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It is quiet.
Too quiet, really—usually Sokka would be here, complaining about something, or Toph would be sprawled on the floor, or Suki would be trying to convince her to go out somewhere. Now, it's the two of them, her and Aang, and the silence in the room is notable.
This apartment has never held heat well, not since she moved in a few months ago. Katara knows this. She's spent enough nights here alone, wrapped in blankets, to know the cold isn't a season, but a presence that lives in the walls and waits.
Tonight, it feels different. Sharper. More deliberate. Or perhaps it is simply that she is different—that the warmth of his body across the bed is a reminder of all she wants and hasn't let herself reach for.
She’s spent weeks wanting him while he was away. Weeks of lying in this same bed—their bed, technically—alone. Picturing what it would be like to have him here. His warmth pressed against her. His hands on her skin. His voice in her ear.
Aang had been in the Earth Kingdom for a diplomatic issue. Avatar business. She'd understood, but understanding doesn't stop the wanting. Doesn't stop her from reaching for him in the night and finding only cold sheets. Doesn't stop her from pressing her face into his pillow, breathing him in, pretending.
He had written to her. Every day. She has the letters saved, a whole drawer full of them, tied with ribbon, because she's sentimental. He'd written about the meetings, the negotiations, the way the tea was always too bitter. He'd written things that made her laugh. Things that made her cry. Things she'd read over and over until the paper went soft and she became tired.
He’d arrived a few hours ago. Showed up at the door with that stupid smile and those beautiful eyes and a bag full of things for her from Ba Sing Se, because he's ridiculous and generous and she loves him so much it hurts.
She'd hugged him. Held on too long. He'd held on too.
And now it's been a full day of this—of being near him, of not touching him, of waiting for someone to make a move.
For years, they've been careful. So careful. Stolen kisses in dark hallways and hands that wandered but never too far. Self-control that became more unbearable with time.
Because it's supposed to be necessary. Because they're supposed to be responsible. And she’s tired of being responsible.
Now he's here. Right there. Close enough to be with, close enough to desire, yet an unwanted silence hangs between them.
So, she stares at him with her hands in her lap, her teeth sunk into her lower lip, and clears her throat.
The words come out softer than she intends, "I'm cold."
It's not a lie. The chill seeps through the walls, the closed window be damned, but the actual cold lives inside her—in the empty spaces of her body where she wants him to be. Where she's imagined him being for weeks now, late at night with her hand pressed between her thighs, picturing those grey eyes looking up at her as he—
Katara cuts off her own thoughts, curling tighter on the edge of the bed. She cannot think about that. Not now. Not when he's right there, close enough to touch.
Aang looks up from where he's been fiddling with an oil lamp beside her bed, and concern flickers across his expression.
When he opens his arms, his hands are angling as if they need something to hold onto, "C'mere."
She moves to him without hesitation, the hem of his robe—the one she'd commandeered after her bath—brushing against her bare thighs. Underneath, she's in nothing but her breast band and a thin pair of underwear. She's very aware of this. Of how little separates her from him.
As she settles against him, his arms wrap around her, pulling her close. An unnatural warmth lingers in his touch as it radiates through him, and it seeps through their clothes, through her skin, into the places where the cold has taken root.
Aang’s voice is a low rumble against her ear, "Better?"
"Mm." she tucks her face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in, "You're always so warm."
"Firebender thing," he responds, and she can hear the smile in his voice, "Comes in handy."
Katara laughs, the sound muffled against his skin, "Oh, does it?"
"Mm-hmm." his hands shift on her back, rubbing slow circles through the fabric of the robe, "Warm in winter, cool in summer. I’m versatile."
Katara tilts her head up to look at him, "Eh, I’d say cute, but that works too.”
In the lamplight, his grey eyes are dark, pupils wide, and the playful smile slowly fades from his lips, replaced by something more serious—more intentional.
When he whispers, her name sounds different in his mouth, "Katara."
There is a roughness to it—a want.
Slowly, she reaches up and traces his cheek with her fingertips. He shivers at her touch, and his arms tighten around her, pulling her closer until there's no space left between them at all.
This time, when he speaks, it's a question, "Can I kiss you?"
She almost laughs. Not at him—at the absurdity. Asking her. As if he hasn't been the only thing she's thought about for weeks. As if she hasn't touched herself pretending it was him. As if she hasn't lain awake in this very bed, in this very apartment, and—
She answers by pulling him down to meet her lips.
She kisses him. He melts into it.
And it's—it's not soft anymore, not tentative, it's desperate, wet, open-mouthed and frantic, and she thinks she might cry if he stops, might actually—
He doesn't stop.
Her own tongue rises to meet his, not matching but challenging, pushing back with all she's been holding in reserve. Distantly, she thinks that she should be embarrassed about the sounds she's making. But she isn't.
Roughly, his hands fist in the fabric of the robe she wears—his robe—and she loves that, loves that she's wrapped in something that smells like him while his tongue strokes into her mouth.
A breeze stirs the air. His breeze—she recognizes it instantly, the way you recognize a lover's footsteps, a lover's touch. The windows are closed. The night is still. And yet, the oil lamp's flame flutters in response as the tapestries sway against the walls.
Aang's hands find the hem of the robe, hovering at the edge of the material. She covers his hand with hers, leading it beneath the fabric to the small of her back. The contact makes them both inhale sharply.
His palm spreads across her lower back—broad, warm. That warmth against the vulnerable curve of her spine makes her quiver, and he maps her with his hands, learning the dip above her hips as he continues to kiss her.
Water in a small basin by the window ripples, the surface trembling outward in circles before stilling again.
Aang breaks the kiss to press his foreheads to hers, "Katara… I want—" Then, a frustrated exhale, "I don't know how to ask, but—"
What he wants to ask her is obvious—obvious in how he has looked at her all night, in how his hands have found excuses to touch her.
So, she shifts in his arms, and turns until she is straddling him properly—one knee on either side of his hips, her thighs spread wide. She presses her hands against his chest, ushering him to lean back against the headboard until she is the one looming over him.
This new angle presses her directly against his cock—hard and hot beneath his underwear, and she whines into another messy kiss as he bucks into her.
Aang's hips shudder involuntarily, his hands scrambling to her hips to hold her in place. The sudden pressure is immense. Even through layers of fabric, she can feel how thick he is, how warm.
"Oh," and then, because she's never been good at hiding her feelings, she teases him, "Is that—is that because of me?"
Aang squeezes his eyes shut, and his voice is strained, "You’re sitting on me. What do you think?"
She laughs, breathless, surprised. "Aang—"
Then he is surging up to kiss her, harder than before, meeting her with equal desperation. His hands slide down to grip her hips, pulling her against him with an emphasis that makes her moan.
"Is this okay?" he pants against her mouth, even as his body bucks up into her, "Tell me—tell me this is okay."
"It's okay," she mutters in response, and everything is so warm, "It's more than okay, Aang."
And then his mouth is back on her lips, and she can feel the need within him that matches her own. This is what she wanted—not careful, but this, the raw, unfiltered evidence of how much he wants her.
Abruptly, her improper thoughts resurface, and all she can think is that she wants him inside her. His cock, thick and hot, splitting her open. Filling her until she can't think, can't remember what it felt like to be without him.
While she is distracted, his breath becomes harsh against her throat, more erratic, and his hips lose their cadence, fluttering without coordination, "Katara, wait—"
She's so lost in it she almost misses the change.
Suddenly, he is burying his head into the curve of her shoulder with a sound like he's been wounded—a raw, broken whimper that vibrates against her pulse. His hands hold onto her thighs, hard enough to bruise, fingers digging into her flesh as his hips stutter up into her.
And then, a sudden bloom of heat is felt against her inner thigh as his release spreads through the fabric of his underwear.
The air around them shimmers as his body temperature spikes dramatically. The sheer intensity makes her hiss, but the air cools as the blast of warmth that emanates from him retreats.
Stillness. His face stays buried in her shoulder as he breathes raggedly, unevenly. His body trembles against hers, and she holds him. One hand cradles the back of his head, thumb brushing the edge of his tattoo, blue ink under her touch.
For a while, he does not move. She knows he is embarrassed, that he probably assumes she thinks less of him, but that could not be further from the truth.
She feels him try to pull away, shame making him smaller, and she tightens her thighs around his waist, anchoring herself more firmly on his lap, effectively trapping him there, “And where do you think you’re going?”
"I'm sorry," he whispers, and his words are muffled against her, heavy with mortification, "I'm sorry, I couldn't stop, I tried—you felt so good, and I—"
Katara cups his face in both hands, gently forcing him to meet her eyes, "Aang."
His eyes are wet. Gray gone silver, shimmering. His cheeks are so red they're almost purple, and he looks—spirits, he looks like he wants the floor to swallow him. Like he thinks this changes something. Like he thinks she'll—
"I’m sorry."
"No." she kisses him, then with more heat, pouring reassurance into the action, and her tongue slides against his, unhurried.
When she pulls back, she keeps her hands on his face, thumbs stroking over his cheek.
"I've been driving myself insane,” she kisses the corner of his mouth, and then whispers in his ear, “For weeks." Her voice drops lower, rougher, "Touching myself and pretending it was you."
Aang's breath hitches, and she feels him stir beneath her.
She takes one of his wrists and presses his palm flat against her stomach, "Your hands."
She remembers these hands. Remembers them feeding her when she was too exhausted to eat. Remembers them holding her when she cried. Remembers them everywhere. She wants them everywhere else.
Katara slides his hand higher, over her ribs, "Here."
She leads his thumb across her lower lip, and when he whimpers, she smiles, "Your mouth."
"Katara—"
Katara shifts slightly on top of him as she meets his eyes, "I used to lie in bed and think about your voice, and what you would say if I told you to touch me."
Aang's head falls back against the headboard, and his hips push up against her, "I—"
"Tell me." she rocks against him, slowly, watches his eyes darken, "When you're away. Do you—"
He whimpers, but that's not an answer.
"Say it," she whispers.
"Yes. Spirits. Yes—"
She kisses him before he can finish. Tastes the confession on his tongue.
The embarrassment drains from his face. Something darker replaces it—intent, hungry, focused. His hands tighten on her, and she feels him twitch against her thigh—still hard, still aching, still leaking.
Katara reaches down to the tie of the robe she has on and unties the knot. She pushes the soft cloth from her shoulders, revealing her stomach, her ribs, and finally the simple bindings around her chest. The cool night air hits her exposed skin, and she shivers, goosebumps rising along her arms and belly.
She is still sitting astride him, his hands on her waist, and she watches as his eyes travel over her. Instead of removing the binding immediately, he leans forward and presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the swell of her breast above it, tongue tracing the edge of the cloth.
"Aang." she whines, arching closer into his mouth.
He looks up at her through his lashes, and the sight of him—flushed and wanting, lips parted, eyes dark—makes her breath catch in her throat.
Aang asks her so quietly that she almost misses it, "Can I take this off?"
Katara nods her head, and he reaches behind her to unfasten the cloth, letting the straps fall. She helps him pull it off, tossing it aside carelessly. His focus remains entirely on her. He looks.
And looks.
And looks.
His lips part. His tongue darts out to wet them. A nervous gesture. A hungry one. She watches his throat bob as he swallows.
Katara wants to put her mouth there. On his throat, and she wants to feel his pulse against her tongue.
Still, she fights the urge to cover herself, to hide from the intensity of his stare. Her heart pounds against her ribs, and she forces herself to remain still, to let him see her.
She snatches his wrist and steers his hand to her chest, "Please. I need you to—I need—"
And, of course, he seems to know exactly what she needs.
Gradually, he leans forward until his mouth closes around her nipple, and she cries out as he sucks—softly at first, then harder—sending a rush of pleasure straight to her cunt. She feels the pull between her legs, that deep ache of wanting, and her hips buck against him without permission. Chasing friction. Chasing more.
Pulling back enough to blow cool air across the wet, aching peak, he mutters, "Is that okay?"
"Yes—don't stop—"
He takes her other nipple between his fingers, rolling and pinching until she's writhing on his lap, her inner thighs slick with her own arousal. When he bites down, hard enough to make her gasp, she feels a fresh rush of wetness within her underwear.
He alternates between sucking and licking—circling her nipple with his tongue, flicking rapidly, taking it back into his mouth to suck. Each new sensation builds on the last, pleasure layering on pleasure until she's pressing herself closer to his mouth. Her hands tangle around his neck, holding him to her breast.
By the time he finishes, both nipples are slick, red and swollen from his attentions, unbelievably sensitive. Every brush of cool night air makes her tremble.
While his hands work on her breasts, his lips trail up to her throat. He kisses her pulse point, then he sucks hard, pulling delicate skin into his mouth.
The sound that escapes her is surprising and wanting. Her body answers without permission, thighs tightening around his waist. The sensation stands between pleasure and a sharp, bright edge of pain that deepens it. Her nails scratch his shoulders, leaving crescents in his skin that he'll wear tomorrow.
As he lowers his head again, he leaves another mark on the other side of her neck, then one on the sharp curve of her collarbone. Each one is a sharp pressure followed by a lingering pleasant ache. She writhes on his lap, nails digging deeper into his shoulders, gasping his name.
She tugs at his tunic and mutters breathlessly, "Take this off."
Aang is quick to follow, shrugging off his tunic and tossing it to the floor. Her concentration shifts to the toned muscle on chest, and the faint lines of old battles that mark his pale skin.
Katara rises on her knees, pressing her mouth to his throat, sucking and biting until she's left her own set of marks. Aang moans, tilting his head back to allow her better access, his hands steering her hips as he rocks up against her.
As she pulls back to admire her work, two marks darken on his neck, visible evidence of her desire. And his hands slip from her thighs to her ass, and he's kissing her again, desperately.
Every time he rubs against her, his hold on her tightens. The hesitation is not there. What's left is something bolder, more instinctive—her body rolling down to meet his, the bed creaking softly beneath them. His cock slides against her through damp cloth, and the friction borders on cruelty—so close to what she wants, not nearly enough. She chases it anyway, setting the pace, riding him.
Without asking, he helps her rock against him with increased fervor. The room fills with the sounds of them—harsh panting breaths, her own high-pitched moans, his low grunts. A symphony that makes her face burn, and it's messy and loud and perfect.
His warmth surrounds her, sinks into the places where her body still remembers cold. A thin sheen of sweat beads on them, and her own bending stirs in response as the water in the basin swirls in a slow maelstrom. A small accidental wave splashes over the rim, but neither of them notices.
And she is so distracted that her next words spill out of her before she can stop them, "I need you inside me."
Aang whines at that, forehead dropping to her shoulder as his voice deepens, "But it’s not safe, it’s—”
Lost in it, she slides her tongue into his mouth so she can taste the sound that fails to fall from his throat. Aang kisses her and kisses her, until her head is spinning and all she can think about is him.
The friction against her clit builds steadily as she rides him, and her thighs clench around his waist, trying to pull him somehow closer. And his mouth finds her throat again—sucking, biting.
The combustion of sensations rushes through her—the ache between her legs, the heat of him beneath her, the sting at her neck.
She's teetering, right at the edge, but she needs—something—the angle isn't quite—
Then she shifts, tilting her hips, and the hard line of him presses precisely where she needs it, pressure perfect and relentless, and her vision blurring out at the edges.
"There, right there. Don't move—"
Aang whispers in her ear, "I know, baby. Don’t worry.”
Baby. He called her baby. She files that away for later.
The tension within her crests—suspended for one impossible breath—then crashes through her. She buries her face in the crook of his shoulder as she comes, and it illuminates all of her nerves, her cells, the parts of her she's never touched.
Waves of pleasure crash through her. Her body moves without her—seeking, finding, taking what it needs as she grinds down onto him. A strangled cry escapes her—his name, again and again, "Aang. Aang—"
And she's distantly aware that she's clawing at his back, that her nails are leaving marks, that she's shaking apart in his arms and he's holding her through it.
The water in the basin sloshes violently over the rim, dousing the floor in a sudden flood.
And he keeps moving against her, steering her hips through the aftershocks, prolonging the sensation until she's limp and trembling in his arms, breath coming in soft whimpers.
Aang whispers, pressing kisses to her forehead, her cheeks, her lips, "Shh, I’m here.”
She can barely speak, still floating in the aftermath. Her limbs feel heavy, her mind distracted with pleasure. All she can do is pull him in for a kiss, pouring all her love and wonder into the press of her lips against his.
Aang relaxes beneath her, holding her to his chest as the warmth within him starts to ease, settling into something more normal. His hand rests on her stomach, rising and falling with each breath she takes, and she covers it with her own.
She can feel the slick mess between her thighs—her own arousal and his earlier release, cooling rapidly in the night air. Unfortunately, her underwear is soaked. He is still half-hard, pressed against her hip, and even the thought of it makes her rub her thighs together.
After a moment, Aang shifts beneath her to look up, his hands running up and down her back. His eyes widen when he sees the constellation of marks on her neck, her breasts, her shoulders. She probably looks—well. Thoroughly debauched is the phrase that comes to mind. She finds she does not mind.
His fingers hover over one particularly dark bruise on her shoulder, not quite touching.
A small, rueful smile tugs at his mouth, "Maybe we overdid it."
Katara reaches up to run her fingers over the marks she left on his neck, "You think?"
Aang laughs, the sound warm and intimate in the quiet apartment. And then, both look down at the mess between them.
"We should take a bath," she stirs against his chest, her voice soft and languid with approaching sleep. "Clean up properly."
"Mm." Aang's lips press against the top of her head. "In a few minutes."
"Aang."
"I'm comfortable."
"You're also sticky."
He laughs, shifting so he can lay back against the pillows, pulling her down with him so she rests on his chest, his arms still wrapped securely around her. "Better?"
She looks down at him, studying the marks she left on his neck with a satisfied smile, "Slightly."
Katara traces one of the bites. Hers. She wants to press her mouth to it. Wants to leave another.
"You're looking at me like you're proud of yourself."
She is. She is very proud of herself.
"I am." she traces one of the bruises with her fingertip, feather-light, "I'm keeping you, no more trips for at least a month."
“You know,” his smile softens, "A part of me was hoping you'd say that."
The pleasant aches across her body become more obvious as the seconds pass—the marks on her neck, the soreness between her thighs, the places where his hands held too tight and she loved it. But so does the warmth of him pressed against her, solid and real and hers.
Through the window, the night continues its slow crawl across the city. And for a moment, she closes her eyes, content.