The Innocence: Chapter II
He closes his eyes and suppresses the urge to shudder—to hum a little bit. He lies beside her.
His fingers are probing, digging into her—this girl whom he shouldn't be touching. His Uncle had forbid him.
But Katara, his Katara is gasping beside him and her fingers are tantalizingly hovering over the place that is protruding from his pants.
And he can't help it.
He can't help it—he loves her, and this is what he wants to do with her.
He inhales with a sharp gasp, soaking in the scent of her hair. The brief, few respites they have with one another, out of the watchful eyes of his Uncle Iroh.
She gasps once again below him. He is not quite sure what he was doing, but touching her down there, and hoping for her to gasp soon and again and again, and again.
He is not quite sure what he is doing, but he is told that this is what he should be doing. That this is what intimate couples do—touch eachother down there.
She gasps and shivers once again and Zuko fears for a moment, is scared.
Is scared of what they're doing.
Because for the moment, he realizes that there is shuddering girl below him, beneath him, on the side of his bed.
And he is laying there beside her, not sure what he is doing, but knowing that he wants to.
There is something funny tingling in his throat and he is not sure what it is. It makes him want to choke, or perhaps, cough. To say something, but there is nothing to be said, especially in this situation. There is something uneasy in their respite—this new world they are unfittingly delving into and he is bringing them into—but he can't exactly qualify it. He does not know what this tingling is.
He continues moving his fingers over and under her, below and beneath her. This writhing girl beneath him. Not sure what he is doing, but touching her.
She gasps once again, so he presumes he must be doing something right.
This silent moment of intimacy. It is their first, but he is not sure what he is doing.
She gasps, breathing heavily and staring up at the canopy with her breaths in shock, finally. He knows she has not found relief, not an end like the ends he finds when he has moments to himself and with himself, in his room alone. He knows she had not found her end, but yet, does not know what to do.
He wonders if she was enjoying it—had enjoyed it—despite that she could not come to an end.
He had wanted to bring her to an end, but couldn't. He wasn't quite sure how to.
And then at some point, she had pushed his fingers off, doing nothing but simply gasping and breathing heavily and staring up into the silent ceiling of the canopy on his bed.
They both lay there, her staring up at the ceiling and him to her, breathing hard—neither having found ends to either discourse, but having experienced something new.
They both lay there, breathing hard. Having experienced something new.
Her robes were a little bit rumpled, but fully on her as they had been throughout the last 15 minutes. Rumpled just a bit on top, because Zuko had touched her briefly on her chest before deciding to dig deeper and get to his purpose: below her loins. They were properly and primly clothed, unrumpled enough to fix themselves up to a finite perfection within a moment's notice of Uncle Iroh's too-soon arrival.
He had not, of course, lingered on her breasts too long for he knew that he couldn't; he had get to his purpose, what he wanted to venture into within the rare moment of extended respite he had anxiously calculated that they would have today.
So they lay there, breathing hard, fully clothed despite her being a bit rumpled.
Zuko had briefly slid his hands into her robes to touch her breasts—of his own curiosity—before quietly and silently slipping his hands down, moving them past her tunic and into her underloins quickly, to spare them the little time they had.
To try what he'd wanted to.
He wasn't sure what the outcome to his daring ventures certainly was—they were now two, breathing heavily on his bed, mindlessly staring at things: her at the canopy, and him at her heaving and shocked form on his bed beside him after she had pushed him off.
He was surprised that she hadn't tried this once before himself. She was breathing so heavily that she couldn't possibly have.
He had thought it would be a surprise to have him touch her, instead of herself. Craving what he, himself, so desired from her, he thought he'd bestow the gift upon herself. Little to realize that she had not yet affectioned the sweet carnal pleasures that came with self-pleasurement.
The moment of shock came over him too, silently, for a moment.
She... she was so innocent. Too innocent.
Yet, he had done this to her.
"Katara," he whispered, turned on his side, laying on his bed beside her. He didn't know what to apologize for, but he felt like he needed to apologize for something.
He was unsure, this hesitant 15-year-old boy. He wasn't quite sure.
"I'm sorry," he whispers achingly. Not daring to touch her, for he doesn't know how to show his sincerity or remorse in that way for they don't do that often.
Their attraction, affection for one another is well knowledgable between them, but ever so rarely had he found found the time to truly hold her. His uncle's nerve-wracking and watching eyes prevent him from being familiar with casual parts of her.
In the few moments they have, he decides the sexual frustration between them is enough to warrant their actions.
He can't touch her, or comfort her as he apologizes, for he does not know how to. Too accustomed to hiding his affection to her, from his Uncle in public, he is not used to touching her. So he does not know how to hold her face and ask for forgiveness with contrived sincerity.
The discreet touches below her clothes are just that—discreet and unaware and brief. They are semblances and aches of hidden desires within coveted glances across dinner tables coming to stark fruition. Taking advantage of the few moments that they have the small measures of time to indulge, to feel. But he was still unfamiliar with th normal carresses, too unaccustomed.
Today had only been the second they had indulged, and even then, he had only glanced the enigma on her chest with the briefest touch, too hurried to get onto more demanding and different matters.
So he apologizes, his voice aching, staring at her with pleading, aching golden eyes. Eyes that are worried, but unaware as to what.
"Katara.." he whispers again, pleading. Not sure for what.
"For what? It's okay Zuko," she asks him quizzically.
A heave is released from his chest. A sigh of wonder, of exasperation, of curiosity and astonishment.
But he cannot fathom or let go of that unknown reason—why was he worried? What was that awful tingling in his throat while he had been on that bed.
Something is off, but he does not know how or why.
All that he knows is that he loves her, this girl lying beside him on the bed.
And that she forgives him for something he does not quite know is wroughting guilt within him at this very moment. But it is this unplaced forgiveness that precisely fails to quench his desire, his unknown worries and fears and thoughts.
Nevertheless, they are back to their worries the next time they find themselves under the extended unsupervision of their unsuspecting (or perhaps, more keenly, suspecting) Uncle.
And it is night this time, unlike the dim early afternoon of their previous session.
Uncle Iroh had been out shopping that last time, but tonight he is out on a jolly and merry good night out on town.
So it is night, when Zuko is cautiously placing his hands over her maidenhood once again, for the second time.
He knows that they both have a longer time period now and is determined to make the most of it. He wants to bring her to his nirvana, the splendor she had allowed him experience each and every night before they had finally realized the serious extent of what they had been doing.
He starts slow, and before knows it, becomes more comfortable with her body.
No longer afraid to touch her, he buries her face into a nuzzle at her neck as he gently rubs the coveted and secreted and desired place called a clitoris.
She moans.
She had never heard it coming from her mouth before. Neither has he. And he is pleasantly surprised at the sound and nips appreciatively at the juncture between her neck and throat.
It is an intimate act, he realizes: kissing her neck. He enjoys it.
He continues the ravage on her lower-regions, aiming to bring her to the height of pleasure, moving his fingers rapidly, with speed.
It moves like oars of a paddle boat against soft, gentle ocean waves. He softly rubs and pushes and pulls against that same tight and rounded spot, and he knows that it is this motion that is pulling her overboard.
She shudders even harder this time, and her chest quivers.
Her quaking and shivering breasts, he can feel it right below him, his face right above her chest. Realizing how turned on by this subconscious side-affect of hers, he grows more aware of his a stiffening length below him. It is precisely this plague that has pushed him to his desires.
"Katara, just relax," he guides her softly, bringing his head up from her slightly nipped collarbones to speak to her. To her help her find.. find that place. That nirvana.
She is biting her lip and he is surprised at the amount of overwhelming attraction he has to her tense and frustrated face. That striving expression on her face, her innocently intoxicated eyes glazed over with lust.
He has inspired this lust within her, he knows. Katara is much to innocent to discover it herself, and he has newly introduced it to her.
He is seeing his young playmate, his Katara, overwhelmed with lust, and the knowledge inspires a certain sort of aching tenseness within his own pants.
The worried lips between her teeth make him wonder.
Before he knows it, he is worrying his own lips between his teeth as well and frustrated by her own frustration, he moves his lips and head from the side of her throat and places it headfirst onto the pillow beside his head.
He digs his head deep into the pillow, his chest on the satin and silk sheets, moving his pelvis rythmically across the bed to relieve himself of some his own self-inspired frustration as his right hand lingers over his clandestine girl. Trying to jack herself off, he tries to jack himself off.
She is gasping beside him, beneath his fingers, and he doesn't think he can take it much longer.
Unlike the first time, he is not afraid to touch her this time—her face, her neck—and that is what makes this time all the more different for him.
He growls deep into his pillows as he rubs her off and tries to grind against his own bedsheets.
Before he knows it, his cabin room is filled with aching groans and sighs, the noises of two teenagers trying to jerk themselves off out of need.
The visage of Zuko, trying to place his hand at two places at once.
When they are done—he, not completely satisfied, but satisfied that she is and having already made plans to finish later—they lie silently, only the sound of deep breaths resounding around them.
Katara's skirts are mussed this time. Her upper-robes are worse, the knot that held them together loosened with the boy's ardent rubbing and nuzzling against her chest and shaking mounds with his slim fire nation nose.
She is lying there, heaving beautifully against the moonlight, her chest exposed but her lower midriff and forearms covered with heavy blue luxurious clothes.
Zuko revels at the sight in the moonlight—the cloths he had bought her undone in front of his eyes. He enjoys this perverse pleasure, having ardently dressed her up with the severe machinations in her mind to disrobe her.
He has this unbelieving, incredibly desire to lick her right now. Right in the middle of her chest, the space below her collarbones and above the growing brown swells. Not her breasts persay, but her just the flat expanse of the upper portion of her chest.
He withholds this desire though, lest to catch and displace the remarkable Katara unaware. He couldn't give in to his more baser instincts—not in front of her.
He had already soiled her enough as it was, though he had limits and boundaries for himself. He understood that it was a selfish, primitive pleasure and desire of his to cede to the more unruly instinct that had orchestratred this night.
But he had given into that as a desire, rather than an instinct.
He would not, of course, give into baser needs. That, of course, was something un-princely. It was unrefined and uncontrolled and would not be of his own volition or contemplation if he did so. It would be primitive.
Baser instincts were a completely different category from conscious decisions.
And that was what this night was—conscious. The desire to do this to her, share this with her, had been a conscious decision. Consciously hiding it from his Uncle.
And although he had felt sorry, regretful of it at first, he had slowly and quickly overcome the strange tingling feeling of remorse in his throat.
The fact that he'd unpurified perhaps, the most purest thing in the sea right now.
He felt happy.
Happy with her, happy with what he'd done.
And this sudden realization came with another epiphany, one that struck him as he lay on the tousled and ruffled red silk sheets of his bed after Katara's leave to her own room before Iroh's return.
The epiphany, revelation, struck him with such a fierce intensity that it nearly almost made him forget about the throbbing erection below his pants.
It struck within him such anger that he found himself unwilling to reform his fists, unwilling to not quell the urge to go over to Uncle's room—regardless of whether or not he was in there right now—and demand to know why.
This made him so happy.
So why was he not allowed to love the "young Miss Katara,"—in the words of his Uncle Iroh?
Since that night he had been lectured by him to keep and stay away from her, Zuko had ceded.
He had ceded, but somehow, that had done nothing but intensify his desire for her.
Make him realize, make her realize.
And actually want her.
To the sneaking away of nights and several few moments throughout the day when they knew the General would be looking the other way.
To the hasty taking of her introduction to her first pleasure within the confines of 15 to 20 minutes on a docked ship, in the middle of the day, when their Uncle was out shopping.
Why? Why had it been hasty? Why had he needed two nights to bring his Katara to the pleasure he had wanted to show her?
Why must they always have kept it hidden, secret, in waiting?
Why could he supposedly not dare to touch her at all?
Why did his Uncle Iroh dislike it so much?
A/N:
So what do you guys think? This is mean, but consider I have so many more subscribers than people who have reviewed, I'm putting up a review ultimatum. This means if you want to see a new chapter, you should most definitely consider *ahem* telling me what you think about THIS chapter.
Thanks! ;)