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They take a carriage back home, because the palace said that beasts, bears, and other large creatures were not permitted and a nuisance to host. When they’d told Appa, he’d promptly snorted in protest and flown off; hadn’t returned until much later in the night. To clear his head, Aang explained.
So they’re in a carriage, the small glass window letting in flashes of streetlight, painting Aang in a soft gold that left Katara feeling hazy. She’s plucking leaves out of her hair and Aang’s helping her along, leaning over the gap between them, legs wide. His hand’s tangled up in her dark waves and tugging oh-so-gently, gaze all reverent like he’s not the reason she’s got shrubbery crowning her head.
“I like you like this,” he whispers into the semi-dark, dropping a small twig onto the floor, brushing a knuckle over one of the beads at Katara’s temple. It’s a confession, really. “I like knowing that my brilliant wife, the Master bender that no one can take their eyes off of, is mine. That she lets me chase her through hedge mazes and mess her up because she loves me.”
Katara leans forward, kisses him soft and slow, pulls away.
“I do love you. But you know I spent ages on my hair today, right? Didn’t plan on havin’ you fuck me in the bushes.”
Aang shrugs, kisses her again. “Haven’t fucked you yet, baby.”
Her silk undergarments gleam where they’re half-hanging out of his pocket, a signal of what’s to come, and Katara shivers a little. It’s probably just the night air.
His thumb’s drawing circles on her inner thigh through sheer-thin fabric—your legs in this, you’re so beautiful—and then pushing into the sensitive skin, pressing hard enough to bruise. Katara hopes it does, hopes that no one but the carriage footmen saw the way he’d mauled her neck in those hedges as they fled the palace and threw themselves into the waiting transport, Aang knocking on the ceiling and calling out their destination, Avatar’s residence!
And now the carriage is moving and the branches are out of Katara’s hair, finally, and she’s crossed the endless space between them and crawled into Aang’s lap, large hands holding her steady across the bumpy roads. Her dress is hiked up, swaths of fabric draped around her thighs and she’s nipping at his jaw like she hadn’t been there just a few minutes ago, thrilled she gets to pull Aang apart all over again; wants his fingers back between her legs, his mouth, his talented tongue.
The carriage jolts, sends Katara grinding down onto the hard length of him—hard length, both of them keyed up from their prior tryst, Aang still aching, desperate. Katara’s bare and keenly aware of it, conscious of how she’s definitely leaving a stain on the front of Aang’s trousers and is finding it increasingly difficult to care. She wants to run from him again, wants him to chase her down. She chases friction instead; rolls her hips until he lets out a delicious moan, solid enough for Katara to swallow down.
“Still need me, baby?” she asks him as his hands trace featherlight up her arms, squeezing her biceps before he leans down, kisses her shoulder.
“This dress has been driving me fucking crazy,” he murmurs into her skin, places little kisses on Katara’s collarbone until she’s gasping, the rumble of the carriage making everything more, more. She’s hearing ostrich-horse footsteps on Ba Sing Se cobblestones and Aang’s sucking a mark on her neck, fingers dragging up her skin, her jaw, until he’s got two pressed to Katara’s lips, hushing her when the wheels hit another bump—really, the city council’s got to get to work on these potholes, these stone roads—and she lets out a long, low groan.
“Quiet, Katara,” he whispers, laves his tongue over the hickey he left. “Don’t want the whole city hearing you, right?”
“Right,” she gasps, because Aang’s squeezing her hip, her ass, digging large fingers into the flesh of her thigh where her dress is hiked up. He’s so fucking hard, she’s pretty sure he never came down from that hedge-maze high, poor baby, and she can’t stop moving against him, can’t keep her small sounds to herself; Aang likes them usually anyway, doesn’t let her swallow her groans—she’s spoilt, really. His fingers press harder against her lips and Katara parts them to let him in, runs her tongue around two digits quickly like she does around his cock.
It’s not the same; it’s not the same heavy weight, not the same taste—she can taste herself, remnants of their prior activities—but it’s Aang, fingers in her mouth and muttering against her shoulder, faster, baby, need to take you to bed, need to—
He pulls back, sees Katara’s face, lips wrapped around him, eyes wide—she knows, she knows how he likes her, on her knees or on top or wherever, he really just likes her—and he groans all over again, good girl, so pretty, grinds her onto him harder, steady friction against her clit. She wants him, isn’t happy just being fingered in the bushes and left alone, wants Aang’s cock instead of his fingers—in her mouth, in her cunt. Wants, wants, wants.
Aang drags himself out from between her lips, a long, slow cigarette pull. Katara kisses his fingertips, spit-slick, grins when he rubs it into her skin.
“You’re too good to me,” he breathes, pupils blown as his hand trails down the front of her gown—she’s not sure how they’ll explain all this to the cleaners—and slides under her rucked-up skirts, makes contact with her bare clit, makes Katara gasp.
“I could be better,” she shrugs, rolls against his hand, calluses catching.
“No. No, I like you like this. Love you like this.” His voice is all gravelly and deep, the way he gets when he’s practicing restraint, the same voice he uses when he’s meditating and Katara’s getting handsy, the same voice he had in front of that damn Earth Kingdom official that was saying that Katara should embrace gentler pursuits. She wonders what would have happened if she hadn’t pulled Aang away.
Katara nips at his collarbone, bites down on the hard muscle of Aang’s chest. How’s that for gentle?
“Fuck me?” she mumbles into his skin, and Aang takes his hand off her ass—no!—and grips Katara’s chin instead, guides her off his chest and looking at him, pupils blown wide and swallowing his usual silver-grey. Oh! So it’s like this tonight.
It’s like this tonight, Aang’s grip on her cheeks gentle but firm, his kiss bruising, leaving Katara heaving and desperate for more; she wants to put her mouth on him, wants to lick a line up his throat to his jaw, swallow down whatever’s got him smelling so fucking good tonight, but she can’t. He’s not letting her. Won’t allow her to move anything except her hips, lets out a small tsk when Katara’s hands drift from his shoulders and hums in approval when she settles them back.
“I’ll fuck you at home,” he growls, and Katara lets out an embarrassing little whine, needy to be filled. There’s heat coiling in her, she’s so close already, nothing but friction bringing her to the cliffside and gasping, gasping.
“Need something, Aang,” she lets out, words muffled by the strength of his grip. Aang, ever the fucking contrarian, pulls his hand out from under her, laughs a little when Katara cries out in protest. “No! You’re being mean!”
“I’m being mean?” he asks, leaning up to kiss her, to swallow desperate little sounds as she writhes in his lap. She feels feverish, a little hungry. “I don’t know, Katara…” Aang lifts her up and off of him, large hands digging into her thighs as he shifts her across the carriage and into the seat facing him. Katara yelps at the sudden movement, hands scrabbling for purchase across the expanse of Aang’s back, trying not to rip into the fabric of his shirt. He’s still holding onto her as he lowers himself into the ground between them. It’s a tight fit for someone his size, and Katara realises dimly that he can’t possibly be comfortable, but Aang doesn’t complain, just hikes up Katara’s skirts, an ocean of fabric around her waist as she’s bare to him, and looks up at her. He’s grinning, wide and wicked. “I think I’m being very nice.”
He grasps Katara’s hips, tugs her to the edge of the seat; her spine’s screaming but she doesn’t care, knows what’s coming—ha!—and then she’s gripping the back of Aang’s head, digging her nails into the whorls of his tattoo, legs stretched out to the opposite seat and soles resting against a cushion.
Aang licks a long, slow stripe up her core. Katara bucks, can’t buck, groans when the movement of the carriage pushes her into Aang’s waiting mouth and then he’s there, he’s there, laving and sucking like it’s all he’s wanted to do all night.
“Needed to taste you,” he murmurs against her cunt, blowing air that makes Katara keen, makes her go baby, baby fuck, Aang!
“I– I’m so close, Aang,” she breathes instead, sees how he’s dizzy with want. She’s so fucking sensitive, can’t believe she hasn’t come already, can’t believe Aang keeps bringing her to these edges and not pushing her off, jumping with her. She wants him inside of her badly.
“What else do you need?”
“Hands– hands! Please, need your hands, need you, need—”
She’s babbling. She’s not sure it matters. Aang’s a fucking expert with his tongue, spends hours practicing on Katara whenever he can; wakes her up with slow strokes and his head between her legs and then leaves her unsteady for the rest of the day, wobbly around town.
He’s got three digits knuckle-deep inside Katara and stretching her out when she comes, a whole mess across his face and fingers—and she’s not quiet about it, not at all. Their neighbors definitely heard, got to listen in on cries of baby, right there, gonna– gonna come!
But it’s fine. It’s fine, because the carriage is rolling to a stop and Aang’s kissing the insides of Katara’s thighs, quiet as she tries to come down from her high, snap out of her reverie—she can't; she can’t. Aang looks up at her from where he’s kneeling, slowly eases his fingers out of Katara and it’s enough to make her gasp again, sensitive.
“Open,” he says quietly, and they only have a minute or so before the driver comes around to open their door and Katara’s skirts are still ridden up, a mess, and Aang’s still on the floor, but she drops her jaw anyway, sticks her tongue out the way she does when taking his cock. He slides himself into her waiting mouth, fingers slick with her own wetness, lets Katara suck the taste of herself off of him. She savors it; knows that he does too, knows that he does when he groans at the feeling of her lips on him. “Fuck. You’re far too good for me,” he sighs, and then drags out of her mouth, places his fingers in his own and then swipes them on his shirt as he rearranges Katara’s dress, settles himself back in the seat across from her—they probably can’t even send these clothes to the cleaners anymore. Katara manages to sit up slowly, accepting Aang’s help as she readjusts.
Her hands reach up, brush the beads at her temples. She probably looks a nightmare, definitely looks like she’s been eaten out within an inch of her life, but Katara’s still buzzing, smiling brightly at Aang as they listen out for the footsteps approaching their carriage door.
“How’s my hair?” she asks, tossing the mess behind her shoulders and hoping that her waves aren’t frizzing out in every direction. Aang’s looking at her like she hung the moon, jaw gleaming in the street light.
“Perfect. How’s my face?”
“Wet,” Katara laughs, then leans forward, licks a quick stripe up his jaw, tasting the remnants of her release and a shadow of stubble right as the carriage door cracks open. She throws herself into the backrest before the driver can catch sight of them, stifles a giggle that Aang fails to conceal.
He’s looking at them warily anyway—probably heard their entire… conversation during the journey back. They return his glare with innocent smiles. He’s not amused.
“Tip him well,” Katara murmurs as Aang steps out first, the bulk of him leaving the carriage and making the space so much roomier. When she moves to exit, Aang’s hand is already out for her to grasp, to place her palm in as she steps down gently, careful not to trip over her skirts. Katara’s pretty sure that was the hand that was inside her earlier, but she’s never been picky. He squeezes. She squeezes back.
Aang does tip the driver well. He leaves with a grunt and a nod and the sound of ostrich-horse on cobblestone.
Aang takes his time. He’s always been patient, says it’s the monk training that holds him back, keeps him calm; it’s the training that’s stopping him from tearing Katara’s dress off of her, ripping out the careful line of buttons traveling down her side.
“You don’t want me out of this?” she asks when he kneels to remove her sandals, deft hands undoing the ties as though Katara can’t reach down and get them herself. She focuses on the clasps at her throat instead, undoes two before Aang looks up at her, narrows his eyes, long lashes—unfair, really—fluttering. He tsks. Katara stills.
It’s not a thing. It’s totally a thing. His quiet commands, his easy smirks, the small nod he gives Katara when she listens to what he’s telling her to do. Sometimes she’s in charge and sometimes she’s not, and right now Aang’s kneeling at her feet while his hand is trailing up her bare calf and he’s got lace hanging out of his pocket and Katara wants to collapse, a little bit. She carefully places a hand on the broad expanse of Aang’s shoulder, lets herself lean on him a little bit lest she fall to the floor.
“I think,” Aang begins, fingers tracing a slow path along her leg, bringing her skirt up, up; air’s cold and she’s got goosebumps. “I’m gonna take it slow tonight.” His tongue curls around the vowels, slow tonight, and Katara wants to die. She needs him inside of her immediately. She has to have him.
“Little late for that, no?” she challenges, and Aang’s back on his feet with an arm circling Katara’s hips, throwing her up and over his shoulder and suddenly she’s face-to-face with his lower back, blood rushing to her head and Aang’s broad hand steady on her ass. It lifts, comes down sharp through the dress fabric. “Oh!”
“Not at all,” he replies and navigates towards their bedroom, Katara holding her arms out so that she doesn’t hit any sharp corners with her skull. “Any objections?”
“Not yet,” she shrugs, or attempts to shrug, swatting at Aang where she can reach him, legs kicking. He retaliates with another swift smack, making Katara cry out and hang limp before they’re in their bedroom, finally, and Aang’s dropping her—tossing her, because he manhandles sometimes—onto the bed, Katara on her back and resting on her elbows and Aang just looks. Watches her.
Katara hasn’t shrunk under his gaze in a long, long time.
Bonus of being childhood sweethearts, she jokes sometimes. We’re all we’ve ever known. And he knows her, knows how Katara likes to be eaten out, likes to be stretched. Katara knows how to ride him until he’s panting, gasping, begging her to let me come, please, Katara, please! Knows all the looks; the I need you tonight face and the fuck me until I can’t think eyes. Knows the ridges of Aang better than she knows herself, sometimes.
So Katara knows what he wants; gives it to him—shifts over clumsily to her hands and knees and faces Aang, crawls forward slowly, slowly, one limb after the other and trying not to trip over the swaths of dress fabric until she’s right in front of him and sitting back on her heels. Gazes up at Aang and stays quiet when he raises a hand to her jaw, silent and reverent, eyes blazing.
“I’m so lucky,” he whispers, and it’s barely audible. “So in love with you.” His thumb brushes over her lower lip, Katara parts them; bites down lightly on the pad of him and hopes that her teeth leave an imprint. They usually do.
His free hand deftly unbuttons down the clasps of her dress, pauses to grope at her breast, pinch her nipple hard enough to make Katara arch into his touch, close her lips around the finger in her mouth; suck. Aang leans down, kisses Katara’s forehead, her cheek, while he undoes the last of the clasps at her waist and hips and then pulls back and uses careful hands to part the fabric, pull it over and off Katara’s shoulders. She squirms to help him, raises her arms and slides out of the dress until she’s mostly bare, top half rolled down to gather at her waist and Aang’s just staring at her, running one finger over the ridge of her collarbone and down, down; cups her breast in his large palm and controls the air around her until it’s cold, until Katara’s nipples harden and her flesh is raised.
“Tell me what you want, Katara.”
“Want you,” she says quietly, eyes dropping down the line of Aang’s body to the outline of his cock, straining in his trousers. Her mouth waters a little. “Gonna make me beg again?”
“Well,” he murmurs. “I won’t stop you.” Katara rolls her eyes and Aang laughs, bends over to kiss her—finally!—slow and deep, tongue pressed to teeth, catching on a canine. Katara moans into it; she loves this, Aang’s mouth on hers and taking his time, hand traveling up her chest, her throat, her jaw. There’s love in it each time he kisses her, and Katara doesn’t know what to do with all of it; wants to cry with each movement of his lips against hers.
He pulls back slightly, mouth wet, and looks Katara in the eye. His gaze is soft; his voice isn’t.
“Beg.”
“Please,” she whispers, hoarse. “I need you.”
“Need what, Katara?” He’s standing up straight again, looking down at Katara like she’s his. His to do whatever he wants with.
“Need you in my mouth. Please,” she whines, and the corner of Aang’s mouth turns downwards but he nods anyway, doesn’t bat at Katara’s hands when they reach up to the waistband of his trousers and deftly undo the tie with a swift pull, doesn’t stop her when she slides his boxers down just enough to free the hard length of him.
Katara wraps her hand around the base of his cock and looks up at Aang, eyes wide.
He’s large. She’s had him inside of her so many times it’s absurd, and every time she sees just how big he is, she feels a little dizzy. She strokes him lightly, a long, slow pass. Aang hisses at her touch.
“You okay?” he asks her softly, and Katara nods; small and quick before she leans forward and licks a stripe up the underside of his length, savors the taste of skin, teases his slit with her tongue until Aang gasps and his hips shift lightly, nudging at her lips.
Katara grins at him before widening her jaw and taking him in, wet heat as she gazes up, swirls her tongue around his cock, widens her eyes. He’s too big for her to take him all the way, but Katara tries anyway; bobs her head down and back and swallows around his length desperately, tries to get him to make sounds, whining as he thrusts shallow.
Aang threads his hand into her hair, grips gently at the root and guides Katara’s head as she strokes along the base of his cock, hollows her cheeks and sucks.
“So good for me,” he groans. “So pretty like this Katara, so beautiful.” She hums at the praise, feels a flicker of pride when Aang lets out a low moan, tightens the fist in her hair. Definitely ruined by now, but she doesn’t care, too lost in the heavy weight of Aang’s cock on her tongue, drool beginning to escape out the corners of her mouth.
Katara pulls off of him for a second, takes shallow breaths while Aang gazes down at her in awe, spit-soaked lips curled into a grin.
“Am I doing okay?” Katara asks, and he nods. “Tell me I’m doing okay.”
“Doing so well for me, baby. You like me in your mouth, huh?”
“Yeah,” she breathes. “Yeah, I really do. Be less gentle?”
It’s all the permission Aang needs. Her lips are wrapped around him again and Aang’s rougher with her, just like she asked. He’s got a fist in her roots and he’s holding her still, thrusting rhythmically into her mouth, across her tongue, and Katara whines and whimpers and sits there and takes it. She’s fucking taking it, hand on his length and stroking clumsily while Aang’s moving above her, all baby, Katara, so fucking good, made for me. Katara’s soaked between her thighs, hips rolling and chasing friction against the bedsheets, clit aching, but it’s not enough, the angle’s not right, there’s a puddle underneath her and she can’t make it work.
Her eyes well with tears; Aang’s cock’s hitting the back of her throat and it’s a lot, jaw aching and wide open for him, for him, and she’s so fucking needy, and she wants—
Spirits, she’s not sure what she wants; she’s a little cock-drunk really, so much of him filling her mouth and making her go a little dumb. A tear rolls down her cheek; Aang swipes it away instantly.
“You got this, baby,” he whispers. “You’re taking me so well, such a good girl, so– m’so close, baby, baby, Katara—”
He’s babbling as he fucks her, pulls her hair a little to make her cry more while he’s whispering sweet nothings, telling Katara how pretty she looks, how he’s been wanting her all night; keeps wiping loose tears off her face and sucks on the pad of his thumb to taste them, keeps making Katara groan around his cock with each word out of his mouth.
She knows he’s close, knows the stutter of Aang’s hips as he grows erratic, closer to orgasm; and Katara distantly realizes that she wants this. Wants him to come before he stops himself, flips her over to fuck her and come inside; and she wants that too, but this first. This.
She taps at his thigh and he lets up, allows her to pull off of him, suck in a deep breath. A line of spit connects her to his cock, and she feels a bit delirious at the sight, drool dripping down her chin.
“On my tits,” she gasps out, licks her lips in a desperate attempt to look less… disheveled. Aang nods, undone and desperate, doesn’t question Katara’s command when she strokes him faster, faster, making him gasp and thrust against her palm. His cock’s coated with saliva and the slide of Katara’s hand is an easy drag and she’s so, so grateful that she gets to have this for the rest of her life. Gets to have him for the rest of her life, too.
Aang comes quickly after that, chokes as he cries out Katara’s name, groans low and deep as he comes in spurts across Katara’s bare chest, cum gleaming against brown skin. He steps back and stares at her, at the claim he laid; smiles wide enough to make Katara shiver.
Say you’re mine.
She’s definitely his. She said as much. Proves it too; gathers the cum on her right breast, smears it slightly before sliding slick fingers into her mouth, closing her eyes and savoring the taste of Aang, of his cum mixed in with her own sweat-salt. Does it once more and ignores the choked sound that Aang lets out as he watches her, as he sinks to his knees and draws Katara’s hand out from between her lips and captures them with his own in a sloppy, hungry kiss, all tongue and teeth.
“I love you,” he breathes when he pulls away for air, Katara chasing after him desperately. He holds her back with a gentle hand at her jaw. “Did so well for me. Think you can keep going?”
Aang’s voice is soft, reverent. So’s his touch as it travels down Katara’s chest, brushing against a nipple deliberately enough that Katara gasps, keyed-up, before he lands at her waist. Spans her with his hand because he’s so large, those Airbender hands, careful and cautious and gentle the way that he always is.
She needs them back inside of her.
“Yeah,” Katara nods, hoarse. “I can keep going.”
“Why won’t you fuck me?” Katara gasps out as she crests her fourth orgasm of the night, boneless. Aang’s got her across his knees as he sits at the edge of the bed, one hand back between Katara’s thighs—really, she’ll never get sick of it, but Spirits if he isn’t stretching her out, four fingers deep and pulling the smallest, weakest little sounds of of Katara, ones she wasn’t sure she knew how to make. He’s going to tease her afterwards, she knows it, repeat the things she’s saying in her ear as she’s trying to fall asleep, things like I can’t, please, and it’s too much, you’re too much—
It’s a lot. Four fingers in her cunt and Aang’s thumb hooked into her mouth, making her words come out lazy, slurred. He’s laughing, erection pressed up against her side and fully fucking clothed, and he’s laughing.
“I told you I liked you like this,” he says, punctuating the sentence by dragging his fingers out of Katara, leaving her whimpering at the loss before he smacks her cunt, a strong slap! that rings out, skin on soaked skin. Katara screams something raw around his thumb, lets out a breathless little gasp when Aang soothes over the slap with gentle hands, a brush of knuckles against her clit. “Love when you’re good for me. Love these little sounds you keep making.”
“Aang,” she groans out, “please!”
She didn’t want to beg, not again, but Aang’s practically making her, spending ages teasing her open slowly, pushing Katara towards orgasm and pulling her back from it, stretching her out until she’s like this over his lap; face down, ass up, breasts sticky with cum. Suckling his thumb whenever it all gets to be too much, finally begging when she can’t take it anymore. She needs Aang inside of her, wants to be split open around his cock instead of his fingers.
“Want me to fuck you that badly?” he teases, large hand trailing down her thigh and squeezing, and Katara whimpers in response. “You gotta ask me properly, otherwise—” his hand lifts, smacks her cunt again.
“Fuck!”
“—otherwise, I’ll just keep making you come until you can’t take it anymore, Katara.” She can hear the smile in his voice. Can hear how much he means the threat, knows that he’ll follow through on it, keep his hand between her legs until she passes out or pushes him away; doesn’t even need to get off again, content with seeing Katara writhing in pleasure. “Is that what you want?”
“No,” she replies. “No, I want– I want–” Another smack. “Oh! I want you, Aang, please, please—”
“Ask me properly, baby.” It’s a harsh command; or it’s a request, or it’s a confession; Katara’s not sure anymore, her brain’s a little mushy, gone soft from being fingered so thoroughly—
“Aang, I need you to fuck me, please!” she finally exclaims. “Please, please. Fuck me, I need it, I need– I want– please,” she finishes, and tears are streaming down her face, hot and desperate as she rolls her hips in search for friction, tries reaching for Aang’s cock awkwardly to free it from where it’s tucked back into his trousers, tries squirming around in his lap despite how he’s holding her tight.
“Yeah?” he asks, but it’s not a real question. Katara doesn’t get the chance to nod before Aang’s lifting her off his lap and twisting to toss her back onto the bed, guiding her up to rest against the pillows and directing himself to kneel over her. His eyes are wide, hungry as he finally takes off his shirt. He doesn’t say anything when Katara immediately reaches up to caress the hard muscle along his stomach, tracing a path to his chest, smiling all stupid as she gets to take him in.
Aang’s really, really handsome. She loves him. He’s all hers.
“Like what you see?” he asks, and Katara nods, lip between her teeth. He grins. “Well, my view's a lot better.” Katara blushes, grins and stretches, arms over her head and spine long. Keep looking, and Aang does before he leans down to kiss her, slow and soft. “Should I be gentle?”
He does this sometimes; goes so hard that Katara’s on the verge of collapse and then eases down at the end; makes love to her sweetly until she’s spasming around his cock, gripping him tightly, nails digging bloodlines into his back. He’s nice about it, whispers in her ear—did so good for me, so beautiful, I love you, I love you. Compliments her with each thrust, takes care of her even as he’s coming inside of her, buried deep, little wishes they don’t talk about coming to the surface: you’re so perfect, going to be such a good mom.
“No,” Katara replies. Don’t be gentle. She feels a bit like she’s going to break; knows that she will if Aang backs down now, so she turns down his offer. “Keep going.”
His answering grin is devilish, all teeth.
“Want me to fuck you hard, huh?” he laughs, lips dragging across Katara’s neck as his fingers reach between her legs, stroke through soaked, sensitive folds and make her gasp. “Want me to use you?”
Yes. Two fingers slide in, out. Katara groans, closes her eyes, bucks her hips and tries to get off on her own.
“Keep looking at me.” Another slap against her cunt and Katara’s eyes dart open, biting her lip hard enough to bleed, pretty sure she is bleeding.
Aang’s gaze bores into her, all steel, hard determination; she feels a little dizzy under the weight of it.
“You’re being mean,” she whimpers as her hand trails down his chest and onto the waistband of his trousers, pushing them down his hips, freeing his length enough that it lowers down to her stomach, soft skin on soft skin. “Even though I’ve been so good for you, I deserve this. Deserve to be fucked properly.”
She’s laying out her case the way she does in diplomatic meetings; stating the facts, making her claim, saying how badly she deserves to get what she wants, what she wants. Aang chuckles in reply, a low sound that makes Katara’s stomach twist. He reaches down, wraps his fingers around his cock with a hiss as he guides himself towards her entrance.
“Okay, baby,” he murmurs, slides himself through sensitive folds and gathers her wetness. “You’re right. This is what you deserve.”
He doesn’t ease into her; just slides all the way in with one easy thrust, doesn’t let Katara adjust to his length—and he’s so fucking big, her brain’s already mush and it’s leaking out of her ears, making room for him in her body, the stretch of him, her husband, hers.
“Mine,” she groans as Aang fucks into her, fast and steady and unrelenting, each thrust of his hips leading him to press deep into her, far reaches. “Mine, mine, mine.”
“All yours baby,” he agrees, kisses her messily and then places pecks at the rest of her face, bites her cheek a little bit until she screams. “Yours. So fucking good for me, so tight.”
Katara’s barely conscious by now, legs wrapped around his waist and ankles locked over his spine; wants Aang to keep going, keep going, keep whispering things in her ear and making her keen, wants him to fuck her into the mattress until they can’t extract themselves.
“My perfect girl,” he moans, and Katara arches her back, changes the angle enough that she’s left gasping with every jerk of his hips. “So beautiful for me. I can’t– I don’t think– can’t last too long.”
His movements are already growing erratic, shorter and quicker thrusts that slam against Katara’s spread thighs and his hands are groping at her, one tight on her waist as the other wraps around her, pulls her closer into him so their chests are pressed together, skin on skin on skin. She digs her heels into his spine and he keens against her neck, bites down on her shoulder hard enough to leave a mark that he’ll offer to heal. Katara won’t take him up on it.
“Please,” she babbles, begs. “Please, please, please, come in me, give me– please keep—fuck!—keep going, I’m gonna– I’m so close—”
She’s so, so close, the heat in her spine weak and worn out but burning nonetheless, all pressure in her core as another orgasm rises, spurred on by nothing but the stretch of her around Aang’s cock, the feeling of being filled.
“Hold it for me,” he gasps out. “Wait for me, Katara, just—”
He reaches down between them, places practiced fingers on Katara’s clit and circles it and she holds him tighter; crushes him a little bit as he brings himself to the brink, too.
“M’so— that’s it, baby, m’gonna—”
Katara nods into his neck, sobs into his jaw, and then he’s coming, and then she is too, waves and waves crashing into her as Aang empties himself deep inside, mutters something about taking me so well and so fucking pretty and fuck, fuck, Katara, Katara!
It’s her name on his lips, always. Hers, always.
He doesn’t pull out of her immediately; Katara doesn’t let him. Her ankles are still locked together and she’s so fucking sensitive, five orgasms deep and boneless, heaving in tandem with Aang.
“I love you,” he pants into her skin, kisses her collarbone and shoulder and forehead and cheek. Kisses her properly, slow and deep, and Katara places a hand on his jaw and kisses him back.
“Love you too.” And she does, every part of her twisted up in him.
She uncrosses her ankles, lets Aang pull out and whimpers at the loss, at the feeling of emptiness. The drip of his release feels filthy, and Aang sits back on his heels with his gaze locked on her cunt, on the mess of it, eyes wide as he draws a finger through the wetness and pushes his cum back into her. Katara groans, rolls her hips.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs, a bit reverent and lost in it. He draws his finger out and lifts his eyes to meet Katara’s, then leans over her and places his finger against her lips. Katara parts them, lets him in, sucks their combined release off of his skin and moans around it. Aang looks a bit feral. “You’re way too good for me.”
“Mm, no,” Katara murmurs, draws Aang in for another kiss. “I think we’re perfect for each other.”
“Might be.”
“Definitely are.”
They lay like that for a bit, wrapped up in each other, sweaty and messy and panting, fucked-out until Aang breaks the silence.
“We should clean up.”
Katara very distinctly does not want to do that; groans and says as much with dramatic flourish, you hate me, won’t let me sleep with your cum inside me.
“I love you, but I will not let you do that, no,” Aang laughs, easing himself up and off of the bed. Katara’s struck again by how much she loves him—his deep laugh, the smooth way he leans down and lifts her, one hand under her knees and the other supporting her back. She reaches up, loops her arms around his neck and kisses his cheek messily as he walks the two of them to the bathroom. “We’re both gross, and we need to take a bath.”
“But I don’t want to,” Katara whines, even as the tap turns on, even as water runs, gets hot. “Wanna sleep,” she murmurs, and then nuzzles into Aang’s chest, not letting go as he lowers her into the tub, only drops her arms when Aang reaches up and unclasps her hands from his nape. The water eases her muscles, makes her sleepier, makes her barely notice as Aang joins her and pulls her back against his chest. She loves him like this, loves how he takes care of her even when they’re both exhausted, boneless.
“Tired you out, didn’t I?” he asks apologetically, hand running up her leg, brushing between Katara’s thighs just enough that she gasps. “Bath first, and then we can sleep, okay?”
“Promise?” she mumbles against warm skin, fingers playing patterns against his stomach, gently bending the water up and around Aang’s limbs as she relaxes into him. Love, love, love.
“Yeah, Katara.” He places a kiss on her forehead, she hums, content. Love! “I promise.”