Work Text:
“This is ridiculous–you’re being ridiculous,” Katara exclaims beyond locked doors.
Zuko tucks his face closer to the scroll before him in an attempt to concentrate, hoping, praying his lack of response will be enough to dissuade his beloved’s protests right outside his office doors.
The frustrated shrill of her voice which he’s always found downright endearing, echoes in the hallway when he offers her no reply. He hears her stomp away not long after, and immediately laments the loss of her presence. Though, a small part of him sighs in relief as he goes back to the tedious task at hand.
He hopes to make it up to her soon.
The last couple of weeks have been heaven and hell. Heaven in the form of his beloved former South Water Tribe ambassador, now his betrothed, coming back from her extended trip. Hell in the form of never-ending paperwork on his desk that prevents him from spending time with her. Teetering delicately between the two are the long list of preparations for their upcoming wedding because as elated and over the moon as he is at the fact that in just a few month’s time, he’ll finally be able to call Katara his wife, (esteemed Fire Lady, future mother of their children, the moon to his sun, so on and so forth) all the planning and silly formalities make him want to steal her away and elope on some private island far from the theatrics of a royal wedding.
It’s tempting.
She’s tempting.
He wants nothing more than time with her and her alone, yet for every minute he steals with her is another minute spent wishing for more, like some unquenchable thirst.
This, he reminds himself, is exactly why he’s locked himself away for the past few days to wheedle away at the stacks of important documents and letters that litter his usually pristine desk.
It’s what he gets for letting it all pile up, although how did anyone expect him to get any work done when he’d finally been reunited with Katara after her month-long assignment in the Earth Kingdom, followed by her two-month stay in the South? The longest they’d gone without seeing each other since they’d gotten together was a week, three months straight had been torture.
He would fall asleep rereading her letters, an embarrassing fact he’d regretfully admitted to his Uncle during one particularly tough day spent missing her. Lovesick, he had called him.
When she returned they spent three lovely days together, most of it spent luxuriating in bed, until she caught wind that he’d been avoiding his work and promptly sent him back to his office. Though he sulked about the whole ordeal he also found himself eternally grateful for her resolve as he bore witness to what had become of his desk, a mess to say the least. His attendants had been more than relieved to see their Fire Lord back to work.
Self-discipline is something he’d long trained into every fiber of his being, hard-won and unwavering, and yet it is no match for Katara. A glance her way and he’s folding like paper, transforming himself for her.
He can’t decide what’s more pathetic, his ability to be so easily tempted by her, or his inability to think clearly when she’s near. Either way, he decides that this current solution, though a bit extreme, is the only way he’ll be able to get any meaningful work done, much to Katara’s frustration.
He takes his meetings in his office and his meals at his desk. When fatigue becomes impossible to ignore he crashes on a chaise, if he can manage to make it there. Some mornings he wakes from pinching aches in his neck after falling asleep hunched over stacks of paper. He’s thankful that he’s got an attached bath. With his basic needs met he’s got no reason to leave, fully aware that the moment he sets foot outside he’d inevitably seek Katara out.
She’s not wrong for calling him ridiculous, he’s aware, and he does feel sorry for worrying her.
Every day since his self-imposed confinement she’d knock on his door to coax him out for a breather, a quick walk, a break for tea. He’s stopped answering the door altogether, his resolve thinning by the day.
The faster he catches up on his work the sooner he’ll be able to see her again.
He reads faster.
—
Two more days pass with little to no disturbances save for the few brave attendants who drop off more documents for him to wrap his mind around, though thankfully most of it is less urgent. Sensing his displeasure, they make these drops quickly, and efficiently, avoiding the glare he shoots their way even though they know not to take any of it personally.
He spends the day trying not to be too upset that this is the second time she hasn’t checked up on him.
Zuko peeks over the document currently in his hand, eyeing the letters he’s yet to address. A long, dramatic sigh escapes his lips as he sinks into his chair, head leaning against the back of it, begging the Spirits for an ounce of reprieve. He scrunches his eyes shut for a few moments to relish in the darkness before shooting up to his feet, the bath suddenly calling his name. A few moments away from his desk would be beneficial.
The warm water that envelopes him does help, when he dips into the bath. Tense muscles easing down, he closes his eyes and concentrates on deep breathing—a slow inhale through the nose, a quick hold at the top, finishing with a long exhale until his lungs are completely empty. He repeats the cycle for eight breaths before his mind is no longer swimming with words on parchment, settling into the peaceful silence of his evening bath.
The soothing water combined with his exhaustion cajoles him towards sleep and he almost sinks under until an unfamiliar sound causes his senses to flare, eyes shoot open and lock onto the bathroom door, and he holds his breath, listening. A light thud, the sound of shutters, delicate footsteps belonging to someone who doesn't necessarily care to hide their presence.
He curses at the potential danger, carefully slipping out of the water and swiftly wrapping his robe over wet skin. He approaches the door quietly, breathing out smoke, adrenaline spiking. The last thing he needs right now is an attempt at his head. Slowly, he cracks the door open.
A familiar humming floats in the air when he leans toward the opening. His heart leaps into his throat for a completely different reason and almost yanks the door off its hinges from how quickly he opens it.
“Katara,” he practically shouts, hoping the fake ire he hides under is convincing. “What are you doing here?”
Her long waves swish as she turns to face him, icy blues glowing under her furrowed brows, the cutest pout on her lips. Spirits above, he’s already done for.
“When I agreed to marry the Fire Lord I didn’t think I’d have to resort to breaking and entering just to see him.” Katara punctuates her jab by placing a hand on her hip, she exudes challenge. It’s summer in the Fire Nation so she’s not layered in her usual South Water Tribe attire but instead sports lighter fabrics that wrap her curves in swatches of deep blue. He barely catches the rest of her words, lost in the expanse of bronze skin that her clothing grants him. “Also, remind me to talk to your guards about this in the morning because it should not have been this easy to get in here like this.”
He mentally berates himself for ogling. In his periphery is the unfinished work that prompted this whole arrangement to begin with. When he sighs, it’s one of regret.
“I’m sorry, love. Just a couple more days, I promise I’ll make it up to you.” It’s not an empty one either, he knows he owes her, but her arched brow tells him his words are not enough. He almost crumbles under her gaze.
“No.”
“Katara-”
“You will make it up to me by getting proper rest,” she cuts in, both hands now on her hips as she approaches him. “Sleeping all crumpled up on that dingy chair is not proper rest. A few bites of food here and there is not a proper meal—you think your attendants aren’t telling me about how little you’ve been eating. And, maybe it’s a cultural difference but as far as I know, cracking a window open is not the same thing as getting fresh air.”
Her indignation for his sake is endearing and although he’s standing in nothing but a robe, he shivers from the warmth she ignites in his chest rather than from the cool, evening air fanning over his damp skin. He lets out an amused breath, the corner of his lips curling up.
It was his defeat, it had been the moment she set foot in his office.
The glare that Katara shoots his way lacks the true rage that he's encountered many times before in a past life. This one is more a result of concern than actual anger, a hint of frustration mixed in.
There’s little else that he can do but surrender.
“You’re right,” he sighs, deflating as he reaches for her. Sweet surrender.
She eyes him carefully when his hands land at her waist, studying the bags under his eyes, the softness behind them, only for her, always for her. Satisfied with whatever she finds there she drops her scowl in favor of a relieved smile.
“You’re insufferable,” she scoffs, stepping into his space to wrap lithe arms around his neck.
He hums amused before dipping down to kiss her. The breathy giggle that he captures with his lips does more to unwind all the tension in his bones than the bath water ever did. When he holds her tighter and sinks deeper, she pushes her tongue past his lips and he almost loses the strength in his knees.
Somewhere between the overwhelming feeling of Katara against him and the honeyed taste of her, he reflects on the past few days, wondering how just how he managed to deny himself of her presence when she holds this much power over him. He stops thinking altogether when she drags blunt fingernails against his scalp, a soft moan escaping her lips.
Chasing his hunger he guides them both towards his desk, trapping her against it. A dash of regret distracts him when he peeks at the contents of his desk preventing him from enacting the new fantasy that’s lodged itself in his brain.
What he would give to take her then and there, cast aside the scrolls that have become the bane of existence, ruin the organized chaos he’d painstakingly curated, all for a chance to watch her writhe against the dark wood grain.
She’s putty in his arms, molding soft curves against his hard planes, he whines gratingly because as tempting as it is, he knows Katara would disapprove of the mess it would leave. Between the two of them, she will always be the voice of reason.
He mourns the past week, how he’d completely avoided her in favor of work. It’s one thing to be physically apart, separated by oceans, it’s another to actively withhold himself from her when she’s just beyond closed doors. Had it been a necessary sacrifice? Maybe, probably, depends on who’s asking (his attendants would argue a resounding, ‘yes’). All he knows is that this reunion, both sweet and incendiary, makes it all worth it. They catch flame like a field in a drought and he’s already so hard it hurts.
When he reaches to hook her leg over his hip, all intention evident by the way he grinds against her center, she douses his flames like the master waterbender that she is.
In one swift move, she untangles herself from his hold and keeps him at bay with a palm to his chest. They breathe heavily. She just had her tongue down his throat, the lack of blood to his brain makes him dizzy, and the cold air between them reminds him of the harsh winds of the South Pole.
His eyes lock on the swollen pout of her lips, following the movement of her tongue when it darts out to lick. It makes him want to beg. He opens his mouth to speak but she’s thrown him off kilter. No words come.
“I have a meeting with visiting dignitaries from the North in five minutes.”
His mouth goes dry, he barely registers her words over the blood rushing in his ears. “What?”
“Tonight was the only time that worked with my schedule. Shouldn’t take long—hopefully” she quickly replies, straightening her clothes where his greedy hands had gotten to them. “But I couldn’t help myself. Had to stop by and see you really quick.”
He blinks dumbly.
“I know, I’m sorry! I didn’t think we’d get all—Look, I’ll give you a couple more hours to work but you really do need to rest after tonight. It’ll do you no good going about this the way you have been.” Katara steps around where he’s frozen at the spot, but only after she spares a glance down the length of his dark robe, how the fine fabric does nothing to hide his evident desire. He finds some comfort in the flash of regret and yearning in her eyes. “I’ll come get you once I’m done for the evening. I expect those doors to be unlocked when I get here, or so help me Tui and La, they’re coming off their hinges and you will lose your door privileges.”
She climbs out the window before he can get a word in, though he doubts he would’ve been able to, to begin with, his mind fraying.
He doesn’t know how many minutes pass between having Katara, all supple, pliant, willing in his arms—Spirits, so willing—to him standing dumbfounded, baffled in front of his desk empty-handed and painfully erect. He also doesn’t know how long it takes to dislodge himself from where he’s rooted to the ground and waddle to his chair, wondering if he’d gone insane from cabin fever and imagined the whole exchange.
He doesn’t bother changing into his actual robes, knowing everyone else has already retired for the day and won’t be bothering him until the next morning. He grabs the document he’d tossed aside and tries to anchor himself back to reality. Somehow, reading the dull, tedious letters from varying officials, and writing even drier, straightforward responses works wonders, distracting him from the storm that Katara stirred in her wake.
He wonders if this is the punishment he gets for having distressed the fiery waterbender.
—
Zuko is knee-deep in a letter when a familiar knock breaks his concentration, thankful that years of training prevent his fire from scorching the parchment because he knows it’s her beyond those doors, though the candles along the walls do flicker from the sudden uptick of his heartbeat.
“Come in,” he rasps, trying to keep his voice level.
“Hey there,” Katara greets sheepishly, a tinge of guilt in her voice for the way she had left him high and dry. She idles at the door expectantly, leaving it ajar. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”
He drops his brush, ignores the way it splatters ink on his unfinished letter, and marches towards her, the softness in her eyes draws him in like a moth to flame. She’s already turning to leave when he grabs her wrist and pulls her in. She squeaks at the sudden motion, and in one fell swoop he’s got her pinned against the door, one hand at her hip, the other braced against the wood.
“Zuko,” she huffs.
He reaches for the lock and it clicks with finality.
“Zuko.”
“Katara.”
She sighs, lifting her chin to get a better view of him.
“Wouldn’t you rather be in bed? Our bed?”
He breathes a ragged breath intermingled with smoke. At the edge of his sanity, he throws subtlety out the window and admits a depraved truth.
“I’d rather be inside you. Wherever you’ll have me.”
He’s thankful the words give their intended effect, her cheeks flushing red. She blinks at him for a moment, before a slow, teasing smile dawns on her features, a playful gleam in her eyes.
“Me too,” she admits, playing coy.
He wastes no more time, finding her mouth, and taking her in. The hold he wraps her in is possessive, covetous, afraid that she might try to pull the same stunt twice and leave him empty-handed once again. A cruel punishment.
“You’re not too tired for me?” she asks between each heated kiss.
How absurd.
“Never.”
Rest is the last thing on his mind. The sun in his veins is all-consuming.
She grabs his robe and pulls. Into the deep, they go.
There’s no room for tender words and careful touches, they pick up exactly where they’d left off and it doesn’t take long before her clothes and his meager robe litter the ground.
His rapacious hands glide against newly uncovered skin until he’s kissing a clear path down her body, pausing to lave at the curve of her breasts until her nipples are pebbled under his pliant tongue. She’s shivering once he’s situated on his knees, peering up at her as he plants a fluttering kiss at the apex of her thighs. He nuzzles the soft curls there, filling his lungs with her sweet, heady musk until he’s drooling.
“Please,” he prays, dragging calloused fingers along her thigh.
She swallows hard, lifting her leg to drape over his shoulder, her fingers tangling in his hair.
“Oh—fuck…” she groans, low and deep when he licks her open, her body quivering.
In the midst of it all, he thanks his addled mind that he’d dismissed his guards for the night when Katara sings his name. He shepherds her to her peak, relishing in every whine and whimper that he draws out of her, the way she drips down his chin quenching the nagging thirst in his bones. He’d thank her, tell her how good she tastes, how he’d thought about this all week if it didn’t require him to remove the seal of his mouth from her cunt so he lets the twist and curl of his tongue communicate what his voice can’t.
Her voice grows desperate when he plunges two fingers into her core, teasing the bundle of nerves inside, coaxing her higher with the combined effort of his mouth and fingers. It doesn’t take long until she’s sobbing his name, tugging at his hair to grind against his face. He flattens his tongue against her clit and lets her ride it out.
He licks her clean, almost rearing to go again until she calls for him, voice pitching from oversensitivity so he offers his reverence elsewhere as he kisses his way back up.
She’s still trembling from his efforts when he reaches for the backs of her thighs and lifts her, securing her against him. She settles in his arms, legs hooked around his hips, trapping his aching cock between them.
“Can I?” he gasps, dragging his length against her folds, one last act of supplication.
“Hurry,” Katara whines, angling her hips so he’s prodding at her entrance.
The relief is overwhelming when he finally sinks in. His world narrows to the feeling of her, the clawing need for more, to go deeper, to consume, and she demands it—whatever he can give her—so he gives her everything. She clings to him and submits to the greedy pace that he sets.
Sobbing against his mouth, she offers him words of praise between ‘please’ and ‘harder’ that shoot straight to his core.
He makes a mess of her until she’s breathless, until the heady gaze that she keeps on him melts, her eyes rolling back. He leans away just to watch how he disappears inside her, licks his lips at the way she spreads prettily for him, and though he’s rarely vocal when they couple like this, words are suddenly tumbling out between clenched teeth. He talks her through it between ragged breaths, tells her how good she’s doing, how good she feels squeezing so tight, so wet for him, he confesses his depravity.
“Zuko,” she whimpers, straining. She’s so close. He can still taste her climax on his tongue. “Oh—Right there, right there—fuck. Wait, slow down—I’m–”
He buries himself deep inside when she cries out his name, times his shallow thrusts with the familiar pulse of her release.
“Fuck…” he gasps against her chest, slowing to a stop in an effort to ease himself down from the edge, but it’s already too late. Katara writhes underneath him, clenching still, and what little control he has left dissipates. She commands him to let go.
So he does.
A string of curses escapes his lips as he succumbs to his own pleasure, pumping inside her at a hurried pace. His vision darkens at the edges until he’s cumming with a strangled shout, shuddering from the force of his release.
The rest of the world slowly fades back in around him as they fight to catch their breaths. Pressing his nose against the pulse point on her neck, he kisses her heartbeat—revels in it—offers a silent prayer to the Spirits for the blood that runs in her veins, that by some cosmic miracle, her heart had chosen him.
Amidst his reverie, she drags a rumbling groan from deep within his chest when she scratches at his scalp and down the back of his neck like she knows he loves.
“Mm,” she hums. “I missed you too.”
He concludes that his confinement had been foolish after all, foolish to think that he could ever deny himself of her, or her of him. He’ll find other ways to continue to serve his nation well, but not at the expense of their time together.
—
When they finally tumble into bed after a quick clean up he confesses a small regret into the softness of her hair.
“Wanted to go for longer but you didn’t even give me a chance,” he grumbles, with feigned bitterness.
“Poor you,” she teases, pinching his cheek, “We’ve got time before breakfast.”
“Give me more credit than that. I just need ten minutes.”