A/N: Wah, my first attempt at writing pr0n, or a "lemon" as they say in the fanfiction business... anyways, built off of a prompt at http : / / community . livejournal . com / zutarotica / ...
Disclaimer: I no own, you no sue.
Sinners Like Us
(don't deserve to be happy)
"Dirty like last time,
I'm not ashamed--
I have done horrible things
And I'm ready to be blamed.
A little more weight doesn't matter
When you're already towing a mountain..." Sinners Like Us, Emilee Petersmark (www (dot) myspace (dot) com (slash) emileeisnotemo)
"You should have been mine," he tells her every time, his words raking across her dusky skin rough as his fingertips. "Just like this..."
She bites her lip to keep from crying out as those calluses tweak her nipples in expert fashion, hands already so sinfully familiar with the curves of her body. It's at times like this that she no longer feels the scalding burn of the gold ring he wears even though she knows it's there (it's always there). Her brain simply shuts it out.
A harsh, breathless whisper: "Gods, please..." and she can no longer remember the real reason she left Aang's bed only hours before-- hunger? Restlessness? Whatever her original motive was is lost among the wet, needy kisses and hasty groping.
The clasps and sashes of his regal Fire Nation robes are no match for her nimble fingers, and with practiced ease she pulls them from his body, revealing an inviting vastness of pale, muscled flesh. The trousers he's wearing whisper from his body to fall to the floor, and she follows their descent with her tongue, sinking her teeth into the thick, meaty flesh of his thigh. He swallows a moan (Oh Gods, her mouth...) but she can hear it over the wet sounds her lips and tongue make against him-- it's a sound she's trained herself to listen for over the past few years-- they've spent enough time sneaking around to know just how cautious they'd have to be with their lovers and comrades sleeping in the next room.
He tries not to think about how her husband is lying fast asleep in the bed he'd provided for the two of them, slumbering soundly just on the opposite side of the wall he was pressing her up against now. He needs her too badly to consider the repercussions of their coupling-- everything is aching for her and if he doesn't have her now now now he will surely die right here.
Her back braced against the wall, she curls her legs around his waist and squeezes, pulling him inside all the way to the hilt and releasing a soft whimper in reply.
That sound, accompanied by the overcome expression on her face, is enough to obliterate his last shred of restraint, and with a violent snarl he takes her, hard, pumping in and out of her at a rapid, desperate pace.
"Tell me you love me," he commands against the bared skin of her throat, one hand tugging hard on her hair to give him better access to the area and the other digging its fingernails into her thigh. "Tell me I'm the one."
She can't think, can't breathe let alone get her mouth to form the words he wants to hear... Every rough thrust of his hips into hers sends her heart racing to breakneck speeds and cinches the coil of pleasure twisting in her stomach-- so close...
He needs to hear her say it-- he needs to hear her those plump, love-swollen lips telling him that she knows exactly who is fucking her, that she knows no one will ever have her like this, maker her groan like this, make her cum this hard...
Those words from her lips will finish him, and Gods he needs it...
All at once he can feel her inner muscles tighten almost painfully around his length, the wetness between them increasing and dripping down the inside of his leg-- his eyes snap to her face to see her expression (he can't miss this, he won't...).
"Zuko," she says in a soft, keening mewl, eyes burning hotter than coals on his skin. Fuck... "It's you, it's always been you."
Her voice, her eyes, the spasming of her body around his... it's all too much and he's cumming harder than he's ever cum in his life, spilling himself into her with a few last erratic thrusts, each connection of his hips screaming mine, mine, mine until he's practically shouting it in her ear.
"My Katara..." he moans into her hair, trembling as the waves of orgasm ebb against him. "You're mine... just like this... just like this..."
She slowly slides her feet to the floor, knees shaking. "Just like this..." she tells him with a soft, chaste kiss. "Just like this..."
They dress in silence with backs turned on each other, suddenly all too aware of the slumbering of his wife and her husband elsewhere in the palace. And when she gets back to her room (the one she shares with her beloved husband, the same room they'd made love in for the first time on their wedding night) she cries and cries and cries until Aang wakes up and holds her gently, soothingly, frightened and confused but too unsure to ask her what's wrong.
It's for the best, really. Katara doesn't know if she could explain the burning weight of her own wedding ring, nor the scorch marks left behind on her body from Zuko's.
Mine, they seem to say. You were supposed to be mine.
End.
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