulls away from her and Katara smiles. It's so pretty and sweet, like she's excited for the extra time. Zuko doesn't let his thoughts go any further than that— a sleepover, a second and third round, a cup of coffee and waffles; but somewhere, in the back of his mind, Zuko thinks he could commit for life.