What Happens in the Swamp
Summary: "What happened with Zuko…Aang, it was a one night thing. You don't understand. We had been there for weeks." Sometimes she apologized without realizing what she was apologizing for. Exploration of the Swamp, years later. Kataang, Zutara, Rated M.
-11-
Because Aang was technically several decades older than me—rather, because he was from an era far before mine—there was always a gap, conflicting with the current physical gap between us. Two years didn't seem like much, but it was always something small—a little afterthought, "oh, we are only two years apart; no, I'm the older one." Of course, we managed. What other choice was there? Aside from years, we were right for one another. He loved me more than he knew what to do with; I loved him for this love.
We were perfection, personified, amplified.
Everyone wanted to be us.
The initial impulse was to stop. In the heat, no spontaneity could occur in good conscious. Despite the cold pool of water courtesy of her bending, both Zuko and Katara were still drenched in the heat. It fell from them, filled them, made their movements heavy and untimed. Clumsy.
"Of course it's good," he said. "When you fantasize, everything is good, and nothing is good... it's what you make it to be."
"And you make it to be good?" she asked, arms still crossed firmly over her chest. Zuko recognized that the maneuver was to hide her clearly hardened nipples, and couldn't help but smile perversely to himself. Their time in the swamp had drawn out so many animalistic instincts in him; for whatever reason, he couldn't help it.
"You're...I mean, you..." He scratched his chin dumbly, grimacing a little at the stubble. "It would be hard for anyone to... see you in this condition and not think it wouldn't be good. I mean... I'm rambling... you're just...it would be hard for anyone to—"
"It would be what?"
"It would be hard for any man not to want to... do anything—"
"I think it is hard!" she retorted, resting her arms on the rocky bank of the pool. She smiled smugly and pointed at his anatomy. "You were never good with words, were you, Zuko? Look at my face please."
He pulled his eyes away from her breasts forcibly. "What?"
"What is it going to take for you to shut up? I can't believe how badly you want this."
"Look." He was annoyed and frustrated with her confidence, unaccustomed to cockiness other than his own. "I told you not to talk, and you talked, and it definitely fucked up the moment."
"You fucked up the moment!" Katara spat fiercely, turning her back to him. Perhaps without meaning to, the pool began to warm up as she spoke. "There is no moment! I'm engaged... and whatever perverse little fantasies you were entertaining... as flattering as it may be... well, it's wrong. And I'm not saying I'm not attracted to you, or whatever. I mean, this isn't about us. This is about... being true to people. I'm not saying it wouldn't be fun. And I don't know what to tell you, because it's—"
In a desperate attempt to stop the words, to muffle the truth, Zuko grabbed her arm and turned her to him, immediately pressing his mouth to hers again. She faltered back slightly, pushing at his chest in a vain attempt to prevent the inevitable.
"Stop!" she insisted in a teasing whisper. "Zuko..."
He kissed her harder, pulling gently on her upper lip with his teeth. She moaned louder than intended; he took this initiative and rolled his tongue into her mouth.
This kissing was more planned, more exact. She held his face and kissed with effort. Their kissing was a hunger made human: they kissed with teeth, with tongues, with lips, with hands. He lifted her with little difficulty on the bank, spreading her thighs apart.
"What is this establishing?" she whispered haughtily. He worked the fastenings of her chest bindings; when they fell, he lowered his head and caught her left nipple between his teeth.
"Dominance," he mumbled against her skin, against her whimpers. "Permanence, ambivalence, beauty." She pulled his hair, threw her head back.
"A poet, too?" She bent backwards; he pulled himself out of the water and pinned her down with an unnatural ease. "This is bad," she reported weakly. "This is so bad."
"You have an amazing body for a hypocritical bitch," he whispered softly, finding her mouth and kissing it hard. She was untying the clip of his undergarment with fierce haste, widening her legs further for him.
When he had reached the softest part of her womanhood, she covered her eyes with her hands and breathed, in a supressed cry, "You have a skilled tongue for an awkward bastard."