Rated M for Mature Marital Merriment. Enjoy!

The door clicks shut behind them, and they are alone.

Finally.

Katara sags against the door and lets out a long breath. "I thought we'd never get away." One after the other, her pointy-toed shoes thud against the floor as she kicks them off. "Don't firebenders rise with the sun? How can your people possibly have the energy to stay awake this late?"

Zuko chuckles and takes a sip of wine; he must have carried his glass with him from the party. "It's a special occasion." He tips his glass in her direction. "And they're your people now, too, you know."

She smiles to herself. "Yeah, I guess they are. I'm still trying to wrap my head around that one, to be honest."

He gives her a knowing smile. "You'll get used to it. Eventually. It felt weird for me too, at first." He kicks off his own shoes and strides to the side of the room, bypassing the large bed at its center, and sets his wine down on a small table. She surveys his room – their room, now – and thinks she will have to make a few modifications. The decorations are far too sparse and the color scheme will require a few tweaks. If nothing else, she will have to add a map of the South Pole to match the tapestry depicting the Fire Nation on one wall, and perhaps ask her father to send some ceremonial display pieces -

The sound of rustling fabric attracts her attention, and her gaze falls back to Zuko. The clasps that hold his formal collar in place fall away under expert fingers. His voice is muffled as he lifts it over his head. "Are you going to stand by that door all night?" He quirks an eyebrow at her teasingly as he sets it aside and starts working at the knots of his sash.

Watching him undress, she thinks, is the capstone on an already surreal day. The ceremony, the reception, all of it – it has been a blur of activity and her mind hasn't had the time to stop spinning. She is left standing against the door with a sense that none of this could possibly be real; it must simply be the remnants of a very satisfying dream, and any moment now she will wake up alone surrounded by furs and the cold dry air of the south. Of course, not long ago the current scenario would have been a nightmare rather than a dream: if anyone had suggested that the boy with the high ponytail that her brother had hit with a boomerang was to be the man she would someday marry, she would have given them a swift kick to the shin and frozen them to a tree. Funny, how things could change.

He clears his throat loudly, bringing her back to the present. "Hello? Zuko here. Do you plan to sleep in those clothes?" Sleep. Right. Except that she knows they won't sleep, not yet. As he picks apart the final knot and tosses the sash on the ground, his words echo in her mind and everything seems to catch up to her at once. She knows the sequence of events, and as her brain registers the next logical step, a family of sparrowkeets takes up residence in her stomach.

The realization sends heat to her face and she fingers the collar at her throat – when did it get so hot in here? Pushing away from the door, she squares her shoulders and tries to make her voice sound as breezy as possible as she makes her way toward him. "As Fire Lady, can I ban these heavy shoulder things? My neck is killing me."

His fingers invite her to come closer. "Here, let me help you." With practiced precision, he manipulates the clasps at her throat. "I'm sure the Fire Sages will insist on them for formal occasions, but other than that you can wear whatever you want." He moves behind her and lifts her collar away, dropping it to the floor. Warm hands find her shoulders, kneading the tight muscles under her skin. She rolls her neck and leans into his touch. His voice tickles her ear. "Or nothing at all, if that's what you like."

She snorts and smacks his hand playfully. "That's what you'd like, you mean."

"Can you blame me?" His hands trail down her arms until they find her hands. He laces his fingers with hers and wraps their arms around her waist, cloaking her in warmth. She closes her eyes as he pulls her close and rests his chin on her shoulder. She can feel the steady beat of his heart along her spine. "You looked beautiful today."

One eye cracks open to look at him. She can't resist. "Just today?"

"You're impossible." He pecks her cheek and then lifts their arms, spins her around until she is facing him before letting her go.

A smug smile tugs at her lips as she crosses her arms. "You're the one who married me."

He returns the look. "Well, we all know how bad my track history is where decision-making is concerned."

Her jaw drops and she pokes a finger in his chest. She tries her best to keep a straight face. "Careful, your highness, or you'll be sleeping in that big bed all alone tonight."

His palms come out in supplication. "Alright, alright. I'm sorry." His eyes flick to the heavy panels and intricate knots that hang around her waist. "Why don't you let me make it up to you? I'd be happy to help you out of those. You know, so you can relax."

She rolls her eyes. "Relax. Right. I'm sure that's what you have in mind." But she turns around to assist him. The bed looms large in her vision, and the sparrowkeets return. Her sash whispers to the floor. His hands make short work of the ties that keep the stiff panels in place, and she feels lighter as he lifts them away. The braided knots are another story, however, and he struggles with them for a moment before the scent of burnt fabric wafts into the air. The cords click against the floor an instant later, the edges leaving tiny trails of smoke in their wake.

She gives him a look over one shoulder. "Really? You burned them off?"

He shrugs. "I think we both know patience isn't one of my strengths, either." Yanking at his collar, he frees himself of his own heavy outer robe. When it falls away he looks much more like himself: simple sleeveless vest and loose pants. Except for one thing.

"You forgot this," she says, and reaches up to gently tug at the pin that holds his crown in place. Carefully she removes it and releases his hair. The gold gleams as she lays it to rest on the nearby table. He rubs one hand over his head and the shaggy strands fall back into place.

"That feels much better," he sighs. He eyes her own hair and robes. "You should join me; you'd feel much better too."

She opens her mouth to protest, just to be ornery – bantering with him is second-nature by now – but catches herself. She holds up one finger. "Actually, for once, I won't disagree. This thing is really uncomfortable."

He disappears from her vision for a moment as she draws the heavy outer robe over her head. She is left in her bindings and a simple blue slip. Though she was sweating under all that fabric, the sudden presence of cool air on her arms almost makes her shiver. Zuko moves to stand behind her, and there is brief pressure at her scalp followed by quick relief as he removes her hairpiece and unbinds her tight bun. She hadn't noticed how heavy a simple crown could be; tension she hadn't even known was there melts away as the loose locks cascade over her shoulders. A groan escapes her lips and her shoulders droop.

"Better?"

She shakes out her curls. "Much."

"Good. Now come have a drink with me."

Snagging his empty glass in one hand and her wrist in the other, he leads her over to the bed. The mattress sinks under their weight as they sit down. Zuko busies himself with pouring the wine. She leans back, and feels the cool silk under her fingertips, and reality washes over her again like a wave. This is her bed now. She is a married woman. And this is her wedding night. She takes a deep breath and lets it slowly pass through her teeth.

It's not that she hasn't pictured this scene countless times in her head; she would never admit just how many times or different ways the fantasy of this night had crossed her mind. And it's not like she isn't familiar with most of the contours of his body already. But now it is not just a fantasy, now it is real, and now they have permission. She almost feels dizzy as Zuko hands her a glass. But as she watches him put the stopper back in the decanter she can detect just the slightest tremble in his hand. For all his bravado, he's nervous, too. And somehow, this helps, if only a little.

She shakes her head to clear her thoughts and turns to face him, tucking one leg underneath her. She takes another deep breath and lets it out slowly. She holds up her glass. "What should we toast to?"

He clears his throat and grins. "To us. Against all odds, we've finally done it."

"To us." She smiles and clinks her glass against his, and both take a long drink. "No thanks to your council, though. They took forever to convince."

"Or your brother. Let's not forget him. I thought he would hold out longer than my council ever would."

She waves him off. "What did you expect? No matter how old I am, I'm still his little sister. Sokka likes you. He just doesn't like the idea of you… you know." To her horror, she can feel her heat in her cheeks.

He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. "Right. Well, we've had a lot of support too. Now that I think about it, Uncle predicted this a long time ago..."

"Just Uncle? Did you see the way Jun was smirking during the reception?"

"I did." He makes a face. "Who invited her, anyway?"

"Probably Uncle. Don't you remember anything about the abbey?"

He shudders. "Don't remind me."

She swirls her rice wine in her glass. "Actually, Aunt Wu predicted this a long time ago, too."

"Aunt Who?"

"Aunt Wu. She was a fortune teller we met during the war. It was before we even made it to the North Pole. That seems so long ago…" She smiles at the memory.

He finishes his wine and sets the glass down. "It was a long time ago. It's been five years since Sozin's comet." A pause, and then: "What did she say?"

"Wouldn't you like to know." She gives him a coy smile. "I'm afraid it's private."

His eyes shine. "If you won't tell me, I have ways of making you talk."

"Is that so? I don't see any trees around here."

He leans in. "That may be. But the bedpost might make an excellent substitute."

"Perhaps." She swallows the rest of her wine. "But you're forgetting one important thing."

"Oh? What's that?"

"You have to catch me first."

She shrieks as he tackles her, tossing her empty wine glass to the carpeted floor. Their laughter echoes against the high ceilings as they tumble across the expanse of the bed. He pins her down but she uses his weight against him, throwing him playfully to the side. She scrambles to her knees but he is right behind her, catching her wrists and pinning them behind her back. He pulls and she jerks backward, falling into his lap. His knees come up on either side of her to wall her in.

"Now," he says into her ear, breath coming in light pants. "Tell me what I want to know."

She holds her nose in the air. "And what will you offer me in return? It doesn't seem like you have anything to tempt me with this time."

"Don't I?" She jolts as he nips at her ear and rolls his hips.

"I take it back," she says, her throat going dry. "Your persuasive skills have improved over the years."

"That's what I thought." He brings her hands around to her waist to encircle them both. "So, are you going to confess?"

Her fingers enlace with his. "If you insist. She said I would marry a powerful bender. And she was right."

He snorts. "That could have been almost anyone. Some fortune."

"Hey! She also said that he would be handsome." She reaches behind her and traces the strong line of his jaw. Glancing down at the length of his limbs, her hands skim across the surface of his thighs. "And tall. She said he would be tall."

He swallows. "And how did she know all this?"

"She read my palm. Here, let me show you." She unlaces their fingers and settles one of his hands in her lap while the other curls around her waist. A moment passes as she takes her time straightening his long fingers one by one. A distant part of her mind whispers, this is it, here were go.

"The first is the Heart Line, here." She traces a finger across his palm and she notices his fingers twitch ever so slightly in response. "See how it runs parallel to the other lines? It means that you have a good handle on your emotions."

"You'll forgive my continued skepticism of this method," he deadpans, and she doesn't have to see his face to picture the look he is giving her.

She rolls her eyes. "This is about your future, Zuko. Perhaps this means I'll have something to look forward to."

He snorts. "You and my council members. What else?"

"The next is your Head Line. It's wavy, which means that you have a short attention span. And see these little lines that crisscross it? It indicates momentous decisions."

"I'm the Fire Lord. That seems obvious." Long fingers ease her hair away from her neck. "Though you may be right about the short attention span…" His mouth moves to her throat, tasting the skin along her pulse.

Her breath catches, but she continues. "Yes, but you didn't always know you would become Fire Lord. And you've already made some really important decisions. Like marrying me, for example."

Her spine straightens as his teeth graze the sensitive patch of skin between her neck and shoulder. His voice is teasing. "You said 'momentous,' not 'good.' Remember what I said earlier?"

She shifts in his lap and he grunts at the friction. "And you'd be wise to remember what I said earlier. Now focus." Her finger glides along his palm. "This is the Fate Line. It is deep in your palm, which suggests that you are strongly influenced by fate."

He chuckles, and she can feel it reverberate through his chest. "Uncle always said that destiny was a funny thing. So does that mean that this was fate, you and I being together?"

"Your palm says so. It's all right here."

"Then it must be true." The arm around her waist gives her a brief squeeze and his lips find her throat again. "Anything else, Guru Katara?"

"One more. This is the Life Line. Since it runs close to the edge of your palm, it suggests that you are cautious about relationships." She blinks. "I guess that explains why it took you two years to propose."

All motion behind her stops, and she feels him sit a little straighter. She twists to look behind her, and he is staring intently at the rumpled sheets. "Hey, Zuko, I didn't mean – "

"I wanted to make sure that the time was right, and that it was the right thing for you." When he looks at her, his eyes are intense. "But I was never uncertain about my feelings for you. Never."

The sparrowkeets that had taken up residence in her stomach disappear and are replaced by something soft and warm that pulses out, sending tendrils of heat that swirl in her chest and curl in her lap. It's funny, she thinks, as she looks at him now, she can't seem to recall why she would have ever felt nervous to begin with. She reaches behind her, cupping his jaw and pulling his scarred cheek to rest against hers. There is no space for uncertainty, no room for second thoughts. The brief silence that follows belongs to them the same way they belong to each other.

Zuko lightly clears his throat and gives her wrist a quick kiss. "You know, that still doesn't explain how Aunt Wu knew you would marry a tall, handsome, powerful bender."

"What did you expect? I'm not exactly an expert. This is just the basics."

He seems to consider something, and when he speaks, his voice has dropped, low and rasping. There is a hint of the old Zuko in his tone, the one from a lifetime ago. "Hmm. Well, in the Fire Nation we do things a little differently. Would you like me to show you?"

Her heart leaps into her throat. "Something other than palm-reading?"

"Yes." His warm breath skims her ear. "Your future may be in your hands, but your character is in your bones."

His hands slip away from hers and up to her shoulders. They feel fever-hot as he slides his fingers under the thin straps of her slip, easing them off of her shoulders and down her arms. She shrugs them off, the fabric pooling around her waist. His touch is feather-light as he traces his fingers along her collarbone. Goose bumps spread across her skin.

"We start here," he says, and kisses a trail from one shoulder to the next. "Your shoulders have carried many burdens in the past, but you have carried them well. Even under great pressure, you will not buckle." His fingers dig pleasantly into her sore muscles, and the heat from his fingers melts the tension away, leaving her feeling loose and relaxed.

The warmth of his hands leaves her shoulders and reappears at her back. She feels a slight tug before her bindings feel loose around her chest, and she helps him to unwind them slowly. When the last bit falls away she tosses the bundle to the side, forgotten. She waits with anticipation, thinking she knows where his hands will go next. But he surprises her.

A single finger traces the ridges of her spine, starting low and ending at the base of her neck. She arches her back in response; feels his growing excitement as she presses her hips into his lap. "Your spine," he says, as he swirls a lazy finger around each vertebrae on the decent, his mouth pausing to linger at the prominent bones at the base of her neck, "each of these tells the story of your journey, and your strength and endurance. You have great courage and determination."

Her breath is coming faster now, and she barely restrains a disappointed whine when he backs away from her, leaving only the memory of his warmth. He crawls around to face her, and his eyes darken as he takes in the sight of her. His bottom lip catches between his teeth. Reaching for the sides of his face with both hands, she weaves her fingers into his hair and pulls him in for a long, lingering kiss. She leans slowly backward until her back meets silk and he follows obediently, adjusting his position. The bed dips where his knees sink into the soft mattress at either side of her hips. Her hands leave his face and make their way to his chest, where they make quick work of the frog clasps on his vest. He shrugs it off and it joins her bindings elsewhere on the bed.

With one final nibble at her bottom lip he pulls back and sits back on his heels. For a long moment they simply admire each other, watching the rise and fall of each other's ribs as they take quick breaths. Her eyes take in his body, pale and lean and hers. But the smooth expanse of his chest is interrupted by a splotchy pink permanent stain, and for a heartbeat she is reminded of blinding blue light and the feeling of a scream catching in her throat. Blinking hard, she reaches out to trace the star-shaped scar on his chest with a finger. He gives a sad smile before catching her hand in his, and presses a soft kiss to her fingertip before releasing it.

Unexpectedly, he shimmies down her legs, and she cranes her neck to see where he is going. For an instant she worries that she has spoiled the mood and that he is withdrawing from her. But when he reaches the end of her body he stops and sits back on his heels again. He takes one of her feet in one hand, and cradles her calf in the other as he raises it off of the bed.

"Your feet," he says, and she had almost forgotten that they were playing this game, but she has no time to ruminate on bad memories as he runs his tongue along her arch. She shivers, not sure how such a simple gesture could feel quite so good. He kisses the tips of her toes one by one. "Your feet tell of the long path that you have walked and of your journey yet to come. You have the power to surpass any obstacle in your way." He repeats this process with her other foot, and all she can do is just lie back and enjoy herself, trying not to giggle when his tongue tickles in just the right spots.

His long fingers begin the ascent up her calves and he pushes himself forward slowly. "Your legs" he says, as he bends to kiss along the length of her thighs, "have the strength to stand up to anything, even the things that frighten you most." And she does feel just the slightest twinge of fear as his hands travel to her waist, plucking at the bindings there. But the fear turns to anticipation as she lifts her hips to assist him, and something akin to giddiness flutters in her chest when he pulls the last bit of fabric away and crouches down between her legs.

He keeps his eyes on hers as he nips at the inside of her thigh. It is agonizing how slowly he moves as he takes his time approaching the dark patch of curls at the apex of her legs. She watches him intently, mesmerized, biting her lip, finding that she has propped herself up on her elbows to get a better view. His eyes glint mischief as he suddenly changes course.

"Your hips" he says, and he moves upward slightly, fingers tracing slow circles around one raised hip bone. "These speak to your femininity, of the woman that you are, and the woman you will become." He dips and covers the bone with his mouth, letting his teeth graze along the ridge. The muscles below jump at the sensation. He trails kisses across her stomach until he reaches the other hip, languishing attention on it as well. With one final look and a quirk of his lips, he eases his way back down.

Her elbows give out at the first swipe of his tongue, and she flops back onto the bed. Heat scorches its way through her body, radiating out from her core and reaching all the way to the tips of her toes and the roots of her hair. Her hands form tight fists in the silk at her sides. He hums low in his throat, deep and satisfied, as though he were sampling a rare delicacy. The vibration of it echoes across her core, and her back arches off the bed. Time seems to bend; she loses herself in the rhythm he sets, her breath coming quick and light. Distantly she hears someone call his name, and realizes belatedly that the pleading voice is her own. Tingling pressure builds within her, coiled tight and ready to erupt. But just as she edges toward release, he takes one final taste of her and raises his head.

As he climbs the length of her, she brings up one foot and her toes catch in the waistband of his pants, pushing them down his hips. He helps her, squirming his way out of them, and kicks them off as they reach his ankles. He covers her like a warm blanket, easing himself down to lie flat against her. She adjusts her hips and tries to align herself with him, but he shifts away, blocking her efforts. Her every nerve feels alive at the points of contact where his bare skin presses against hers. When he kisses her she can taste rice wine and something salty-sweet.

He rolls to one side, one leg hooked over hers, and gently caresses the side of her face as he pulls away from her kiss. She does not conceal her impatience this time, and whines at the loss of contact. He gives her a teasing look. "Not yet. I'm not finished. There's more to tell."

His mouth finds the pulse at her neck, and she almost huffs in frustration, but then a thought occurs to her. Two can play this game. Her lips quirk into a smile. Her hand weaves its way between their tangled limbs, glides down over abdominal muscles that jump at her touch. She slides her hand along the firm length of him, gripping gently with her fingers.

He collapses a little, allowing a moan to grind out from between his teeth. When he looks at her, she gives him her most triumphant smile. He composes himself and runs a hand up her side, though she can see the effort it takes for him to concentrate and can feel the tremor in his fingers.

"Your ribs," he says, but she firms her grip and he seems to lose his train of thought. He gives her a quick glance and the look in his eyes tells her that he has accepted her challenge. His hand continues upward and her eyes roll closed as he cups one breast, sliding a thumb over the hardened tip before easing it into his mouth. Her free hand grips his hair. When he finally releases her she can feel his words as they ghost over her moist skin.

"Your ribs", he starts again, caressing her side, his breath coming in short pants, "these house your heart, and each one counts the acts of great kindness and compassion you have shown toward others, your deep love for your friends and family, and your strong sense of community."

He shifts and rolls over her, and she is forced to release him. She wraps her legs around his back. She can feel the very tip of him brush against her, and her body pulses in response. It would be simple work for him to push their hips together, but he doesn't. Instead, he kisses a trail across her breast bone and up the curve of her throat, and plants soft, chase kisses against her lips. His fingers twine into her hair.

"Your head," he says, "indicates that you are stubborn and strong-willed, but you are also clever and always strive to do what's right. And finally, your face," he says. He searches her eyes, caresses her cheeks with the back of his fingers. "You are beautiful by any standard in any nation, but your bones tell the story of the beauty you have below the surface, that rare quality that will radiate out no matter how the surface may change."

She can see him smile softly before he blurs in her vision, and she has to blink a few times to relieve the prickling behind her eyes. She pulls him down for a kiss, and warmth spreads through her at that thought that this man is hers and she is his. She tries to remember a time when she didn't trust him, when her chest didn't expand with love for him, and though the images form, clear and vibrant, she can't quite remember what it felt like. They have been on a long journey indeed, but in this moment the past recedes and all she can feel is the heat that radiates from his limbs and the desire to finally create something tangible out of the emotions that rage like a storm within her. She loves him, and she trusts him, but right now, she wants him. And she can wait no longer.

He sinks into her as she slowly tightens her legs around his hips, pulling until she feels complete, until she can no longer tell where she ends and he begins. His eyes roll closed and hers follow an instant later, and for a moment they keep perfectly still, foreheads pressed together and breath mingling in the space between parted lips. When he whispers she can taste his words, sweet and breathless. "I love you." And then he is moving.

The night stretches out like the years they have spent, at times rough and dominating, at others tender and gentle. They are playful and serious, intense and laughing. She is surprised by all the things that she had not imagined when she pictured this night in the preceding years, and is more surprised that no matter how good she imagined it would be, it is better. And she knows why. Before she had pictured a performance, like someone on the outside witnessing two people enact a sequence of events like the ones laid out in romance scrolls. But it isn't like that it all. She is embodied, drinking in sensation and learning to read the sound of his breath and the tempo of her own heart and the paths of electricity that surge through her skin at his touch. It is spontaneous and free; he responds to her whims, caters to her desires, indulges in her demands for more or there or like this. The only thing that does not surprise her is the way she curls around him in the end, after her vision narrows and expands like an explosion of stars, or the strength of his arms as he holds her against him, their breathing slowly returning to normal.

There is no way to tell how much time has passed, but she can tell by the pull in her blood and the hum in her bones that the moon must be high. She replays the evening's events in her head as he casually strokes her hair. The arm that she had slung over his waist tightens for a second and she giggles. "You just made all of that up, didn't you?"

It takes him a moment to understand the reference. But then he chuckles, twining a lock of her hair around one finger. "Absolutely not. I meant every word of it." His lips brush her temple. "Though I admit I am still a bit of a novice when it comes to practicing such a noble and ancient art. In fact, I seem to have left something out."

"Oh?"

"Yes." His hand trails down her neck and along her shoulder, down her arm until it reaches her hand. He laces the fingers with his, and brings her hand to his mouth. He kisses her knuckles one by one. "Your hands," he says, and he lays her palm against his cheek, covering it with his own long fingers. His eyes flutter closed as she runs her thumb against the rippled seam where glossy red flesh meets unblemished skin.

His voice comes out as a whisper, like a prayer. "These hands show strength, but also the capacity for gentleness. Your hands can crush a man's heart or heal it, just the same."

For an instant she is struck by the memory of bated breath beneath soft green glow. The world had seemed so small in that moment; her awareness had narrowed to the hope in his eyes before he closed them, and the heat of his shuddering breath on her thumb. The air had seemed to crackle with anticipation. Their entire history was peppered with these moments, she realizes, times where her heart had stood still only to flood and go tidal. Sometimes, like in the vast caverns underneath a great city, it was tinged with expectation, but later, as he knelt in contrition on the stones of the temple, it would be colored with rage. Later still, dressed in black and wet with rain, it would be stained with despair and grief. And finally when she sat beside him under a crimson sky in the aftermath of a blaze of blue light, palms hovering over the result of his sacrifice, the moment had been saturated with all of these things at once: the promise that he would recover under her skilled hands, the sense of crushing loss that threatened to bubble over if he didn't, the anger that he would do something so stupid. And something else too. Something that she was too afraid to name at the time, something that felt like hope and tenderness that left her skin tingling when he opened his eyes and smiled.

Her hand trails away from his face and down his chest, settling over the patch of glossy healed flesh that splashes across his ribs. It occurs to her that this night will be filed in her memory as one of those moments too, but tinted with a different kind of anticipation, and followed with desire. But this time she is not his savior or his punisher, she is his partner. And the thought of this makes her pulse race; it feels exciting and new and right. Under her hand his heart beat is strong, and with each pulse she is reminded of why she loves him, why she doesn't need a fortune teller to know that this is right where she is supposed to be.

Her voice is softer than she means it to be. "Thank you, Zuko."

She feels his gaze on her, and when she looks at him his eyes are soft and probing. And it isn't possible, but she feels as though he knows exactly what she means. "Thank you, Katara," he whispers, and leans in and kisses her softly, reverently, fingers weaving in her hair.

It isn't long before her passion awakes inside her once again, and she can feel his desire grow along with her own. When his hands trail lower her breath hitches in her throat and her nails graze against his back. Her lip quirks as her nerves come alive. "You know, you shouldn't be so modest. You might claim to be a novice, but you seem to have quite the talent."

His eyes flash but he keeps his voice casual, fingers probing. "Oh? I'm glad you think so."

She gives him a sly smile. "Though, to be honest, I think I may share your short attention span. I may have missed some important parts." She bites her lip as his hands explore, gasps when they find their target. "Would you mind showing me again?"

He grins. "With pleasure."

A/N - I should be writing my dissertation. Instead, I wrote this. Leave me some love in that little review box to convince me to avoid my priorities more often! Reviews warm my heart and make my fingers itch to type out more Zutara goodness.

I'm only slightly embarrassed to say that this entire piece was inspired by a super-old Silverchair lyric(!) Inspiration comes from the most unlikely of places (and at the most inconvenient of times, I might add). I'm more embarrassed to say that this is the smuttiest piece I've ever written, and I confess that it was pretty fun. Much like the pacing for this story, I had to ease myself into it, and even then I was only brave enough to wade around waist deep (hope I didn't disappoint anyone!) I'm still far too timid to write anything completely graphic (and not sure I ever will), but maybe I can try this again sometime. I think I can hang out somewhat comfortably in the realm of "artfully smutty." (Is that a phrase? Can we make it a phrase?)

Anyway, let me know what you think! Viva la Zutara!