Mack

Ｊｕｊｕｔｓｕ　Ｋａｉｓｅｎ

𝘎𝘰𝘫𝘰 𝘚𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘶 𝘟 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 | 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 | 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘶

Boundless ongoing with four parts currently: Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, [ part five upload 6/2]

𝘎𝘰𝘫𝘰 𝘚𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘶 𝘟 𝘚𝘰𝘳𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘺!𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 | 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 | 𝘮𝘰𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘯 𝘢𝘶

Closed Weekends : Part One , Part Two , [part three coming soon, 6/6]

Ｇａｃｈｉａｋｕｔａ

𝘌𝘯𝘫𝘪𝘯 𝘹 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 | 𝘮𝘰𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘯 𝘢𝘶

Trivia Princess complete with two parts: Part One, Part Two

𝘌𝘯𝘫𝘪𝘯 𝘹 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 | 𝘮𝘰𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘯 𝘢𝘶

Mine complete: Oneshot

Ａｖａｔａｒ　Ｔｈｅ　Ｌａｓｔ　Ａｉｒｂｅｎｄｅｒ

𝘡𝘶𝘬𝘰 𝘹 𝘉𝘢𝘥𝘥𝘪𝘦!𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 |𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 | 𝘮𝘰𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘯 𝘢𝘶

Best Behavior: Part One , Part Two

Compromised: background on how these two met

Thee Baddies Headquarters: zuko spends a night for the first time

I genuinely write based on hyperfixations, vibes, and the random request from a lovely reader. So, if there's anything you'd like to see more of---just let me know!

I don't usually upload based on work, but it's dependent on which character I'm most fixed on/ reading the most about at the moment. With that being said, I'll try to ensure that, for my miniseries, I follow a biweekly schedule. At any point in time you have questions or comments, feel free to ask or drop it-- I love chatting!

Toodles!

Mack

“Yue, I’ll have to look at the dates of the proposed press releases when I’m back in the office—BUT—I want to stress that I hear you, girl. It’s a lot going on all at once. You have a big move coming up and you’re going through writer's block, and all the things in between. Take this time to focus on you and I’ll handle everything else!” you instruct, your voice full of comfort and warmth, despite the fact you’re multitasking as you do one final overview in your compact mirror.

There’s a deep sigh of relief from the other end of your speaker, followed by the quiet sound of sniffling. “Y/n, you’re the best editor to ever exist in the whole wide world and I know you got a man now, but I love you so much,” her confession is said in between sniffles and it makes you giggle.

“I love you too, Yue! You’re my favorite writer ever and I’m not just blowing smoke up your ass. Anyhow, enjoy your vacation time and we’ll chat business in two weeks?”

“Yeah, yeah. Have fun ogling at Mr. Corporate,” she squeaks out before hanging up.

You chuckle, tossing your phone into the passenger seat. After checking your lip gloss one last time in the rearview mirror, you shift the car into drive. You pull out of the side street parking spot you’d dipped into to take her call, steering back into the midday traffic.

Your destination is the new rooftop restaurant you casually mentioned to Zuko in passing just a few days ago. Next thing you know, in true, attentive Zuko fashion, he adjusts his schedule and books a lunch date for the two of you to try it out.

The car comes to a smooth halt in the bustling valet line. The restaurant sits right atop a popular hotel, adding to the heavy foot traffic around you. Gathering your purse and phone, you offer the valet attendant a bright smile as they jog over and open your door.

“Thank you!” you say, stepping out into the warm air. They hand you a small red ticket, which you slide safely into your bag, your stomach doing a little nervous flip of anticipation. Despite dating for a while now, you always get a bit nervous before seeing him in public. And it's only escalated despite the sex seal being decimated and cremated, you are in what feels like a constant state of ovulation. Wanting him. Needing him. His smallest actions and mannerisms always have you ready to drag him to the nearest flat surface and just have your way with him. He smiles at you? You’re soaked. His hand brushes against you? You’re soaked. He is drinking his tea? You’re soaked. It’s an unfamiliar cycle of just being perpetually horny for a man you find overly attractive.

You shake your head, trying to collect yourself as you make your way through the grand, marble-floored lobby of the hotel, heading straight for the sleek glass elevators designated for the rooftop. Standing inside as the elevator shoots upward, you take a second to check your reflection in the polished mirrored walls, smoothing down your outfit.

You are aiming for a chic, effortless look today. A black SKIMS capri-catsuit, an oversized cream button-up purposefully left unbuttoned, cream kitten heels, and gold accessories to complement the gold hardware on your cream shoulder bag. You look damn good. You feel damn good—even your hair is cooperating as your silk press flows like water around your shoulders.

Once the elevator doors open, you step out and take a left down a hallway that’s flanked with floor-to-ceiling mirrors and an open window in the ceiling, letting natural light brighten up the space beautifully. You wink at yourself as you pass the mirrors and reach the hostess stand.

The young woman behind the podium looks up, and her eyes instantly track your outfit from your silk press down to your cream kitten heels. There is a brief, unmistakable flicker of awe in her expression, immediately followed by a slight squint of confusion. It's that classic, elitist look, as if she's trying to calculate exactly how a baddie in a bodysuit fits into the hotel's stiff corporate vibe, or if you simply wandered onto the wrong floor.

You don't give her the satisfaction of letting her hesitate.

"Hi, good afternoon," you say smoothly, clutching your cream and gold purse a little tighter under your arm. "I'm joining a Mr. Ryu."

The confusion on the hostess's face vanishes instantly, replaced by a wide, well-trained smile. "Right this way, ma'am."

You follow her through the main dining room, and you immediately clock the vibe. It is pure, unfiltered elitist energy. The space is packed with men in expensive tailored suits and older women who look like they belong to an exclusive country club board—very Martha Stewart, very stiff money. It is the kind of room meant to make outsiders feel small, but it doesn't break your stride for a second. You belong anywhere you set your kitten heels down.

Instead of paying attention to the staring patrons, you focus on the interior design. The restaurant is stunning, heavily utilizing lush, cascading greenery against sleek gold accents that catch the natural light from the high ceilings.

The hostess guides you out onto the expansive open terrace, and the layout immediately catches your eye. The right side is bustling, packed tight with patrons chattering over lunch. The left side, however, is completely vacant. It's a ghost town.

As you follow her down the empty left path, you realize why. There, sitting at a prime table right by the glass edge overlooking the sprawling city and the dramatic, cloudy gray sky, is Zuko. He literally bought out or reserved an entire half of a rooftop just for a casual lunch date.

Hearing the signature click of your heels against the terrace flooring, he turns his head. The professional, stoic mask he usually wears melts away, a wide smile breaking across his face the second he finally sees the object of his affection standing right in front of him.

His sharp corporate jacket is draped neatly over the back of his chair, his dark hair is pulled up into a sleek, precise bun, and he smells faintly of expensive cologne and the rich tea sitting on the table.

He doesn't even let you reach the table before he stands up, stepping into your space and pulling you flush against him into a warm, grounding hug. His hand rests firmly against the small of your back, slipping underneath your button-up and right against the fabric of your one-piece.

"Hi, princess," he murmurs against your hair, his voice low and full of that heavy, exclusive affection he only ever gives to you.

You melt into him for a second, but the humor in the situation brings a smirk to your lips. Pulling back just enough to look at him, you tilt your head and look around the completely empty half of the terrace. "Mr. Zuko," you tease, your voice dripping with playful amusement. "Did you seriously clear out an entire section of a restaurant just for a quick lunch?"

Zuko doesn't even look remotely guilty. His gaze drops to your lips for a fraction of a second, sending that familiar, electric jolt straight to your core, before he meets your eyes with a shrug.

"I didn't have any plans on sharing my space with other people today," he admits easily, his thumb lightly stroking your waist. "Not when I only have you for a limited amount of time before I have to get back to the office."

You lock your arms tighter around him, straining on your tippy toes to plant a firm kiss right on his lips. “Love when you get selfish about me,” you hum against his mouth, pulling back just enough to offer an apologetic smile. “Sorry I’m late. Yue had a crisis and I’m not a good multitasker when running an intervention.”

Zuko hums, his hands resting heavily on your hips as he easily anchors you against his taller frame. A fond, knowing glint enters his eyes at the mention of your favorite writer.

“Is she alright?” he asks, his thumb tracing a slow circle against the black fabric of your catsuit. Even when he's being a possessive corporate mogul, he's inherently a protector, always genuinely caring about the people in your circle.

“She’s fine, just classic pre-move panic mixed post-break up and a splash of severe writer's block,” you explain, finally letting yourself drop back down onto the flats of your kitten heels. “I told her to take two weeks off and let me handle the chaos. But enough about work.”

You step back slightly, intentionally letting his gaze drop to fully appreciate the look you put together for him. His eyes darken instantly, taking in the way the form-fitting material hugs every single one of your curves, contrasted by the casual elegance of your unbuttoned cream shirt and the gleaming gold jewelry at your throat and ankle.

The professional man who just bought out half a rooftop is suddenly looking at you like he wants to skip lunch entirely. The intensity of his gaze makes your smile widen—mulling over your outfit for two hours was worth the brain power and stress when your man is looking at you like he’s ready to buy out the whole building for a bit more privacy for his next course of actions.

He lets out a quiet, breathy chuckle, his eyes lingering on the shimmer applied to your collarbone before he finally lets his hands slip from your hips. Stepping behind your chair, he pulls it out for you with practiced elegance. Once you get settled, he smoothly pushes it back in, leaning down to plant a soft kiss right against your cheek. His breath deepening slightly against your skin as he catches the scent of your perfume.

“You look rather stunning to say you were just handling a crisis,” he murmurs near your ear, his voice laced with a reverence that makes your legs press closer together.

You bite your lip to keep from grinning like a fool as he sits in his chair beside you. The moment he gets comfortable again, a waiter seamlessly appears from the edge of the terrace. Without a word, a crisp glass of ice water with a fresh slice of lime and a tall, condensation-beaded sparkling strawberry lemonade are placed right beside your cream and gold bag.

In true Zuko fashion, he pre-ordered your drink when he ordered his.

You pick up the sparkling lemonade, the cool glass a welcome relief against your hands as you look across the table at him. He is already reaching for his cup of hot tea, taking a slow sip while his eyes lock onto yours over the rim.

You smile around the straw, silently hoping the sweet drink will cool off the slut brewing inside you.

He just looks too enticing.

“How has the rest of your morning been?” Zuko asks, setting his tea back down on its saucer with a quiet clink. He rests his forearms on the table, leaning in slightly, completely focused on you.

“Busy,” you admit, taking another sip of your lemonade. “I had a mountain of paperwork to clear this morning before Yue called. And I have plans to go shopping with Suki after lunch.”

Zuko raises an eyebrow in silent question.

“One of the girls on her dance team is having a birthday dinner tonight,” you explain, leaning forward in your chair and resting your chin in your hand. “Suki’s trying to drag me along. I told her I might go, but honestly…” Your eyes trace the sharp line of his jawline, dropping down to the plush curve of his lips. “…I would love nothing more than to just skip it, curl up in bed, and rub my cold feet all over you instead. I do have plans on joining them for her daytime activity though! It’s golf lessons with a private instructor.”

A faint, amused smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, his dark eyes darkening with a sudden, heavy heat. But before he can comment on your favorite bedtime ritual, his smirk fades into something a bit more intense. He notices the way your gaze hasn't left his lips since you started talking.

He leans closer a fraction of an inch, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling register that makes the hairs on your arms stand up. “Princess,” he murmurs, his eyes locking onto yours with demanding intensity. “Why do you keep staring at my mouth?”

His question makes you inhale sharply, and a wicked grin pulls at your lips as you lean further into his space, until the scent of his green tea and delicious cologne infiltrate your senses. “Because I want it on me…any other questions officer?”

Your raw honesty stuns him. Derailing his ability to form a quick-witted response, so you go further–obviously.

“I’m trying to act right, but you’re just looking too fine for me to think about anything other than getting a hotel room for lunch instead of an order of crab cakes,” you continue, eyes lazily scanning the menu and finding a twinge of sadness to not see him on it.

The executive who just spent his morning managing millions of dollars and hundreds of employees is completely thrown off balance by a girl in a bodysuit telling him she wants him for lunch. 

You take a slow, agonizingly deliberate sip of your sparkling strawberry lemonade, watching his adam's apple bob as he swallows hard. He shakes his head, a look of amusement finally overtaking his stunned expression. “You are one of a kind, princess…and as enticing as that sounds, I’d need more than forty-five minutes with you to feel satisfied and the aftermath I have plans on leaving you in will ruin the rest of your ambitions for the day,” 

A sudden, sharp heat rushes straight to your core at his words, your grip tightening around the cool glass of lemonade. Hearing the man of your dreams casually detail exactly how thoroughly he plans on ruining you, while sitting under the bright daylight of a luxury hotel terrace, makes your legs lock tightly together beneath the table. 

Before you can retort, challenge, and demand he clear his schedule for the day, the waiter returns. He sets down a lovely tray of crab cakes and a basket of fresh artisanal bread. 

You stare down at the perfectly golden, crisp appetizers, then slowly look back up across the table. You roll your eyes, a smug, highly amused grin pulling at your glossed lips as you rest your chin in your hand.

"Crab cakes," you tease, your voice dipping into a mix of awe and wonder. "Let me guess. You looked at the menu the exact second you arrived and knew exactly what would get me right?"

Zuko doesn't look even remotely ashamed. He picks up his linen napkin, smoothing it over his lap, a devastatingly handsome smirk playing on his plush lips as he meets your stare.

"I know what you like, princess," he admits easily, his rough, gravelly voice totally unbothered by the waiter's presence. He reaches out with a set of tongs, placing a perfect crab cake onto your small plate with practiced elegance. "So, I figured I’d save you the trouble of reading or contemplating."

You pick up your fork, flaking off a small, steaming piece of the crab cake, but your eyes never leave his. "You think you know exactly what I want, whenever I want it?" 

Zuko pauses, his gold eyes a dangerous abyss as he tracks the movement of your mouth. He leans his forearms flat on the white tablecloth, closing the distance between you until the scent of your soft perfume is all he can smell.

"I know you wanted a hotel room thirty seconds ago," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, predatory rumble meant strictly for your ears. "And I know that right now, you're trying to use a fork to distract yourself from how wet you are under this table. Am I wrong?"

His blunt observation hits you like a tidal wave. It’s a completely accurate read, and it’s one he’s stated with pride in a public space. You glance quickly to the side, checking to make sure the waiter has fully vanished back into the main dining room, but the left side of the terrace remains an absolute ghost town—completely vacant, completely silent, leaving you entirely at his mercy.

"Zuko, you are no good," you whisper-hiss, your fingers tightening around the silver handle of your fork until your knuckles turn white. "We are in public."

"And I bought out half the rooftop precisely so I could say whatever I want to you, princess," he reminds you smoothly.

He doesn't look even remotely flustered. Instead, he maintains his professional composure, looking every part of a corporate mogul and old money—while he casually dissects exactly how unraveled you are beneath the tablecloth. 

You clear your throat, trying to overturn the power dynamic that just put you on your ass. But the smartass in you is coming up short the longer you hold his gaze, so you concede. 

“One of us needs to be an adult, so I shall take on that role. Drink your tea and lock-in, good looking,” you pause, grin widening as you break another piece of crab cake off. “Can’t have your employees thinking your girlfriend put witchcraft on you and now you’re canceling meetings when in reality you just can't get enough of me.” 

Zuko pauses, his teacup halfway to his lips as your wicked response lands between you. For a fraction of a second, his striking gold eyes widen in genuine, caught-off-guard surprise before a quiet chuckle bubbles up from deep inside his chest. He shakes his head, setting the cup back onto its saucer with a soft, authoritative clink.

"Witchcraft," he repeats smoothly, his voice dropping into a register so deep it makes you hyperaware of the arousal building in your seamless underwear. The thin material never stood a chance with him, and you should have known that when picking them out. "Is that what we're calling it now, princess?"

"I mean, look at you," you mumble softly around your next bite of crab cake, utterly delighted by the fact that you managed to off-center his composure even a little bit. "You’re completely unfocused. The mogul who manages hundreds of people, is currently negotiating his entire afternoon schedule just because his girlfriend wore a catsuit to lunch."

He raises his eyebrow, head cocking to the side as he mulls over your statement. His gaze drops down to appreciate the outfit you so carefully put together for him this morning, one more time. “She wore a catsuit and then proceeded to tell me that she wants to have me for lunch…I think that would make any man in his right mind reconsider the importance of quarter three reports…and since we’re being adults all of a sudden, stop eye-fucking me so we can go back to behaving accordingly.” 

You try to break his gold gaze, to force your eyes down to your plate, but the sheer, magnetic pull of his presence keeps you completely locked in place. "I am behaving accordingly," you attempt to mumble back, but your voice is entirely too soft, carrying a breathless, betraying tremor that completely ruins your defense.

"You aren't," Zuko rumbles smoothly. He takes a slow, meticulous sip of his hot green tea, his eyes never once unlocking from yours over the porcelain rim. He sets the cup back down on its saucer, leaning back into his chair with a dominant grace that makes your core clamp down in a desperate ache. "You’ve been tracking my mouth for the last ten minutes, princess. You're sitting there trying to play the adult, but you're practically counting down the hours until I can finally put my hands on you."

He’s right.You know he’s right. He knows he’s right. 

And yet, your brain still works overtime to craft a comeback, to try and make you feel a semblance of control, despite when being in his presence, control is the last thing you want and it’s the last thing you even try to hold on too. You let him have it. You want him to have it…and god does he. 

The words die in your throat as the scent of steak and sweet potatoes hits you. You turn your head to the side to see the waiter setting a tray down on a tray stand. Your mouth opens slightly at the sight. He’s taken care of your entire order before, so it shouldn’t surprise you to see him having done it again—and yet every time it leaves you breathless. 

The waiter steps up to the table with practiced, silent professionalism, lifting the silver domes to reveal the perfectly seared steak, glistening under a rich reduction, alongside a side of fragrant, roasted sweet potatoes. The rich, savory aroma completely floods the space between you, providing a temporary shield against the suffocating sexual tension Zuko just built up.

You turn your full attention back to the man who’s made you speechless for the third time in a matter of fifteen minutes. He’s adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves, rolling them up neatly until they’re out of the danger zone for food to splash on them.

“Will you be needing anything else before I bring out dessert?” the waiter asks, setting a fresh cup of tea beside Zuko and clearing the remnants of the appetizer.

“No, thank you. We’re all set,” Zuko states smoothly. He carefully moves his own entree, a steakhouse wedge salad, to the side and lifts your plate, settling it down directly in front of himself as he calmly starts cutting your steak into bite-sized pieces. 

You sit there, your chin resting back in your hand, watching the rhythmic, precise movement of his hands. The heavy silver of the steak knife glints in the overcast midday light as he slices through the tender meat with an effortless, practiced grace. He doesn’t look up immediately, completely focused on making sure every single piece is perfect for you.

The silence that stretches between you isn't heavy anymore; it's warm, and intensely intimate, completely cordoned off from the rest of the bustling rooftop.

"You're ridiculous," you murmur softly, the words slipping out before you can stop them, laced with a helpless affection that completely gives you away.

Zuko pauses for a fraction of a second, the corner of his lips twitching upward into a faint, knowing smile. He finishes the last cut, smoothly switches the plates back, and slides the perfectly prepared steak and sweet potatoes right back into your space.

"I'm attentive," he corrects smoothly, picking up his own fork and knife to tackle his wedge salad. His eyes finally lift, locking onto yours with a heavy, steady gaze over the table. "There’s a difference, princess. Now eat. You’ve had a chaotic morning, and I’m not letting you leave this table running on nothing but strawberry lemonade and adrenaline."

You pick up your fork, popping a perfectly sized, savory piece of steak into your mouth. The rich reduction melts on your tongue, and you can’t help but let out a soft, satisfied hum, intentionally holding his stare as you chew.

"Alright, fine, it’s delicious," you concede, tilting your head. "So, what does my important boyfriend have left on his to-do list today?"

“Important,” he muses. A smile pulling at his cheeks as he watches you happily wiggle in your chair while eating. Very reminiscent of the morning you sat at his island eating greasy fries to fight against a raging hangover all those months ago. 

You nod, “You know, I was talking to my mom on the phone and she asked what you did for work—imagine her horror when I had no idea. I told her I assume it’s something important and grand based on your lifestyle and then she asked if you were a sugar baby…I–I” your words get lost as you watch his face turn into one of absolute horror. 

Your laughter rings out clear and bright across the vacant left side of the terrace, a sharp, joyful sound that completely shatters the teasing aura Zuko had been cultivating just moments before. You cover your mouth with your hand, your shoulders shaking helplessly as you watch the utter, catastrophic meltdown of his dignity.

Zuko sits entirely frozen, his fork hovering an inch above his wedge salad. For three agonizing seconds, the great corporate mogul looks like he’s just been short-circuited. His eyes are wide, blinking in sheer, unadulterated disbelief as his brain desperately tries to process the phrase sugar baby.

"A... what?" he finally chokes out, his gravelly voice cracking slightly in a rare, beautiful display of complete vulnerability.

"A sugar baby!" you gasp out between giggles, wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of your eye, completely delighted by how thoroughly you've just broken him. "She said, and I quote, 'Y/n, if he doesn't have a real job and he's just spending some older woman's inheritance, you need to find a man with a steady tax bracket.'"

Zuko slowly lowers his fork, the silver clicking sharply against his plate. The faint crimson flush of pure embarrassment creeps up his tanned neck, staining his cheeks as he glares at you across the white tablecloth. He adjusts the cuffs of his shirt, trying and failing to summon the terrifying executive presence that usually commands entire boardrooms.

"A steady tax bracket?" he repeats, his voice a dangerous, deeply offended rumble that only makes you laugh harder. He leans across the table, his gold eyes blazing with a mix of utter exasperation and helpless affection. "Princess, I am the steady tax bracket. I manage a global portfolio. My family legacy built half the infrastructure in this district alone, don’t even get me started on the global network I oversee. I do not... I am not anyone's sugar baby."

"I know, I know!" you tease, taking another delighted sip of your strawberry lemonade to calm your burning chest. You lean forward, offering him a highly unprincipled, wicked wink. "But honestly, Zuko? With that face, those lips, and the way you look in a tailored suit... if the whole executive thing doesn't pan out, you definitely have the credentials for it. I might even sponsor you myself."

Zuko’s jaw sets into a rock-hard line, but the dangerous, predatory smirk slowly returns to his full lips, his eyes darkening into that familiar hue that promises trouble.

"Sponsor me?" he murmurs smoothly, he hooks his foot to the leg of your chair, skillfully pulling you in closer until the arm rest of your chair grazes his own. He leans in until the scent of his expensive cologne completely replaces the crisp afternoon air, his rough voice a low, husky promise meant strictly for your ears. ""You want to talk about sponsorships, princess? I could fund your entire life, your favorite writer's publishing house, and your next ten shopping sprees with Suki right now, and it wouldn't even shift a single comma in my bank account." 

Your mouth drops. Eyes wide. Thoughts empty. 

You’re aware that he’s well off. Aware that everything he owns, every room he enters, it’s because of his hard work. The multiple degrees in his home office support that notion. Financially though, you just kind of put him in the rich category, but maybe he belongs in the wealthy one. 

You blink, staring at him as the sheer magnitude of his words hangs in the warm afternoon air. The playful, smart-aleck retort you had queued up completely evaporates, leaving you utterly speechless under his steady, golden gaze. For the first time all lunch, you are entirely out of cards to play. He slowly reaches over, his large, warm hand flat against the white tablecloth as he uses two fingers to gently tap the underside of your jaw, nudging your mouth closed. The lingering heat of his touch against your skin feels like a brand, sending a sharp, electric jolt straight down to your clit.

"Now," Zuko rumbles, leaning back into his chair with a slow, dominant grace that commands the entire empty side of the terrace. He picks up his fork, casually gesturing to your plate. "Eat your steak. Because if you keep staring at me with your thoughts completely empty like that, I’m going to skip the corporate formalities, sign the check, and handle the rest of our afternoon in the penthouse suite of this hotel."

You swallow hard, finally forcing your hands to pick up your fork again. If you don't look busy, he’s actually going to drag you to the lobby, and your underwear cannot take any more teasing.

You stab a piece of perfectly roasted sweet potato, but instead of eating it right away, you point the fork slightly in his direction, your eyes narrowing as a newfound curiosity breaks through your shock.

"Okay, financial flex aside," you start, your voice returning with a slightly breathless, velvety quality. "What do you actually do all day in that high-rise office, Zuko? I know it's a global asset firm, but give me the day-to-day. Because right now, I’m picturing a mix of shadow operations and absolute corporate villainy."

The predatory heat in his eyes softens just a fraction into a calm, fiercely intelligent glint. He loves when you ask about his world, especially when you're genuinely trying to look past the intimidating luxury of it all.

"It's a mix of a few things, princess," he starts, leaning his forearms back on the table, completely closing the distance between you again. "Mainly, it’s tech acquisitions and venture capital expansion. If a massive tech start-up or an emerging AI infrastructure firm needs a billion dollars to go global, they come to my team. I dissect their entire operations, find the flaws, and rewrite their future. We acquire the companies that have potential, restructure them from the ground up, and absorb them into our portfolio."

He pauses, a slow, incredibly sharp smirk playing on his lips as he watches you try to process the sheer scale of what he casually calls a "day job."

"And when I'm not doing that? I'm handling sovereign wealth funds and risk management," he continues smoothly,  as his eyes lazily trace the line of your collarbone. "Essentially, foreign governments and massive old-money estates trust my firm to invest and protect their generational wealth. I sit in boardrooms and make decisions that dictate market trends before the public even knows they're happening. It’s high-stakes, highly volatile, and incredibly demanding."

He tilts his head, his gold eyes locking back onto yours with a sudden, devastatingly heavy warmth. "But it doesn't compare to the risk management I have to perform when my girlfriend shows up to lunch in a catsuit."

You roll your eyes playfully at his comment, your free hand slipping from the table to his thigh now that you’re close enough. “So... tech acquisitions, global asset restructuring, and keeping foreign governments rich. Got it,” you pause gaze shifting to the open skies and then back to him. “ Is it bad of me to say that I’m happy to hear that when you see me you actually consider risking it all?” 

Zuko’s breath catches, the steady, rhythmic movement of his hands instantly halting at your soft confession. Your palm is warm against the heavy fabric of his trousers, but it's your words that completely throw him off balance. For a long, unblinking moment, the powerful executive who dictates market trends for a living looks completely defenseless. 

He doesn't answer you right away. He just stares at you, his burning gold eyes searching your face, tracing the curve of your lips, before snapping back to hold your gaze with a heavy, unblinking gravity. “No,” he responds softly. His large, warm palm slides down off the table, his fingers spreading wide as he firmly covers your hand on his thigh, squeezing your fingers with a possessive, deeply grateful certainty. 

Your smile grows, practically taking over your features as you beam at him. “Good, and just to be clear, I too look at you and consider risking it all. Hell, on my walk up here I had to remind myself we were going to be in public, you have work to return to, I have errands to run and it was like a mantra in my head because if I let myself forget that—I would be slipping underneath this table cloth and getting active–BUT–I’m a lady and I should be able to hold myself back despite dating a GQ model…A prince of a man, ugh…it’s hard being a functional member of society,” 

Zuko just stares at you, his hand still firmly clamping yours against his thigh, completely frozen by the absolute whirlwind of your words. For a second, his brain has to catch up to everything you just admitted, but as the image of you slipping under the tablecloth fully registers, a dark, dangerous flush creeps up his neck.

A  rich laugh suddenly rumbles from deep inside his chest—a sound so uninhibited and genuine it completely transforms his features.

"Active, princess?" he echoes smoothly, his gold eyes practically sparkling with absolute amusement and a terrifyingly heavy dose of affection. “Is that the modern term for it now? And here I thought you were just enjoying a nice, civilized lunch on a luxury terrace. Meanwhile, you're sitting beside me having a full-blown internal crisis. " 

You scoff softly and tilt your head in pure amusement. “Mmm…it’s one word for it. And the word crisis feels too miniscule. My entire control console does a system reboot every time I look at you. Don’t even get me started on when you start talking, it glitches like I’m in the matrix and I have to remind myself that I have self-control and human decency. Which brings me to the next point of discussion: while I inadvertently gas you up, does your brain not malfunction in my presence? Or am I just overly going for you?”

Zuko mirrors your head tilt. His fingers wrap tighter around your hand instinctively as your line of questioning pivots once again. "Overly going for me?" Zuko repeats, mind seemingly reeling as he tries to decode the language you’re throwing at him. 

“Yeah, like I’m just excessively eager or—” 

“No,” he states confidently, “not at all.” 

The absolute certainty in his voice completely halts your train of thought, leaving you blinking at him as the sheer magnitude of his denial settles over the table. 

"If anything," Zuko states, his rough voice dipping into a register so deep it feels like a physical pull to your core. "It's the exact opposite."

He lets go of your hand under the table, bringing his palm back above the surface to lean his forearms flat on the linen tablecloth, entirely crowding your space until his broad shoulders block out the rest of the terrace.

"You want to talk about your control console glitching?" he murmurs smoothly, a small, dangerous, and breathtakingly handsome smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Princess, I have spent the last twenty minutes trying to recall the exact financial metrics for a global acquisition proposal I am supposed to spearhead at two o'clock. And do you know what my brain keeps giving me instead?"

Your breath catches in your throat, your fingers tightening around the silver handle of your fork as you shake your head slightly, completely transfixed.

"It gives me the memory of how tight you were this morning," Zuko confesses bluntly, his eyes darkening into an absolute abyss as he tracks the sudden, erratic pulse drumming against the skin of your neck. "It gives me the sound of your voice when you're undone, and the way you look right now, sitting across from me in a public restaurant wearing a catsuit and telling me you want to go feral under the table."

Your thoughts completely empty all over again under his ruthless honesty.

"So no, you aren't excessively eager," he murmurs, his thumb reaching across the small distance to trace the line of your jaw, his skin warm and possessively firm. "My brain malfunctions the second you cross my line of sight, Y/n. But the difference between you and me, princess, is that I am highly practiced at operating under a crisis. Now, dessert is on its way and we have six minutes left before you need to head to the valet and I need to head to a boardroom.” 

You stare at him, your skin tingling where his thumb rests against your jawline, completely captivated by the definitive boundary he just drew. The seamless pivot back to the clock—reminding you that you only have six minutes left—sends a thrilling, frantic spike of adrenaline straight through you. He just threw your entire internal system into a tailspin, and now he's casually keeping you on schedule like the executive he is.

Before you can even pull together a response, the waiter reappears, cutting through the heavy air with a perfectly timed arrival. He sets down a sleek porcelain plate featuring a flawless, decadent chocolate lava cake, its center slightly molten and dusted with a delicate layer of powdered sugar, alongside two small dessert forks.

"The signature molten chocolate cake to share," the waiter announces warmly. "Can I secure anything else for you both before the bill?"

"Just the check, thank you," Zuko answers effortlessly. His voice is perfectly modulated, completely masking the fact that he just spent the last two minutes describing exactly how unraveled you make him.

The waiter bows his head and slips away to fetch the black leather presenter, leaving the two of you alone with the steaming dessert.

You look down at the rich chocolate, then back up at Zuko, a small, highly amused grin managing to fight its way through your dazed expression. You pick up one of the small silver forks, nudging your chair just an inch closer so your shoulder lightly brushes his.

"Six minutes," you repeat, a playful challenge bleeding into your tone as you slice off a small, rich piece of the cake. "You really are a stickler for a timeline.. Are you expecting me to eat a luxury dessert at lightning speed?"

Zuko picks up his own fork, a glint of pure satisfaction in his gold eyes as he watches you bounce back from his intense confession. "I'm expecting you to enjoy your afternoon with Suki and the girls without being late because of me," he counters smoothly, using his fork to claim a piece of the cake. "Consider it high-efficiency pampering. We have just enough time to share this, secure your car from the valet, and part ways like civilized adults."

"Civilized," you mumble around a bite of the rich, warm chocolate, the sweet flavor melting on your tongue. You lean in slightly, dropping your voice into a wicked whisper. "There is absolutely nothing civilized about what you're thinking right now."

He doesn't deny it. Instead, he places his fork down as the waiter slides the check onto the edge of the table. Zuko slips his black card into the leather folder without even looking at it, handing it right back to the staff with practiced elegance.

 “If I told you what I was thinking about beautiful, you’d ask me if I have plans on shooting an adult movie with you,” he jests, resting his hand on your thigh. 

You instantly choke on your next bite of chocolate cake, a startled, breathless laugh escaping your throat as your cheeks burn. You frantically grab your glass of water, taking a fast gulp to save yourself while your eyes stretch wide in absolute shock.

"Zuko!" you squeak, glancing around the empty terrace as if the nonexistent patrons could hear his utterly lawless mouth.

His large hand firmly squeezes your thigh under the tablecloth, his thumb rubbing a deliberate, burning circle into the fabric of your one-piece. He doesn't look even remotely ashamed of himself. Instead, he simply watches your chaotic reaction with a relaxed, immensely proud smile playing on his features.

"I'm just being honest, princess," he murmurs smoothly, checking his watch with effortless corporate grace. 1:50 PM. 

"I think our honesty is what’s getting one another in trouble,” you grumble, wiping your mouth free of any chocolate remnants as the waiter delivers the receipt in that familiar leather book.

He slips two hundred dollar bills behind the receipt with his signature before looking up and addressing your side comment.

"Trouble implies that I'm trying to avoid the consequences," Zuko counters smoothly, his eyes locking onto yours with a terrifyingly confident intensity. He shuts the leather book with a decisive snap and slides it to the edge of the table. "I'm not. If anything, I am actively counting down the minutes until I can face them."

You exhale slowly at his remark, standing up carefully as he helps you up. He folds his jacket over his forearm and wraps an arm around your waist guiding the both of you to the main dining room. 

“The left side of the terrace was closed for a private party madam, but if you give us just a minute we can have it set up for you and your party of three.”  

The words faintly register in your ears as you allow Zuko to lead you to the opposite end of the dining room, completely parallel to the entrance you took. The attendant holds the elevator open, wishing the both of you a good day as it closes and shoots down to the lobby. Unlike the first elevator, this one is entirely see-through, allowing you to peer outside and see the hustle and bustle below.

You watch with utter fascination, and he watches you just the same.

The busy world below moves in fast-forward behind the glass, a dizzying blur of yellow cabs, busy crosswalks, and tiny figures rushing along the hot pavement. It’s a striking contrast to the quiet, untouchable bubble Zuko built for you up on that roof, and the visual has you completely transfixed.

But as you press close to the glass, you can feel the profound, unblinking weight of his stare burning into the side of your face.

You turn your head slightly, catching his reflection in the transparent pane before looking at him directly. He isn't looking out at the city skyline. He isn't checking his watch, and he isn't reviewing his mental notes for his two o'clock meeting. His gold eyes are fixed entirely on you, tracking the soft curve of your lips and the fascinated gleam in your eyes with a quiet, consuming hunger.

"What?" you ask, a small, breathless smile pulling at your lips as his arm tightens just a fraction more around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest.

"Nothing," Zuko says, his deep voice carrying right through you as the elevator smoothly drops past the mid-level floors. He rests his chin lazily against the crown of your head, his gaze never breaking from yours in the glass. "Just watching you."

You hum, “I have a comment, but I’m going to hold back due to wanting to respect the fact you seem to have a rather important meeting to run and if I say what I want to say—it will off center you.”

Zuko lets out a short, highly amused breath against your hair, his grip tightening around your waist until you are entirely pinned against his solid chest. The transparent elevator car flies past the upper third of the building, but his focus remains strictly locked onto your reflection in the glass.

"You think you haven't off-centered me already?" he asks, a knowing, lethal smile playing on his lips. "Princess, my focus was entirely shot the second you sat across from me at that table. If you have something to say, say it. Don't hide behind human decency now."

You tilt your head back against his shoulder, looking up at him through your lashes with a thoroughly unprincipled, wicked gleam in your eyes. “Your attention is the reason I’m soaked now…”

Without giving him a chance to process the confession, you turn completely in his hold. You wrap your fingers around his large palm, guiding his hand down past your waist until it rests firmly on your hip, hidden from any outside view by the heavy drape of your oversized layer.

Zuko holds your gaze, pupils dilated so far that the gold of his irises are almost gone. He moves with effortless ease, sliding his palm over the curve of your ass, down the back of your thigh, and slipping his long fingers right in between your legs to press firmly against the center of your frustration.

Your breath hitches into a sharp, silent gasp, your hands flying to his broad shoulders for balance as the undeniable heat of your underwear dampens his touch right through the thin fabric of your one-piece. He doesn't caress you. He simply presses his fingers flat against your core, confirming the absolute truth of your words while his eyes burn a hole straight through you.

Underneath his hand, your pulse is thudding frantically, completely at his mercy.

"Jesus, princess," Zuko strains out, his voice tight, carrying a demanding edge that tells you you've pushed him past the absolute point of no return. His jaw is clenched so hard the muscle ticks violently, his pristine corporate armor shattering into absolute dust right there in the descending car.

And as he presses a little harder, you bury your face in his chest to muffle the soft moan bubbling in your throat. His touch is slow and controlled, dragging his fingers through the mess he's made of you with nothing but pride in his eyes.

A soft chime echoes through the elevator, signaling the arrival to the lobby.

Zuko doesn't flinch. He keeps his hand firmly wedged between your thighs for two more agonizing seconds, his thumb giving you one last heavy, deliberate swipe that leaves you entirely breathless and trembling on your heels. 

You exhale shakily, lowering your hands till they rest on his waist. “I’m going to call on him soon too, I don’t have time to run home and change,” you note, giving his waist a squeeze and stepping back slightly to put some distance between you and the delectable scent radiating off of him. “Guess that just means I get to buy a whole new outfit,” you muse, trying to regather yourself as the heavy doors slide open. 

Zuko lets out a distinct, ragged breath, his hands sliding to his pockets as he forces his posture back into that of a disciplined, unbothered executive. But the dark, dangerous flush still lingering on his neck completely betrays him. His eyes track the slight sway of your hips as you step out onto the polished marble floor of the grand lobby, his gaze heavy with an intense, possessive focus.

"A whole new outfit," he repeats, his deep voice carrying a slightly rough, distracted quality as he falls into step beside you. A slow, knowing smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. "Make sure you charge it to my card, princess. Consider it an investment in my evening entertainment."

You clasp your hand around his arm as he matches your stride. “ I leave your card at home, those are emergency funds,” you note. 

"Emergency funds," Zuko repeats, the amusement in his voice sharpening into something distinctly proud. He slips his hand out of his pocket and placd it on your hip. "Buying a replacement outfit because I ruined your current one sounds like an emergency to me, Y/n."

The heavy glass doors glide open, and the thick afternoon heat immediately rolls over you, a stark contrast to the chilled air of the hotel lobby. The valet spots the two of you, his posture straightening instantly at the sight of Zuko. He holds the driver's side door of your idling car wide open, keeping his eyes politely trained ahead to give you two a modicum of privacy.

Zuko brings your walking pace to a halt right by the hood of the car, turning his frame to block you from the view of the valet and the passing traffic. He reaches into his pocket, his fingers emerging with a spare platinum card he always keeps on hand. Without a word, he slides it directly into the small, sleek handbag slung over your shoulder, his palm lingering on the leather for an authoritative second.

"Now it's an emergency fund you actually have on you," he states, his gold eyes locking onto yours with an absolute, non-negotiable intensity. "Use it. Buy whatever you want, take Suki wherever she wants to go, and don't think twice about the total."

You roll your eyes, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. “You can’t keep spoiling me like this,” you grumble half heartedily. “It’s going to ruin my independence as a strong black woman…” 

“Mmm, I wouldn’t say that. I’d say, I’m allowing my beautiful girlfriend to exude her independence by being unlimited in whatever she wants to do," he counters smoothly, his tongue clicking faintly in disapproval at your grumbling. "There is a difference, princess. Besides, your independence is exactly what caught my attention in the first place. A piece of plastic isn't going to change that."

A soft, defeated laugh slips past your lips. It's completely impossible to argue with a man who uses high-level corporate logic to justify throwing ungodly amounts of money at you.

"You always have an answer for everything, don't you?" you muse, tilting your head up to meet his fierce, golden gaze.

"Only when it comes to getting my way," Zuko replies, a sharp, knowing smirk gracing his lips. He closes the remaining distance between you. His warm hand catches your jaw, his fingers tilting your face up as he leans down and seals his lips over yours.

It isn't a polite, public goodbye. It’s a thorough kiss that completely drives the breath from your lungs, his tongue sliding against yours just enough to remind you exactly who you belong to. The heat of the afternoon sun has nothing on the absolute fire rushing through your veins as he anchors you against him right there on the valet curb, utterly unbothered by anyone who might be watching.

When he finally pulls back, his thumb swipes lazily across your bottom lip, his gold eyes dark with desire.

You let out a shaky, airy laugh, your hands resting against his chest as you try to steady your trembling knees.

"You need to get in your elevator and go to your high-stakes meeting right now, Prince," you warn, your voice a velvety, dangerous murmur as you glance back at your idling car. "Because if you stay out here for even one more second, I am going to throw you into my backseat and make you retire for the rest of the day."

A clear, incredibly proud smirk breaks across Zuko’s lips, his eyes flashing with absolute delight at the threat. He takes a single step back, reluctantly letting his hand slide away from your skin, though his gaze remains pinned to you. 

"Go buy your outfit, princess," he states, his voice carrying a definitive promise as he finally turns back toward the cool glass doors of the hotel entrance. "Enjoy the dinner party. But don't think for a second you're off the hook just because you have plans tonight. I'll see you later."

You watch him walk away for a fraction of a second, admiring the effortless, commanding way he moves in his tailored suit, before turning to slide into the driver's seat of your car. As you pull away from the curb, your heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, your skin still tingling from his touch. You reach over to check your bag, your fingers brushing against the cold platinum card he slipped inside.

Surely this will placate Suki’s anger for you being fifteen minutes behind schedule. 

The air inside the luxury boutique is crisp, smelling of expensive lavender and high-end silk, a massive contrast to the thick summer heat cooking the city sidewalks outside.

Suki is already standing near a rack of designer cocktail dresses, a manicured hand resting on her hip as she checks her watch. The second you slide through the glass entrance, her eyes lock onto you with a mock-stern expression.

"Fifteen minutes, pumpkin," Suki chides, a knowing grin instantly cracking her disciplined exterior. "Fifteen minutes of my life spent hiding from the sales associates who keep trying to hand me complimentary champagne. Care to explain what corporate emergency kept you?"

You don't say a word. Instead, you unzip your compact handbag, slide your fingers inside, and casually pull out the sleek, matte-black platinum card Zuko just forced into your possession. You hold it up between your index and middle finger, letting the gold lettering catch the boutique’s track lighting.

Suki’s jaw literally drops. She stares at the card, then looks up at your face, a dramatic gasp escaping her lips.

"Oh, shut up," Suki squeals, instantly lunging forward to inspect the plastic. "He did not. The Prince handed over the unlimited black card? Girl, what did you do to that man at lunch?"

"Consider it an emergency investment," you tease, a triumphant smile pulling at your lips as you guide her toward the back of the store where the dressing rooms are located. You lower your voice into a confidential whisper. "And honestly, it is an emergency. I can't even take off my oversized shirt right now because my current outfit is completely ruined underneath. Zuko made sure of that in the elevator."

Suki lets out a loud, chaotic cackle that echoes off the boutique's marble floors. " You’re a fiend for that man girl, I love it. I live for it,” she starts flipping through the garment bags with a purpose. 

“I’m down bad Suki, real down bad. Nine months in and I feel like I’m floating on air and walking on sunshine. It’s sick work he’s doing on me. Could be hoodoo, could be voodoo, could just be real out of this world dick, but I can’t confirm or deny just yet.”

"Alright, so our group golf lesson starts around 4:30, which gives us enough time to find dresses for tonight and cute gold sets. I’m aiming to look like Ralph Lauren, old money, pretty bitch, kind of vibe. As for Ming’s birthday dinner, we are heading to The Jade Pavilion," Suki announces, holding a stunning satin midi-dress up to your frame to gauge the fit. "Ming said she wanted high-end luxury vibes, so everyone is going to be dressed to absolute perfection. I think this place just opened its reservation books last month."

A sudden wave of recognition hits you, a dazed, incredibly fond smile taking over your features.

"Wait, The Jade Pavilion?" you repeat, your fingers tracing the smooth fabric of the dress Suki is holding. "Oh, you are going to love it, Su. I've actually been there with Zuko for a date night recently."

Suki halts her browsing, her eyebrows shooting up with immense curiosity. "Ooh, give me the layout. Is it actually worth the hype?"

"It’s incredible," you note, your inner confidence firmly in the driver's seat as you remember the layout. "The interior is gorgeous, but the real highlight is out back. They have an absolute masterpiece of a dance floor set up right in the backyard under the stars, and the main bar out there looks exactly like a luxury cabana. It feels like a private tropical estate hidden right in the middle of the city."

"A backyard dance floor and a cabana bar?" Suki repeats, her eyes sparkling with unbridled excitement. "Oh, the girls are going to love that! We must find something we can move and groove in, while looking fucking stunning. Ming is going to be in Jade, so we were thinking black with jade accessories? What do you think?”

You nod enthusiastically, moving over to the rack holding a majority of black dresses. “Sounds amazing. Zuko actually just bought me a pair of jade earrings and a necklace during Lunar New Year, and I’ve been waiting for another occasion to wear them.”

“Oh my goodness, yes! You looked so stunning wearing it for your job’s banquet!” She squeals, practically vibrating where she stands at how much fun and how amazing you all will be looking tonight. 

You pull a spectacular black silk slip dress from the rack, admiring the way the premium fabric glides over your fingers. But as you tilt your head to gauge the neckline, a sudden, highly practical realization hits your brain. You freeze, your expression turning distinctly sheepish as you look over at your best friend.

"Su, hold on," you say, clearing your throat as you carefully hang the dress back onto the bronze rack. "We have a slight logistical crisis to handle before I can even think about entering that fitting room."

Suki tilts her head, her manicured fingers pausing on a velvet hanger. "What's wrong, pumpkin? Found a dress that’s cute but doesn’t match the vibe?"

"No," you whisper, stepping closer into her space and dropping your voice into an entirely confidential register. "I can't try on a thousand-dollar silk dress right now. It would be dubious of me to try on clothes in this state... My undergarments are thoroughly soaked through, Suki. Zuko didn't just talk a big game in the elevator; his hand was wedged between my legs for half the ride down to the lobby."

Suki freezes for one spectacular second before letting out a loud, chaotic screech of laughter.

"Oh my god!" she squeals, slapping her hand over her mouth to try and control her unvarnished glee. "You are an absolute beast of a woman! A literal public hazard! Y’all have to do better as a duo. Come on."

She hooks her arm firmly through yours, completely abandoning the dress rack and pivoting the two of you toward the door that leads to an entirely different side of the high-end shopping store.

The boutique's private intimates salon is a sanctuary of quiet luxury, lined with satin-covered hangers holding delicate pieces of French lace and premium silk. Suki navigates the displays with the speed and precision of a woman on a military mission, matching a seamless black silk undergarment set with a chic, ultra-expensive casual daytime outfit to replace your ruined one-piece entirely.

"If we are doing a black dress with your Lunar New Year jade jewelry tonight, the foundation needs to match the blueprint," Suki declares, tossing the selections into your arms. "And you need a fresh outfit to wear for the rest of our shopping trip anyway. This is elite. Go change right now."

You take the fresh garments from her, slipping into the large, mirrored private stall. The relief of shedding the damp, ruined fabric you’ve been wearing since lunch is immediate. You step into the fresh, smooth silk undergarments and slide into a pristine, beautifully tailored new daytime outfit. The premium material flows beautifully around you, completely freeing you from the aftermath of the elevator encounter.

The sales associate gracefully handles the dilemma, wrapping your ruined one-piece into a discreet, beautifully scented designer shopping bag without a single look of judgment.

You step out of the stall, completely refreshed, and march straight to the register where Suki is already waiting with an incredibly devious grin stretching across her face holding two of your bags in her hand. One filled with a few pieces that cater to Zuko’s evening entertainment and the other the remnants of your previously stunning outfit.

You unzip your handbag, slide Zuko's sleek, matte-black corporate card out, and hand it to the cashier with practiced elegance.

Click. The card swipes seamlessly through the register, the small screen flashing a quiet confirmation of the successful transaction for both the luxury undergarments and the brand-new replacement outfit.

You look down at your phone to check the time. 2:05 PM. Zuko's global acquisition proposal meeting started exactly five minutes ago.

"You do realize what you just accomplished, right?" Suki whispers, leaning her elbow on the marble counter as the cashier packs your fresh purchase into a glossy bag. Her eyes are dancing with pure, unadulterated entertainment. "That man is probably sitting in some boring ass meeting and just received a real time alert that his card was used at a boutique known for their lingerie. How do you think he’s holding up?”

A thoroughly triumphant grin spreads across your face as you slide the black card back into its secure slot in your wallet. The mental image of his reaction is absolute euphoria. His iron-clad armor is undoubtedly fracturing in front of his entire board of directors right now, his mind instantly racing to figure out exactly what you just bought to replace the outfit he ruined.

"He told me his brain malfunctions the second I cross his line of sight," you drawl smoothly, grabbing the shopping bag from the counter with a rascally twinkle in your eyes. "I can only imagine how his brain will stutter through processing this notification, but he insisted and I’m a good listener. Now that the emergency is solved... let's go find that dress for Ming's dinner and cute golf wear—which we will have to find at one of the stores across the street."

The rest of the shopping spree is a mix of chaos and fun, all bundled into an hour-and-a-half time block. The two of you hop from boutiques with price tags y’all would never entertain in a normal setting, to your go-to places when in need of a good outfit in a pinch. It’s a beautiful balance of girls gone wild and girls on a mission.

Time seems to work in your favor as you both manage to leave an exact one-hour window for getting ready—that doesn’t include travel time. Your apartment becomes a whirlwind of showers, make-up, and getting-ready music.

When you both finally emerge from your respective styling sessions, the "old money, pretty bitch" country club vision is fully realized.

You’ve completely stepped into the aesthetic. You’re wearing a crisp, white tennis skirt that sways effortlessly with every sway of your hips when you walk, paired with a sleeveless, modestly cropped v-neck top. To tie the whole Ralph Lauren look together, you’ve draped a soft pastel-pink sweater casually over your shoulders, the sleeves loosely knotted at your chest.

Suki steps out right behind you, looking equally elite but in a silhouette that perfectly fits her vibe. She’s opted for a athletic white pencil skirt that hugs her frame, paired with a sleeveless, high mock-neck cream top. Draped over her shoulders is a vibrant red sweater featuring a cream bear knitted right on the back, adding the perfect touch of high-society playfulness to her clean look.

"Oh, the country club is absolutely not ready for us," Suki declares, checking her reflection in your hallway mirror with a shit-eating grin.

You laugh, grabbing your bag and keys as you head for the door. "For sure, may not know what we’re doing, but at least we look damn good."

The drive is relatively smooth as you head to the wealthy side of the downtown district, coasting past Saks Fifth Avenue, past the luxury hotels, and through the financial district. The country club sits right at the edge of the harbor, overlooking the water. 

You valet park the car, smoothly slipping the red ticket safely into your purse beside Zuko's black card. Walking inside, you and Suki enter the grand lobby of the country club and immediately spot Ming and the rest of the girls. The second they clock your outfits, the entire group erupts into a flurry of squeals and excitement, ecstatic to finally kick off the afternoon. Ming can barely contain herself as she hypes up the itinerary, reminding everyone that they secured a private lesson with a touring professional golfer who is currently sitting right on the PGA leaderboard. 

Ming grabs you and Suki by the forearms, her bright, celebratory energy anchoring the group as she guides you all toward a shaded, private pavilion just off the main clubhouse.

"Okay, everyone, pay attention," Ming chirps, clapping her hands together to gather the focus of the six girls in total. "This is Master Instructor Eric. He actually qualified for the PGA leaderboard last season and is working overtime to do so again this season, so please do not embarrass me by launching a club into the harbor."

Eric steps forward with an easy, professional smile, looking effortlessly athletic in his tailored Royal Crest polo. "Welcome, ladies, and happy birthday, Ming. We're going to get you set up with some premium rentals at the pro shop first, and then we'll head down to the private tier of the driving range to look at your baseline posture."

The group migrates to the club's exclusive gear room, where the staff meticulously pairs each of the six girls with a high-end, lightweight set of graphite-shaft clubs. Suki slides a sleek, leather-wrapped driver out of her rented bag, testing the weight with a practiced, athletic tilt of her head.

"Alright, the prettiest women in this establishment are officially all armed," Suki murmurs near your ear, adjusting the red Polo Bear sweater draping her shoulders. "Let's see if we can actually hit the ball or if we're just here to look rich."

"We are doing both, obviously," you whisper back, checking your lip gloss in the reflection of your driver's polished clubhead before following the group out onto the grass.

Down at the private tier of the driving range, the setting is completely elite. The midday sun reflects beautifully off the water at the edge of the harbor, the salt air blowing a gentle breeze that makes your white tennis skirt sway smoothly against your hips as you walk. Eric sets down a large basket of premium golf balls and positions a glossy driver in front of Suki first.

"Alright, let's start with the baseline stance," Eric instructs smoothly, stepping in closer to adjust Suki's grip on the rubber handle. His guidance is light and encouraging. "Keep your shoulders loose, hips square, and let the momentum do the work. Don't force the swing."

Suki shifts her weight with a dancer's natural grace. She takes a clean, fluid swing—the crisp, echoing crack of the ball vibrating across the empty range as it sails straight down the center of the fairway.

"Look at that! Perfect extension," Eric praises, flashing her a brilliant grin before turning his attention fully to you, setting a fresh ball onto the rubber tee. He steps into your personal space, his hand gesturing toward the alignment of your stance. "Your turn, Y/n. Let's see how you handle the driver. Just mimic her hip rotation."

You step up to the plate, adjusting the drape of your pink Ralph Lauren sweater. As you grip the leather handle of the driver, a sudden, lingering tingle between your thighs serves as a very vivid reminder of the elevator ride from lunch. You clear your throat, forcing your focus back to the golf ball, and take a deep breath to square your shoulders.

"Don't overthink it, Y/n," Ming calls out from the seating area, where the rest of the girls are sipping iced drinks and cheering. "Show the pro what we're working with!"

You chuckle, adjusting the grip of the leather handle in your palms and shifting your weight. The white tennis skirt swishes playfully against your thighs as you look down at the bright white ball.

"Alright, let’s see," you murmur, leaning into the stance Eric showed you. You twist your torso, drawing the driver back with a steady, calculated focus, before swinging forward with all the natural momentum you can muster.

Thwack! The ball lifts off the tee in a high, dramatic arc, slicing beautifully through the crisp harbor air before bouncing hard and rolling deep into the secondary cut of the fairway. It’s not quite as straight as Suki’s shot, but the sheer distance has the peanut gallery on the lounge chairs cheering instantly.

"Oh, okay, power hitter!" Ming squeals, raising her glass of iced tea toward you. "Zuko clearly isn't the only one in that relationship who can hit something right!"

You let out a rich laugh, resting the head of the driver on the grass as a sudden warmth blooms in your cheeks. If only they knew what was occupying your thoughts right now.

Eric nods in genuine approval, walking over to reset the tee for the next girl. "Excellent power, Y/n. Your hip rotation is incredibly fluid—honestly, if you just tweak your wrist alignment by a fraction of an inch on the follow-through, you'll have a perfect straight shot."

"Hear that, Su? I've got power," you tease, casting a rascally look over your shoulder at your best friend, who is currently leaning against her own club like a seasoned veteran.

"Mmhmm, we all know you're great at handling an impact, pumpkin," Suki fires back smoothly, her voice a low, highly confidential murmur meant just for you as she adjusts the red Polo Bear sweater on her shoulders. "But let's see if you can keep that same energy when we move to the putting green. That's where the real precision comes in."

For the next forty-five minutes, the driving range is an absolute symphony of clinking clubs, bad swings, chaotic laughter, and celebratory cheers. Out of the six girls, at least two manage to accidentally launch a divot of grass further than the actual ball, sending the entire group into fits of breathless giggles. Eric handles the chaos like a true professional, giving pointers on stance and grip while thoroughly enjoying the vibrant, high-energy rhythm of your circle.

"Alright, ladies, that wraps up the baseline clinic," Eric announces with a brilliant, charming smile, wiping his hands on a club towel. "You all did fantastic. Ming, happy birthday again. I expect to see you all back here testing the club championship grid next season."

"Only if you're the one pouring the champagne at the finish line, Eric!" one of the dancers shouts back, prompting a chorus of laughter from the group as you all begin packing up your high-end rentals.

The group migrates from the driving range to the starting tee box, where the real chaos of the afternoon officially begins. Playing a scramble format to keep things moving, the six of you turn the pristine, quiet fairways of the Royal Crest into an absolute playground. It’s a beautiful, sun-drenched blur of Suki managing surprisingly clean iron shots despite the aesthetic constraints of her tight athletic pencil skirt, Ming accidentally driving a ball directly into a sand bunker, and the entire group cheering whenever a putt actually sinks.

By the time you reach the midpoint of the seventh hole, the afternoon heat has fully settled in, and the collective thirst of the group is reaching a critical level.

"Okay, if I don’t get something iced and sparkling in my system within the next five minutes, I am going to pass out right here on the fringe," Ming groans, using her visor to frantically fan her flushed face as she collapses onto a shaded bench by the green.

You shield your eyes against the sun, scanning the rolling green hills behind you. "Didn't Eric say there was a refreshment cart doing rounds today?"

"We completely missed her," Suki notes, checking her phone as she adjusts the vibrant red Polo Bear sweater still draped flawlessly over her shoulders. "I saw the cart girl coasting past the fifth hole when we were putting out, but she was going entirely too fast. She's long gone by now."

You look over at Suki, a devious, rascally twinkle instantly returning to your eyes as you look down at your cream handbag, knowing exactly who is sponsoring the day's hydration. "Well... the main clubhouse patio is only a short walk back past the hedge line. What do you say, Su? Want to go on a rescue mission for the group?"

"Absolutely," Suki agrees instantly, a triumphant grin breaking across her face. "Girls, hold our spot. Your captain and honorary teammate  is going on a beverage run."

Leaving the other four girls to debate the logistics of Ming's next chip shot, you and Suki leave your rented golf bags by the green and stroll down the paved path. The white tennis skirt sways effortlessly with every movement of your hips as you walk, the soft pastel-pink sweater bouncing gently against your shoulder blades as the harbor breeze carries the crisp scent of the ocean water across the lawn.

The outdoor pavilion bar at the main clubhouse is the epitome of gate-kept, old-money luxury. White columns support a shaded pergola, and wealthy patrons in pristine linen sets are murmuring quietly over midday cocktails. You stride right up to the polished mahogany counter, your cream kitten heels clicking softly against the flagstone flooring.

"Hi, good afternoon," you greet the bartender smoothly, resting your forearm on the cool surface. "We missed the course cart, so we're looking to grab a round of refreshments for a group of six out on the seventh."

"Of course, ma'am," the bartender responds with a well-trained, elite hospitality smile. "What can I get started for you?"

"Let's do six of your signature sparkling lavender-lemon mocktails," you instruct, offering a bright, effortless smile. "And make sure they're in the travel cups with plenty of ice, please. Oh, and six waters as well."

As the bartender turns to begin muddling the fresh lavender and pouring the sparkling soda, Suki leans her elbow on the bar beside you, looking around the pristine, white-brick terrace with immense satisfaction.

"I have to admit, the vibe here is elite," Suki whispers, a low cackle escaping her throat as she watches a group of older men in matching golf caps look over at the two of you. "We don't even know our own handicaps, but walking in here looking like a Ralph Lauren catalog while ordering top-shelf mocktails on Zuko's dime? It's sick work we're doing today, Y/n. Truly inspiring."

"He insisted I consider his card an emergency fund," you drawl back, a thoroughly smug, pleased grin playing on your glossed lips as you reach into your bag and casually slide the matte-black plastic between your fingers. "And ensuring my best friends don't suffer from dehydration at a country club seems like a massive emergency to me."

"A humanitarian, honestly," Suki teases, doing a little celebratory shimmy right there by the bar stools.

The bartender returns, carefully arranging six beautifully condensed, frosted travel cups into a secure carrying tray. The sparkling lavender drinks look incredibly refreshing, tiny bubbles rising to the top around fresh lemon wheels. Beside them, he places a secondary carrier holding six artisanal, heavy glass water bottles—a ridiculous display of luxury for plain H2O that makes your and Suki’s eyebrows rise in pure amusement.

"Whenever you're ready, ma'am," the bartender states, presenting the digital payment screen.

You slide Zuko's sleek black card across the counter with practiced elegance, watching the screen flash a quiet, successful confirmation. 5:55 PM. You check your own phone screen, completely satisfied by the timeline. Zuko should be comfortably at home by now, probably prepping for his evening run. 

Suki leaves two twenties on the mahogany counter as a cash tip, and from there, it becomes a high-stakes balancing act to securely get the massive tray of beverages back to your group of chaos out on the fairway.

The tray of condensed lavender mocktails and heavy glass water bottles are an instant hit, the six of you huddled around the golf carts laughing and re-energizing as the golden hour sun begins its slow, gorgeous descent over the harbor. Refreshed and running on pure best-friend momentum, the group sinks right back into the rhythm of the game. The energy is light, competitive, and loud, your white tennis skirt catching the warm evening breeze every time you step up to rotate your hips through a clean iron shot.

But as the scramble format guides your group closer to the coastal edge of the ninth hole—right where the manicured grass meets the stone harbor retaining wall and lines up parallel with the paved golf cart paths—the breezy, celebratory air of the afternoon completely stalls.

The low, high-end electric purr of a custom golf cart approaches from the club’s private terrace path, cutting right through the sound of the crashing waves.

Suki is the first to freeze, her hand loosening on her putter as her eyes track the vehicle pulling up onto the gravel shoulder right beside your green.

You turn your head, shielding your eyes against the blinding amber glare of the setting sun, and instantly clock the sleek, pristine cart. Behind the wheel is Ty Lee, her vibrant pink visor matching her bright energy as she brings the cart to a sudden halt, waving aggressively at your group with a massive, entirely conflict-free smile.

"Oh, look, Ty Lee," a chillingly smooth, dangerously calculated voice slices through the salt air as the passenger door clicks open. "It seems the shallow end of the pool has officially migrated to the harbor tier."

Azula steps onto the grass with practiced, lethal elegance. She is dressed to absolute perfection in a tailored, crimson tennis skirt set, a pristine white visor casting a sharp shadow over her cat-like eyes as she gracefully twirls a high-end driver between her manicured fingers.

But it’s the third figure sitting in the back of the cart that makes your eyebrows rise in silent curiosity.

Leaning heavily against the leather armrest, looking utterly bored out of her mind as she flips through her phone, is a girl you’ve never seen a day in your life. She’s dressed in a sharp, dark linen blazer over a minimalist black top, her sleek hair pinned back with total high-society precision. She radiates a heavy, untouchable layer of dark, old-money apathy—very detached, very dangerous, and completely unimpressed by the entire layout of the country club.

“First you ruin our afternoon by making my sorry brother rent out the entire terrace, and now you’re staining my sacred grounds by making me wait until you and your little friends are done acting as if this is a jungle gym," Azula drawls, her golden eyes locking onto yours with demanding intensity as she stops at the edge of the turf. "Does your impudence know no bounds, or do you just like playing with fire?”

Your grip tightens around the puck until your nails dig crescents into your palm. 

“Excuse the hell out of you?” One of the girls calls out from over your shoulder, her voice firm and full of bite. 

Before Azula can even pivot her sharp gaze to track the new voice, Suki steps right up to the edge of the green, casually resting her driver over her shoulders as she looks down at the girl in crimson. Her shit-eating grin is entirely gone, replaced by a cold, untouchable calm.

"You can either wait like a good dog, or you can go bark to somebody else," Suki states smoothly, her voice carrying clear across the quiet harbor lawn. "We're in the middle of a round."

“Suki. Tell me, is Sokka still putting off setting a wedding date because his mother’s ring doesn't quite fit a girl from the ghetto side of the city? Or is he just realizing he can do better than a glorified lightweight?”

The hairs on the back of your neck bristle and the air feels as if it stills completely. The words come out faster than anyone else can compute as you take two large steps forward, crowding Azula's space.

“I’m begging you to repeat that so I can use your head for my next hole-in-one.”

“I see he’s dating so far out his flavor profile, he’s reached the realm of other.” The voice is dry and desolate of emotion, but it gains your attention as you shift your focus to the woman in dark colors. 

You don’t know her. You’re sure of it, but you can recognize a bitter tryst with ease. 

Your smile turns sickly sweet, your head tilting with a predatory grace as you look past Azula and lock your gaze directly onto the girl in the dark blazer.

"And you must be the background noise," you drawl, your voice dropping into a smooth, velvety register that completely cuts through the salt air. "I'd tell you to mind the business that pays you, but judging by how much free time you have to sit in the back of a golf cart and analyze my man's taste, it looks like you're currently unemployed."

Mai’s thumbs instantly freeze over her phone screen.

For a fraction of a second, the heavy, untouched apathy masking her features completely slips. Her head cocks to the side, and a single, sharp eyebrow raises with a sudden, unmistakable flicker of genuine interest. No one in their social circle ever dares to swing back at them with that level of unbothered, lethal precision—let alone look Mai dead in the eyes and dismiss her as a seasonal distraction.

"Oh, wow...Mai" Ty Lee squeaks from behind the steering wheel, her eyes darting between the two of you in absolute, wide-eyed panic as the entire green turns into a complete pressure cooker.

Azula lets out a scoff that lands somewhere in the realm of amusement and disgust. “Let’s be entirely clear, darling. You can wrap yourself in Ralph Lauren and flash a piece of plastic with my family's last name on it, but you are nothing more than an exotic weekend distraction. When the board meetings conclude and the legacy matters, he will dump you right back into the shallow end where he found you.” 

 You inhale sharply, the breath hitching in your throat as the next insult meets your ears. 

“She’s right. Men of his caliber don’t marry the help. They sleep with them in hotel rooms, buy them lingerie to keep them quiet, and then marry women whose names are actually on the buildings. You’re a placeholder until I decide to stop ignoring him,” it’s spoken with such detachment and objectification that it leaves you stunned. 

Your jaw muscle twitches from how hard you’re clenching. Your brain is working a mile a second, the hot rage in your chest warring violently with the logical, pragmatic editor inside you. You have a career. You have a life. You have far too much to lose to let two miserable, elitist trust-fund securements drag you down into a public country club brawl.

You swallow your pride roughly, forcing a breath deep into your lungs as you consciously drop your shoulders. You look Azula and the unfamiliar woman dead in the eyes, your expression smoothing into a look of unbothered pity.

"You know what? I'm not even going to give you the satisfaction," you state smoothly, your voice ringing clear and steady over the course. "We came out here to celebrate, not to entertain a couple of bitter spectators who have nothing better to do than obsess over us from a golf cart. Let's go, girls. They aren't worth the energy."

You turn your back on them, pivoting your heels to lead your friends back toward the game. It is a flawless execution of maturity—a definitive choice to walk away with your head held high.

But Azula’s ego cannot handle a peaceful exit.

A sharp, sudden movement cuts through the air behind you, followed by the wet, aggressive splat of liquid hitting the manicured turf just inches from your white tennis skirt. The remaining sticky green droplets of her iced matcha splash across the grass, a few rogue spots dampening the hem of Suki's pristine pencil skirt.

The air stalls completely. Your voice of reason shatters into absolute dust. You freeze in your tracks, your spine turning to ice as you slowly look down at the green puddle, and then back up at the girls.

Before you can even take another step, the heavy silver of a golf club head clicks sharply against the turf behind you.

"Just so we are entirely clear," Ming’s voice rings out from over your shoulder, completely stripped of its birthday cheer and dripping with a precariously, protective octave. "I have bail money sitting in my savings account right now, and I am more than willing to take this as far as you ladies want to go after this amount of disrespect."

On either side of you, the other four dancers instantly close ranks, their athletic frames shifting into a unified, unyielding wall of physical defense. Suki steps right into the space between your group and the edge of the turf, her driver resting loosely in her palms as her eyes lock onto Azula with lethal certainty.

"You have but three seconds before shit hits the fan," Suki states, her voice an frigid, dangerous warning that makes the entire harbor green feel dead silent. "Three seconds before we become completely unaccountable for our next course of actions. Start counting."

Suki doesn't even make it to two.

The instant the final warning leaves her lips, the stalemate completely shatters. One of the dancers over your shoulder doesn't hesitate for a fraction of a second—she steps forward and chucks her entire heavy, condensation-beaded lavender mocktail directly at Azula's face. The sticky, ice-cold liquid hits her squarely across her crimson top, completely ruining her pristine high-society look in a split second.

Before Azula or Mai can even register the shock, two of the other dancers actively sprint around the flank, bypassing you entirely. With synchronized, savage precision, they uncap their remaining travel cups and pour the sticky lavender syrup and heavy ice directly over the leather seats and custom dashboard of the luxury golf cart itself.

From there, things turn south in an absolute heartbeat.

The entire green erupts into a violent, chaotic array of movement between the two factions. White tennis skirts and crimson athletic wear blur together as hands are thrown, shoulders collide, and golf clubs are dropped onto the turf. Ty Lee completely loses her mind, caught in a frantic, split-second panic as she oscillates wildly between desperate peacemaker and active opposition. One second she’s throwing her hands up, begging everyone to stop, and the next she’s instinctively ducking a swinging arm or putting up a defensive guard to push a dancer back as the brawl spills off the grass and right onto the gravel path.

The sharp, authoritative blast of security whistles finally cuts through the salt air as a squad of Royal Crest country club guards descends on the harbor point, desperately forcing their way between the two groups to break up the melee.

But the damage is already done. Your group definitely got their hits in.

As you’re all finally separated and escorted off the lawn toward the main clubhouse, the physical aftermath speaks for itself. On your side, the six of you walk with your heads held high—every single one of you looking audaciously proud of the absolute havoc you just wreaked. Across the path, the opposition is a total disaster. Mai looks deeply annoyed, picking a piece of lavender mint off her dark linen blazer with pure disgust. Ty Lee is entirely flustered, frantically trying to fix her high ponytail. And Azula? Azula looks completely, unhinged-ly pissed, her crimson tennis set stained with sticky syrup, her golden eyes burning holes into your back.

As the guards lead your faction down the long, white-brick corridor toward a private holding room, you don't waste a single second. Matching Suki's stride, you quickly unzip your cream shoulder bag. You slip your fingers past Zuko's platinum card, slide your phone out, and keep it low against your tennis skirt.

With your heart still hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, you quickly fire off an emergency SOS pin drop to the main group chat consisting of you, Suki, Sokka, and Zuko.

[Location Pin: Royal Crest Country Club - Security Management Suite] you: Golf has been compromised. Bring bail money.

You shove the phone back into your bag just as a guard opens the heavy mahogany door, ushering all six of you into a small, plushly carpeted boardroom to begin recounting the incident.

“Head of security and our club Assistant VP of Club Operations will be in to obtain your statement and inform you of next steps, but ladies, this is not how we conduct ourselves at Royal Crest,” the security guard chastises, a look of distaste overshadowing his features as he turns around. 

The second the heavy mahogany door clicks shut behind the guard, leaving the six of you alone in the quaint holding room, the tense silence completely disintegrates. The room bursts into an absolute, rambunctious symphony of overlapping voices, breathless laughter, and pure adrenaline as the girls instantly begin a wild, chaotic retelling of the entire incident. 

"Oh my god, did you see her face?!" Ming squeals, completely throwing away her birthday visor onto the glass coffee table as she does a celebratory victory lap around the carpet. "When the mocktail hit her right in the chest? I thought her fake old-money soul was going to leave her body!"

"And the golf cart!" another dancer howls, leaning against the wall and clutching her stomach from laughing so hard. "We literally drowned the leather seats in sticky syrup and ice. That custom dashboard is never going to recover!"

Suki drops her driver into the corner of the room with a satisfying clatter, a massive, triumphant grin finally breaking across her face as she shakes out her shoulders. She looks over at you, her eyes sparkling with that fierce Kyoshi pride. "Y/n, those two large steps you took toward Azula? Absolute cinema. I thought you were actually going to take her head off with that iron."

"She asked if my impudence knew no bounds, so I had to show her the boundaries," you laugh, finally letting out the breath you've been holding as you sit down at the table.

"But the audacity!" Ming counters, her voice dropping into a mocking, high-society drawl as she mimics Azula's posture. "'Staining my sacred grounds.' Who talks like that? It’s a public-adjacent fairway, you miserable reptile!"

"And that girl in the dark blazer" another girl chimes in, tossing her hands in the air. "Saying men of Zuko's caliber buy lingerie to keep people quiet? The absolute projection! And another thing, like how obsessed over this man are you to even know what his lunch plans were?!"

The chaotic laughter continues to echo around the small room, but the sound suddenly blurs into distant static as that final question hits your brain like a physical jolt.

How did they know?

Your mind instantly races backward, rapidly relaying through the events of the afternoon until you're standing right back in the warm, dim luxury of the hotel restaurant. You remember the heavy weight of Zuko's hand on your waist, guiding you out, and the faint, hushed words of the restaurant attendant that you had barely paid attention to at the time:

“The left side of the terrace was closed for a private party madam, but if you give us just a minute we can have it set up for you and your party of three.”

The memory snaps into focus with terrifying clarity. The party of three. The left side of the terrace.

Those bitches, and adorable Ty Lee were there this afternoon. What are the fucking odds? 

You shake your head, laughing quietly at the irony before focusing back on the room.

The room is a brilliant, buzzing vacuum of high-energy hype, all six of you completely unified and audaciously proud of the chaos you just unleashed. Every time someone reconstructs a specific punch thrown or a cup poured, the room erupts all over again, entirely unbothered by the fact that country club management is currently outside trying to untangle the legal paperwork. 

The heavy mahogany door clicks open, instantly freezing the high-energy laughter inside the room.

The head of security enters first, his bulky frame projecting an imposing, no-nonsense authority. Right on his heels is the Assistant VP of Club Operations—a man meticulously dressed in a tailored navy blazer, his hair slicked back, and an expression of profound corporate annoyance resting on his face.

The power dynamic shifts in the room immediately. You can see it in the way the AVP looks at the six of you, his eyes scanning your rumpled tennis outfits with an unmistakable layer of classist disdain. Azula and Mai are high rollers here; their families represent legacy memberships and multi-million-dollar endowments to the Royal Crest network. To management, you are six unknown outsiders who just systematically dismantled their pristine clubhouse peace.

"Alright, ladies," the Assistant VP begins, his tone dripping with condescending, gate-kept authority as he folds his arms. "I've already taken a full statement from Miss Ryu and Miss Morishita. Needless to say, destroying a customer’s club asset and launching beverages at premium tier members is a direct violation of our charter. We are looking at significant property damage to the golf cart, and frankly, a blatant assault charge."

The head of security steps forward, pulling out a small notepad. "We're going to need each of your legal names, identification, and the primary account holder associated with your guest passes today. The club will be pursuing full financial restitution, and depending on the statement verification, local law enforcement is already on standby."

Ming’s jaw drops, her defensive birthday energy instantly flaring back up, but Suki catches her forearm with a tight, grounding grip, her eyes narrowing at the blatant favoritism happening right in front of you. They’ve already taken Azula’s side without even asking for your version of the story.

You press your fingers to the bridge of your nose, feeling the start of a headache brewing, but no guilt, no second- guessing at all. You’d do it all over again in a heartbeat. 

“I just think it’s real funny, how–” Suki’s words are cut short as a sharp, commanding knock rattles the heavy mahogany door.

Before the security guard can even reach for the handle, the door swings open to reveal a sight that completely upends the power dynamic in the room.

Zuko leads the charge, stepping into the small holding suite like a man who owns the foundation it was built on. He looks effortlessly elite, dressed in a pair of tailored linen pants and a matching crisp button-up shirt—clearly interrupted right in the middle of preparing for his evening routine. Right behind him is Sokka, still in his sharp work attire, consisting of a button-up shirt and slacks, his face set into an unusually grim, fiercely protective mask the second his eyes sweep over the room to take in the girls.

But it’s the third man entering the room that makes the Assistant VP of Club Operations turn a sudden, ghostly shade of white. Walking a step behind Zuko, looking sweaty and deeply apologetic, is the country club's actual, executive Vice President.

The room holds its breath. Zuko stands at the epicenter of the space, his commanding presence immediately rendering the AVP and the head of security completely small.

"Is everyone okay?" Zuko poses the question to the entire room, his voice a smooth, low baritone that carries a terrifyingly quiet authority.

Though his question is for all six of the girls, his steadfast gaze locks immediately onto you. His golden eyes drop to trace the slight rumple of your pink sweater, inspecting you for any actual damage, before rising back to meet yours with a reassuring, unyielding focus.

Behind him, Sokka’s eyes instantly find Suki, his gaze lingering on the rogue green droplets of matcha dampening the hem of her athletic skirt, his jaw clenching hard enough to see the muscle jumping.

The club's Assistant VP scrambles forward, his previous condescending arrogance completely evaporating into frantic submission. "Mr. Ryu! Sir, we—we didn't expect you here personally. There was a highly volatile incident out on the ninth green involving property damage and your sister, and we were just attempting to get these young ladies' credentials—"

"I am the primary account holder for their passes today," Zuko cuts him off smoothly, not even turning his head to look at the man. He keeps his eyes entirely on you, a dark, dangerously protective smirk ghosting the corner of his lips as he registers your completely guilt-free expression. "And any financial restitution or legal statements regarding my sister's custom assets will go through my personal legal counsel. You all can step outside now."

The club's Vice President frantically gestures for the Assistant VP and the head of security to exit, both men scrambling out of the room so fast they nearly trip over their own loafers. The heavy mahogany door clicks shut with a soft, final snap, leaving just your group, Zuko, and Sokka in the room.

The atmosphere shifts instantly. Sokka immediately closes the remaining distance to Suki, his large hands gently cupping her elbows as he checks the hem of her skirt up close, murmuring a low, frantic question under his breath that Suki answers with a small, reassuring squeeze of his forearm.

Zuko doesn't say a word at first. He moves with a slow, commanding grace over to the head of the polished conference table. He sits down, looking every bit composed and effortlessly regal in his tailored linen. He casually crosses one leg so his ankle rests right on his knee, leaning back against the leather chair with his arms folded over his chest. He tilts his head slightly, taking in the group's chaotic appearances from this new angle.

The silence stretches, heavy and thick with his overwhelming presence. Underneath his hard, calculating stare, the girls instantly start to squirm, shifting their weight and suddenly finding the abstract paintings on the wall or the pattern of the carpet incredibly fascinating. Nobody wants to look him directly in the eye, fully anticipating him to rip them a new one for turning a luxury country club into an episode of bad reality TV. 

In the back row, one of the dancers leans an inch closer to Ming, her voice a tiny, barely audible breath. "Uh-oh... daddy's mad."

"Ow!" she whispers a second later, rubbing her ribs as Ming sharply elbows her in the side, giving her a frantic, wide-eyed warning look.

Zuko’s eyebrow twitches slightly at the whisper, but his expression remains an unreadable, stony mask as he just sits and listens. After a minute or two of the suffocating quiet, the collective anxiety in the room finally boils over, and all of the girls' voices start to intersect at once in a frantic, overlapping rush to explain themselves before he can blow up. 

"Zuko, look, they literally tracked us down—"

"Azula threw her drink first, I swear to god—"

"Dark and dreary said the most unhinged, atrocious things about Y/n—"

"We had to protect the vibe and our honor, it was self-defense—"

The frantic explanations bounce off the walls, the girls practically tripping over each other's words, looking entirely remorseful yet desperately hoping he understands why they did what they did. 

Zuko simply raises a single hand. The gesture is small, completely effortless, but the absolute authority behind it silences the entire room in a fraction of a second. Every mouth snaps shut, the girls holding their breath like students waiting for a detention lecture.

Zuko slowly shifts his gaze across the trembling lineup, his sharp golden eyes eventually stopping right on you. He simply raises an eyebrow, a tiny, rascally glint of amusement finally warring with the dangerous protective edge in his features.

"What happened to simply playing golf?" is his question.

You open your mouth to explain—to lay out the absolute legal, moral, and emotional justification for why Azula’s face needed to meet a lavender-lemon blend and the back of your hand, and then your jaw just snaps completely shut.

Beside you, Suki shifts on her cushion, her fierce athletic confidence instantly evaporating as she opens her mouth to present a tactical defense, only to freeze mid-breath. Her eyes dart to the ceiling, then back to the floor, and she snaps her mouth shut with a quiet, hollow click.

The two of you sit there, completely glitching in real-time as your adult brains desperately scramble and fail to compute a single logical, mature response to explain how a luxury golf clinic turned into a lawless turf war over a ruined drivetrain. From an adult standpoint, there is absolutely no defending the logistics of what just occurred on the ninth hole.

The lifeline to cut the silence comes from Ming, as she lifts her gaze to peer at Zuko through her lashes. Her cheeks are flushed, her white top disheveled, but she perseveres through the discomfort, squaring her shoulders and setting her jaw.

“We were playing… and we were doing really well! I mean, Suki was kicking our asses, Y/n was hitting long balls that may not have been headed for a hole-in-one, but for sure had some distance, and I was having a really good time celebrating my special day with my favorite girls” she states, her chest puffing out in pride as she remembers how the game started.

“—And that’s when things hit the fan, Mr. Zuko, sir,” one of the girls squeaks, her frame hiding behind Ming the moment his golden eyes turn to her.

You clear your throat, raising a hand to speak. “Golf was fun. We were having fun, and then the three clouds descended upon us—”

“And we tried to be adults! Tried to handle it like civil women, but what are you to do when words don’t work and your honor is being spit on?” Ming questions, her voice rising an octave as her birthday outrage flares back up. “They insulted Y/n and our captain—AND—more than fucking once,” she fumes.

Zuko shifts his weight slightly in his chair, his arms still folded tightly over his linen button-up. The suffocating, stony mask he wore when he first entered the room begins to fracture, a small almost indiscernible smile pulls at his lips as he looks from Ming's flushed face right back to you. The sheer absurdity of his high-society sister getting thoroughly jumped and covered in syrup by a pack of elite contemporary dancers on a gated country club fairway is clearly the best thing he’s heard all week. 

He uncrosses his leg, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the polished mahogany table, his eyes locked onto yours with an amount of adoration that completely melts the tension and dissipates what could have been a gnarly headache.

“So, just to make sure my baseline summary is correct,” Zuko begins, his words bleeding with amusement and affection. “My sister threw a tantrum, and in response, you stepped to her, threatened her head with—they tell me—a number three golf club, and let your girls dismantle her golf cart?”

You wiggle in your chair, unable to hold his gaze as the weight of the words land. There’s a hint of embarrassment brewing in the pit of your stomach the longer you’re able to sit with your actions. No regret though; again, you’d happily do it again—maybe with twice as much conviction and ferocity.

"That is the baseline summary, yes," you reply, staring intently at the shiny table.

“Mr. Zuko, sir? Will… will we be going to jail? It's okay if so, I–I just want to mentally prepare before the cops walk in,” someone squeaks from the back couch, her voice quivering but entirely certain of her impending criminal record.

Zuko lets out a quiet rich chuckle, the sound completely dismantling the lingering courtroom tension as he shakes his head at the terrified dancer.

“No one is going to jail tonight,” Zuko assures her, his smooth voice dropping the corporate hammer on the matter. “This is officially all wrapped up. My legal team is already handling the property damage assessment, and the club’s incident log is being wiped clean before morning.” He pauses, a rascally, teasing glint flashing in his golden eyes as he glances over the row of relieved, sad-puppy faces. “Though, for the time being, I’d highly suggest you ladies try a few of the other country clubs around the district. Royal Crest might need a season or two to recover from your…extracurriculars .”

A collective, massive sigh of relief ripples through the sofas, the dancers practically melting back into the leather cushions as the threat of a criminal record vanishes.

Zuko pushes back his chair and stands up from the conference table, his effortless, regal authority returning to his frame as he rolls his linen sleeves up one more notch. “Your vehicles are already waiting for you at the valet line up front. You all have a reservation at The Jade Pavilion to make in exactly two hours, so I suggest you get moving.”

The girls instantly start scrambling to grab their designer bags and rented visors, their high-energy birthday vibe snapping back into place in a heartbeat. But before you can even slide your phone back into your shoulder bag to join the exodus, Zuko’s gaze pins you right to your seat.

It’s an intense, heavy stare that completely locks you in place. Beneath the sheer weight of his focus, your knee automatically starts to bounce, your foot tapping a frantic, anxious rhythm against the plush carpet. You aren't full of regret, but sitting alone under his microscopic inspection after executing a country-club turf war is definitely a test for your nervous system.

Zuko catches the sudden movement of your leg, his eyes tracking the bounce before rising back to meet yours, an unreadable expression flashes across his features for a split second before locking back in.

“Sokka,” Zuko instructs evenly, not breaking eye contact with you for a fraction of a second. “Lead the girls up front and get them settled into their vehicles. We’ll be right behind you.”

“You got it, bossman,” Sokka says with a wide, triumphant grin. He wraps his arm around Suki’s waist, guiding her toward the corridor. “Alright, jailbirds, let’s move it. Valet is waiting.”

Ming throws a chaotic, ecstatic wave over her shoulder. “See you at the pavilion, Y/n! Zuko, you are literally a saint!”

The heavy mahogany door clicks shut behind the rowdy pack of dancers, their loud laughter instantly echoing down the white-brick hallway until it fades completely. The room plunges into a thick, absolute silence, leaving just you, the shiny conference table, and Zuko.

You can feel the absolute weight of Zuko’s presence pressing down on you as he slowly rounds the polished mahogany table, his steps entirely unhurried, his clean cologne cutting right through your fading adrenaline.

Your leg is practically drilling a hole into the country club carpet at this point, your fingers twisting the strap of your cream handbag. The adult embarrassment is officially peaking, and under the intensity of his golden eyes, your internal filter completely breaks.

"Okay, look, I know how it sounds," you blurt out, the words tumbling out of your mouth in a frantic, nervous rush before he can even open his mouth. "A number three is probably a lot of club, I know, but you weren't there, Baby. I was genuinely trying to be the voice of reason! I used my mature corporate voice, I told the girls they weren't worth the energy, and we literally turned our backs to walk away. But Azula—fucking demonic seed of your bloodline, she couldn't just let us leave with our dignity. She threw her matcha!"

Zuko stops right in front of your chair, his hands sliding casually into the pockets of his tailored linen pants as he looks down at you, his head slightly tilted, letting you dig your own grave.

"And I'm not apologizing for the golf cart either," you continue, your voice rising an octave as you ramble through the confession, looking everywhere in the room except at his face. "Because frankly, the things leaving their mouths were downright atrocious. Azula called me an exotic weekend distraction, and then her little emotionless shadow—I don't even know who that girl in the blazer was, by the way, but she has some serious boundary issues—she had the absolute audacity to say that men of your caliber buy lingerie just to keep the help quiet! She called me a placeholder until she decided to stop ignoring you!"

You take a deep breath, your shoulders dropping a bit as the raw gravity of the situation really settles into your chest.

“I–I love you, Zuko. I love you enough to swallow my pride when your sister and her minion insult me. I love you enough to think four times over before retaliating in a way that would tarnish your reputation. I let it slide when that dreary cloud called me an ‘other’, when your sister insulted my best friend's upbringing, when they called me ‘the help’—I really fucking tried. And I–I’m not sorry for hitting her. I’m not sorry for ruining her golf cart or her expensive clothes. In fact, if I ever catch her in the streets, I’m liable to execute street justice, but I am incredibly apologetic of how my actions reflect on you.”

You finally snap your mouth shut, inhaling a sharp, ragged breath as the echo of your own words bounces off the walls of the small room. Your face is burning, your heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against your ribs as you stare intently at the polished table.

The secondary panic hits you almost immediately.

I love you. You said it. You actually just said it. Not over a romantic dinner, not in a quiet, intimate moment between the sheets, but blurted out in a breathless, heated rush while trying to justify a physical altercation. Your fingers tighten around your purse strap until your knuckles turn white, your inner filter screaming at you for letting your guards down completely.

You wait for the lecture. You wait for a corporate sigh, or a gentle, awkward shift in his posture as he tries to navigate the emotional landmines you just detonated on the carpet.

Instead, the room stays entirely quiet.

You force your gaze upward, expecting a hard, stern look. But the expression on Zuko's face makes you freeze completely.

The casual, amused look he had just a minute ago has entirely vanished, replaced by a rigid stillness that makes his jaw look like it was carved out of granite. His golden eyes are wide and completely locked onto yours, his chest rising and falling in expansions as the sheer magnitude of everything you just confessed filters through his brain.

He doesn't move a single muscle. He just stares at you, completely paralyzed by the unrefined, tenacious devotion you just laid at his feet, even while promising street justice.

"Y/n," Zuko finally breathes, his voice scraping into a quiet, raspy tone that vibrates right through the floorboards. He takes his hands out of his linen pockets, sliding your chair back just enough for him to carve a space for him to stand between you and the table. "Say that again."

You freeze; leg no longer bouncing, your hand releases the strap of your purse, and you stare up at him with confusion and uncertainty. 

"Say what?" you whisper, your voice barely clearing the space between you. Your mind is spinning, trying to untangle the multiple threads of your own outburst. Are we talking about the golf cart? The number three iron? The fact that you just promised a corporate executive that you might jump his sister in the street?

Zuko doesn't offer a single hint of amusement to bail you out. He comes down to your level, dropping to one knee right in front of your chair. The casual ease of his linen pants creases against the carpet as he places his large hands firmly on the armrests on either side of you, completely boxing you into his presence. Up close, his features serve as a distraction and comfort, his golden eyes searching yours with a  piercing clarity that demands absolute honesty.

"The part before you threatened my sister with street justice," Zuko clarifies, his gaze tracking the tiny, frantic movements of your eyes. "The part about why you tried to walk away."

Your breath catches. The realization of exactly what you let slip settles right into the center of your chest. The adult embarrassment flares up all over again, making your collarbone flush beneath your pink sweater, but you refuse to look away from him now.

"I said I love you," you murmur, the words coming out much steadier this time, stripped of the frantic, angry pace from a minute ago. "And I meant it. Mean it.  That’s why I didn’t just swing on her the second she opened her mouth. I just found out you’re rather…important and I knew that beforehand, but today I think I cognitively filed it away into the correct drawer when you spoke about what you do for work. And their words, just— I–I, oh god, " your brain does a mini-reboot as you try to connect your thoughts to your mouth “I–this is not how I wanted to tell you this,” you confess, closing your eyes briefly to see if that will help you slow your train of thought. 

When you open your eyes, you find Zuko exactly where you left him, his large hands still steady on the armrests, his posture patient and entirely unmoving. The panic of the verbal stumble is still buzzing in your ears, but the look he is giving you isn't judgmental; it is deeply focused, drinking in every single ounce of your unfiltered vulnerability.

The severe line of his jaw softens, a faint, incredibly tender look breaking through the protective shield he usually keeps up. He reaches out, his long fingers sliding up the side of your neck, his thumb resting gently against your jawline to anchor you. His touch is firm and grounding, single-handedly forcing your racing thoughts to a complete halt.

"Hey," Zuko says softly, his voice a clear, smooth tone that cuts right through your internal chaos. "Look at me."

You do, your eyes locking back onto his brilliant gold.

"It doesn't matter how it came out," he tells you, his thumb brushing over your skin with a reassuring, steady rhythm. A soft laugh slips past his lips and your eyebrows furrow in response. “I’m quite helplessly in love with you, princess. So much so I’m thinking of all the various ways I could fuck over Azula and her companions in a way that would calm the rage inside of me for their sheer audacity to even breathe in your direction.”

The admission leaves his lips with an absolute, crystalline certainty that makes your entire body relax, the last of your embarrassment evaporating on the spot. He isn't just accepting your messy confession—he is fully matching your frequency.

“Can you say that again?” you question, feeling the sting behind your eyes as his words wash over you and entirely cleanse away the messiness of the situation. 

The smile on his face makes your heart skip a beat. “I love you,” he states, before pressing a kiss to your cheek. “I love you,” this kiss lands on your forehead. “I love you,” it’s placed right on the opposite cheek.

His lips ghost over yours, eyes radiant. “I knew I was going to love you the moment you cheekily walked out of Suki’s apartment after telling me my hair makes me look delectable. And my hunch was only solidified when you sat in my kitchen, dressed in my clothes, doing a happy dance because I successfully acquired you fries. I love you when you rub your freezing feet on me at night, when you dictate our television time and give me all the background knowledge I need to understand black cinema and Tyler Perry. I especially love you when you stick up for yourself, call me, and promise street justice on my bloodline.”

Your eyes flutter shut as the space between you disappears completely.

Zuko captures your lips in a kiss that is entirely different from the playful touches from a second ago. It is deep, unhurried, and consumerist in its intensity, carrying the full weight of every single word he just confessed. His hand slides from your jawline to cup the back of your neck, his long fingers tangling into the roots of your silk press to tilt your head perfectly against his, anchoring you to him as if you would even think about leaving.

The country club holding room, the threat of legal statements, and the lingering sting of Azula’s insults completely dissolve into absolute nothingness.

He tastes like his favorite rich, dark espresso, his lips moving against yours with a desperate, possessive hunger that takes your breath away entirely. You let out a soft, helpless sigh against his mouth, your fingers grip the soft linen of his button-up shirt just to keep your balance.

When he finally pulls away, he doesn't go far. He rests his forehead right back against yours, both of your breaths coming in shallow, uneven pants that fill the tiny space between your lips. Your head is spinning, your entire body feeling completely weightless and floaty, as if the carpet beneath your feet has simply vanished.

Zuko lets out a low, ragged breath, his eyes half-lidded and burning with a fierce satisfaction as he takes in your thoroughly dazed, breathless expression.

Your smile turns loopy, big and goofy. “So,” you murmur, leaning further into his touch. “Despite how much you love me, I know you’re a man of cause and effect. What are my consequences, Officer?” 

“You mentioned not wanting to go to this dinner tonight back at lunch, so I’m going to give you two choices, princess,” he murmurs, finally standing up and offering his large hand to pull you out of the chair. The intense, commanding authority returns to his frame the second you rise, his arm instantly wrapping around your waist to anchor your body parallel to his side.

“Choice one,” Zuko begins, his eyes radiating a devastatingly handsome, wicked glint as he looks down at your flushed face. “You attend the festivities with your girls, celebrate Ming's birthday, and whenever you are ready to come home, I will happily come and collect you. But I assure you, you won't be getting a single wink of sleep tonight.

"Or," he continues, his fingers pressing firmly into the small of your back, drawing you a fraction closer, "choice two. You get a headstart. You text the group chat right now and tell them you won't be making it—whether you tell them the real reason is entirely your choice. But you will be my exercise and outlet for the evening, seeing as I had to skip my actual workout, break several traffic laws just to keep you and your little ruffians out of official handcuffs, and received news that my sister disrespected you in a way that extends beyond me needing to give her a warning.”

You stare up at him, mouth agape at his two proposals. You clear your throat, nodding in agreement, “I’ll…I’ll let them know I’m paying off the Black Card and they’ll understand,” you mumble, wrapping your arm around his waist as he leads you outside of your temporary holding quarters. 

Zuko lets out an amused hum, “If that’s the case, cancel your weekend plans too. You didn’t spend nearly enough of your emergency funds for my liking, I think that’s punishable as well.” 

You squint, tilting your head back to peer at him incredulously, “ I–I, what kind of man wants to punish his girlfriend for not spending enough of his money?” 

A wicked smirk takes over his features, as the two of you pass through the empty corridors of the side entrance. “One that loves his girlfriend so much that he’s eager to leverage his amazingly steady tax bracket for her to live an unlimited lifestyle,” he states, oozing sheer confidence and certainty. 

“Get a load of this guy, you’re back to being a dictator, hmm?” you tease, welcoming the summer heat as the warmth welcomes you as you step outside from the stuffy atmosphere of Royal Crest.

“Only because my little tyrant returned,” he retorts, opening the door to his waiting BMW. He watches you with steadfast reverence. He leans over and buckles you in, crowding your space with the scent of him. 

You giggle, pressing a kiss to his cheek as he secures you, “you love this little tyrant,” you whisper, allowing your lips to brush against the shell of his ear. 

He lets out a huff of air, pulling back slightly to take in the unapologetic vigilante sitting in his passenger seat. “I’ll show you how much during the aftercare, princess, but fair warning, I do plan on completely wrecking your shit when we get home,” he places a kiss right on your nose as your mouth drops. 

Well, fuck. 

Fin

I've returned from the islands, and I am back to my regular scheduled programing. This was too much fun to write! Like I was kicking my feet in the airport typing this up with so much glee.

Since I'm back I will return to a regular uploading schedule, but because it's summer, I do be outside and I happen to work a 9-5, so if its late please be kind to me beloved!!! I'm learning balance.

Thanks for reading doll, let me know what you think!!!

Mack 💕

‘Call your partners, whoever's person answers first keeps the card’ 

Liz looks up from the bright pink dare card—hair wrapped in a heatless curl rod, eyes squinted, and head tilted as she looks around the room. Suki is engaged. Sophie is in a relationship. Liz is in a relationship too, but then her gaze stops on you, wrist-deep in the popcorn bowl hunting for M&Ms. 

“Let me pull another card,” Liz states, reaching forward to grab another off the top. 

Suki, who’s lying on her stomach, phone already in hand, pauses. “Why? Scared you’ll have to take the shot?” 

Liz and Sophie giggle at the accusation. Liz turns her gaze back to you, “Never, he’ll answer. But your snookums over there, last I heard she wasn’t dating anyone.” 

You freeze in your conquest, cheeks growing warm. Your eyes snap shut, not wanting to look at the 'what the fuck' expression you just know Suki is wearing. 

“OH! She hasn’t told you ladies yet huh? Your own family, girl? You’re sick,” Suki points out, playfully pinching the closest thing on you she could grab which happens to be the side of your thigh. 

You cut your eyes at her, a pout forming on your full lips. “I didn’t want to jinx it. I tell my family, they expect to meet him, and what if things hit the fan before then? Now I gotta explain that if they mention him in my presence I’m liable to spazz out so bad they’ll have to call them people on me. Now I’m in grippy socks, eating nasty ass chocolate pudding, because I couldn’t hold water,” you rant, your eyebrow twitching in annoyance as you rile yourself up with the sheer thought of this being a possibility. 

Suki rolls her eyes. Your older cousins look at you with expectancy and wide eyes.

“Well shit, how long have you been dating,” Sophie questions, throwing a roller at your chest. You watch as it lands in your popcorn bowl, picking it up and throwing it back at her, but she catches it with ease and uses it in her next section. 

“Mmm, three months. We’re taking it slow, so there’s no title yet, but we are exclusive,” you explain. Your fingers wrap around your mocktail, taking a large gulp of the sugary substance with a private smile. It’s been a lovely three months. “He’s really fucking kind. Patient. Funny, in this dry humor, sarcastic way. And God, he’s so fucking handsome y’all with a voice that could melt panties. And did I say he was kind and patient? And funny?” 

Liz lets out a light laugh, nodding.

Sophie hums, popping a freshly baked cookie off the plate on the coffee table. “That’s nice. So, you’ve mentioned his personality and looks. What about his dick game? Not good?”

Suki chokes on a piece of popcorn at the brutally blunt question. As she coughs up a lung, you half-heartedly pat her back. “It wasn't funny enough to almost die by popcorn,” you mumble. Your attention then turns back to your oldest cousin. “I—I, we haven't had sex. Like I said, taking it slow. I don’t want a fuck-buddy, a situationship, or anything of that nature, and I told him that. I told him I want this to be old-school dating and he just smiled and said, 'Sounds great.’ ”

“Wowwwww,” Liz mutters, utterly shocked at the commitment. “And he’s been okay with that? The no sex? Are y’all kissing? Just holding hands? I don’t think I could go without sex that long if I’m dating fine shit.”

You exhale dramatically, wiping your hands on a napkin. “Bitch… I’m literally starting to hear colors and see sounds. And I just know—Heavens, I know—he’s packing. I can feel it when we’re making out. I want that man to bend me in half and make it worth my while, but I can’t give it up until I’m sure this is going to be something more. You know? Although, I have a really good feeling about him. Now, enough with my chit-chat. This is game night, not let’s-talk-about-our-men night. Whip out those phones, whores. Let's see who’s gonna be needing a trashcan next to them tonight,” you cackle.

“Need a trashcan my ass,” Suki grumbles, her finger hovering over Sokka’s call button. “I’m not new to this, I’m true to this—always remember that pumpkin.” 

“Hello!” Sophie calls out, her phone at the ready. 

You pull up Zuko’s contact number with ease, but your thumb trembles a bit over the call button. He really has been a doll these past three months. And as you take a moment to reflect, your stomach flutters with an ounce of anxiety. It’s roughly 7pm, so not too late. When you spoke with him this morning, he gave you a rough draft of his schedule while he’s out of the state for work and right about now he should be in his hotel room watching some random nature documentary. 

“1…2…3!” Liz shouts. 

The two shots in your system don't allow you to overthink the situation further, you click his contact and place it on speaker. The room breaks out into a synchronization of the FaceTime ringtone blasting throughout the cozy space of your living room, over the sound of the shared group playlist playing softly in the background. 

Your heart practically stops as he answers on the third ring. Before he can even say anything you’re a cackling mess. “Start drinking ladies! He answered,” you order, pointing a pretty pink manicured nail at the three of them. 

“He’s on probation of course he answered first,” Sophie whines. 

“Sokka, you’re literally a ring too late,” Suki chastises, rolling her eyes. 

“I’m gonna have to cuss him out when I get home,” Liz mutters, eyes glued to the still ringing phone. 

There’s the quiet sound of Morgan Freeman coming through your speakers, and then, so does Zuko. His hair, which he’s been growing out since your first meeting, is in a messy bun and his long sleeve crewneck is doing wonders for his shoulders. “Hi beautiful, everything okay?” 

“Oh,” Liz and Sophie’s voices harmonize as they hear his voice. 

You give them an I told you so look, before glancing back down at your phone. “Everything is quite splendid! Thank you so much for answering so swiftly, it’s saved me from joining the loser circle,” you tease. 

He chuckles quietly, a singular eyebrow raised in curiosity, “I’m confused, but nonetheless happy I can be of service to you—” 

“Y/n, turn your phone I need to see what this man looks like when he sounds like that,” Sophie instructs. She’s already moving across the plush rug that’s piled with all of the extra blankets in your house and making her way to your phone. 

“I am not—you sucker give that back,” You reach to grab the phone she’s slipped from your hands, eyes wide in shock. Liz looks over Sophie's shoulder and Suki joins in for the hell of it; while Sokka is still expressing his apologies. 

Zuko looks completely unfazed by the sudden influx of dynamic energy invading his screen.

Instead of holding a phone, he’s actually looking slightly downward, the sharp angle of his jawline lit by the crisp, blue-white glow of his laptop screen. In the background, the plush headboard of his hotel bed and a neatly stacked pile of work documents are visible. He reaches up, his long fingers adjusting the built-in webcam on his laptop to get a better angle of the three faces currently crowding into your phone frame.

Up close, the intense, dark depth of his eyes and the distinct, faded burn scar tracing the left side of his face are on full display, making him look completely breathtaking.

"Hi," Zuko says smoothly, his deep voice carrying that signature dry, calm tone. "Pleasure to see you ladies, and Suki, hello.” 

Sophie’s jaw literally drops. Liz grips Sophie’s shoulder, blinking rapidly. "Oh, wow," Liz breathes out, completely losing her composure. "Okay. Okay, Y/n. I see you."

Suki, however, just bursts out laughing, leaning directly into your phone’s camera. "Sup workaholic,” she takes note of the papers on his lap and the tablet sitting on the nightstand beside him. 

“Suki, good to see you—” 

“Is that Zuko! Tell him to log in to—” 

“Please tell your fiancee that yelling at this time of night isn’t healthy and that the answer is no,” Zuko states, cutting Sokka off before he can even finish his sentence.

Suki cackles, dropping her phone onto her lap as she yells back at her fiancé, “He said no, babe! And he said you're a loud mouth!”

Liz and Sophie are still hovering over your screen like two hyper-focused hawks. "Wait, so you guys already know each other?" Sophie asks, her eyes darting between Suki and the gorgeous man on your screen. "Why am I always the last to find out when Y/n is pulling a literal prince?"

"Because you talk too much," you mumble from your spot on the floor, your face still buried in a pillow to hide the intense heat rushing to your cheeks.

Zuko clears his throat softly, the sound a quiet, velvet vibration coming through your phone speaker. He casually stacks a few of his work documents on the bed beside him, his laptop camera capturing the relaxed, easy way he leans back against the headboard. "Sokka and I went to college together," he explains smoothly to the cousins, entirely polite but with a faint, amused smirk playing on his full lips. "And Suki is the only reason I know how to assemble a three-hundred-piece bedframe at ten at night."

Hey, it was a crisis!" Suki defends herself, though she’s grinning ear to ear. "But he really is a lifesaver, y'all. And because he did a good deed, he was able to miss his hair appointment that was scheduled for early the next morning. Which—” she pauses for dramatic effect, turning her gaze to you with a twinkle in her eye, “is what allowed him to get the attention of a baddie like y/n to be calling his phone at seven at night on a Saturday. So, y’all are so welcome.” 

Your head snaps up from the pillow so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash. Your eyes wide, you mouth shut the fuck up at Suki, but she just blows you a kiss, completely unbothered.

Sophie finally takes pity on you, tossing the phone back onto your lap. You scramble to grab it, flipping the FaceTime view back to just your face and turning the volume down. You pull the phone close, trying to smooth down your hair. 

"I am so, so sorry," you groan, looking at him through the screen. "They are feral. I should have warned you."

Zuko just smiles, leaning back against his pillows as he looks at you through his laptop monitor, his gold-flecked eyes entirely soft. "Don't worry about it. It’s good to see Suki isn't forcing you all to build furniture. But..." He pauses and a warmth settles into his gaze. "I did catch something about a 'loser circle' before they hijacked the call. Care to explain what exactly I just saved you from?"

You glance over your shoulder to see Liz answering her own phone as her boyfriend returns her call, Suki is still chatting to Sokka, and Sophie is making another phone call. You push yourself off of the floor, carefully walking over the magazines, take-out, and board games spread out everywhere. You navigate to your kitchen, putting a bit of privacy between your conversation and the girls. 

“We’re playing a game called For The Girls and Liz pulled a card that instructed us to call our mans and whoever’s call is answered first wins the card and doesn’t have to take a shot. So, winner-winner,” you explain, grinning as you take him in. Even when he’s not doing much, he’s simply too good looking to not stare at. “How is work going? This is the end of week one, yes?” 

He exhales roughly, closing his eyes for a moment. “It is indeed the end of week one, and it’s going incredibly slow. I’d love nothing more than to be back in the city and taking you out on dates or just being in your presence,” his gaze softens as he opens his eyes, and a breathtaking smile spreads across his lips. “ I miss you.” 

Your heart skips a beat at the raw honesty in his voice. You send a quick thank you to the powers above; somehow, someway, you’ve found a chalant man. “One more week and then we can do whatever you like! Oh, but earlier, we were playing this other game called We’re Not Really Strangers, it’s the one I brought over on our picnic date last month , and I got such a great idea from Liz. I know you like learning about my culture and Liz did this thing with her partner where she planned a movie night of all her favorite Black classic films. So, I was thinking of doing that with you! You can come over to my place and spend the night and we can have a movie marathon where you can ask all the questions you’d like, but also get a really cool look at what Black cinema and Black culture looks like in mainstream media!” 

His head tilts as he watches you animatedly explain your date idea, usually he plans them, mainly because he likes to surprise you and it gives him something to do while he looks forward to the next time he sees you. “I’d like that a lot, but just to clarify, beautiful, you’re inviting me to your Baddie’s Headquarters?” 

Your cheeks grow warm at the realization. All sleepovers have been at his place, due to the anxiety of a man having your address and you not being sure if it was going to stick or not. However, with him looking like that and with a voice of that nature, the chances of him slipping out of your grasp anytime soon is becoming slim. You nod slowly. “I–I would really like to host you, if you’re up for it! It’s okay if you’re not. We can easily have the movie night at your place. I know our other movie nights have been there and there’s nothing wrong with that…” your words drone on as you ramble, clearly flustered at offering the invitation. 

“Baby, breathe,” he interrupts, letting out a light chuckle. “You tell me when and I’m there. I would be incredibly honored to see the place you disappear to when you’re outside of my orbit.” 

You practically melt at his reassurance, a breathy, okay slipping past your lips as you swoon. 

Now the countdown begins. 

— 

“Suki, you’re not listening to meeee,” you whine, aggressively pushing the TJMaxx cart through the store as you head towards the pajamas aisle. 

She snorts loudly, “You right, because what are you talking about girl?”

You groan. 

Your grip tightens around the handle and you sigh dramatically. You really feel as if she’s not understanding the magnitude of what this day means for you and the relationship you’re currently building. “I’m talking about the fact that he’s coming to my house! After three months and eight days, he’s stepping into THEE Baddie’s Headquarters—my paradise. And I’m nervous girl, real fucking nervous,” you confess, voice shaking towards the end as the realization hits you all over again. 

Your stomach does a mild flutter and you’re not entirely sure if you’re going to throw up before seven o’clock comes or if you’re going to pass out—it’s a fifty-fifty shot of either happening today. 

She hums, fingers flipping through the early fall loungewear. You told her you were looking for maximum comfort and cuteness, but in an enticing kind of way; and that’s exactly what she’s browsing for while hearing you whine and vent. “I think you’re overthinking it as well as looking at it the wrong way. I don’t think you’re nervous about him coming over into your space, I think you’re worried about what’s going to happen in your space. We both know you’re more comfortable in your house than his, and with comfortability comes lower guard, and you’re worried you’re gonna fucking fold like a lawn chair and make it rain on him.” 

You freeze in your tracks. Her words act as a lighter to your powder keg—she’s fucking right. Suki casually alternates between holding two different loungewear sets up to your frame to see which she likes best, acting as if she hasn't just completely altered your brain chemistry with her read of the situation. 

 “I think this yellow looks stunning, but I noticed you’ve been wearing a lot of pink recently,” she notes casually. 

Your thoughts are still all over the place, trying to come to terms with the sudden realization of what you’ve been experiencing for the past eight days. “I–uh, he…he makes me feel soft…and pink…pink makes me feel as if I’m reinforcing that,” you mutter. Your fingers twiddle with the two piece set. The fabric is incredibly soft, the shorts are anything but modest and the top without a bra could be dangerous. You want it. 

Suki smiles warmly, setting the outfit into the shopping cart. Now this trip makes sense. When you had called and told her to pick you up because you needed an outlet, an outfit, and an objective opinion, she just agreed without thinking much of it. But now? It’s all lining up. You, realizing it or not, are head over heels falling for this man—to the point where you want to step into the feminine aspects of yourself outside of coordinated girls nights and friendships. You want to be soft for him and the fact that you’re leaning into it without pushing back, without coming up with an excuse, and without finding flaws in him, just further proves it. Her best friend is free falling into love. 

“I can’t wait to hear all about how the date tonight goes tomorrow over our double date,” she states softly. 

A small smile pulls at your cheeks, “I’m excited for that too! Brunch never disappoints, especially when there’s bottomless mimosas and endless french toast involved.” 

She giggles, nodding, “ Exactly that! Oh! Add that too!” 

You raise an eyebrow at what she’s pointing at. Following the angle of her finger, your gaze lands on a lingerie set. You roll your eyes. “Absolutely not. Besides, you said after we’re done with the boy we’d go catch the sale at Savage. No take backsies,” you remind, navigating the both of you to the candle section. 

You pick up anything that says strawberry or vanilla scented, until something speaks to you. And once you have Suki’s approval on three new candles, the two of you simply peruse the store. Chatting about her bridal shower that just passed, your desire to take a few art classes at one of the universities nearby, and deciding on the cookies you want to bake and the chocolate covered strawberries you want to make. 

Returning back to your apartment turns into absolute game time. With exactly three hours to ensure your cozy abode is in top-notch shape, the cookies are cooled, and the strawberries are set, y’all get to work.

The apartment becomes a whirlwind of movement. The loud, heavy bass of Latto and the City Girls blasts through your speakers, turning a standard straightening-up session into a high-stakes, high-energy military operation.

You find yourself dusting baseboards you haven't looked at since move-in day, scrubbing them with a ferocity that defies logic. Meanwhile, Suki is completely horizontal on your kitchen floor, reorganizing the cleaning supplies underneath your sink. She’s aggressively lining up the multi-surface sprays by height and label direction, as if Zuko is going to launch a full-scale investigation under the plumbing just to ensure it’s not a wreck.

“Suki, get out from under there! He is not checking my Fabuloso stash!” you shout over Rihanna’s Sex With Me, frantically fanning a tray of cookies to speed up the cooling process.

“You don't know his life, girl!” Suki yells back, her voice echoing from inside the cabinet as she fiercely wipes down a stray sponge. “He’s a corporate workaholic. Attention to detail is in his DNA! If he opens this door to throw away a napkin and sees chaos, the vibes are compromised!”

You groan, wiping your brow as you rush to the living room to fluff pillows that are already perfectly round. By the time the playlist transitions into a fast City Girls track, your paradise smells like a violent collision of Bath & Body Works vanilla, lemon bleach, and warm sugar. It is chaotic, it is completely unnecessary, but with the clock ticking closer to seven, you're grateful to have your best friend helping you secure the perimeter of Thee Baddie's Headquarters.

As you place the strawberries to set in the fridge, you inhale deeply before turning your head to look at Suki. Call it telepathy, call it women's intuition, but she nods and heads in the direction of your bedroom. You follow accordingly. 

“All your sex toys clean and in their proper locations?” She questions, wiping down your nightstand that’s mostly spotless already from your frantic clean last night. 

You choke on a little bit of air at the question. You pause in your goal of reorganizing your mini bookshelf that’s placed by your windowsill to give her a hard stare down. “If I tell you yes, you’ll tell me I’m planning to fuck him tonight. If I tell you no, you’ll clean them yourself and that feels like a step too far, so I’m just gonna say don’t worry about it,” you state sassily, returning to your task with a renewed vengeance. 

She simply cackles behind you.Your response was a yes, and the attitude was pure defense—but who was she to call you out on it? The two of you move through your bedroom with coordinated efficiency. The pillows are fluffed, the freshly washed sheets are practically doused in your favorite linen spray, and your room is perfect. 

You raise your hand and she slams hers into it with unbridled excitement. Y’all fucking did that. 

Knock. Knock.  

Your eyes slant to the clock. 

6:45. 

Of course he’s fifteen minutes early. 

“I’m going to throw up in his lap,” you whisper, your feet suddenly glued to the plush rug that sits at the end of your bed. “You think that’ll make him block me? It will, won’t it? I’m going to be fucking sick. Do I smell? Do I look okay? Am I okay—”

Suki raises her hand and places it firmly over your mouth.

“I’m going to open the door. By the time I make it past the living room, you better have whatever this little moment is over with,” she instructs, turning on her heels.

“N-no, no,” you take big strides to catch up to her in the middle of the hallway. “I—I can do this. I am doing this. This is happening, and it’s okay, right?”

Suki stops dead in her tracks in the middle of the hallway, turning around to grab you by the shoulders. She gives you a firm, grounding shake, her eyes locking onto yours with total best-friend intensity.

"Listen to me," she commands, her voice leaving absolutely no room for doubt. "You look damn good. You smell like a decadent dessert, your hair looks phenomenal, and you got this. Remember, this is Thee Baddie Headquarters because a baddie walks these halls"

Her words instantly punch a hole through your mounting panic, the fierce validation acting like a heavy dose of smelling salts to your frayed nerves. Before you can even stammer out a reply, Suki breaks away, smoothly spinning on her heel as she heads into the living room. She quickly grabs her bag off the couch, slinging it over her shoulder in one fluid motion as she guides you toward the foyer.

With your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, your fingers wrap around the cold metal of the doorknob. You take one deep, sharp breath, force your shoulders back to lock into your inner baddie, and swing the door open.

Zuko is standing under the warm light of your apartment hallway. He looks completely breathtaking—clad in a heavy black hoodie that makes his broad shoulders look massive, perfectly offset by a pair of tailored, cream-colored lounge pants that pool slightly over his sneakers. His thick, dark hair is pulled back, and those intense, gold-flecked eyes soften the exact second they land on you. His bag is slung over his shoulders and a gift bag is in his hand. 

"Hey," he murmurs, his deep, velvet voice instantly sending a pleasant shudder right down your spine.

“Hi, Zuko!” Suki pipes up cheerfully from behind you, effortlessly sliding past your frame before the tension in the doorway can even freeze over. She shoots him a brilliant, knowing wink, then cuts her eyes back to you with a proud grin. “Bye, girl! Y'all have fun watching those movies, but remember it’s okay if they end up watching y’all!”

And with that, your ultimate hype-woman struts down the corridor, leaving the two of you alone at the threshold of the headquarters.

“H-hi,” you clear your throat of the stutter, suddenly hyperaware of the situation at hand. The man you’ve been dating has officially arrived at your sanctuary. You shake your head softly, your smile widening as you wrap your hand around his free one, pulling him inside and into a hug.

As his arms wrap around you, you practically melt into him. He smells like an expensive heaven, and he’s so warm. He presses a tender kiss to your forehead—it’s sweet, but that’s absolutely not all you want from him.

You tilt your head back, lips slightly parted as you stand on your tiptoes, hooking your arms around his neck to bring him lower. He happily obliges, his lips finding yours in a deep, desperate, and passionately fierce kiss. Zuko groans into your mouth, his grip tightening on your hips as he tastes you, matching your frantic hunger with a heavy, possessive rhythm that completely validates Suki’s early read—there’s a dangerously high potential tonight of you folding like a lawn chair.

Zuko doesn’t break the kiss as he sets both bags down by his feet. Once his hands are free, he lifts you up effortlessly. One hand slides to your lower back underneath the thin material of your shirt, and the other goes right underneath your ass, holding you tight against him.

You moan as he nips your bottom lip before giving you a moment to breathe. 

You bury your face into his neck, inhaling sharply. “I missed you,” you whisper, voice thick with a sudden rush of emotion. 

It feels like a lifetime since you've touched him. He’s been out of the state and country for a relentless tech acquisition in Florida and Tokyo for two whole weeks—an absolute eternity considering the two of you usually see each other at least two to three times a week.

"Yeah?" Zuko hums, pulling his head back just enough to look at you. The sudden proximity of his sharp jawline and those burning gold eyes makes your cheeks burn with a sudden, beautiful warmth.

You nod eagerly, your lower lip slightly pouting as you tighten your grip on his shoulders. "Yes. Extremely. It was awful."

A devastatingly soft, unbothered smile breaks across his face, the fierce corporate legacy completely melting away into the man who belongs entirely to you. He wraps his arms even tighter around you, hoisting you higher against his chest as if he has absolutely no intention of ever setting you down. 

"I missed you too," he confesses softly, his husky voice dropping into that quiet, heavy tone that makes your stomach do a lazy flip. He nuzzles his nose against your cheek, his breath hot against your skin. "I really missed your hugs. I missed your sweet kisses... and I definitely missed this lovely scent of yours. You smell incredible, beautiful." 

You giggle as he nuzzles his nose in the crook of your neck. Those two showers and the slathering of yourself in your favorite oils has successfully paid off. 

You run your fingers through the silky strands of his hair, watching as it slides easily between your fingertips. It’s completely loose now, falling free and hitting right in between his shoulder blades in a way that makes him look entirely too devastating.

You grin down at him, your fingers gently combing through the back. "It’s definitely gotten longer since you left. It feels amazing."

Zuko lets out a low, vibrating chuckle against your chest, his eyes slanting up to look at you with a teasing glint. "You just want it to keep growing, don't you? Probably having conversations with my stylist to take me off his books."

"I am not," you giggle, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to his sharp jawline. "You just look so incredibly handsome with long hair. It suits you."

You let your fingers tangle a little deeper into the thick strands at the nape of his neck, giving it a playful, incredibly gentle tug. You tilt your head, leaning in until your lips are brushing right against the shell of his ear, and drop your voice to a impish, breathless whisper.

"Besides... I like having something to pull on in bed."

Zuko goes entirely, completely rigid beneath you.

The words catch him entirely off guard. His breath hitches, his large hands locking tight on your waist as his eyes widen. For the past three months, the two of you have kept an incredibly disciplined pace—intense, soul-stealing make-out sessions on his couch or in his car were the absolute furthest you had gone. Hearing you drop a line like that, while wearing a tiny pink lace pajama set and smelling like warm vanilla, completely short-circuits his high-powered executive brain.

Before he can even open his mouth to reply, you let out a bright, victorious giggle. You unravel your legs from around his waist, effortlessly sliding down his large frame until your bare feet hit your plush rug.

"Come on," you beam, completely unbothered by the absolute crisis you just caused in his chest. You wrap your fingers around his large, warm hand, giving it a firm tug. "Let me show you around the estate."

Zuko stands there for a fraction of a second, clearing his throat as a faint, dark flush creeps up the back of his neck. He lets out a low, defeated chuckle, shaking his head as he lets you lead him forward.

"You are such a little troublemaker," he intones softly, his long fingers instantly interlocking with yours as you guide him out of the entryway. "A complete menace."

You grab his bag from the floor, your fingers brushing against his one last time before you turn on your heel to guide him down the short hallway.

"Welcome to the grand tour," you tease, gesturing to the first door on your left. "Guest bathroom, mostly used for emergency outfit changes and midnight skincare routines."

Zuko chuckles quietly behind you, his hand resting casually on the small of your back, his warm palm radiating heat right through the thin material of your lounge set.

You lead him to the next door, pushing it open to reveal the second bedroom. "And this is the command center. I transformed it into an office for my editorial job—where the magic actually happens and where I spend hours judging other people's grammar."

"Impressive," Zuko murmurs, his gold-flecked eyes scanning the organized rows of books, the sleek desk, and the framed prints on the wall. A look of genuine respect crosses his sharp features. "It suits you. Focused, but entirely elegant."

Your heart does a little flutter at the compliment, but you keep your stride moving, finally leading him into your master bedroom. The space absolutely screams your identity—drenched in your favorite colors, perfectly lit, and smelling faintly of the fresh strawberry-vanilla candles you and Suki had just meticulously placed. It is your ultimate sanctuary.

With a fluid, confident stride, you saunter over to your vanity and place his bag right on the plush vanity chair, turning back around to lean against the smooth marble counter.

You clasp your hands behind your back, tilting your head up to meet his intense, steady gaze. "And this is the inner sanctum. You are officially the first man to ever cross this threshold, Zuko. Tread carefully."

His gold eyes are slowly scanning your room; the soft lighting, the stack of notebooks on your nightstand, and the faint scent of linen spray Suki had left behind. A slow, incredibly warm expression softens his sharp features.

"It’s cute, Y/n," he states softly, stepping up beside you and wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. He rests his chin right on your head, inhaling the vanilla from your hair. "It’s very saturated in you. Every corner of it. I like that a lot. And I’m incredibly honored to have this privilege to enter HQ"

Your heart does a happy flip. "Good. Because you're trapped here for the next twelve hours. No corporate escape routes."

"I don't want one," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head before reluctantly letting you go so you can lead him back to the living room.

You guide him over to your sectional, and Zuko slides onto the cushions, looking surprisingly relaxed as he stretches his long legs out toward the tiered coffee table, right next to the massive pink bouquet he sent you earlier today in anticipation of your date. Something he does before every date. You grab the TV remote, a nervous but excited grin breaking across your face as you pull up the streaming dashboard.

"Alright good looking, welcome to Black Cinema 101," you declare, popping down onto the cushion right next to him and curling your legs up under yourself. "I put together the ultimate foundational trilogy, and a bonus watch. No notes allowed, but questions are encouraged."

Zuko turns his head, his hair brushing his shoulders as he gives you his full, undivided attention. "I'm ready. What's the lineup?"

“Alrighty, we’re starting off with a comedic classic: Madea. Except, I’m throwing you into it by showing you a play version first. There’s a lot of singing, fair warning. Lots of biblical references that don’t make sense, and behavior that’s so out of pocket you can’t do anything but just smile and nod,” you explain, counting on your fingers. “Then, we’ll slow things down and I’ll show you what I consider Black cinema horror, but it’s disguised as a ‘love story.’ It’s called Love & Basketball. And then we’ll watch The Player’s Club… I don’t know how to explain this one outside of drama, strippers, titties, and comedy. Lastly, if you can keep up, we’ll end with The Best Man.”

Zuko tracks your fingers, an amused, thoroughly intrigued smirk pulling at his lips. He reaches over, his large hand sliding behind your back and anchoring you closer to his side. He leaves his hand against your back, his thumb drawing a slow circle that sends a shiver straight up your spine.

"A comedy, a horror romance, a drama, and a mystery last genre," Zuko notes smoothly. "Sounds like a comprehensive curriculum. Any quizzes?"

"Perhaps," you laugh, leaning your shoulder against his chest as you hit play on the first recording. "But, if you just sit back, eat what I feed you, and hold me—I can give you all the answers."

"That," Zuko breathes, his hand slipping from your back to wrap around you entirely, "is a study guide I can follow perfectly."

As the first movie plays, Zuko proves to be an incredibly attentive student. He occasionally tilts his head down, his dark hair brushing your shoulder as he asks questions in a low whisper—mostly trying to unpack the sheer, complex velocity of Madea’s dialogue and the specific hierarchy of the family tree on screen. You excitedly answer every single one, gesturing with your hands and leaning into him, completely thrilled by how genuinely invested he is in learning about your world.

By the time the credits roll, your jaw actually aches from laughing so hard at his deadpan commentary on the plot twists.

You pick up the remote and navigate to the streaming menu, clicking on Love & Basketball. The iconic opening notes of the soundtrack start to hum softly through your living room speakers, but before the first scene can really start, you hit the pause button.

You shift your head upward, "Okay, half-time report. Do you want me to order the food now, or do you want to wait until after this one?"

Zuko shifts smoothly, stretching one long arm across the back of your sofa so his hand can rest comfortably near your shoulder. "Whatever you like, beautiful. I'm on your schedule tonight."

"Now," you decide instantly, a mischievous grin breaking across your face. "Because I want to make sure we're completely done with dinner by the time we hit The Players Club. I need full concentration for that one, and I want to be eating the cookies and strawberries I made for us by then."

"Sounds like a strategic masterpiece," Zuko notes, a slow, fond smirk pulling at his lips. He reaches into the pocket of his trousers, pulls out his sleek, matte-black phone, and effortlessly extends it toward you. "Order whatever you want."

You look at the phone, then look up at his face, your lips instantly puckering into a dramatic, stubborn pout. You cross your arms over your chest. "Zuko, no. Put that away. This is my apartment, my movie night, and I am paying for dinner. I already told you I had it covered."

Zuko doesn't lower the phone. He just stares at you, his striking gold eyes glinting with a heavy, utterly unbothered amusement at your defiance. The sharp executive who ruthlessly runs a corporate empire doesn't even blink.

"Give me a kiss," he commands softly, his voice falling into that deep, gravelly register that completely melts your stance.

"Zuko—"

"Y/n," he murmurs, leaning his massive frame into your space until his warm breath brushes your lips. "Give me a kiss, and I’ll even throw in you typing the order yourself."

You let out a helpless, defeated laugh, your pout dissolving into a bright smile. You lean forward, catching his lips in a sweet, lingering kiss that tastes faintly of your vanilla lip oil. Zuko groans softly, his large hand instantly coming up to cup the back of your neck, deepening the kiss for a breathless, possessive second before he slowly pulls back, leaving you slightly dazed.

He presses the phone into your palm, his thumb rubbing the back of your hand. "There. You just paid."

"You are completely impossible," you giggle, shaking your head as you open the food delivery app on his phone. You quickly select the Thai place down the street. “What does my dictator want to eat for dinner?” You adjust so that he can see the phone screen with you. 

Zuko doesn’t bother looking at the menu, his gaze remains fixed on the way his phone screen illuminates all of your features in a way that makes his heart skip a beat. “Whatever you order is what I would like to eat, my little tyrant.” 

You giggle into his shoulder, adding the pad see ew and a double order of crab rangoon before sliding his phone onto the coffee table next to the pink peonies.

You hit play on Love & Basketball, leaning back into his side as the movie officially begins. Zuko’s arm pulls you securely against his chest, his fingers lightly tracing patterns on your bare shoulder over the lace trim of your top.

As the story of Quincy and Monica unfolds, the initial nostalgia of the classic romance gives way to the reality of their relationship. By the time Quincy begins projecting his frustrations onto Monica and pushing her away, you feel Zuko’s entire frame tense up behind you.

"I don't understand this," Zuko grumbles, his deep voice carrying a sharp, critical edge as he stares at the screen. He shifts slightly, tightening his grip on your waist. "He clearly wants her. He's furious and hurting because of his family, but instead of leaning on the person who actually supports him, he pushes her away. Why does he do that?"

You let out a soft, thoughtful sigh, tilting your head up to look at his sharp profile. "It's a defense mechanism, honey. He feels like he's losing control of his life, so he takes control of the one thing he can—which means cutting her out before she can leave him."

Zuko frowns, his eyes narrowing at the TV. "And why does she stay? Why does she keep letting him back in after he treats her like an afterthought? This... this is toxic. It's a struggle."

"You're completely right," you admit softly, running a hand over his forearm, feeling the solid, grounding warmth of his skin. "Honestly, this isn't my favorite film for exactly that reason. The way 'struggle love' is portrayed here—like you have to go through absolute hell and emotional exhaustion just to prove your loyalty—is really toxic. But it's a massive part of the culture. For a long time, this was the standard for cinematic romance in our community. A lot of us grew up thinking that true love meant enduring the pain until the other person finally got it together."

Zuko quiets down for a moment, the heavy weight of your words sinking in. He turns his head, his dark hair brushing your temple as he looks down at you with an expression of absolute, fierce intensity.

"I don't like it," he murmurs, voice low and fiercely protective. He brings his other hand up to gently cup your jaw, his thumb wiping across your cheekbone. "You shouldn't have to fight a war just to be loved, Y/n. Love shouldn't be a struggle."

Your heart swells so painfully tight in your chest that you can barely breathe. The contrast between the chaotic, emotionally draining relationship on the screen and the absolute, unyielding safety of the man holding you in your own living room is dizzying.

"I know," you whisper, a soft, incredibly smitten smile taking over your face as you lean over to press a sweet kiss to the center of his cheek. "That's why I'm glad I have you. You make it easy….really, really easy"

The movie continues, but the deep, grounding weight of Zuko’s words lingers in the warm space between you. As the characters on screen navigate another layer of emotional friction, the urge to be even closer to him completely overrides your attention to the plot.

Halfway through the film, right as the slow jams of the soundtrack begin to swell, you shift your weight. You uncurl your legs from beneath your shorts, twisting your body on the cushions until you are straddling his thighs, sitting completely in his lap.

Zuko doesn't hesitate for a fraction of a second. The moment you move, his large hands automatically slide under the hem of your loose pink top, his warm, calloused palms locking firmly onto your waist to anchor you securely against him. He shifts back slightly against the sofa cushions to give you more room, his eyes darkening instantly as he looks up at you in the flickering light of the TV.

"Everything alright, beautiful?" he questions, voice sitting at an octave that sends a jolt down your spine and to your toes.

"Perfect," you whisper, wrapping your arms comfortably around his broad shoulders. You sink your weight fully into his lap, the soft cotton and lace of your pajamas offering absolutely no barrier against the solid, radiating heat of his body. "I just wanted to be closer to you. The couch was too big."

A quiet, utterly amused chuckle ripples through his chest. Zuko adjusts his grip, his large hands sliding slightly lower to cup the back of your thighs, lifting you just enough to press you even tighter against his torso. He leans forward, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his lips brushing against your warm skin right where you applied the vanilla and amber oil.

"I'm not complaining," he murmurs against your skin, his breath warm. "You can stay right here for the rest of the night."

You let out a soft, contented hum, your fingers tangling into the strands of his  hair. On screen, the basketball court fades into the background as you focus entirely on the steady, powerful rhythm of his breathing.

You rest your chin on his shoulder, your fingers lazily alternating between playing with the ends of his hair where it brushes against his hoodie and massaging his scalp lightly. The movie plays on, a background blur of bright court lights and dramatic dialogue, but the real focus of the room has completely shifted to the small space you two share on the velvet cushions.

Zuko’s hands stay firmly stationed on your waist, his thumbs tracing slow, deliberate circles against your skin just beneath the lace trim of your top. The warmth radiating from his palms is completely intoxicating, sinking deep into your core. Every time the TV screen flashes a brighter light, you can see the dark, intent look in his gold eyes as he watches you instead of the screen.

"You're missing the pivotal turning point," you tease in a breathless whisper, your lips brushing against his jawline. "Monica is literally playing him for his heart right now."

"I don't care," Zuko rumbles smoothly, his voice dropping into that heavy, husky note that sends a delicious shiver straight down your spine. He tilts his head up, his nose sliding along the column of your neck until his lips are hovering a mere fraction of an inch from yours. "I've already decided how I feel about the movie. I'm much more interested in my tyrant."

You let out a soft, helpless giggle, the vibrations buzzing right against his chest. "Oh, really? And what's your executive assessment, Mr. Dictator?"

"The tyrant is entirely too distracting," he murmurs, his eyes dropping to your lips before locking back onto yours with a sudden, fierce intensity. "She wears pink, she smells like vanilla, and she has me completely at her mercy in a tiny apartment."

Before you can even formulate a snappy retort, the sharp, cheerful buzz of the building's intercom echoes from the kitchen wall, signaling that the Thai food has officially arrived downstairs and is on its way up.

You let out a dramatic, exaggerated groan, resting your forehead against his chest. "No, perfect timing is a myth. The universe hates me."

Zuko lets out a rich, deep chuckle that shakes his entire frame beneath you. He doesn't let go of your waist right away, giving you one last, firm squeeze before pressing a deep, stealing kiss to your mouth that leaves your head spinning.

"Stay put," he commands softly, a lazy, utterly unbothered smirk pulling at his lips as he effortlessly shifts you off his lap and onto the cushion next to him. He stands up, stretching his massive frame and running a hand through his dark hair as he heads toward the entryway. "I’ll grab the food, we’ll eat,  and then we start The Players Club."

You stay nestled on the sofa for a brief second, your body instantly missing the radiating heat of his frame the moment he steps away. The movie on the screen is completely forgotten as you listen to the heavy, confident thud of Zuko’s footsteps echoing down your short hallway, followed by the deep rumble of his voice as he opens the front door to thank the delivery driver.

A moment later, he strolls back into the living room, effortlessly carrying the heavy brown paper bag in one hand. The mouth-watering scent of savory garlic, sweet peanut sauce, and fried crab rangoon immediately fills the air, completely overtaking the gentle scent of your vanilla candles.

"Smells incredible," Zuko notes, pausing at the edge of the living room. His eyes sweep over the space, landing on the coffee table stacked with your peonies, the remote, and his phone. He looks down at the floor, then back up at you with a raised eyebrow. "Are we eating at the table, or do you have another strategic masterpiece in mind, beautiful?"

"Floor," you declare instantly, a playful grin lighting up your face. You slide off the velvet cushions, grabbing the extra oversized plush pillows from the armchair and tossing them onto the thick, cream-colored area rug in front of the TV. "It's a movie night law. Couch is for watching, floor is for feasting."

Zuko lets out a quiet amused chuckle, the sound resonating warmly in his chest. "As the princess commands."

He doesn't hesitate to join you, dropping down onto the rug with a fluid, surprising grace for a man of his massive size. He discards the paper bag between you both, immediately kicking off his shoes and loosening the collar of his hoodie to get comfortable. He leans back against the base of the sofa, stretching his long legs out across the rug, creating a perfect, secure little V-shaped nook between his thighs.

"Come here," he murmurs, his voice dropping into that smooth register. He pats the space right in front of him.

You don't need to be told twice. You slide backward into his chest, letting out a contented sigh as Zuko’s large frame instantly wraps around you from behind. He adjusts a plush pillow behind your back, locking his solid arms loosely around your waist to anchor you against him. You are completely enveloped in his warmth, your back pressed flush against his broad chest, your head resting perfectly just below his chin.

"Comfortable?" he questions, his breath stirring the loose hairs at your temple.

"Extremely," you purr, already reaching into the bag to pull out the styrofoam containers.

You pop open the container of pad see ew, steam immediately billowing out, carrying the rich scent of sweet soy sauce and char-grilled noodles. You grab the two pairs of chopsticks, handing one back blindly over your shoulder. Zuko takes them, his large, calloused fingers brushing against yours, sending a familiar, delicious spark straight to your core.

"Here, try the crab rangoon first while it's hot," you say, breaking apart a crispy, golden wonton pouch and holding it up toward him.

Zuko leans forward slightly, his sharp jawline brushing your cheek as he takes a bite straight from your hand. He chews slowly, a look of genuine satisfaction washing over his usually stoic, intense features. "Incredible. Your Thai place down the street might actually be a threat to my favorite spots downtown."

"I told you so," you brag softly, turning your head to flash him a smug, dimpled smile. "Never doubt my executive decisions when it comes to takeout."

"I wouldn't dream of it," he murmurs, his eyes darkening with that heavy, unyielding fondness that always makes your heart skip. He dips his own chopsticks into the container of noodles, expertly gathering a perfect bite of the wide, glossy noodles and tender chicken, guiding it carefully to your lips. "Open up, tyrant."

You giggle, accepting the bite. The savory, slightly sweet flavor is perfect, and you let out a soft groan of pure happiness, melting even deeper back into his solid torso, “A princess and a tyrant, huh?”

He hums, glancing down at you for a moment, not at all surprised to see you staring at him through your lashes, “Mhmm,  a rather charming one too. She’s commanding and gets exactly what she wants, with little to no questions asked. Borderline committed a hostile take over earlier when she climbed on top of me, so steer clear of her.” 

You cackle, eyes crinkling as you throw your head back in laughter. “ It’s not like you tell me no? So, I think you’re reaping what you sowed, wouldn’t you agree?” 

You hold his gaze, beaming up at him with nothing short of pure joy and contentment. Your heart skips a beat and your lips part slightly as you witness his lips pull into a smile that has you thinking about all the positions he could put you in on the floor. 

He’s stunning. 

“Princess,” he states, his deep, husky voice dipping into an octave so intimate it makes your heart swell. “If being in your presence, holding you in my arms, and getting the chance to simply gaze upon your beauty is a harvest I’ve earned... I’d spend a lifetime reaping what I sowed.”

Your breath catches in your throat. The absolute, fierce pride and sincerity in his gaze is dizzying, completely eclipsing the thoughts that were racing through your mind just a second ago.

He leans down, his sharp jawline brushing against your cheek as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. He inhales deeply, taking in the sweet scent of your oil before pressing a slow, lingering kiss right against your warm skin.

"I don't say no to you," he confesses softly against your skin, his warm breath sending a delicious shiver straight down your spine, "because giving you everything you want is the easiest thing I've ever done."

You let out a shaky, entirely smitten sigh. You close your eyes to take a moment, allowing yourself to feel the weight of his words—and his actions. He kisses you like you’re the very sustenance providing him with life. He holds you as if you’re the only thing that grounds him. He speaks to you with a sincerity and air that conveys there’s nothing else he’d rather be doing than conversing with you. The flowers he sends before every date. The intentionality in which he plans all of your dates. The way he offers reassurance at every step of the way; paired with the fact that he does check-ins to ensure you’re comfortable with everything he does. How he kisses you, how he touches you, every step of the way he’s making sure everything is alright. 

What a man!

“You’re fucking perfect,” you whisper quietly, fluttering your eyes open to see him peering down at you. “I do think you were made for me and I hope that’s not being too forward.”

Zuko freezes against your skin, the powerful, calculated man completely vanishing as your words strike him right in the chest. When he pulls back to look down at you, his gold eyes are burning with an intensity that is almost overwhelming.

"Forward?" he echoes, his voice rough and incredibly thick. His large hand comes up to cradle your jaw, his thumb wiping across your cheekbone with a reverence that borders on worship. "Beautiful, you could demand the world from me right now and I’d figure out a way to hand it to you. You say jump, and I’m happily asking how high. The universe doesn’t get many things right, but with you and I being made for one another? It did phenomenal work.”

A breathless, utterly captivated laugh escapes your throat. You lean your face up into his large palm, kissing the warm meat of his thumb. “Phenomenal work, huh? I guess I’ll have to write a five-star review for the universe.”

You reach up, your fingers tangling into the soft fabric of his hoodie to tug him down just an inch closer. “But since you’re happily asking how high... I demand that you kiss me right now. Because you completely ruined my train of thought and I’m at your mercy on this rug.”

Zuko’s lips pull into a slow, thoroughly pleased smirk, his eyes darkening with a sudden, heavy heat. “Consider it done,” he rumbles.

He doesn't make you move from your spot between his legs. Instead, he leans his massive frame over your shoulder, his large hand sliding from your jaw to cup the back of your neck. His long fingers grip gently but firmly, tilting your head back and up at an angle that exposes the long line of your throat.

The moment his mouth seals over yours, any lingering air in your lungs completely evaporates. It isn't the sweet, tentative kiss from earlier on the couch; this is a deep, intoxicating claim. His lips are warm and firm, parting yours with an unhurried, possessive confidence that makes your head spin instantly. Because you're pressed flush against his broad chest, you can feel the heavy, ragged thud of his heart echoing straight into your back.

He groans softly into the kiss, the low vibration rattling deep in his chest and buzzing right against your tongue. He pulls you even tighter against his torso with his free arm, his solid forearm locking around your waist and lifting you just a fraction against him. The calloused edge of his thumb sweeps along your jawline, pressing just firmly enough to make a soft, helpless whimper escape your throat as he deepens the kiss from above.

Zuko drinks the sound in like a starving man. The scent of him—expensive cedar wood, rich amber, and pure, clean heat, envelops you entirely, erasing the rest of the apartment until the only thing that exists is the sensation of his lips against yours.

When his tongue strokes against yours, it’s slow, rhythmic, and devastatingly thorough, turning your insides into absolute liquid. Your hand reaches blindly backward, your fingers gripping his shoulder and digging into the fabric of his hoodie just to keep yourself grounded as the world tilts on its axis. Every touch of his mouth feels deliberate, a perfect physical translation of the devotion he just promised you.

By the time he slowly pulls back, his breathing is uneven, his breath fanning across your swollen lips. He rests his sharp chin gently on your shoulder, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he takes a deep, stabilizing breath against your skin.

"See?" he murmurs, his voice completely wrecked, deep, and echoing right against your collarbone. "Easiest thing I've ever done. Now eat before the food gets cold, tyrant."

You exhale softly, rolling your eyes playfully, “ahhh, the dictator's back–BUT–lucky for me he’s handsome and fuckable.” 

Zuko’s entire frame instantly goes rigid behind you.

The deep, grounding breath he was just taking hitches sharply in his throat. For a long, heavy second, the only sound in the apartment is the soft hum of the television. Zuko is a man used to being in absolute control of every boardroom and corporate empire he touches, but right now, sitting on your living room floor, you have completely short-circuited his brain.

Slowly, his head lifts from your shoulder. When you glance back, his gold eyes are wide, darkened with a sudden, scorching heat that makes the breath trap in your throat. A flush creeping up his sharp neck proves just how heavily your words landed.

"Y/n," he exhales. His voice has dropped into a dangerously low, gravelly octave, completely stripped of its corporate polish. He swallows hard, his large hands anchoring onto your waist with a sudden, firm grip that presses your back flush against his chest. "You cannot say things like that to me right now."

"Why not?" you tease, your voice a breathless whisper as you turn your head to hold his intense gaze.

"Because I am trying very hard to be a gentleman," Zuko confesses roughly, his thumb twitching against your hip. He looks around your cozy, vanilla-scented apartment, a visual reminder that he is a guest in your sacred space for the very first time. "It’s my first night here. I promised myself I’d be on my best behavior, keep my hands to myself, and commit every movie we watched to memory; which is getting very hard to do with you looking and talking to me like that."

You tsk playfully, pushing the takeout containers away and turning in his hold. He assists you in your adjustment, his large hands instinctively guiding your hips, allowing you to sit completely in his lap.

You wrap your arms around his neck, leaning in until your lips are almost touching his ear. “What if… I said I don’t want you on your best behavior? Or to keep those hands of yours to yourself?”

You pull back just enough to watch his reaction, and the payoff is glorious. The powerful, usually unshakeable man completely freezes beneath you. You can visibly see his brain short-circuiting in real-time, his sharp jaw locking tight as he stares at you, utterly stunned and entirely undone by your boldness.

Your smile widens, a triumphant, rasaclly little grin breaking across your face.

"Cat got your tongue, honey?" you tease in a breathless whisper.

To drive the point home, you slowly roll your hips against his. The sudden friction causes a low, completely involuntary hitch in Zuko’s chest—but the playful smirk on your lips suddenly falters. Because the cotton of your pajama shorts is so thin, the deliberate movement allows you to feel the solid, unmistakable ridge of his rapidly growing erection pressing hard against your center.

You freeze, your breath catching in your own throat this time. The sheer, overwhelming size of him makes you pause, your eyes widening as the reality of what you're playing with sinks in.

You swallow hard, your voice dropping into a stunned, entirely unfiltered whisper. "You're... you're packing, aren't you?"

Zuko practically chokes on air.

A heavy, ragged swallow hitches in Zuko’s throat, his broad chest heaving as he desperately tries to claw back some semblance of his breathing. The hot flush on his neck deepens, burning a fierce red in the dim light of the room. He looks at you, completely flabbergasted, his mouth parting slightly before he clamps it shut again, utterly bewildered by how effortlessly you just flipped the script on him.

When he finally finds his voice, it’s completely ruined—deep, rough, and flourishing with an intense, gravelly heat.

"Y/n," he chokes out, his hands finally moving from where they had frozen mid-air. Instead of pulling away, his large, warm palms slam flat against the floor right behind your hips, bracing his massive frame as if he needs the physical support just to survive your presence. "You... you cannot just say things like that."

A muffled, dark growl builds in the back of his throat as he watches your shocked expression morph right back into a thrilled, highly entertained grin.

"I mean it," he mumurs, leaning forward until his forehead drops right against your shoulder with a defeated, heavy thud. His broad shoulders shake with a breathless, half-strangled laugh against your skin. "I am sitting in your apartment, trying to be the most respectful, well-behaved man on the planet, and you are actively trying to destroy me."

He slowly lifts his head, his gold eyes blazing with a sudden, devastatingly heavy focus that makes your stomach do a delicious flip. The initial shock is fading, replaced by a thick, simmering tension that fills the entire space between your bodies.

His hand leaves the floor, his long fingers wrapping firmly around your hip, squeezing just enough to remind you of the sheer size of the man holding you. He glances down at the paper bag you pushed aside, then looks back up at you, his thumb tracing a heavy, warning circle against your skin.

"Princess... you need to eat," Zuko murmurs, his voice dropping into a dangerously low, tight tone that tells you he is holding onto his control by a literal thread. "Because if you don't start putting that food in your mouth right now, I am going to find a much different use for it, and I can promise you that dinner will be the last thing on your mind."

You simply smile and shift back into place. You’re folding before the night ends and oh how lovely that will be. 

For the next twenty minutes, the living room descends into a cozy, perfectly synchronized rhythm. You hit play on the remote, but neither of you is really paying attention to the screen anymore. Instead, you share the food right there on the floor, trading bites of noodles, laughing softly whenever a drop of sauce threatens to ruin your pink top, and enjoying the absolute, unhurried peace of the night. Zuko's large hand occasionally abandons his chopsticks just to rest heavily on your thigh, his thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles through the soft fabric of your shorts.

As the final contents of the noodle box disappear, you lean your head back against his shoulder, looking up at his sharp profile in the dim, flickering light of the television.

"Alright," you whisper, your voice thick with contentment. "The savory course is officially cleared. Are you ready for the grand finale?"

Zuko sets the empty containers aside, his arms instantly wrapping tightly around your waist again, pulling you so close that you can feel the steady, powerful thumping of his heart against your back. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin right beneath your ear.

"Bring on the cookies and strawberries, beautiful," he purrs against your skin, a low, possessive growl humming through his chest. "And turn on The Players Club. I want to see what requires your full concentration—because right now, all of mine is on you."

You shift slightly against his chest, a soft, thrilled shiver rippling over your skin at the promise in his tone. The warmth of his body acts like a magnet, making it incredibly hard to actually disentangle yourself from the secure nook of his thighs , but the sweet scent of the strawberry cookies and chocolate-covered strawberries waiting in the kitchen provides just enough motivation.

"Get cozy on the couch and start warming the blanket. This is going to be the movie to surpass all movies thus far," you instruct, tilting your head back to press a quick, playful kiss to his jawline before sliding out of his embrace.

He lets out a small laugh, but follows your instructions. He sets the containers back into the bag, efficiently cleaning up the small mess the two of you made.

From around the corner in the kitchen, you can't see him, but you smile as you listen to the familiar, comforting sounds of him carrying the trash to the bin and adjusting the plush pillows on the sectional.

"Blanket is warming, princess," his deep voice calls out, echoing warmly into the kitchen with that signature dry, amused undertone. "Your fortress is secured. Come back and defend it."

You let out a bright giggle , the cool hardwood beneath your bare feet a sharp contrast to the thick rug you just left. You reach into the cabinets and pull out a pretty pink serving tray, arranging everything meticulously. On one side, you set the chilled platter of strawberries—meticulously dipped in milk chocolate and perfectly set in neat, glossy rows. On the other, you arrange the homemade strawberry cookies. The rich, fruity, and buttery scent still hangs faintly in the air , a sweet reminder of how hard you and Suki had worked to get the headquarters ready.

Balancing the pink tray carefully in your hands, you navigate back to the living room. Your heart does a happy little dance when you see him—swallowed up by your blankets and looking entirely at peace , his golden eyes locking onto you the exact second you reappear.

"The grand finale has officially arrived," you announce, stepping over to the couch.

You carefully set the pink tray down on the tiered coffee table right next to your bouquet. Before Zuko can even reach out to pull you down, you take the initiative and shock him completely. With a fluid, confident step, you climb right into his lap yourself, sliding your legs over so you are sitting completely sideways across his broad, solid thighs, your back plush against the sofa.

Zuko’s breath hitches sharply, his entire body going entirely rigid beneath you for a split second. He was fully prepared to play the patient gentleman and let you call all the shots , so your sudden, unprompted boldness completely catches him off guard.

A victorious, playful little smile pulls at your lips as you watch his eyes widen in beautiful, raw surprise. But he recovers with terrifying speed. A fainr, completely captivated chuckle hums deep in his chest , and his large, warm hands instantly lock onto your waist, assisting you in your adjustment and anchoring you tightly against his torso.

He pulls the heavy, warm blanket up and over both of your laps, completely enveloping your smaller frame in his radiating heat. He leans down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his lips lingering against your right where your vanilla and amber oil smells the most potent.

"You are full of surprises tonight, beautiful," he breathes, his grip on your waist giving you a firm, possessive squeeze. "Now hit play. Let's see what requires this legendary level of concentration."

You pick up the remote, navigate to the streaming dashboard, and click on The Players Club. As the iconic, high-energy dramatic music starts to swell through the living room speakers , you reach over to the tray and pick up one of the pink strawberry cookies, taking a soft, sweet bite.

You tilt your head up, holding a cold, chocolate-dipped strawberry up to his lips. "Open up, handsome. Let's see if you can handle Dolla’ Bill and Diamond, or if you're just going to keep staring at me the entire time,” he releases an amused huff as he leans down to take a bite of the delicious treat straight from your fingers. His lips warm as they brush against your hand. 

You try your absolute best to keep your eyes locked on the screen, determined to maintain your full concentration as Diamond navigates the chaotic backrooms of the club. But it is proving to be an uphill battle.

Even though you were the one who demanded he pay attention, your mind is currently taking a one-way trip to the deep end of how wonderful this night could go if you end up underneath him by the time this movie finishes. 

Because you’re sitting sideways across his lap, you are hyper-aware of every single detail of his body. The broad, immovable expanse of his chest is pressed flush against your side, and you can feel the rigid, unyielding muscle of his thighs beneath you. Worse, every time you shift even a fraction of an inch to take a bite of your strawberry cookie, you can still feel the heavy, solid ridge of him pressing firmly against your hip under the thin blanket. The sheer size of him—paired with the wicked memory of what you just teased him about, is making your core ache with a heavy, needy throb.

Meanwhile, Zuko is actually being a model student. True to his promise to learn more about your culture, his golden eyes are locked onto the screen, his expression a mix of intense focus and utter bewilderment. 

“Wait,” Zuko mutters, gesturing towards the TV. “ Dolla’ Bill is supposed to be running a successful club, but you’re telling me he’s not paying the people who loaned the money to him? And now he’s putting his security in trouble because he’s hiding?” 

You let out a weak, slightly breathless hum, your mind completely tracking the way his large hand is currently resting flat on your waist, his thumb casually rubbing through the thin cotton of your top. You swallow hard, trying to process his question through the heavy fog of desire settling over your brain. "Uh... yeah. He's greedy. Selfish…very all about him." 

You look up at his sharp profile, completely captivated by the crisp line of his jaw and the plush fullness of his lips. Your heart skips a beat, your eyes dropping to his mouth as you imagine exactly what those lips felt like when he was devouring you just minutes ago on the rug. You think about him pinning your wrists above your head, about the weight of his massive frame pressing you down, about how loud he would groan if you rolled your hips against him just one more time.

"Y/n?" Zuko questions softly, breaking the spell.

He turns his head, noticing the quiet stillness that has come over you. When his gold eyes meet yours, he doesn't find the enthusiastic film guide who was loud and proud during the first two films. Instead, he sees your flushed cheeks, your slightly parted lips, and the dark, heavy gaze you're using to track the movement of his throat.

A slow, thoroughly knowing smirk gradually pulls at the corner of his lips. He instantly recognizes that look. The strict gentlemanly restraint he was forcing himself to maintain softens, replaced by a glint of heavy, unbothered amusement.

"Princess," he rasps, his hand on your waist tightening, his fingers digging into your hip just firmly enough to make you gasp. He leans down, nipping your ear lightly with his teeth, his voice dipping into a wickedly quiet pitch. "You're not paying attention to Diamond at all, are you?" 

He feels the way you shudder against him and when he pulls away to get a good look at your face, you’re wearing a grin that’s dismantling his composure in every sense of the word. You’re up to no good—and he’s acutely aware of that. 

“Give me a kiss,” you demand. 

The words leave your lips like an ultimatum, and the effect they have on Zuko is immediate.

The low, knowing smirk on his lips completely vanishes, his mouth parting slightly in a ragged, silent breath as his entire frame locks up under your thighs. He stares down at you, his eyes wide and burning with a dark, electric heat that proves your raw confidence has shattered whatever fragile hold he had left on his composure.

"Y/n," he groans out. It's a warning, a desperate plea for you to stop pushing him, but the way his long fingers effortlessly dig deeper into the meat of your hip entirely betrays him.

You don't back down. Instead, your grin only widens, your hands sliding up the heavy cotton of his hoodie to wrap firmly around the back of his neck, your fingers tangling slightly into the long, loose strands of his hair. You give a deliberate, unyielding tug, pulling his massive frame down until his mouth is a mere breath away from yours.

"I didn't ask you what my name was, Mr. Dictator," you whisper teasingly, holding his scorching gaze through your lashes. "I said, give me a kiss."

"God help me, you are something else," he rasps against your lips.

Before you can even flash a triumphant smile, his large hand flies from your waist to the back of your neck, his fingers locking firmly into your hair to tilt your head back. He claims your mouth with a sudden, bruising certainty that leaves you completely breathless, his lips parting yours in a deep, intoxicating rush that proves he is entirely done trying to be good.

You moan directly into the heavy, consuming warmth of his mouth, the soft sound trapped between your lips as you tighten your hold around his neck. The pure intensity of his kiss is dizzying, making your head spin instantly.

Desperate to feel the contrast of his skin, you slide one of your hands down from the silky strands of his hair, tracing the broad line of his shoulder until your fingers find his large hand stationed around your waist. Your palms meet, your fingers loosely interlocking with his over the thin cotton of your top.

But before you can guide his hand anywhere, you force yourself to pull back just a fraction of an inch.

Your breathing is shallow and completely uneven, your lips swollen and tingling from the sheer weight of his claim. You look up at him through your lashes, your heart hammering a frantic, wild rhythm against his chest as you take in his darkened gold eyes and the hot flush creeping up his sharp jawline.

"Zuko," you whisper breathlessly, your thumb tracing a slow, trembling line across the back of his large knuckles. "Can I... can I be forward one more time?"

Zuko lets out a rough exhale, his warm breath fanning across your damp lips. The strict gentlemanly restraint he had been clinging to all night is almost entirely gone, replaced by an unyielding, thorough devotion that burns in his gaze. His hand on your waist tightens, holding your hips so securely against his thighs that you can feel every single inch of him pressing hard against you.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, his voice completely undone, gravelly, and scraping heavily against his throat as his long fingers slide up to cup your jawline with a reverence that borders on worship. "You can be as forward as you’d like. I'm entirely at your mercy tonight."

You tilt your head, a sheepish grin playing on your lips as you hold his intense gaze. Slowly, you guide his hand, inching his long fingers down the side of your stomach, letting his warm palm slide over the curve of your hip before you finally pause, resting his hand right against your outer thigh.

"You're always asking me if things are okay and if something is too much," you murmur, your voice dropping into a quiet, tentative whisper that hangs sweetly in the space between your faces. "I'm turning those questions back on to you. How far is too far, and what's okay and not okay?"

Zuko stops breathing entirely for a long second.

For a moment, he simply stares at you, his eyes wide as the weight of your question sinks into his chest. The large hand resting against your thigh tenses slightly, his calloused fingers twitching against the thin fabric of your pink shorts. He is a man who spent the last three months carefully structuring every boundary, entirely intent on keeping his word and ensuring you felt completely safe in his presence. Hearing you offer that same meticulous protection back to him completely shatters his ability to speak.

Slowly, the tension in his shoulders softens, a look of profound, overwhelming tenderness overtaking his sharp features. He doesn't pull his hands away from your hips. Instead, his fingers simply loosen their grip, his warm palms resting flat against your skin with a reverence that makes your throat tighten.

"Y/n," he murmurs, his voice incredibly thick, heavy, and quiet in the dim light of the television.

He lifts one hand from your hip, his long fingers gently sweeping a stray braid  behind your ear, his touch so light and deliberate it makes a soft shiver ripple down your spine. He holds your gaze, ensuring you can see the absolute sincerity and clarity shining in his gold-flecked eyes.

"Nothing you do could ever be 'too much' for me," he confesses quietly, a small, incredibly smitten smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I am completely, entirely yours. If you wanted to take things all the way tonight, I would stay right here on this couch and let you have your way with me until morning. I don't have boundaries when it comes to what I'll give you."

His hand sits warmly against the upper part of your thigh, his thumb tracing a heavy, soothing circle against your skin under the blanket, grounding you both in the quiet safety of the apartment.

"But it’s our very first night in your space," Zuko continues gently, his gaze dropping to your lips before locking back onto yours with an unyielding warmth. "And I know how important it is to you that we take our time and build this right. So, what is okay with me? Anything that makes you feel cherished, beautiful. We can stay right here, tangled up under this blanket, eating strawberry cookies and making out for the next ten hours, and it will still be the best night of my life. You set the line. Wherever you draw it, I'll happily stand right behind it."

Your fingers wrap tightly around his large wrist, breaking the quiet stillness of his speech as you deliberately guide his hand down. You slide his warm palm lower, moving past the edge of your pink shorts until his fingers glide directly beneath the thin material. The second his calloused hand presses against the bare, sensitive skin between your legs, the reality of what you're doing hits him like a physical blow. 

You’re pantyless. You’re soaking. 

Zuko is utterly paralyzed by the sheer, exhilarating rush of heat greeting his fingertips. You are completely slick, a beautifully warm and heavy mess that you made entirely because of him, and the absolute absence of any panties under your cotton shorts completely short-circuits his mind. He can feel the direct, unshielded pulse of your arousal right against his touch, making him acutely aware of just how deeply his kisses and the heavy weight of his erection have unravelled you. 

Your lips part at the delicious sensation of his hands on you without any barrier. 

"Y/n," he chokes out. His voice is barely a whisper, completely stripped of its usual weight, sounding entirely undone as he looks up at you through his dark lashes. "You... you aren't wearing—"

"I told you I didn't want you on your best behavior," you murmur, your voice dropping into a daring, flushed confession as you hold his wide, scorching gaze. To drive the point completely home, you gently press down on his hand, shifting your hips just a fraction of an inch sideways across his thighs.

The deliberate movement causes his calloused fingers to slide directly through your slickness, and a sharp, ragged groan rips from Zuko’s throat.

Your restrained gentleman’s control is damn near gone and you aren’t helping, nor do you have any ambitions to. 

The large, trembling hand you are holding suddenly takes over entirely, his long fingers parting the thin cotton of your shorts with a sudden, possessive confidence that makes your heart stutter. He doesn't pull away. Instead, his palm cups you entirely, his thumb finding the exact center of your ache and pressing just firmly enough to make your hips hitch off his lap with a sharp, helpless whimper. 

A hoarse, dark chuckle resonantes from deep in Zuko’s chest at the soft whimper that slips from your lips, his fingers flexing against your hip to keep you securely aligned with him.

He doesn't rush. Instead, he uses the sleek warmth he’s gathered to glide his thumb up and over your sensitive clit one more time, deliberately testing your responsiveness. Your hips instinctively twitch upward, chasing the contact, and that subtle, desperate movement is all it takes to make his golden eyes darken to near-black.

Slowly, deliberately, Zuko curves his hand, the tip of his long, index finger nudging against your entrance.

He watches you with a rapt, unblinking intensity, his sharp features completely locked onto your face as he pushes past the tight embrace of your muscles and slips a finger inside.

A sharp breath trips in your throat, your eyes fluttering shut as your head drops against his shoulder. A soft, undone moan ripples past your lips, and the sound is music to him. Zuko’s thumb instantly finds your clit, anchoring his hand against you as he stays perfectly still inside your tight, blazingly hot depth, letting you adjust to the sudden thickness of him.

"Look at me, beautiful," he commands softly, his voice dropping into that thick, commanding tone that captivates your attention. He nudges his jaw against your temple, his voice a rough command against your skin. "Open your eyes. Let me see you." 

Through a heavy, desire-fueled fog, you force your eyelids open, your gaze instantly colliding with the fierce, burning heat of his gold eyes. He is looking at you with a reverence so profound it makes your throat tighten, tracking the ragged rise and fall of your chest. 

Seeing that you're looking right back at him, Zuko hooks his finger slightly, curling upward to find the exact spot that makes your entire body tremble. He curls it again, beginning a slow, agonizingly deep stroke that pulls a loud, high-pitched gasp straight out of your throat.

"There’s my beautiful girl," Zuko exhales, his composure completely fracturing as he watches your lips part, your features twisting into a beautiful expression of pure, unadulterated pleasure. He begins to move his finger in a steady, unhurried rhythm, matching the deliberate press of his thumb against your center. "So warm and wet... and you did all of this just sitting in my lap."

You nod breathlessly, the simple movement feeling heavy and monumental under the weight of his stare. Desperate to get even closer to the heat of his skin, you slide your hands right past the soft cotton collar of his black hoodie, your fingertips sinking directly onto the broad, solid expanse of his shoulders. Your nails catch against the firm shift of his back muscles, anchoring yourself to his massive frame as he continues that agonizingly perfect, rhythmic stroke inside you.

"Just being around you is dangerous," you confess, your voice barely a ragged whisper against his jawline. You tilt your hips just a fraction, leaning into the full thickness of his finger as a delicious, tight ache begins to pull at your lower stomach. Your eyes lock onto his burning gold ones, all your defenses entirely stripped away. "I—I really fucking want you,” you gasp out, legs opening wider as he targets your g-spot with a precision that makes your nails curl deep into his shoulders. 

Zuko’s breath hitches sharply at the raw, unshielded curse slipping from your lips, the sheer weight of your confession sending a visible tremor straight through his massive frame. Hearing you completely drop your defenses and admit how badly you want him shatters the final remnants of his restraint.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he growls softly against your mouth, his eyes burning with a dark, unyielding heat as he takes in the sight of your parted legs and the tight, desperate grip of your nails in his shoulders.

He doesn't make you wait. Keeping his first finger buried deep inside you, targeting that perfect spot with a deliberate, agonizing pressure, Zuko coaxes your thighs a fraction wider with his palm. Slowly, relentlessly, he presses a second finger right against your soaked entrance, nudging past the tight, pulsing ring of your muscles before sliding it smoothly inside alongside the first.

The sudden, stretching fullness of him inside you makes the air trap instantly in your throat. Your back arches completely off his chest, your inner walls convulsing in a frantic, tight grip around the added width.

Zuko lets out a low, rough groan at the tight squeeze, his forehead dropping heavily into the crook of your neck as your body frantically tries to adjust to the heat of his hand. His chest heaves against yours, his heart hammering a wild, chaotic rhythm that echoes straight into your ribs.

"Look at me, princess," he murmurs, his voice thick, gravelly, and completely undone as he lifts his head to lock eyes with you again. He doesn't start moving yet, letting you ride out the overwhelming wave of stretch, but his thumb delivers a heavy, crushing press right against your swollen clit. "Take a deep breath for me. That's it... take all of it."

You let out a broken, high-pitched whimper, nodding breathlessly as the heavy ache in your lower stomach tightens into a knot of pure desperation.

Once he feels your muscles reluctantly soften around his fingers, a slow, predatory smirk pulls at the corner of his lips. He hooks both fingers upward, finding that sensitive ridge inside you with a precision that makes your vision go dark around the edges. He begins a heavy, punishingly deep rhythm, driving into you in a slow, unhurried pattern that leaves you completely at his mercy under the blanket.

"Just like that," you gasp out, the words tearing from your throat in a breathless, undone rush as the heavy, rhythmic friction of his fingers threatens to steal your sanity entirely. You throw your head back against the couch, your hips blindly arching up to meet every deep, punishing stroke. "Zuko, please... don't stop. Don't you dare stop."

To emphasize the sheer desperation of your demand, your fingers flex hard against his shoulders, your nails digging significantly deeper into the firm, flexing muscles of his back.

Zuko lets out a low, rough groan at the sharp sting of your nails, his entire frame shuddering against yours. The raw, aggressive drag of your grip doesn't make him pull away; instead, it completely triggers something primal in him. His hands on your waist tighten like steel bands, anchoring your sideways position across his thighs so securely that you can feel the heavy, frantic pulse of his erection throbbing straight through your shorts.

He leans down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, and presses a hot, bruising kiss right over your racing pulse point. The intense, velvety heat of his mouth against your sensitive skin makes a long, trembling whimper ripple down your spine.

But he isn't done testing your limits.

With his fingers still driving relentlessly deep inside your soaked warmth, matching the heavy, crushing rhythm of his thumb against your center, Zuko nips the soft skin of your neck lightly with his teeth.

The sharp, sudden prick of pleasure and pain completely shatters whatever hold you had on your composure. It unravels you in every sense of the word. Your vision goes dark around the edges, your inner muscles convulsing in a violent, desperate squeeze around his fingers as a loud, completely unprompted groan rips straight out of your chest.

"Ohhhh, fuck," you moan out, the curse loud, floating over The Players Club soundtrack. 

He drinks in the uninhibited sound like water after a drought , a hushed, deeply captivated rumble stems from his chest directly into yours. He pulls his teeth back just enough to lick over the sensitive mark he just left, his breath fanning scorching hot against your damp skin.

"That's it, beautiful," he rasps, his voice completely ruined, gruff, and thick with a dangerous amount of satisfaction as he speeds up his fingers, driving you mercilessly toward the edge. "Let it out. Let me hear exactly what I'm doing to you."

The sudden increase in speed is the final, devastating blow. Your inner muscles clamp around his fingers in a violent, desperate contraction as a wave of sharp, blinding pleasure crashes over you. You lose all sense of time and space, your back arching off the sofa as you ride out the peak of your orgasm, your helpless whimpers filling the small gap between your faces.

Zuko holds you through every single tremor, his fingers remaining buried deep inside your soaking warmth, pulsing in sync with your walls. He watches your face with an unblinking, profound focus, taking in the burning heat of your cheeks and the sheer beauty of your complete surrender.

As the heavy waves of pleasure slowly begin to recede, leaving your mind completely fried and your body tingling, a sudden surge of raw confidence returns to you.

Before he can even offer a gentle word, your hand flies up, your fingers wrapping firmly around his sharp, masculine jawline. Your thumb digs right into the corner of his cheek, and with an unyielding tug, you pull him down into a soul-snatching kiss.

The collision of your mouths is completely electric. You pour every ounce of your lingering, post-climax desperation into him, your lips parting his in a deep, consuming rush that proves you are nowhere near finished with him tonight. Zuko lets out a muffled, completely staggered groan into your mouth, his large hand on your waist tightening so hard his knuckles go white under the blanket.  

Carefully, and albeit, reluctantly, he breaks the kiss, but he doesn't let you escape his personal space. His eyes remain fixed entirely on yours as his hand finally slides out from beneath the hem of your shorts. You let out a soft, helpless moan at the sudden absence of him, the cold air hitting your sensitive skin, but the sound is instantly cut short when his hand rises into the dim light between your faces.

Holding your gaze with a deliberate, unblinking intensity, Zuko brings his wet fingers directly to his lips.

He slowly parts his mouth, his long tongue sweeping across his fingers to taste the thick, glossy evidence of your climax right in front of you. A sharp breath trips in your throat at the sheer audacity of the gesture, your entire body tightening all over again as you watch his throat swallow. An unhurried, thoroughly wicked smirk gradually pulls at the corner of his lips, a flash of heavy, unbothered pride taking over his sharp features.

"You taste absolutely phenomenal," he murmurs, his voice heavily undulating against your lips as he leans in close, his thumb gently catching a stray drop of moisture at the corner of his mouth. "Like the most perfect dessert."

You pull back just a fraction of an inch, your breathing shallow and completely ruined as you hold his gaze through your lashes.

"Bedroom now," you whisper heavily against his swollen lips, your voice a daring, heated command that makes his pulse spike instantly. "Before our first time ends up being on my living room couch... which is much too small for what you're carrying."

The journey from the living room to the bedroom is a blur of shifting shadows and the steady, solid thud of Zuko’s heartbeat against your ear. He carries you effortlessly, his massive arms holding you securely against his chest as if your weight is nothing at all. Your fingers stay tightly tangled in the soft fabric of his black hoodie, your face buried in the warm crook of his neck. 

When he steps into the dimness of your room, he doesn’t just drop you on the mattress. 

Zuko moves as if he’s carrying one of the most precious pieces of cargo to grace the planet, setting you on the edge of your bed with the utmost care. You watch with wide eyes as he steps back just a bit, putting distance between the two of you. He’s a masterpiece of perfectly tailored loungewear and beauty that echoes the craftsmanship of ancient greek sculptures.  

And as you sit on the bed, eyes blown wide and glossy. Lips swollen from kisses and skin glistening from your skincare routine. You’re the living embodiment of temptation and perfection—a dangerous combination to a man trying hard to respect your desire to take things slow. 

“Are you sure, beautiful? We can stop right now and finish the movie, or we can just chat and I hold you. We don’t have to do anything beyond what we’ve already done,” he states, voice oozing with reassurance and contentment. 

A smile takes over your features, and you fall back, releasing a sigh from the way his words feel just like your duvet; cozy and comforting. Your smile morphs into something else entirely though as the cool air of your room brushes along your skin and brings more awareness to the heat in between your thighs. You lift your legs up, not bothering to glance at him as you lazily wrap them around his small waist. 

“See, and that just made me wetter…” you whine, your voice light and airy. “I—I really do want you, Zuko. Badly. Desperately. I want to…. oh wow, here comes the honesty,” your voice drops to a tentative whisper and your cheeks grow warmer. “I want to have sex with you, and not just in an I want to fuck you senseless kind of way, which I’d also like, but also in a sensual kind of way? Like I want to become even more intimate… with you.” 

Zuko takes one step closer, his legs grazing the edge of your mattress. He brings his hands up, resting them on your knees, his large palms snug and steady against your skin. 

He just looks down at you, searching your face, completely awestruck by the immense trust you are placing in his hands. 

Slowly, his hands slide up from your knees, tracing a slow, burning path along the tops of your thighs until he leans over you, pinning his weight onto the mattress on either side of your head with the support of his arms. He doesn't press down on you; instead, he hovers just inches away, creating a warm, private cocoon in the dim light of your room. He reaches out, his long, calloused fingers gently cupping your heated cheek, his thumb catching a loose strand of hair to brush it away from your face. 

“Are you sure,” he questions one last time. 

You huff playfully. You grab the edge of your shirt, maintaining eye contact with him as you take it off in one smooth motion. “No more questions unless you’re talking me through it and asking who’s is it? Am I understood?” 

An entirely captivated chuckle rumbles right against your chest, his shoulders shaking slightly as your specific set of orders hits him. An incredibly smitten smirk pulls at his lips, his gold eyes burning with a sudden, dark intelligence that proves he is more than happy to play by your new rules.

"I understand perfectly, beautiful," he murmurs, his voice entirely undone as his gaze drops down to the bare skin of your chest before locking back onto yours.

He doesn't waste another second. Zuko closes the small distance between your faces, capturing your lips in a deep, consuming kiss that feels entirely different from before. It’s heavy, possessive, and dripping with a sudden, unbothered confidence. His tongue glides smoothly against yours, drinking in your soft whimpers as his large hands slide down the sides of your body to stop right underneath the weight of your breast. 

He takes his time breaking the contact of your mouths, but his lips don't go far.

He presses a warm, lingering kiss to your jawline, and then his path moves lower. He trails an agonizingly slow line of damp kisses down the sensitive column of your neck, making your head roll back against the duvet. He moves lower still, past your collarbone, his breath fanning across your bare skin and sending a wave of intense goosebumps rippling down your arms.

As his mouth descends, his large hands slide upward. His palms cup the soft weight of your breasts, his long fingers massaging the sensitive tissue with a heavy, unhurried rhythm that makes your breath hitch sharply.

When his lips finally find the aching curve of your breast, you let out a loud, unrestrained moan.

Zuko sweeps his thumb over one nipple, while his mouth claims the other side. He sucks the soft skin gently into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the sensitive peak before placing a careful, incredibly deliberate, and delicious bite right onto it.

The action sends your back arching into him. The sudden prick of his teeth mixed with the amazing pressure of his hands sends a jolt to your clit that makes it pulse against the thin fabric of your shorts. Your thighs tighten around him, your fingers tangle themselves into his hair as another loud moan slips past your lips.

He moves and handles you as if in the three months, he’s committed everything you’ve ever done to memory. Every kiss that made you stutter, every touch that made you turn into his chest and hide your face; and now he’s behaving as if every ounce of those lessons are being put into practice.

His reward for doing so is your endless praise falling from your lips in reverence. You wiggle and writhe underneath him, hips moving on their own accord to garner some form of friction to satiate and calm your cunt. “Zu–zuko, pleasee,” the plea comes out breathy and more moan than words as he bites a little harder this time. 

“Please what, princess?” he breathes against your skin, slowly making his way lower down your body as he leaves a trail of wet kisses.

Your grip tightens in his hair, legs shaking from how tightly you're squeezing around him and the sheer anticipation of everything. “I–I want you and you’re— ooooh,” the words short-circuit as he places a kiss right on your center. You exhale shakily, legs falling from around his waist as you lift your head to look at him.

Lucifer or Michael, you’re not sure which side he falls on yet, but he looks like an angel in between your legs. And as he maintains eye contact with you while slipping your itty bitty shorts off, you start to think he’s falling more on the devilish side than anything else.

“I’m what? Taking my time? Being too rough? Not rough enough? Give me my half-time report,” he demands, adjusting your legs so they rest right back on his shoulders.

You glare down at him through the hazy fog of your arousal, a breathy, frustrated laugh slipping past your lips at his demanding tone.

"You're teasing," you accuse him, your voice shaking slightly as you try to steady your breathing. "That's your report. You are a terrible, wicked tease, Zuko."

Zuko doesn't even blink. His large hands slide down the backs of your calves, keeping your legs securely locked over his broad shoulders as he looks up at you with a calm, unyielding seriousness.

"I'm ensuring I don't hurt you," he informs you smoothly, his voice deep and completely steady despite the wild, chaotic rhythm of his pulse against your shins. "You asked for sensuality, princess. That means we don't rush. I'm making sure your body is ready for all of me.”

A defiant, sassy smirk instantly replaces your dazed expression. You lean back entirely, resting your weight on your hands behind you on the mattress, tilting your chin up in a bold display of confidence despite being completely bare to his gaze.

"I'm not a virgin, Zuko," you fire back, a playful challenge dancing in your eyes. "I know how to handle myself. You don't need to treat me like glass."

At your sass, his eyes darken instantly, a wicked grin pulling at the corner of his lips. He doesn't budge. Instead, he shifts his weight slightly forward, the massive, unyielding width of his shoulders widening your stance just a fraction more as he rests his hands firmly on your hips.

From his position on the floor, the heavy, prominent length of his erection is pressed right against the mattress between your thighs, a blatant visual reminder of the sheer size you're dealing with. 

"I know you aren't," he responds snarkily, his gold eyes locking onto yours from below with a dangerous, teasing edge. He leans in just enough for his lips to brush against your inner thigh. "But the way your entire mouth dropped open on the couch the second you felt my print tells me a completely different story, beautiful. It lets me know that you've never slept with anyone my size."

A heavy, sudden surge of heat hits your cheeks at the direct hit, your words instantly trapping themselves behind your teeth. He catches your stunned reaction immediately, a flash of pure, unbothered male pride taking over his sharp features as he watches you struggle for a comeback from his spot between your legs. 

Your mouth parts as you scramble to form a sharp, witty rebuttal, your mind racing to find any sort of comeback to salvage your pride. You open your mouth, a sarcastic remark right on the tip of your tongue—

But Zuko doesn't give you the chance to speak.

With his hands firmly anchoring your hips to the edge of the mattress, he leans his head forward and completely intervenes. He slides his tongue out, delivering one slow, incredibly broad stroke from your entrance all the way up to your sensitive clit.

It’s electric, so much so it zaps all coherent thoughts away. Until all you can focus on is the way he’s devouring your cunt with a type of precision you’ve only ever read about in books. Your toes curl and your fingers dig into the comforter as if your life depends on it. Your hips instinctively tilting upward into his face as the delicious ache in your lower stomach tightens into a knot of pure desperation.

"Zuko—ohhhhh god," you cry out, your hands flying down to tangle into his dark hair, not to push him away, but to anchor him right where he is.

He alternates his pace with perfect execution, moving between long, wet licks that coat your center and deep, dragging suctions right against your clit. Every time his tongue swirls around the bundle of nerves, a heavy jolt shoots straight to your core, and every time he uses his lips to gently pull at your sensitive skin, a loud, helpless whine slips past your lips. 

Just as the tension in your lower stomach begins to tighten into a knot of pure desperation, Zuko shifts. Keeping his mouth firmly pressed against you, he slides one of his hands down and guides two long fingers directly against your soaked entrance. With one smooth, unhurried push, he slides them both deep inside your cunt, stretching you beautifully. 

A loud, unrestrained moan rips from your chest, your head throwing itself back as the double sensation of his mouth and his fingers completely short-circuits your mind. Your inner muscles clamp around the added thickness, pulsing frantically. 

Zuko lets out a low, vibration of approval against your skin, instantly obeying. He hooks his fingers upward, finding that perfect, sensitive ridge inside you, and begins a slow, punishingly deep rhythm.

"Keep going," you gasp out, your eyes blowing wide as he targets your sweet spot perfectly. Your back bows off the bed, your heels dig into his back and fingers tighten their hold on the silky strands of his hair. “Y-you’re so fucking perfect, oooo my god.” 

The relentless, matching rhythm of his tongue and fingers is too much to bear. Your inner walls tighten into an incredibly fierce, desperate vice around his knuckles, and your breath completely stalls in your chest as the wave finally breaks.

You scream his name into the quiet room, your hips lifting completely off the mattress as a violent, blinding orgasm ripples through you.

Zuko doesn't flinch, and he doesn't pull back. True to your command, he handles you with absolute, unyielding control, riding you through every single contraction. He keeps his two fingers buried deep within your pulsing warmth, moving them in a slow, heavy, grounding stretch that coaxes even more pleasure from your climax. His mouth stays firmly sealed against your clit, his tongue delivering deep, solid strokes that drink in the thick, glossy evidence of your orgasm until your frantic whimpers turn into quiet, exhausted pants.

He presses one last kiss right above your sensitive bundle of nerves and begins to remove his long fingers. You let out a soft, trailing whine at the sudden absence of him.

But before he can fully retract his hand, your hand flies down to catch him by the wrist.

Zuko freezes, kneeling between your thighs as he looks up at you through his lashes, his breathing heavy and uneven. With a slow, thoroughly impish grin spreading across your features, you guide his large hand upward. You lift his wet fingers right to your face, parting your lips to slip his two glistening fingers directly between them.

His eyes widen, darkening to near-black as you hold his unblinking gaze. As you begin to slowly swirl your tongue around his fingers, cleaning the thick, glossy evidence of your own orgasm off his skin, Zuko instinctively shifts. The intense visual forces him forward, his broad chest leaning over the mattress to hover slightly above you, narrowing the space until you can feel the radiating heat of his skin.

Before you can even say a word to break the silence, a thoroughly captivated chuckle rumbles from Zuko's chest. He shakes his head slightly, his eyes glittering with a mix of disbelief and intense affection as you finally let his fingers glide free of your lips.

"You are absolute trouble," he murmurs, his voice entirely kaput as his thumb gently traces the wet contour of your lower lip.

Your grin only widens at the accusation, your eyes flashing with a daring, heated spark as you suddenly sit up. The forward momentum of your body forces him to yield, making him straighten up to his full height as he stands between your parted legs on the edge of the mattress.

You slide your hands forward, your palms resting firmly against the solid, warm span of his hips to anchor him right where he is.

"You like this trouble," you respond smoothly, your voice trickling into a light, airy demand that vibrates with anticipation. "Now clothes off, before I get feral."

Zuko’s smile widens, thoroughly amused and entranced with your ability to be a tease, yet comedic simultaneously.  He towers over you, looking down from his full height as your hands grip his hips, the raw hunger in his expression completely sealing his fate.

"As you wish, tyrant," he growls softly.

His hands instantly grip the bottom hem of his black hoodie, pulling it over his head in one swift, fluid motion.

You wolf-whistle, the sharp, playful sound echoing loudly in the quiet room.

The unexpected gesture completely shatters Zuko’s intense expression, pulling another rich, genuine laugh from his chest. His broad shoulders shake as he drops the discarded hoodie onto the floor, his eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement at your sheer audacity.

Taking full advantage of his distraction, your hands glide smoothly up the firm, defined expanse of his bare chest. You lean forward, maneuvering your body so you are now kneeling right on the very edge of the mattress. The added height brings you perfectly level with him, allowing you to wrap your arms securely around his neck, your fingers tangling into the hairs at the base of his head.

The moment you are within reach, Zuko's large hands slide instantly around your waist. His palms are scorching hot against your bare skin as they travel lower, his long fingers spreading wide to settle firmly over the curve of your ass.

With a sudden, possessive flex of his muscles, he pulls you firmly against him. A soft, breathless moan escapes your lips at the sudden impact. The sensation of being entirely skin-to-skin with him is overwhelming, every single line of your body molded perfectly against the rigid, heavy musculature of his frame.

"You are literally like a heater in human form," you mumble against the warm skin of his shoulder, burying your face in his neck to hide the sheer dizziness of the feeling.

Zuko tilts his head back just enough to look down at you, a soft, incredibly smitten expression melting his sharp features.

"You are adorable," he murmurs, his voice dripping with affection.

You let out a soft giggle, shaking your head against his chest as you look up at him through your lashes. "Stop it. I am supposed to be sexy right now."

A soft, deep rumble ripples through Zuko’s chest as he pulls you just a fraction closer, his large hands anchoring you firmly against his hips. "You're incredibly multitalented," he tells you quietly, his eyes dancing with merriment as he takes in the playful pout on your lips.

You let out another quiet giggle, your fingers lightly tracing the strong line of his collarbone. "You know, you really don't have to compliment me like you're trying to get in my pants. You're already there. Technically, I should be the one complimenting you right now because I am very actively trying to get into yours."

Zuko’s head throws back as a piquant, booming laugh escapes him, the sound filling the quiet space of your bedroom. He shakes his head, looking down at you with pure adoration.

"You are on a serious comedic run with your jokes tonight, princess," he murmurs, his thumbs gently sweeping over the bare skin of your lower back.

"Listen, excitement and nervousness make me the absolute love child of Kevin Hart and Martin Lawrence," you explain smoothly, leaning your weight fully into his solid frame. But then you freeze, your eyes widening slightly as a brilliant realization hits you. You pull back just enough to look him dead in the eye. "Oh, wait. Pause. The very next TV show we are starting together is Martin. You're going to love it."

Zuko doesn't even hesitate. A tender, easy smile graces his features as he nods. "Okay. We'll watch it next."

The sheer readiness of his answer melts something deep inside your chest. A delicate, breathy sigh escapes you, and you lean back in, peppering a flurry of sweet, adoring kisses across his jawline, moving down to the warm, sensitive skin of his neck.

"I love it when you just tell me yes," you murmur against his skin, your lips brushing softly against his pulse point with every word. 

He lets out a soft, breathy sigh against your hair, his arms tightening around you as if the admission is the simplest thing in the world. "It's very easy to do," he tells you, his voice steady.

Your grin only widens against his skin at his quick compliance. You pull back just a fraction of an inch to look at him, a sudden, bright twinkle of mischief dancing across your features.

"I think we're stalling because we're nervous," you tease, tilting your head with a challenging little smirk.

Zuko lets out an amused huff, a slow, knowing smile pulling at the corner of his lips as he holds your gaze. "I think we sounds better as you," he counters effortlessly, completely turning the accusation back on you without a single shred of shame.

Indignant, you lean forward and bite the side of his neck, your teeth catching the firm cord of his muscle a little sharply. Zuko lets out a deep, heavy moan directly into your ear, his large hands suddenly flexing to squeeze the soft flesh of your ass with a sudden, bruising grip. 

The bite is instantly cut short and turns into a loud, high-pitched gasp.

The raw force of the response sends a wild, electric jolt straight to cunt that makes your walls contract, making your eyes widen in absolute shock as he holds you completely pinned against his rigid frame.

Zuko pulls back just enough to look down at you, a thoroughly satisfied smirk playing on his features as he finds you completely speechless. The smug, unbothered confidence returns to his sharp features in full force. He drags one large hand up the bare skin of your back, his long fingers trailing a line of fire along your spine until they lace firmly into your braids, gently pulling your head back to force you to meet his scorching gold gaze.

"How flexible are you, beautiful?" he asks, his voice thick as he tilts his head, studying the way your breath hitches.

A sharp, matching smile full of pure mischief spreads across your face despite the heavy pulling sensation at your scalp. You tilt your chin up, holding his eyes with an unyielding confidence.

"I think you should find out," you challenge softly, your voice a teasing murmur. "Unless, of course... you're nervous."

Zuko playfully rolls his eyes at the callback, an amused huff escaping his lips, but his expression softens just a fraction with that familiar, protective seriousness. "I'm only nervous that I'm going to hurt you."

You let out a breathy, dramatic laugh, your hands smoothing over his broad shoulders. "Zuko, I am practically a splash pad at the moment. You aren't going to hurt me," you reassure him, before your smirk turns entirely mischievous. "Besides... I like a little pain."

He hums, the deep sound vibrating straight through your chest as his grip on your braids tightens just a fraction, tilting your face up a millimeter more. "Only when you're giving me attitude, princess."

Your mouth drops open in a dramatic gasp, your eyes widening with faux offense. "Why, I would never," you drawl, the sarcasm dripping so heavily from your tone that it makes the corner of his mouth twitch.

Before he can even call you out on it, you suddenly tighten your grip around his neck.

Using your entire body weight, you throw yourself backward onto the mattress, pulling his massive frame straight down on top of you. The sudden shift in momentum sends a wild rush through the air, your bodies  hitting the bed in a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter. The second your back settles against the sheets, you adjust your hips, wrapping your legs tightly around his firm waist to anchor him.

With a sudden, coordinated surge of energy, you use the leverage of your thighs against his hips and roll, flipping the two of you over in one fluid, chaotic motion until you are sitting triumphantly on top of his chest. 

Sitting astride his broad chest feels like an absolute victory. Your braids spill over your shoulders as you look down at him, your hands resting flat against the hard, warm expanse of his pectorals. From this vantage point, you can feel the heavy thud of his heart beneath your palms and the rigid length of his erection pressing firmly against you from beneath his loungewear pants.

Zuko doesn't even look disgruntled about being overpowered. Instead, he lies perfectly still beneath you, his large hands sliding up to grip your outer thighs to keep you balanced. A slow, incredibly indulgent smile spreads across his face as he looks up at you, his gold eyes tracking the triumphant gleam in your expression.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice a gravelly, affectionate rumble that vibrates right into your thighs. "Sitting up there like you actually own the place."

"I do own the place, we're in my bedroom," you remind him cheekily, leaning down just enough to let your breasts graze his chest. You trace a slow pattern over his collarbone with one finger, your voice dropping into a playful whisper. "And right now, I think I own you, too."

Zuko’s gaze darkens instantly, the indulgent warmth in his eyes turning into something thick and dangerous. His thumbs dig into the sides of your thighs, his grip tightening just enough to let you know exactly how easily he could switch your positions if he wanted to.

"Do you?" he questions softly, a dare dripping from every single syllable. "You're very brave when you're on top, princess. What exactly do you plan on doing with me now that you've got me pinned?” 

"Well, first," you murmur, placing open mouth kisses along the column of his throat, "I plan on getting you out of these pants. Because they are currently serving as a barrier between me and the prize, and I am a very impatient woman."

Zuko lets out a low, rough sound that is half-groan, half-laugh, his head tilting back against the pillows to give you better access to his neck. "Is that so?"

You hook your fingers into the band of his loungepants and boxers.

"It is," you whisper, your hands tugging the fabrics down his hips just enough to let the heavy, rigid length of him spring free against your inner thigh.

The direct, searing contact of his bare skin against your soaking cunt makes your entire body shudder, a sharp gasp breaking past your lips. He’s massive. Bigger than any toy you own. Bigger than anyone you’ve slept with before. And it’s pretty. Veiny. Girthy. The tip slightly red and glossy with precum.

He watches with pure mirth as your gaze remains fixed on the prize you’ve been working so hard to acquire. Your mouth opens and then closes. You inhale sharply, before releasing a laugh that’s partially soundless from the shock.

“Yo–you— I–I,” you clear your throat, trying to regain your bearings. “I appreciate you for working me open, you fucking monster. You should’ve just said you had a third leg. I–I we have breakfast plans with Suki and Sokka tomorrow, I’m not gonna make that— we’re not gonna make it,” you ramble, completely abandoning your perch to remove his pants entirely as you shimmy down his frame.

Your gaze never quite leaves the size of him as you move around. Zuko simply lies back and observes you with a potent mix of reverence and amusement, a soft, highly entertained smile tugging at his lips as he listens to you completely unravel over the logistics of tomorrow morning.

“I–I was real confident that I could just take you for a joyride on the first go round, but that—that’s gonna require a slight rain check after you’ve worked me open entirely. Shit. You may actually split me in half. I’m so sorry I doubted you, your worry was based in logic, but—but my mom didn’t raise a quitter and if she did, it’s one of my siblings,” you continue, dropping his pants and boxers on your bedroom floor before climbing back on top of him.

The second your knees settle back on either side of his hips, the hearty laugh that had been building in Zuko’s chest finally breaks free. He shakes his head, his broad shoulders shaking against the mattress as he looks up at you with pure, unadulterated entertainment.

"Good to know your family honor is safe," he cracks, his voice deep and raspy as his large hands immediately fly back to your waist. His fingers dig firmly into your skin, anchoring you right where he wants you. "But for someone who was just begging me to hurry up, you sure have a lot of thoughts about Sokka's breakfast schedule."

The playful mockery in his gold speckled eyes instantly shifts into something dangerous and consuming. With his hands still locked onto your waist, Zuko suddenly sits up, his powerful upper body rising off the mattress until he is looming directly over you, forcing your chest to tilt back. His thumbs sweep over your hip bones, a sudden, firm downwards pressure forcing your pelvis down until your drenched cunt is resting right against the heavy, pulsing crown of his length.

"You're done rambling now, right?" he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave into a low, commanding rumble that vibrates straight through your thighs. He lowers your hips just a fraction of an inch, the blunt, massive head of his erection intentionally nudging against your opening, testing your stretch. "Because you're right. My worry was based in logic. And since you're apparently not a quitter..."

He pauses, a thoroughly wicked, dominant smirk flashing across his face as he locks his gaze onto your wide eyes.

"...let's see how much of this third leg you can actually handle."

You slide your arms over his shoulders, clinging to his upright frame as a shudder of pure anticipation runs down your spine. Keeping his large hands locked tightly on your waist, Zuko begins to lower you down. He moves with an agonizing, meticulous care, taking his sweet time despite the heavy, erratic thud of his own pulse against your thighs.

The sheer width of him breaches your entrance with a thick, relentless pressure that has your nails instantly digging deep into the firm muscles of his bare back. Zuko doesn't even flinch. He hardly registers the sting of your nails as his eyes remain completely fixed on your face, tracking every micro-expression.

Your eyes are blown completely wide, staring at his shoulder as your chest heaves, your bottom lip caught tightly between your teeth as you try to swallow down a wordless cry. Only the broad head of his erection has entered, but the stretching fullness is already overwhelming.

Sensing your distress, Zuko pauses. He freezes your momentum entirely, keeping you pinned at that exact depth. Slowly, he lifts one hand from your waist, his large thumb reaching up to gently press against your chin until he coaxes your trembling bottom lip free from between your teeth.

"Don't do that," he murmurs, his voice a hushed, gravelly caress as his thumb strokes the wet, reddened skin of your lip. He tilts his head, his gaze burning into yours with a fierce, protective intensity. "Bite me instead of yourself. I don't want you hurting yourself, princess."

You blink through the haze of pleasure and friction, a faint pout forming on your lips. "But that'll hurt you," you whisper breathlessly, your fingers flexing against his shoulders.

An unhurried, completely soft look enters his eyes, though his grip on your waist remains utterly unyielding. "I'd much rather prefer that."

"I don't," you protest, your stubbornness making the corner of his mouth twitch.

But the words are instantly stolen from your tongue. Before you can argue any further, Zuko subtly shifts his weight, sliding your hips down just a fraction of an inch deeper onto his massive width. Your mouth drops open even wider at the sudden, mind-melting stretch, a sharp gasp catching in your throat as your inner walls spasms around him.

You stare at him, completely undone by the sheer size of what's currently filling you up, before your head drops against his chest. You give a weak, defeated nod against his warm skin.

"Okay," you whimper out, your voice trembling with a mix of submission and heavy arousal. "You win. I'll bite you."

A rumbling vibration of approval echoes in Zuko’s chest as he hears the surrender in your voice. He doesn't waste a single second. His hand slides right back down to your waist, his long fingers anchoring your hips with an iron grip that makes it very clear who is in control now.

"Good girl," he growls softly against your ear.

The praise has your inner walls clenching automatically. You hum back in response, your thoughts somewhere in the ether as you breathe him in and feel him. 

With that same agonizing, controlled power, Zuko lifts his hips, forcing you down another fraction of an inch. The relentless, inch-by-inch stretch is so completely encompassing that your brain short-circuits. True to your promise, you lean forward and bury your face in the crook of his neck, your teeth sinking sharply into the thick, tense muscle where his shoulder meets his neck.

Zuko lets out a sharp, guttural hiss at the sting of your teeth, but instead of pulling away, the pain seems to drive him completely over the edge. His grip on your waist turns bruising, his knuckles turning white against your skin as he deliberately shifts your hips downward, sliding deeper into your soaking, tight warmth.

A muffled, entirely ruined sob is trapped against his skin as your walls frantically flutter, trying to make room for the sheer, impossible volume of him

“You’re doing so good for me, princess,” Zuko praises. He keeps pushing, slow and merciless, until his pelvis hits your bare thighs with a solid, heavy thud.

He is buried entirely inside you. Every single millimeter of his veiny, heavy length is completely sheathed in your heat, filling you so thoroughly that you can barely catch your breath.

Zuko’s head falls back, a ragged, breathless groan tearing from his throat as your tight cunt twitches around him in a vicious, pulsing vice-grip. His chest heaves against yours, his eyes shut tight as he forces himself to hold completely still, giving your body a moment to adapt to the large, welcomed intrusion.

You exhale quietly against his shoulder, letting the hot, trembling breath fan over his skin as the initial shock of his size transitions into a profound, heavy warmth. Your lips linger against his neck for a moment before you press a gentle, apologetic kiss directly over the fresh teeth imprint you just left in his muscle.

You don't move yet. Your body is still adapting to the thick, unyielding fullness stretching you to your absolute limit, so you simply turn your head on his shoulder, resting your cheek against his skin as your gaze tracks the sharp, tense lines of his neck and collarbone.

"Thank you, big monster," you murmur affectionately, your voice a breathless whisper that vibrates directly against his pulse point.

A faint, rough huff of laughter shakes Zuko’s chest beneath yours, the sound rich with a mix of exhaustion and absolute adoration. His large hands remain firmly locked onto your waist, but the bruising grip relaxes just a fraction, his thumbs resuming those small, soothing strokes against your hips to help you stay grounded.

"You're welcome, princess," he replies, his voice incredibly resonant and raspy in the quiet room. He tilts his head slightly, his lips brushing the side of your face as he lets out a long, shuddering breath. "Are you alright? Truly? I'm not going to move until you tell me you're ready."

A bright, delighted laugh breaks from your throat, the sound slightly muffled against his shoulder as your inner walls give another helpless, happy twitch around his length.

"Ah, big and patient," you tease in a winded murmur, your fingers lightly tracing the broad expanse of his chest. "God, did I hit the lottery."

Zuko’s resonant laugh returns in full force, a rumble that you feel completely mirrored in the tightest rings of your core. He shakes his head, the tips of his dark hair brushing your cheek as his hands on your waist give a sudden, firm squeeze that acts as a quiet, protective warning.

"Don't get used to the patient part, princess," he growls dotingly, his eyes flashing with a sudden, mischievous intent as he locks his gaze back onto yours. "You wanted a joyride. Now that you've caught your breath, tell me if you can handle a little speed."

You lift your head off his shoulder, a defiant, wicked smirk flashing across your face despite the ache keeping you anchored to his lap. You slide your hands down to his chest, your palms flat against his warm skin as you lock your gaze with his burning, gold-speckled eyes.

"I told you," you murmur, your voice steadying as you reclaim your confidence. "My mom didn't raise a quitter. But..." You pause, a sudden, playful tilt to your head as your thighs tremble slightly under the strain of keeping yourself balanced over his massive width. "...this third leg is monstrous, big guy. I think I'm gonna need some assistance if I'm gonna take this joyride properly."

Zuko’s gaze darkens instantly, a downright pleased, sinful smile pulling at the corner of his lips at your direct request.

"Always happy to help, princess," he murmurs, his voice a gravelly rumble.

He doesn't need to be told twice. His large hands slide from your waist down to the undersides of your thighs. Hooking his strong fingers firmly under your knees, he lifts your legs slightly, taking the entire burden of your weight onto his own powerful frame and effortlessly stabilizing your balance.

"Here," he growls dotingly, his thumbs rubbing reassuring circles into your skin as he manually guides your hips back, tilting your pelvis at a much sharper, devastating angle. "Hold onto my shoulders."

The moment your hands lock onto his frame, you shift your hips, driving yourself down while Zuko simultaneously surges upward.

The coordinated assistance changes everything. The new angle allows his veiny length to slide inside you with an even deeper, more friction-heavy impact, striking your sweet spot so accurately that your vision completely blurs.

You lean forward, entirely overwhelmed by the sheer velocity of the collision, and smash your mouth against his. A loud, completely undone whine is crushed between your lips, turning into a desperate, winded confession against his skin.

"Holy shit," you moan directly into the heat of the kiss, your tongue tangling with his as your inner walls flutter frantically around him. "Zuko—you're massive."

Zuko lets out a deep, guttural grunt straight into your mouth, the raw praise driving him completely wild. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, matching the sudden, relentless increase in his hip speed as the two of you lock into a punishing pace, his pelvis hitting yours with a loud, wet smack.

He swallows your moan, his grip on your thighs tightening to a bruising intensity as he continues to drive upward with an unhurried, devastating power. He breaks the kiss just enough to look at you, his chest heaving violently against yours, his gold-speckled eyes dark with a heavy, consuming possessiveness.

"You're taking me so well, princess," he pants out, his voice a rough, broken growl as he slides nearly all the way out before burying his entire veiny width back inside you to the hilt. "Look at you. You're taking every single inch."

The deep, relentless friction of the impact makes your head roll back, your fingers clawing into the hard muscles of his shoulders as a loud, completely ruined cry rips from your throat. Your inner walls flutter frantically, clamping down around his massive length in a desperate, pulsing squeeze.

You force your eyes open, holding his burning gaze as your hips slam down against his pelvis once more.

"Because you're fucking me so good," you moan back to him, completely unfiltered and breathless from the sheer intensity of it. "Baby, it feels—god, fucking so good."

You start to lose your grip on his shoulders. Your hands slide down, your fingers clawing blindly as your nails drag down the firm, sweaty expanse of his back, leaving a trail of hot, red lines in their wake.

"Z-Zuko—" you whimper out, your head rolling frantically against his neck as the friction inside you reaches a boiling point. Your core is twitching violently, walls clamping around him so hard that his breath hitches with every relentless thrust. "Wait, wait—I'm gonna cum again. Baby, I'm gonna cum!"

"Perfect," Zuko growls, his voice entirely ruined and thick as he wraps one massive arm around your upper back, locking you tight against his chest. His own lower body locks up, his hips hitching as the vice-grip of your climax pushes him right to the absolute precipice. "Do it. I'm right behind you, princess—I'm so close—"

"Finish inside me," you beg breathlessly, your voice a desperate, undone whimper against his skin as you arch your back, grounding your pelvis completely against his. "Please, baby, fill me up. Don't pull out."

A deep, primal groan tears from Zuko's throat at your plea, any remaining restraint shattering completely. He doesn't slow down for a single second. Instead, he drives upward with a sudden, devastating surge of power, burying his full width to the hilt, perfectly targeting that hyper-sensitive spot until your entire body goes completely rigid.

His name falls from your lips like a litany as he fucks you through it, drawing out every tremor of your release while simultaneously spilling his own hot, heavy release inside you. He pumps into you deep and hard, holding you trapped against his chest until you’re both left completely reeling together and panting as the aftershocks roll through you.

The silence that follows is thick, dense, and broken only by the synchronized, ragged sound of your chests heaving against one another.

Zuko doesn't move a muscle. He remains sitting upright, his powerful arms locked around you like a vice, keeping you plastered securely against his torso while his head slumps forward onto your shoulder. His skin is slick with sweat, a profound, radiating heat pulsing off his frame that feels completely consuming in the quiet room. Inside you, the thick, substantial length of him remains buried to the absolute hilt, twitching faintly as the last lingering aftershocks of his release settle profound within your core.

A long, shuddering breath rumbles through his chest, his nose nuzzling into the crook of your neck where a faint, damp trail of his own breath cools against your skin.

"God," Zuko pants out, his voice a thoroughly wrecked, resonant whisper that vibrates directly against your collarbone. His fingers flex weakly against your lower back, tracing the dip of your spine with lazy, completely satiated affection. "You... you're entirely lethal, you know that?"

You let out a faint, airy puff of a laugh, your forehead resting profoundly against the side of his neck. Your muscles feel completely melted, like jelly, and you lack the energy to even lift your eyelids.

"I told you," you whimper-whisper back, your voice a tiny thread of sound. "Not a quitter."

A faint, thoroughly entertained huff of laughter shakes his broad shoulders. Carefully, slowly, Zuko lifts his head just enough to look at you. His eyes are weighted, dark with a lingering, intense devotion, a tender smile pulling at the corners of his lips as he takes in your utterly flushed, ruined expression.

"Yeah, well, your family honor is definitely intact," he murmurs dotingly, reaching his thumb out to stroke your cheek. "But I think your prediction was accurate."

"Which one?" you mumble, blinking up at him, fighting to clear the post-sex fog from your cognitive functioning.

Zuko’s smile turns into a full grin, a faint, boyish flush creeping up his neck despite the dominant energy he just displayed. He gives your waist a gentle, affectionate squeeze, reminding you of exactly how thoroughly filled up you still are.

"We are definitely not making those breakfast plans with Suki and Sokka."

You grin back at him, nodding in agreement, “Couldn’t agree more, I need to show you how flexible I am.” You pause, moaning as you adjust to sit upright in his lap. “I just know your ass has a long fuse, fucking stallion of a man,” you mumble, staring at him incredulously. 

The rich, resonant laugh that rumbles through Zuko’s chest this time is completely unvarnished, his broad shoulders shaking as he tries—and utterly fails—to keep a straight face. The sudden shift from your post-coital haze back into unhinged, competitive rambling catches him completely off guard, the "stallion" comment making a dark flattered flush creep all the way up to his ears.

"A long fuse? A stallion?" he echoes, his voice a  highly amused scratch.

Before you can even clarify your incredulous math, his large hands tighten on your waist, and with a sudden, seamless shift of his powerful frame, Zuko completely flips the two of you over.

Your vision spins for a breathless second before your back hits the mattress. The sudden change in gravity forces a sharp, needy gasp from your throat as his massive, substantial length slides deep and re-seats itself inside you from an entirely new, devastating angle. Zuko hovers directly over you, his broad shoulders framing your vision as he traps you beneath his heavy weight, pinning your hands gently beside your head.

"The math is mathing, Zuko. Two rounds back-to-back, you're handling me like I weigh nothing, and you're still sitting inside me like an absolute brick,” you mumble, giving your hips a cautious tilt upward to feel how solid he still is inside of you. 

A gratified growl escapes his chest at your unfiltered logic, the dark flush on his neck deepening as your praise hits exactly where it hurts.

"You think you have me figured out, do you?" he murmurs dotingly, his thumbs rubbing firm, warm circles into your wrists where he holds them down.

"I'm just stating facts, big guy," you tease, a sudden, wicked glint cutting through your post-sex fog. "A regular fuse blows under that kind of pressure. Yours just keeps burning. So yeah... stallion behavior. Prove me wrong."

A shadowed, sinful smirk completely replaces the boyish grin on Zuko's face, his gold-speckled eyes clouding over with a sudden, competitive hunger that matches your own. He lets out a low, gravelly chuckle that vibrates right through his broad chest and directly into yours.

"Prove you wrong?" he echoes, his voice dropping into a rough, dominant register that makes your walls give a helpless, frantic twitch around his thick extension.

He releases your wrists, but before you can even think about celebrating your freedom, his large hands slide down the frame of your body. He hooks his strong fingers firmly behind your knees and smoothly drives your legs up toward your chest, folding you completely in half beneath his massive frame. The sudden, extreme change in the angle forces a sharp, completely undone gasp from your throat as his length buries itself even deeper to the hilt, stretching your hyper-sensitive walls to their absolute limit.

Zuko leans down, hovering just millimeters from your lips, his breath fanning across your mouth as he locks his gaze onto your blown-out pupils.

"Can I prove it while testing out exactly how flexible you are, princess?" he breathes dotingly, a confident, predatory smile pulling at his lips.

You might not make it to lunch either.

Fin

I'm currently in the Caribbean visiting family, but I just needed to upload this so I could pivot to my other WIP--- and my apologizes for the delayed upload. My goal is to try to post once a week a least, but we shall see. Writing on the beach distracts me and I'm here for s couple more days 😭.

I don't know if other writers do this; but a lot of what I write is what I want to read. Therefore, when I start something, I have to see it through because I want to read it like everyone else and I get impatient.

Anywho thanks so much for reading! if you asked to be tagged and I missed you, please let me know so I can add it to my documents and not forget for the next post!!!

Mack💕

“He had the audacity to ask me why I feel the need to go and shake my ass for random men in a club, instead—and HEAR ME when I say this—instead of shaking my ass for my man.” Your hands move in frantic circles, as if trying to help you physically construct the sheer gall of the man currently playing games on your phone.

“Fix it, Jesus,” Suki whispers, her mouth dropping open in utter disbelief.

“So!” You pause, taking a large swig of your cosmo to wash the nastiness of the situation out of your mouth. “I told him that instead of questioning me, he should be asking his mama why she didn’t abort his bitch ass when she had the chance. Then I had to take a moment and curse him clean out for having the nerve—the balls—to call himself my man. My man would never ask me some silly-ass question like that. Instead, you know what he would ask, Su?"

Suki shakes her head, a smile spreading across her full lips, clearly entertained by your latest dating failure. “There’s quite a few things you’d want your ideal man to ask, so you tell me,” she counters, grabbing her concealer from the makeup fiasco you’ve both made of her vanity.

You pat your beauty sponge into your cheek with absolute ferocity, still reeling from the last three hours of your day. “He’d say, ‘Baby, what time should I pick you up?’ OR he’d ask if I have enough cash to tip the bartenders! He’d be a fucking provider and a leader instead of a whiney-ass bitch! Like, Suuuu,” you whine, stomping your fluffy house slippers. “Why is it so hard to find a man? Someone who knows about mutual respect, who believes in chivalry, whose dick is as good and big as his heart! I want him to be a leader, driven, and match my fly in his own way! I can’tttt be asking for a lot when I make these demands. Like I know I’m young, I know I have time, but these motherfuckers have me feeling like I’m wasting my good years on sad dick and pussy personalities—”

You exhale roughly, closing your eyes tightly to manually override the rage rippling through your chest. “I’m an adult. Let me calm down. It’s girls' night, my thirty-minute rant about men is over. Thank you for listening, snookums."

She giggles, patting your back soothingly. “If you gotta let it out, let it out, my girl. This is what this time is for—to release the tension of the month and breathe in a new time for opportunities and chances. I do want to highlight the fact that you are right. You have time, and when you find Mr. Right, it’ll really make the sad dick and disappointing dates worth it.”

You meet her gaze in the mirror. She’s all smiles, practically glowing from her body oils and glitter. She’s an absolute stunner in her black minidress, perfectly coordinating with your own. The main difference between the two of you is the accent colors; while you went for gold, she went with silver. Together, you look like a perfect blend of trouble and beauty; the ultimate summary of your friendship.

You sigh dramatically, swallowing the last of your drink. “You’re so good to me, Suki. Thank you—and I trust what you’re saying. I’ve witnessed it between you and Sokka, and maybe that’s why I’m pushing so hard. I want that magic, you know? Late-night laughs, inside jokes, matching pajamas, and date nights. I want comfort and care. I want to be loved and give love. And most of all I want my man to be able to pick us up from girls' night, too, so Sokka doesn't have to be the only one ensuring we make it home in one piece when we get a little tooooo turnt.”

Suki cackles, “No such thing as too turnt, and you fucking know it. I’m not saying Mr. Perfect is walking into the club tonight, but I do feel like you’re gonna run into him soon. Now, I need to blend in this concealer and you need to go refill our drinks. Make them doubles this time—I’m not feeling anything yet.”

You shake your head, picking up the empty cocktail glasses. You navigate Suki’s space like it’s your own, exiting her ensuite bathroom and sparing a glance at the massive boxes now occupying half of her bedroom. You’re still floored by the fact that Amazon delivered a whole-ass bedframe and headboard at nine at fucking night. Shaking your head, you turn into the short hallway and head straight for the kitchen.

The remnants of your cosmopolitan ingredients are still neatly laid out on the counter. You get to work: filling the shaker with ice, doubling the vodka ratio, and following it up with the rest of the ingredients.

“Can you open the door for Sokka? Dumbass left his house key when he went down!” Suki yells, her voice floating above the loud vocals of Ayra Starr and the rhythmic rattle of the shaker in your hand.

You giggle at the insult but do as you're told, swinging the front door open to find Sokka sporting a lopsided grin. “Y/N, you’re a kind, kind soul. Your best friend told me to rot outside,” he sighs dramatically.

“My Suki would never say those words. So either you’re lying, OR you got the wrong bitch. Which is it? Answer quickly,” you tease, already waltzing back toward the kitchen.

He chuckles, stepping into the apartment and holding the door open behind him. “Zu, come on, my arm’s getting tired.”

Your ears perk at the mention of a new name, accompanied by a voice that is way too deep to belong to Aang.

“Please just be happy that I’m here,” the voice grumbles, dripping with a mixture of irritation and reluctant affection. "I’m tired and I cancelled my hair cut appointment to make it.”

It’s deep, with a velvet feel to it—the kind of voice that would make anyone do a double-take, and you’re no exception. You glance over your shoulder, curious to see the face that belongs to someone with a voice that criminal.

His back is toward you, but his shoulders are broad, and his hair is thrown up in a messy half-bun that makes your eyes widen. You’re an absolute sucker for men with long hair, and his is nice and thick, even if it only brushes the tops of his shoulders.

“I’m over the moon,” Sokka says, his voice fading down the hall. “Suki was going to feed me to the sharks if I couldn’t get you to help. She said if Aang helped, we’d be building until sunrise, and I plan on needing this bed way before then.”

You watch them disappear into the bedroom, your mouth pulling into a slight pout. A part of you was hoping Sokka would use his Southern hospitality to introduce the two of you, but alas, that’s not the case. You return to the task at hand, adding an extra splash of vodka to the top of the shaker before balancing the two full glasses in your hands.

You navigate your way back to the massacre you girls are making of Suki’s bathroom. His back is still to you as you pass through the bedroom, so you pay it no mind, walking straight into the ensuite and shutting the door behind you with a flick of your hip.

Suki’s makeup is mostly done, but you can’t help but giggle when she turns to look at you. She’s in the middle of baking her setting powder, making her look like a very pretty powdered donut.

“Made it just how you like. And if I didn’t, let's just blame Sokka,” you jest, carefully passing the glass into her well-manicured nails.

“You can do no wrong, my angel. But that troublemaker out there? Tsk, tsk, tsk,” she jokes, her tone a perfect blend of sweetness and trouble—your absolute favorite combination.

You click your glasses together.

“Cheers.” “Cheers.”

It’s a flawless blend of tart, sweet, and heavy alcohol; a sure precursor to how the rest of the night is going to go.

You set your glass down and pick up your blush brush, dusting a lovely coating of pink onto your cheeks that makes you feel extra pretty. “I’m excited to try this new club tonight. Hopefully, the vibes are great, the drinks are plentiful, and the music is delightful,” you exhale dreamily. You were already feeling the buzzed warmth of the first drink; this second one, with its extra ratio of vodka, is definitely going to send you past the point of tipsy.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” She squeals, fanning her face to hurry the drying process of her setting spray. “I need to feel the music, I want it to compel me to shake ass with you all night long girlie,” she pushes in her vanity chair and stands upright. 

“Precisely that my girl,” you agree, setting your head on her as you take in the final versions of yourselves before the night has its way with you. Usually, you would see the two college freshmen, lost, confused, but trying. And now? Now you see two young women doing their damndest to still hold on to whimsy and joy. Something you would be damned to let a man fix his lips and talk down on. “We look quite stunning,” you whisper, head already beginning to spin as you pick up your drink once more. 

“ Breathtaking, darling, absolutely breathtaking. Now, unless we’re gonna put some bibs on these drinks, lets stop babysitting and shoot em back, semi-clean up this mess, take some exit shots and then skip our pretty asses out of here and to the dance floor,” her glass clicks against yours with a finality that signals the start of girls night in earnest. 

You chug it down alongside her, fighting the taste of alcohol for the promise of a night that’s guaranteed to make you feel infinite and pretty. 

“Ahhh” “Ahhh”

You both giggle at your synchronicity. Then, you move into overdrive, singing offkey to the music and, despite Suki’s instructions to semi-clean, you start working to make it look like the two of you never dumped your entire make up bags over her vanity and bathroom counter. You pack up your travel bag and toiletry kit, applying a few spritz of perfume to the both of you for the third time tonight. You leave the bathroom mostly spotless. 

“You’re such an overachiever,” she mumbles teasingly. 

You roll your eyes playfully, “I’m thorough and I like to leave no traces of myself in other’s space…you should know that roomie.” 

She laughs fondly, reminiscing on the three years of college you two spent as roommates. The only reason you didn’t spend the entire time living together is because Sokka proposed and you were not about to come between your best girl and the man the universe made just for her. 

She opens the door, grinning big, “Oh shit! Zuko! You’re actually here? In our apartment? It’s like a dream come true.” 

Zuko. So that’s his name. 

You stand on your tippy toes to see over her shoulder, mouth falling open as you finally see the man with the panty-dropper voice. Well shit. 

He’s all muscles, tan skin, full lips, and intense, pretty eyes. There’s an aura about him that tells you he’s trouble of some kind. 

“Sokka said you threatened him within an inch of his life if I didn’t come,” Zuko deadpans, his gaze dropping pointedly to the man currently trying to hammer a screw into a wooden board. Zuko rolls his eyes, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. “Sokka, please set that down and wait for me.” 

“I’m trying to get this done in a timely manner—” 

Suki sucks her teeth, eyes narrowing as she stares at her soon-to-be-husband, “I don’t want you blaming Zuko, for the bed suddenly falling into pieces because you couldn’t listen to his instructions. Zu, thanks so much for coming.” 

He finally looks up from the mess beneath him and from the instruction manual, his gaze landing on Suki with certainty. “No problem, this has over three hundred pieces, so you made the right call to send for me. Have fun on your night out,” he states, before dropping his attention back to the instructions. 

You settle back on your feet, fingers gently tapping Suki on the shoulder to gain her attention, but her mind is ten leagues ahead and out the door. She grabs hold on to your wrist and leads you out the door in large strides. “Lets do two exit shots? Uber should be here by then, yeah?” she mutters, already moving with speed, fueled by excitement and anticipation at the fact that her new bed will be all ready and done up upon her return. 

“Yeah, yeah,” you stutter out, fingers working to unlock your phone and check again. “Four minutes away.” 

Your nose scrunches up as she fills four shot glasses to the rim. She wants a crunk kind of night. You lift the first shot glass in the air, inhaling deeply as you try to steel your mind and stomach for the god awful taste. 

“To a helluva girls night! To a helluva friendship” 

You chant in unison. You tap the glass to the edge of the counter and shoot it back. You repeat the pattern with the other shot. Your tongue feels heavy and your head feels light. Yep, you’ve passed the threshold of tipsy. And what a wonderful threshold to pass with the uber two minutes out. 

“Suki, do you have extra screws? He magically misplaced an entire bag when I wasn’t looking.” You glance over your shoulder, watching as Zuko stands right underneath the kitchen light. He’s closer and that feels even more devastating. It’s like looking at the physical definition of the word attractive underneath a magnifying glass. It just gets better. 

You poke Suki’s side discreetly, cutting your eyes to the man who’s currently looking in a ziploc bag she just passed him. She smiles, “Oh, before we run, because I know Sokka didn’t. This is my best friend, Y/n and Y/n, this is Zuko—one of Sokka’s best friends from college.” 

You swipe your tongue over your teeth ensuring no lipstick streaks before turning on the heels of your feet. You smile wide, eyes bright from the liquor and the chance for him to watch you appreciate him openly. You tilt your head, slightly, extending a hand as you allow your gaze to follow from the chisel of his jaw to the wide expanse of his shoulders, and to the way his compression shirt outlines his biceps and down to the way his sweatpants sit lowly.

 “Pleasure to meet you, Y/n.” His hand is warm, slightly calloused, and large as it encompasses yours. 

Your smile widens, and you squeeze his hand slightly before taking your hand back as you hear the buzzing of your phone. “I assure you, the pleasure is all mine,” you turn on your heels, collecting your purse off of the counter. 

“Sokka, we’re out! Love you and call you when we’re ready!” Suki yells, slipping on her heels. 

You slip your fuzzy house slippers on her shoe rack and slip into your kitten heels. Still all smiles and feeling good. As Suki opens the door, you pause, glancing over your shoulder to see Zuko pulling items out of the bag. 

“And Zuko? I’m real happy to see you missed your hair appointment,” you state smoothly. “Your hair makes you too delectable to look at. Cutting it would be a shame.” 

You let the heavy click of the front door punctuate your sentence, swinging it shut behind you before he can even think of a reply.

“OHHH!?” Suki squeals, her eyes nearly popping out of her head as she stares at your side profile.

The carpeted apartment hallway muffles the sharp click of your heels, but it does absolutely nothing to muffle the chaotic mixture of squeals, gasps, and hyperventilating pouring out of Suki.

With Suki being on the first floor, it’s easy to reach the Uber Black idling underneath the foyer. It’s not easy to ignore the series of questions Suki is throwing at you in rapid speed. 

“You think he’s cute, huh? Like you want to fuck him and leave–cute? Or fuck him and keep him cute? Maybe you think he’s a little something more than cute? Is that why you’re quiet? Because I ain’t never seen you shoot your shot and miss, girlie, so why you didn’t do that? You ran instead? The uber could have waited! No offense, Mr. Uber Driver,” Suki’s words are quick, bleeding into one another seamlessly. 

You’re not even sure if the Uber driver understood what she just said, but you did and that makes your heart speed up. You inhale shakily, fingers digging into the door handle for dear life. You’re not even sure of what's happening inside your world, so you giggle, light and airy. “He’s handsome, disgustingly so. What’s his damage?” 

She tilts her head, running her fingers across her chin in thought, “ Mmm, I actually don’t know. He’s really well off, he has an amazing job, I know Sokka said he had a temper in college, butttttt it mellowed out. No kids. No ex wives. He’s reserved, real polite” It takes all her brain power to slow her words down and make sense without the liquor bleeding into her opinion. 

You blink slowly, “That—that offered nothing you little shit.” 

Suki cackles, “I’m not sober! You asshat! We–we can talk more in the daylight, for now lets get into this club, throw some ass and have a good night!” 

“Lets fucking run it!” 

The uber comes to a smooth halt in front of the newest club in the city: Four Nations. Supposedly known for the four different rooms, each based on an element— earth, fire, air, and water. There’s a small line forming, but you were never ladies who waited in lines on Friday nights. 

You strut to the security guard with confidence “hey good lookin’, what’s cookin’?” The cheesy pick up line makes the large, buff man crack a small smile. It’s said with such bravado that it took him completely off guard. 

“Two tonight ladies?” 

Your heads nod like they’re on a figurine, loosely and overly excited. He chuckles lowly, checking your bags, and pointing you towards the  metal detector. “I promise sir, I don’t have any bombs on me aside from my bomb ass personality,” Suki chimes. 

You snort, lacing your fingers together as he gives you the thumbs up to continue forward. It’s a dark hallway, but there’s signs and insignias on the walls pointing in different directions. You glance at the fire one, “Let’s start with the heat!” 

The transition from the dark hallway into the Fire Room hits you like a physical wave. The air is instantly warmer, thick with the scent of expensive colognes and sweet vapes. Massive overhead amber strips and deep red neon lights drench the entire crowd in a crimson glow, casting sharp, dramatic shadows across the dance floor.

A heavy, bass-boosted hip-hop track drops the second you walk in, the ground literally vibrating beneath your kitten heels. It’s loud, it’s sultry, and it is a total vibe.

“Now this, this is ass shaking tunes!” Suki shouts over the music, her silver accents catching the red light as she instantly starts moving her hips to the beat.

“Let’s hit the bar first!” you yell back, laughing as you pull her toward the glowing amber counter. You’re already feeling the bass in your chest, your body moving naturally to the rhythm. The crowd is packed, a sea of bodies dancing under the red lights, but your eyes are instantly drawn toward the VIP section jutting out over the main floor.

You didn’t know sections were available at a location like this. It feels like a waste considering there’s three other rooms to explore. Your head cranes further back as you take in the moving figures dancing above you. They’re all clad in red, matching the room to perfection. However, sitting in the center booth, surrounded by all those dancing bodies, is a girl with sharp, cat-like eyes and a killer smirk. 

She’s decked out in red and gold, sipping a cocktail with an air of complete, undisputed royalty. You know trouble, the warning signs and signals that ring through the layers of alcohol in your system that tell you to stay the hell away from her side of the room. 

Suki’s hip bumps yours cheerfully, beaming at you as she slides you a Midori Sour and a shot. “Eyes on me, not the room!” she calls over the music. 

“My eyes never stray too far from you pretty girl,” you counter, tapping your shot glass to hers and the edge of the table. It tastes like nothing and that makes you smile wider. Tonight will be breathtaking if the music is this good and the liquor is this flavorless. You chase it with the Midori, moaning in contentment as the sweet and sour cocktail enters your system. 

“OH! This our shit!” you yell, practically bouncing as the intro to Yeah! By Usher blasts through the speakers.

 Without missing a beat, the two of you navigate to an open space on the dance floor. The music is a loud, pulsing bass that vibrates straight through the soles of your kitten heels, the flashing strobe lights catching the gold and silver of your minidresses. And as you yell Usher and Lil Jon into the air, the night has you feeling exactly how it's supposed to: pretty and infinite. 

As it transitions into Don’t Tell ‘Em the two of you show out and show off. You’re perfectly in sync, a beautiful show of what five years of friendship and growing together can bleed into when you do nothing but pour love into one another. And for a moment, the world pauses. Shitty men don’t exist. The stress of wedding planning is a thing of the past. It’s just you and your best friend, absolutely owning the night. 

You’re right in the middle of a breathless laugh when a burst of bright, bubbly energy practically teleports into your space on the dance floor.

“Oh my gosh, you guys are literally so stunning!” a voice squeals over the heavy bass.

You turn to see a gorgeous girl with a high, bouncing ponytail and wide, sparkling eyes. She’s grinning like she’s just found her two new best friends. “I was watching you both from upstairs and your synchronization is insane! Silver and gold? The matching minidresses? It’s peak! It’s absolute perfection!”

You and Suki instantly melt under the praise. The alcohol in your system turns the stranger into an immediate soulmate.

“Thank you, pretty girl!” you yell back, your arms wrapping loosely around Suki’s shoulders as you giggle. “See, Su? This is exactly why I go out. I don't do it for the men—I do it for the love of the game and the girls!”

“For the girls!” Suki cheers, throwing her hands in the air.

“Right? Men are a total energy drain anyway,” the ponytail girl giggles, effortlessly sliding between the two of you and handing you each a freshly poured drink from a tray she’d brought over. “I’m Ty Lee, by the way! I bought you guys a round of Long Islands. You looked like you needed something with a little more kick!”

You clink your heavy glasses against hers, completely oblivious to the trap. A Long Island is essentially pure alcohol disguised as tea, and you shoot it back with zero hesitation, fueled by the sheer good vibes Ty Lee is radiating. 

“You’re an angel, Ty Lee!” Suki beams, wiping her mouth with her thumb  as the liquor hits her bloodstream like a lightning bolt.

Ty Lee’s smirk grows just a little bit mischievous, her eyes darting back up toward the VIP section. “Well, I can’t take all the credit. My friend up there actually noticed you first. She wants to see if you can keep that same energy upstairs in our section. Come on, she loves a challenge!”

Good decision making is through the window. Your radar for trouble is just as drunk as you now. As Ty Lee pulls you up the stairs—it takes everything in you to lock in and not trip. The music feels louder on the second floor and as you enter the private space, you feel a chill run down your spine that can’t possibly be from the temperature inside this room. 

Azula! I brought some fun energy!” Ty Lee squeals. She presents the two of you to the woman you noticed earlier like a pair of show ponies. Had you been sober, you probably would have had a slick comment to make about it. But you’re absolutely not, so you just smile wide, your hips swaying loosely to the heavy beat of a song you don't even recognize.

The woman named Azula analyzes the two of you with a cold, critical eye, a gleam of pure trouble flickering deep in her irises. “You both were such a delight to watch downstairs. I figured we simply had to invite you over before someone else stole you away from us,” she says, her voice smooth and dripping with a sultry, calculated charm.

As she sips her cocktail, you hold her gaze. A fleeting, hazy thought crosses your mind: she looks incredibly familiar.

Suki apparently has the exact same thought, and the liquor wins a swift victory over her filter. “You look so familiar! Have we met before?”

Azula shrugs elegantly, setting her drink down and immediately grabbing a row of heavy shot glasses. She squeezes a fresh lime wedge into the bottom of each before pouring a dangerously hefty amount of clear liquor into them.

“I don’t think so,” Azula replies, a sharp, knowing smirk pulling at her lips. “I’d remember a pretty face like yours. Shots, ladies?”

She doesn’t actually wait for a yes. Ty Lee is already plucking the glasses from the table and sliding them right into your hands.

Good decision-making might have been out the window, but the physical sensation of the alcohol is finally catching up to your brain. As Ty Lee pulls you both into the center of the VIP booth to dance, the room feels like it’s tilted on a slight axis. The heavy hip-hop beat feels like it’s vibrating right through your teeth.

Ty Lee is a ball of absolute, fluid energy: hyping you up, spinning Suki around, and making you laugh so hard your cheeks hurt. But every time you blink, another shot glass or a fresh cocktail magically appears in your hand, courtesy of Azula’s quiet, calculating hospitality. You’re floating, your body moving beautifully under the red lights, but a small, sober alarm bell is finally ringing in the back of your mind.

You chase a shot of tequila with a heavy exhale, leaning against the leather backrest of the booth. “Okay, okay,” you giggle, waving a hand in front of your face as Ty Lee hovers over the table to grab another round. “I think we’re okay for a second. We gotta pace ourselves, right Su? The night is still young.”

Azula, who had been watching the display with a bored, regal amusement, lets out a soft, mocking hum. She swirls the dark liquid in her own glass, her sharp eyes locking onto Suki’s flushed face.

“Oh, let them be, Ty Lee,” Azula says, her voice smooth, dripping with a patronizing sweetness. “It’s fine. Not everyone has the stamina to stay up here. Sokka always did mention that his little girlfriend was a bit of a lightweight. It’s cute, really. Go back down to the little floor, darlings. The shallow end suits you.”

The music seems to stop entirely in Suki's mind.

The mention of Sokka is a blur, but the word lightweight? The phrase shallow end?

You watch in slow motion as Suki’s entire posture changes. The sloppy, happy, drunken grin vanishes, replaced by a fierce, hyper-focused glare that you recognize all too well. The competitive Kyoshi spirit in her doesn't just wake up—it catches fire. Her switch hasn't just been flipped; she’s ready to tear the whole circuit board out of the wall.

“A lightweight?” Suki repeats, her voice steadying through the liquor as she steps directly up to the table, leaning her hands on the polished wood. She looks Azula dead in the eyes. “Who the fuck is a lightweight?”

Azula’s smirk widens, entirely pleased with herself for drawing blood so easily. “Well, if the shoe fits, sweetie.”

“Line 'em up,” Suki commands, slamming her hand on the table and looking over at Ty Lee. “Line 'em the fuck up. Every single one of 'em. We’re taking them.”

“Suki, wait—” you try to protest, reaching for her gold-accented arm, but you’re already too late.

“No, Y/N, don't worry about it,” Suki says, her eyes never leaving Azula’s face as Ty Lee eagerly starts setting down a fresh, menacing row of dark liquor. “This bitch thinks we’re playing. Let’s see who’s left standing.”

Suki manages to match Azula shot for shot for the first three rounds, her competitive fire burning bright under the crimson neon lights. She throws her head back, laughing loudly with Ty Lee, and slips right back into the rhythm of the music, determined to prove she belongs in the deep end.

But you know your best friend. You’ve seen this exact movie play out before at one too many frat parties, where trying to out-drink Suki became an absolute rite of passage for the local boys—and she would always drink them completely under the table.

As you sway to the heavy, pulsing bass, your eyes lock onto Suki’s profile. The sharp, hyper-focused glare she had just a minute ago is starting to soften. Her eyelids droop just a fraction too low, her smile turning a little too loose and loopy. Right there, you see the fire in her eyes begin to dim, replaced by the distinct, glazed-over look of a girl who has officially crossed the point of no return. The liquor is about to win, and it’s going to win fast.

Before the impending disaster can strike right in front of the devil in red, you move to execute an emergency exit.

You turn to Suki, a dramatic pout on your lips, making your eyes wide and doe-like as you stare up at her. She pauses her dancing with Ty Lee, looking down at you with instant concern. Then, a soft, knowing smile stretches across her face, and a flash of pure relief washes over her eyes.

“Gotta break the seal?” she questions.

You nod, breaking into a flashy, breezy smile as you turn your gaze back to Ty Lee and Azula. “Pardon us, ladies, but I must break the seal if we’re gonna keep up this pace. BRB—maybe—if the music is still just right.” It’s spoken with a confidence that beautifully masks the sudden spinning inside your own head. As you grab Suki’s arm, you give her a subtle, grounding squeeze.

The both of you are in trouble. Her just a little sooner than you.

Azula sits back against the plush leather seating, a knowing, victorious smirk playing on her full lips as she gracefully swirls her glass. She clearly sees right through the excuse, but she lets you have it anyway. “Take your time, darlings. We aren’t going anywhere.”

“Don’t get lost!” Ty Lee waves cheerfully, her ponytail bouncing as she takes another sip of her drink.

“Never,” you counter, already spinning Suki around on your heels.

She holds her posture perfectly straight as you navigate down the VIP stairs, but the exact moment you exit the suffocating heat of the Fire room, the strength deflates from her entirely. She leans heavily into your side as you guide her toward the bathrooms tucked away in a quiet corner. You exhale a massive sigh of relief when you realize there’s no line, and, better yet, it’s a private, single-stall restroom.

The heavy wooden door clicks shut, locking out the pounding bass of the club and replacing it with the sterile, quiet hum of fluorescent lights. The second the lock turns, Suki drops to her knees. Her silver-accented minidress wrinkles against the tile as she grips the porcelain bowl, and the first wave of pure regret hits.

“Oh, sweet Kyoshi,” she groans between heavy, miserable retches.

“I got you, I got you,” you mutter, your own head taking a violent spin as you drop your purse on the sink. You rush over, dropping to one knee beside her to fiercely gather her thick hair in both of your hands, keeping it far away from the disaster zone.

With one hand keeping her hair secure, your free hand frantically digs into your bag for your phone. The position you’re in compromises your reach, so you grab everything but the phone on your first few attempts. Once it’s finally in your clutches, your thumb accidentally misclicks twice because the screen is blurring, but you finally manage to hit Sokka’s contact.

It rings once. Twice. Three times.

“Come on, pick up, pick up...” you whisper, wincing as Suki lets out another pathetic, agonizing groan.

“Drunk calling me on accident again, eh? When we—” Sokka’s voice suddenly blares through the receiver, sounding slightly breathless and immediately on high alert. In the background, you can hear the distinct, rhythmic clack-clack of a plastic hardware bag being rummaged through.

“Sokka!” you half-shout, half-whisper, trying to keep your voice steady as your own stomach does a mild flip. “Code red. Change of plans. You need to drop the hammer, get in the car, and come pick us up right now.”

“What? Wait, what happened? Have y’all been arrested? Are y’all hurt?” The clacking in the background instantly stops. You can hear the sudden rustle of fabric, and then a deeper, low rumble, Zuko’s voice, asking Sokka what’s wrong.

“We’re not hurt, we’re compromised,” you explain frantically, tightening your grip on Suki’s hair as she shudders. “Some devil in a red dress named Azula just completely took her down in a drink-off, and I’m not gonna lie to you, Sokka—it is not looking too hot in this bathroom right now. We are in the trenches. I’m seconds away from pushing–Sokka, be on your way.”

You abruptly drop your phone on the floor, unravel your hand from Suki’s hair, and drag the plastic trashcan toward you just in time to empty the contents of your own stomach. It’s violent. It burns way worse than the alcohol did going down. It is absolutely not pretty, and as involuntary tears stream down your flushed cheeks, you make it your solemn mission to remember the face of the wicked woman who put you in this predicament. 

There is a beat of dead silence on the line.

Then, you hear a loud, sharp clatter on Sokka's end, like a handful of screws being dropped directly onto a hardwood floor, followed by Zuko’s voice, suddenly loud, incredibly sharp, and utterly horrified.

“Did you say Azula?!”

The line goes dead. 

You stare at the blank screen of your phone for a fraction of a second, before the raw adrenaline of survival forces you to lock in. The alcohol is still making your head spin, but your inner mother-hen has officially taken the wheel.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, blinking away the tears from your eyes, and look down at your best friend.

“Su,” you croak, your voice a little scratchy from the trashcan incident. You place a hand on her shoulder, giving her a gentle shake. “Look at me, snookums. Is the ground you are on stable? Are you done?”

Suki blinks up at you, her face pale under her glittering highlighter, but she nods loosely. “I’m done. The room stopped doing cartwheels.”

“Good. Up we go.”

With a grunt, you hoist her off the tile, stabilizing her against your side until her kitten heels find their balance. Once she’s steady, you go into absolute, military-grade damage control mode.

First, you hit the flush lever on the toilet, letting the roaring water swallow the evidence of Azula’s victory. You dive into the abyss of your purse, pulling out a pack of antibacterial hand wipes. With practiced speed, you wipe down the rim of the toilet and the stall handle, because even drunk, you refuse to leave a biohazard behind.

Next, you squirt a generous pool of hand sanitizer into Suki’s palms and then your own, rubbing your hands together with a ferocity that burns.

“To the sink,” you command, steering her over to the mirror. You turn on the faucet, forcing both of your hands under the warm water with a heavy pump of soap. Once your hands are scrubbed clean, you dry them off and dig back into your bag for the ultimate savior: makeup wipes.

You look at your reflections in the mirror. The "infinite and pretty" look from an hour ago has officially left the building. Suki’s silver accents are smudged, and your gold eyeliner is crying down your cheek.

“Hold still,” you mutter, aggressively but lovingly wiping away the ruined makeup from Suki’s face, leaving her skin bare, clean, and slightly pink. You quickly do the same to your own face, stripping away the club armor until you’re just two girls with fresh skin and a shared trauma.

To seal the crime scene shut, you grab your perfume bottle and aggressively mist the entire single-stall restroom until it smells like a high-end department store instead of regret.

You pack your things back into your purse, grab Suki’s hand, and lace your fingers tightly with hers.

“Alright,” you say, looking her dead in the eyes. “We need fresh air. Right now.”

You’re not proud of the defeat, but you know it’s for the best to retreat. Your world is still spinning, your stomach is still entirely unsure if it’s done, and something tells you Suki is going through the exact same thing. As you exit the club, you become acutely aware of the line size; it now stretches far past the length of the massive building.

The bodyguard from before doesn’t quite notice the makeup-free transformation that just took place, but he is visibly surprised that the two of you are already exiting after only an hour and a half inside. Your grip tightens around Suki’s wrist as you guide her down the sidewalk, heading in the opposite direction of the crowd.

The street is still brightly lit, but it’s away from the heavy chaos, and the number of walking patrons is scarce despite it being a beautiful summer night. The fresh air feels wonderful, but it can only do so much against the sheer volume of liquor drowning your systems. You inhale sharply, feeling a familiar, violent turning in your stomach make a swift comeback.

“Su—”

Before you can finish, she ducks down behind a glass bus stop structure, her fingers tightly gripping yours as the liquor wins its battle once again. It’s a miserable mashup of the alcohol and the heavy dinner the two of you had eaten in hopes of offsetting the drinks. Unfortunately, Azula had completely obliterated your timeline and the structural support you had in place.

You rub gentle circles on her back and hold her hair away from the splash zone, all while fighting like hell to hold back your own sudden urge to throw up alongside her. “Let it out, pumpkin,” you whisper softly.

“Suki!”

Your head snaps up a little too quickly, the sudden movement causing you to stumble slightly in your squatted position. “Sh-shit,” you curse, quickly finding your footing.

Sokka’s black Escalade has just pulled up haphazardly along the curb, idling right behind a sleek, dark BMW you’ve never seen before. Your fingers tighten around Suki’s hair, trying to manually ward off the wave of nausea washing over you as the car doors fly open.

Suki groans, blinking away the involuntary tears in her eyes as her fiancé's shoes come into view. “Sokka,” she rasps, tilting her head up. Her pale face looks exactly like a sinner who has just found her savior at the altar. “O-oh, thank heavens. Zu—Zuko! Your sister... when I’m ba-back on my feet, I’m in her ass,” she spits out through gritted teeth, her hand squeezing yours for dear life.

Your ears ring at the word sister, making you whip your attention to the beautiful man beside Sokka. And that’s why that bitch looked familiar. You let out a breathless laugh, there’s a headache brewing behind your eyes; could be from your wig, could be from throwing up, or the realization that damage in relation to the man who has your heart racing is a demonic sibling. You don’t know and you don’t care to know at the moment. 

“I’m incredibly, sorry,” Zuko states, opening Sokka’s passenger door as Sokka navigates the splash zone to lift Suki. 

“Y/n, you okay with Zuko driving you home?” Sokka questions, carefully scooping Suki bridal style into his arms. You don’t think twice before nodding. You want to shower, to climb in your bed, and wear something that’s going to mildly make tomorrow better despite the raging hangover you know you’ll wake up to. 

Zuko offers you his hand and you take it cautiously; allowing him to guide you to his nice car. He opens the passenger door. The scent of his vehicle makes your eyes roll, it is a warm, comforting scent that practically embraces you in a hug as the soft leather chair molds to your frame. You hum in delight, happy to be off your feet and stationary. 

“Shit, Baby—” the rest of the words are drowned out by the sound of more vomiting.  

His cologne makes your head swirl as he leans over your frame, buckling you in with quick efficiency. “I’ll be right back,” Zuko tells you softly, a trace of secondhand embarrassment on his face as he looks toward the Escalade. “I think Suki might have just hit the side panel. Let me help Sokka clean this up.”

You give him a loose, heavy nod, letting your eyelids drop. By the time Zuko assists a panicking Sokka in wiping down the front of his car and helping maneuver a completely wiped-out Suki into the backseat, you are entirely dead to the world. The adrenaline of the bathroom escape has worn off, and the alcohol is pulling you under. Your head lolles to the side, your breathing slowing down into a deep sleep.

Zuko climbs into the driver’s seat, closing the door with a quiet click to avoid waking you. He pulls his phone out, hitting Sokka’s contact to get your address. It rings out to voicemail. He groans, clicking it again. Still nothing—Sokka is clearly fighting for his life with a wet rag and a sick fiancé. He tries Aang, but he doesn't answer either.He stares at the glowing screen in the dark car, a wave of frustration washing over him. He doesn't know who else in their circle knows you well enough to have your address, or your apartment number. 

For fifteen minutes, he just sits there in the quiet hum of his idling car, trying to figure out what the hell to do.

He shifts his gaze over to you, and his chest tightens a little. The loud, bold girl who had the gall to look him up and down in the kitchen and call his hair delectable is completely gone. In her place is just you, bare-faced and peaceful. Even with your makeup wiped clean and your hair a little rumpled from the night's chaos, you are stunning. The dashboard lights throw soft amber glows across your cheeks, highlighting the long line of your lashes and the soft pout of your lips. You look beautiful like this—vulnerable, soft, and entirely at peace against his leather seats.

A quiet sigh escapes his lips. He can't leave you sitting in a car all night, and he can't leave you on Suki's locked doorstep without a key. Making an executive decision, Zuko shifts the BMW into drive and pulls away from the curb, steering the car toward his penthouse.

It’s a smooth ride, but he finds his gaze drifting to check on you every few seconds. You really did throw him for a loop with your compliment, one he spent thirty minutes agonizing over with Sokka to understand what it meant. And, the conclusion they reached was that you thought he was attractive, but Zuko’s not that sold on the idea yet. 

Zuko shifts the car into park, turning off the engine and letting the sudden silence of the garage take over. He moves with extreme caution, stepping out of the vehicle and walking around to the passenger side. Opening the door, he unbuckles you gently, careful not to let your frame slump forward.

He slides one arm securely behind your back and the other beneath your knees, carefully maneuvering you out of the car. The sudden shift in gravity makes you stir, a small, sleepy frown crossing your features before you subconsciously tuck your arms closer to yourself. Your face buries right into the crook of his neck, your nose pressing against the soft fabric of his compression shirt.

“Mmm... smells good,” you mumble against his skin, your voice nothing more than a faint, thick whisper. You breathe in the heavy mix of his woodsmoke cologne and the clean scent of his skin, your head lacing further into his chest as if trying to find the warmest spot.

A sudden stiffness takes over Zuko’s frame. He freezes for a fraction of a second, his heart giving a hard, distinct thud against your cheek. He clears his throat softly, his grip tightening around you just a bit as he adjusts your weight against his broad shoulders.

“Just sleep,” he murmurs back, his voice a low, raspy vibration that you feel more than you hear.

He carries you toward the private elevator bay, navigating the buttons with a careful elbow. The ride up to the twentieth floor, his floor, is fast and silent. When the doors slide open directly into his private foyer, he balances you carefully, his large hand working efficiently to maneuver his front door open.

The penthouse is dark and quiet, a massive contrast to the flashing lights and roaring bass of Four Nations. Zuko walks past his own master suite, heading straight down the long hallway toward the guest room. He uses his foot to push the door open, stepping into the pristine, minimalist room.

He walks over to the queen-sized bed, gently lowering you onto the soft sheets. You let out a small, satisfied hum as your heels slip out of your kitten shoes and your body sinks into the expensive mattress. He pulls the heavy duvet up, draping it carefully over your shoulders to ensure you stay warm throughout the night.

He stands by the edge of the bed for a moment, his hands resting on his hips as he looks down at you in the dim light filtering through the window. You look entirely comfortable, completely claiming his guest bed like it belongs to you. A ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips, but he shakes his head, turning on his heel to step into the adjoining bathroom.

He returns a minute later, setting a cold glass of water and two Tylenol pills on the nightstand right next to your head. He knows exactly what kind of hell Azula’s mix of liquor brings the morning after, and he’s not about to let you suffer through it completely unprotected.

Giving you one final glance, Zuko quietly exits the room, letting the door click shut behind him to leave you in total, peaceful darkness.

When your eyes open for the first time, you are met with absolute, dense darkness. The blackout curtains drawn across the windows are doing their job entirely too well, trapping the room in a midnight vacuum that makes it impossible to tell what time it is.

Your head feels like a construction crew is actively using a jackhammer right behind your eyes. Your mouth is dry, your throat feels like sandpaper, and your scalp feels incredibly light—meaning your wig didn't survive the night. It's off your head completely, leaving your hair free to breathe in a curly, wild, voluminous mess from a three-day-old twist out.

Your brain, sluggish and heavy from the sheer amount of liquor in your system, immediately rationalizes the unfamiliar environment. A hotel, you think numbly. You figure the girls' night got too out of hand, Suki probably ended up in the room next door, and Sokka must have come to the rescue.

Peering through the dark, you spot the faint silhouette of a glass of water and two pills on the nightstand.

God bless Sokka, you think, mentally sending a prayer to your best friend's fiancé.

You sit up with a low groan, your body aching as you reach out to down the Tylenol. The cool water hits your throat like a literal lifesaver, washing away the lingering, bitter burn of the club trashcan. You set the empty glass back down, immediately collapse back into the plush pillows, pull the heavy duvet over your shoulders, and let the darkness pull you right back into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The second time your eyes snap open, the haze has lifted just enough for your survival instincts to kick in.

The hangover jackhammer has subsided into a dull, pulsing ache, but the comforting "hotel" theory immediately begins to disintegrate. Hotels don't usually smell like high-end woodsmoke and expensive leather. Hotels don't have sheets that feel this heavy, soft, and tailored.

You blink against the darkness, your heart rate giving a sudden, anxious spike as you sit up a little straighter. You look toward the nightstand again, then down at the plush mattress beneath you. Skepticism washes over you like a wave of cold water.

Sokka is a good guy, but he is cheap. Sokka would have gotten a standard room at a Holiday Inn—he wouldn't, and couldn't, have booked a room that feels this profoundly expensive.

You take a moment, aggressively scanning your brain to reconstruct the course of the night outside of the god-awful vomiting.

“Y/N, you okay with Zuko driving you home?”

Right. Zuko was supposed to take you home. Then he went to go help Sokka with Suki, and after that... it’s completely blank. It takes a long, agonizing moment for the truth to dawn on you as you reminisce about the luxurious, woodsmoke scent of his car and how the leather seat had felt like a total hug.

You fell asleep. Like a complete dummy.

You exhale roughly, planting your face entirely into your hands. You fell asleep in his damn car.

But, okay. It’s fine, you tell yourself, forcing a deep breath into your lungs. It’s still early. You can easily sneak out, slip into an Uber, and send a deeply apologetic text to him via Suki later. Your pride simply won’t be able to handle looking him in the eye right now. Not if it wants to survive.

You move with quiet, military efficiency. You pull your wrinkled black dress down, make up the guest bed to the absolute best of your ability, and grab your kitten heels by the straps. High on the tips of your toes, you navigate the unfamiliar space, turning the doorknob and opening the bedroom door with agonizing care.

Your eyes squint instantly at the bright, aggressive amount of morning light beaming into the hallway from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Well, shit, that’s bright.

You move slowly, inching your way down the corridor. You almost jump for joy when you spot the main foyer just ahead, past a few closed doors. There’s a massive, ultra-modern kitchen to your left, and then the front door. Freedom is right there. You just have to make it past the kitchen.

The silence of the penthouse is shattered, and your soul practically leaves your body. You stand entirely frozen on the tips of your toes, one hand holding your kitten heels by the straps and the other gripping your wig like a caught thief.

"Your hair makes you real delectable to look at."

The sound of his voice is a low, velvet rumble that completely paralyzes you. "When I saw you last night, it was straight and with bangs. Now it's curly and big. I like it."

Your head turns with agonizing slowness, not to your left toward the kitchen, but to your right, into the massive, open-concept living room.

The space is absolutely drenched in bright afternoon light pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, a luxury pool glimmers on a private balcony against the city skyline, but that view is absolutely nothing compared to the man currently walking inside.

He was dangerous fully clothed in Suki's kitchen last night, but standing there soaking wet, in nothing but a pair of low-slung black swim trunks? He is a literal hazard to public safety. Droplets of water track down the sharp, chiseled lines of his chest and abs, catching the sunlight. A dark towel is draped loosely over his broad shoulders, and his long, thick hair is damp and unruly as he uses the fabric to casually dry it.

Your heart speeds up into a frantic, erratic sprint against your ribs. Your hands go suddenly clammy.

You are standing in his multi-million dollar penthouse, bare-faced, in a wrinkled club dress, with your three-day-old twist-out wild and free, holding your own hair in your hands. The sheer comedic tragedy of your failed escape route hits you all at once, but as your eyes trace the line of his jaw up to his intense, pretty eyes, the liquor-fueled confidence from last night tries to claw its way back to the surface.

He stops walking, lowering the towel from his head to look at you, a quiet, amused smirk pulling at the corner of his full lips.

"Going somewhere, Y/n?" he asks softly, the deep vibration of his voice cutting right through your embarrassment.

Your mouth opens and closes, completely soundless. You glance down at the crumpled wig and kitten heels in your hands, then right back up to his patient, steady gaze.

“I—I, wasn’t, I—I was, b–but…” You inhale roughly, forcing your shoulders back and adjusting your posture to stand up straight.

You honestly cannot remember the last time a man left you this entirely tongue-tied just because he was so good-looking, and not because he’d said something so profoundly stupid it reminded you that some children really should have been left behind.

“You are distracting shirtless,” you grumble under your breath, deliberately snapping your gaze away from his chest and redirecting it toward the safety of the kitchen. Your face instantly lights up as you spot your phone and purse neatly placed on the edge of the island counter. Safe.

Zuko smiles, a genuine, soft expression that wrinkles the corners of his eyes as he watches you get flustered. Yesterday, you walked out of Suki’s apartment with a level of confidence that had completely shaken him. A beautiful woman, complimenting him with an ease that left him wondering for hours if you even meant it or if you were just playing. And now? Now that same beautiful woman is shy underneath his gaze, acting completely coy in his living room.

He is incredibly amused.

“That didn’t answer the question,” he remarks smoothly.

He lets the damp towel fall from his hands onto a nearby chair as he steps into the kitchen area. He closes the distance between the two of you with slow, deliberate steps, moving until he is just within your personal orbit—close enough that the scent of the hot summer sun on his damp skin completely floods your senses.

You close your eyes, your cheeks warm as you feel his intense gaze resting on you.

“I—I don’t mean to overstay my welcome,” you rush out, your voice a tiny bit breathless as you keep your eyes tightly shut. “Thank you so much... for everything. And I’m sorry for falling asleep in your car and—and everything.”

Zuko lets out a low, quiet chuckle that vibrates right in your chest. "Open your eyes, Y/n."

You bite your bottom lip, shaking your head slowly, “mmm, no, I can’t. I will lose reason and I am fighting for my life right now. My wig is in my left hand, my heels are in my right, and I am ninety percent sure I cried-vomited into a plastic trashcan last night while swearing vengeance on your bloodline. I am not built for a staring contest with a wet GQ model right now.” 

The corner of Zuko’s mouth twitches, a low, breathy laugh escaping his chest at your blunt honesty. Hearing you completely break character and lay out the exact structural damage of your pride is apparently the highlight of his morning.

“A GQ model?” he repeats, his voice dripping with a mix of amusement and genuine charm as he steps another inch closer. “I’ve been called worse.”

You keep your eyes shut tight, but you can feel the sudden shift in the air as his hand gently reaches out. His fingers lightly brush against yours, taking the weight of the crumpled wig and the kitten heels from your clammy grip and setting them down onto the smooth marble of the kitchen island. Without the armor of your shoes and hair, you feel incredibly small standing in front of him, but his presence doesn't feel threatening—it just feels warm.

“You didn’t overstay your welcome, Y/N,” Zuko says softly, his tone shifting into something a lot more grounded and comforting. “And you don’t have to apologize for falling asleep. Azula is... a lot. Frankly, I’m just glad you and Suki made it out of that club in one piece.”

You finally crack one eye open, squinting up at him through your wild, three-day-old twist-out. He’s looking down at you with an expression that is entirely too kind for a man who looks like he belongs on a billboard.

“Look,” he continues, gesturing loosely toward the hallway. “You look like you’re still a little unsteady. Why don't you take a shower? I have a clean bathroom in the guest room, and I can find you some sweatpants and a shirt to change into. Your dress looks a little... compressed.”

“I can just call an Uber,” you mumble, your voice lacking any real conviction as your stomach gives a slight, treacherous roll. “I don't want to borrow your clothes.”

Zuko just smiles. It’s not the smug, victorious smirk his sister had last night—it’s a soft, genuine expression that completely reaches his eyes, softening the sharp line of his jaw and making him look devastatingly handsome in the afternoon light.

You instantly close your eyes again, letting out a defeated groan. “Yep. Should have kept it closed. I’m losing reason.”

He lets out another quiet chuckle, clearly catching the muttered complaint. “I was just about to order some lunch since I finished my workout. If you stay, I’ll get whatever greasy carbohydrates you need to survive the day. Deal?”

You stand there in the dark of your own eyelids, weighing your options. On one hand, you could go home looking like a beautiful, chaotic bird in the back of an Uber. On the other hand, you could take a hot shower, put on his undoubtedly expensive sweatpants, and eat free hangover food in a luxury penthouse with a man who smells like the sun.

You slowly open both eyes, looking him dead in his chest before lifting your gaze to his face. “If I stay... I want a large fry. And a lemonade.”

Zuko’s smile widens, a look of pure satisfaction crossing his features as he steps back to give you some space. “A large fry and a lemonade. Got it. Follow me, I’ll get you those clothes.”

You trail closely behind him, the soft soles of your feet padding silently against the dark hardwood floors as he leads you down the hallway and into his own personal quarters. The second you cross the threshold, your breath hitches slightly in your throat.

The space is absolutely massive. It is drenched in a dark, elegant aesthetic that screams wealth, but in a deeply tasteful way. Deep charcoals and blacks wrap the room, perfectly offset by rich, crimson undertones and subtle accents of gold sprinkled throughout the decor. It looks powerful, regal, and entirely masculine. Your eyes instinctively dart toward the center of the room, wide-eyed at the bed alone—it is an absolute fortress, looking like a combination of two king-sized beds pushed together, covered in a heavy charcoal duvet that looks impossibly comfortable.

Zuko pushes a set of heavy smoked-glass doors open, walking into a walk-in closet that is literally the size of a standard studio apartment. Row after row of perfectly tailored suits, ironed button-downs, and organized sneakers line the walls. As you linger near the entrance, your writer’s brain and natural intuition immediately go to work, scanning the perimeter. You note the crisp, clean lines, the distinct lack of stray hair ties, and the complete absence of any feminine touches whatsoever.

Single, your mind registers with a strange, sudden jolt of adrenaline. He is definitely single.

He rummages through a neatly folded stack of loungewear before turning back to you, draping a pair of thick, oversized gray sweatpants and a matching black crewneck sweatshirt over your forearm. The fabric is unbelievably soft, smelling faintly of that same high-end laundry detergent and woodsmoke that you’re quickly becoming addicted to.

“Here,” Zuko says, his deep voice dropping to a quiet, private rumble within the confines of the room. “These should fit. Well, they’ll be big, but they’re comfortable.” He gestures toward the hallway. “Any toiletries you might need—new toothbrushes, soap, whatever—are already in the cabinets under the sink. Take your time.”

You look down at the heavy clothes in your arms, then look up at him, a soft, genuine wave of appreciation washing over your hangover haze. “Thank you, Zuko. Seriously.”

He doesn't say a word. Instead, he just offers you another one of those quiet, devastatingly warm smiles, his gold-flecked eyes softening completely as he looks down at you. It is such an intimate, gentle look that it hits you right in your chest, making your toes literally curl against the cool hardwood floor.

You turn on your heels before you can completely melt into a puddle on his closet floor, clutching the oversized clothes to your chest like a lifeline. You practically float back down the hallway to the guest room you had just tried sneaking out of, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

The second the guest room door clicks shut behind you, you let out a long, breathless exhale, leaning your back against the dark wood. , pressing the soft fabric of his crewneck to your face. It smells so good it’s borderline criminal.

You toss the gray sweatpants and sweatshirt onto the freshly made bed and march straight into the adjoining bathroom, eager to wash away the sticky, chaotic remnants of last night.

Turning the shower handle, you let the water run until steam begins to billow over the glass enclosure, turning the pristine bathroom into a warm, private sanctuary. You strip out of your crumpled dress, glad to finally be rid of the club armor, and step under the spray.

The hot water hits your skin, and you let out a weak groan as the residual tension from the club bathroom, the bus stop, and Azula’s lethal bartending finally begins to melt off your shoulders. You grab the expensive-looking body wash from the ledge, lathering up your towel as the rich, clean scent fills the stall. You take your time, thoroughly scrubbing your skin until you feel human again, letting the steam work its magic on your lingering headache.

When you finally step out, wrapping yourself in a plush, oversized towel, you feel like a completely new woman.

You stand in front of the mirror, using a fresh toothbrush you found in the cabinet to aggressively rid your mouth of the taste of stale liquor, before turning your attention to your hair. Your three-day-old twist-out has taken in the moisture from the steam, making your curls bounce back with a wild, voluminous life of their own. It’s big, it’s curly, and for the first time all day, you don't feel self-conscious about it. Zuko's voice echoes in your head—“I like it”—and a traitorous smile tugs at your lips.

You shake your head to clear the thoughts and pull on his clothes.

The gray sweatpants are comically large, requiring you to tie the drawstrings tightly around your waist just to keep them afloat, the heavy hem pooling over your bare feet. The black crewneck swallows your frame entirely, the sleeves completely hiding your hands unless you push them up past your wrists. It is the definition of peak comfort.

You fold your undergarments and dress, setting them on the edge of the counter, you’ll have to ask for a laundry bag during lunch. You open the guest room door and step out into the hallway, the faint, mouth-watering scent of hot grease and savory food immediately hitting your nose from the kitchen. It looks like lunch has arrived. 

You step into the kitchen, the soft fabric of his gray sweatpants pooling around your ankles as you make your presence known. The heavy aroma of fresh fries, burgers, and a perfectly tart lemonade instantly has your mouth watering.

Zuko is standing by the kitchen island, unpacking a series of brown paper bags. He’s showered too; his dark hair is mostly dry now, framing his face in soft, casual layers. He’s traded the swim trunks for a charcoal gray hoodie and matching sweatpants lounge set. He looks warm, comfortable, and still entirely too attractive for your peace of mind.

The moment his eyes land on you, he freezes. You watch his chest expand as his breath hitches distinctly in his throat.

Stripped of the sharp gold makeup, the tailored minidress, and the sleek wig, you look completely unguarded. Your wild, voluminous curls bounce with every step you take, framing a face that is soft, bare, and glowing from the heat of the shower. And then there are his clothes. The heavy black crewneck completely swallows your frame, the hem hitting mid-thigh, making you look small, delicate, and entirely tucked away inside his universe. You look so devastatingly good in his clothes that it physically takes him a second to find his grounding.

You approach the island, your hands completely lost inside the massive, cavernous sleeves of the sweatshirt. You lift your arms slightly, gesturing to the fabric that completely covers your fingers. “I might need a spatula to eat these fries if I can’t find my hands.”

Zuko’s lips twitch, breaking out of his trance. “Let me help you,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into a quiet, velvet register that does wild things to your heart rate.

Before you can even formulate a response or ask him to, he steps into your space, completely closing the distance between you. He reaches down, his large, warm hands gently gripping your wrist through the fabric. His touch is incredibly tender as he begins to carefully fold the heavy black cotton, rolling the sleeve up your forearm with slow, deliberate precision.

You raise a single eyebrow in surprise, your gaze locking onto his downcast eyes as he works. The sudden, unprompted chivalry makes your chest tighten in the best way possible. He doesn't just do one sleeve; he moves to the other, his thumbs lightly brushing against the bare skin of your inner wrist, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

“There,” Zuko says softly, finally lifting his gaze to meet yours. He stays close, close enough that you can smell the clean, minty scent of his soap mixed with that rich woodsmoke cologne. “Now you can actually reach the food.”

Your breath hitches this time, your throat suddenly dry as you stare up at him through your wild curls. "Thank you," you whisper, the playful retort you had prepared completely dying on your tongue. The domestic intimacy of the moment is so heavy, so real, that you can't even find it in yourself to be coy.

You slide onto the high leather barstool, your eyes fixed entirely on the plate Zuko slides toward you. He’s neatly laid out a juicy burger and a mountain of golden, perfectly salted fries, alongside that sweat-beaded cup of ice-cold lemonade.

The first bite of a fry hits your tongue, and the absolute euphoria of grease and salt completely overrides any remaining hangover fatigue. A low, satisfied hum rumbles in your throat, and before you can even stop yourself, your shoulders start to bounce. You do a little, unbothered happy dance right there on the stool, swaying your hips and swinging your feet in his oversized sweatpants as you happily munch away.

Zuko watches you, a soft, incredibly amused expression breaking across his face. He doesn’t say anything to disrupt your food-induced trance; he just quietly pulls up the stool next to yours, digging into his own meal.

For a few minutes, a comfortable, heavy silence settles over the massive kitchen. The only sounds are the quiet hum of the penthouse AC and the crunch of fries.

As the carbohydrates slowly start to bring your brain back to life, you take a sip of the tart lemonade and let your gaze wander around the ultra-modern kitchen, eventually landing on the broad profile of the man sitting right next to you. He’s chewing quietly, looking relaxed, completely unbothered by the fact that a girl he barely knows is currently occupying his favorite lounge set and destroying a burger from his favorite high-end restaurant.

A sudden, sharp realization hits you so hard you almost choke on your drink.

Oh my god.

You take a slow, deep breath, staring down at the giant black sleeves cuffed around your forearms. This is it. This is exactly the scene you had been passionately rants-and-raving about to Suki in the bathroom just yesterday. When you had described your ideal future partner: someone chivalrous, someone who steps up, someone who takes care of you without making you feel small for needing it—this was the exact blueprint.

Granted, in your original, wine-fueled imagination, you had envisioned waking up completely naked, draped beautifully across his bare chest after a wild night, rather than bare-faced, hair wild, and recovering from a violent encounter with a club trashcan. But as you look at his clean, dry hair, the soft charcoal hoodie, and the gentle way he’d just rolled up your sleeves... you realize this is close enough. It might actually be better.

You let out a tiny, breathless huff of a laugh, shaking your head as you pop another fry into your mouth.

Zuko tilts his head, catching the sound. He sets his burger down, turning his, bright gold-flecked eyes toward you with a curious blink. “What’s funny?” he asks, his voice low and private in the quiet room.

You find yourself giggling at his question, “if I told you life, I fear you’d call me cynical. But Zuko, do you believe in destiny?” You lean your elbow on the marble counter, tilting your head up to match his gaze. 

“To a certain degree, I’d say yes.” 

“Well…yesterday, I was complaining to Suki that chivalry was dead and that I was wasting my good years on men with pussy personalities.”

Zuko’s eyebrows shoot up, a sudden, startled laugh barking out of his chest. He clearly wasn't expecting that level of bluntness nor line of thought, but the sheer amusement dancing in his eyes proves he's not mad at it.

“Pussy personalities?” he echoes, his voice thick with humor as he leans his own forearm on the island, tilting his body toward yours until his delicious cologne hits your senses all over again. “And what’s the verdict? Am I passing the test, or am I on the list?”

You take a slow, deliberate sip of your lemonade, letting the tartness settle before you give him a lazy, up-and-down sweep with your eyes.

“Well,” you drawl, your inner confidence finally locking back into the driver's seat. “You haven't complained once about me ruining your guest bed sheets, you rolled up my sleeves without me asking, and you bought me a large fry. So far, you're matching my fly pretty well, Zuko. But the jury is still out until I see how you handle the rest of the day.”

Zuko’s smile goes from amused to something distinctly deeper, a dark, heavy warmth settling into his gaze that makes your stomach do a completely different kind of flip than it did behind the bus stop.

“Is that so?” he murmurs, his eyes dropping briefly to your lips before locking back onto yours. “Then I guess I’ll just have to make sure I don't give the jury any reason to doubt me.”

You feel the heat rise in your neck, but this time, you don't look away. The silence that follows is thick, charged with the kind of tension that makes the rest of the massive penthouse completely fade into the background. You take another bite of your burger, trying to ground yourself, but your eyes keep tracking the casual, self-assured way he sits next to you.

"So," you say, clearing your throat to break the spell before you start staring at his jawline again. "Since you're passing the initial screening, what's the play here? Did Sokka ever actually text you back, or am I officially a missing person on the family group chat?"

Zuko lets out a low snort, shaking his head as he picks up a fry. "Sokka called me about twenty minutes ago. He sounded like he’d just survived a war zone. Apparently, Suki woke up long enough to demand a specific brand of ginger ale and then immediately went back to sleep on the bathroom floor. He apologized about fifty times for leaving you with me."

"As he should," you grumble playfully, though your heart does a little flutter at the reminder that you were left with him. "And what did you tell him?"

"I told him you were fine, that you were sleeping it off, and that I’d make sure you got some food in your system." Zuko shifts on his stool, his dark eyes locking back onto yours with a softer, more deliberate expression. "He offered to come pick you up later this afternoon once Suki stabilizes, but... I told him there was no rush. If you wanted to stay here where it's quiet, you could."

You pause, a fry halfway to your mouth. Your eyes search his face, looking for any sign of politeness or obligation, but there isn't any. His gold-flecked gaze is completely steady, entirely sincere. He genuinely wants you here.

"You're dangerous, you know that?" you murmur, a small, genuine smile pulling at your lips. You set the fry down and lean your chin in your hand, looking at him through your wild, bare-faced curls. "First you rescue me from the clutches of your demonic sister, then you put me in the softest sheets known to man, and now you’re trying to keep me hostage with greasy food and peace and quiet."

"Is it working?" he asks smoothly, leaning in just a fraction closer, his voice dropping into a quiet, warm tone that makes your toes want to curl all over again.

"I mean, the fries are really good," you tease, your eyes dropping to his lips for a split second before snapping back up. "And your hoodie is basically a cloud. I might never leave this stool."

Zuko’s smile widens, a genuine, boyish warmth breaking through his usual guarded demeanor. "Good. Because I still have to prove to the jury that I can handle the rest of the day."

“We'll see,” you counter, your voice dropping to a playful, rhythmic purr. “The defense is making a strong opening statement; I’ll give you that.”

Zuko’s gaze lingers on you for a beat longer, full of a quiet intensity that feels like a physical touch, before he finally looks down at his own plate with a soft shake of his head. He takes a bite of his burger, a small, private smile still tugging at the corner of his lips. The easy, unhurried pace of the afternoon is a complete contrast to the frantic, flashing chaos of Four Nations last night, and honestly, your body is thanking you for it.

“You know,” you start, popping another fry into your mouth and pointing it at him as you chew, “you’re really nothing like your sister. Azula acts like she was bred in a lab to destabilize entire ecosystems. You’re actually... nice.”

Zuko lets out a dry, rough chuckle at that, a slight wince crossing his features at the mention of her name. “Yeah. Azula likes to find people’s weak spots and press until something breaks. It’s her version of fun. I spent most of my life just trying to keep the peace when she was in the room.” He sets his food down, wiping his hands on a napkin. “When Sokka told me you mentioned Suki did a drink-off with Azula, I knew exactly how it was going to end. I’m just sorry she ruined your girls night.”

“Don't be,” you sigh dramatically, leaning your chin back into your hand, your oversized black sleeve bunching up around your elbow. “It was a calculated risk. The risk was just severely miscalculated.”

You watch his eyes track the movement of your hand, tracking the way your wild curls  frame your face. There is a heavy, grounded comfort in the way he looks at you; not like you’re a mess, not like you’re an inconvenience, but like you are exactly where you are supposed to be.

He clears his throat softly, his posture relaxing as he leans both forearms against the dark marble counter, turning fully toward you. “So, since Sokka is out of commission and the jury is still deliberating... what do you usually do on a Saturday when you haven't been poisoned by my family?”

You hum, tapping your fingers against the sweat-beaded glass of your drink, a faint wave of melancholy hitting you as you realize how completely derailed your weekend routine is.

“Well, today is Saturday, so usually?” You let out a quiet huff, a small smile touching your lips. “Suki and I have a strict protocol for the morning after. First, we do a massive FaceTime call to recap all the absolute nonsense from the night before while we're still in bed. Then, we drag ourselves out of the house to meet up for a heavy brunch, and we spend the rest of the afternoon soaking on the beach to completely recuperate.”

You glance out the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, looking at the bright afternoon sun bouncing off the city buildings. “So right now, I’m supposed to be lying on a towel near the water, letting the salt air cure my hangover while Suki laughs at my dating updates.”

Zuko nods slowly, his gold-flecked eyes tracking your gaze out toward the sun-drenched balcony. He looks at the glittering expanse of the city skyline, then back to you, a thoughtful expression settling over his sharp features.

“No FaceTime recap today, since she’s currently fused to the bathroom floor,” he murmurs. He leans in just a fraction closer, a slow, incredibly charming smile spreading across his face. “And I can’t exactly recreate a whole beach up here on the twentieth floor, unless you'd like me to... but I do have a pool right out there. And the water is heated.”

You look from the sun-drenched balcony back to his intense, steady gaze. The invitation is clear, soft, and completely devoid of any pressure.

“I don't think I can persuade you to go back to the guest room and stay inside all day,” Zuko says smoothly, his eyes flashing with a bit of that quiet, confident leadership you'd ranted about wanting. “If you want to soak and recuperate... let me provide the backup plan. Couch, TV, or the water outside. Your choice.”

“The couch sounds dangerous,” you murmur, a slow smile spreading across your face as you slide off the barstool, the heavy hem of his sweatpants pooling over your bare feet. “But considering my brain is still seventy percent liquor... I think I can be persuaded.”

Zuko’s smile widens, a genuine, boyish warmth breaking through his usual guarded demeanor. “Dangerous is manageable,” he says smoothly, sliding off his own stool and picking up the empty plates to set them in the sink. “Follow me.”

You pad along behind him into the massive, sun-drenched living room. The couch is an absolute monster—a deep, plush sectional in charcoal gray that looks like it was designed specifically for throwing your entire life away into a nap. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the entire wall to your right, offering a glittering, birds-eye view of the city, but the real focal point is how quiet and isolated it feels up here. It’s like a private island suspended in the sky.

You don't even hesitate. You sink into the corner of the sectional, pulling your legs up to your chest and burying your bare feet inside the oversized warmth of his sweatpants.

Zuko walks over to a sleek console, grabs a massive, impossibly soft fleece blanket, and tosses it gently over your legs. “You look like you’re about to be swallowed whole by my clothes,” he chuckles, sitting down on the opposite end of the sectional.

He leaves a perfectly respectful, comfortable distance between the two of you, but the open layout of the couch means his long legs are stretched out, pointing right toward yours. He grabs a sleek black remote, flipping through a streaming menu until he lands on a trashy, low-stakes reality TV show.

“This alright?” he asks, tilting his head back against the cushions to look at you. “Sokka usually puts this on when he’s too hungover to process plot lines.”

“Perfect,” you hum, settling deeper into the pillows. “If there’s no yelling and no fast edits, my brain can handle it.”

For the next hour, the penthouse is filled with the low drone of the TV and the occasional, cynical commentary from the two of you. It’s surprisingly easy. You’d been terrified that waking up here would be a nightmare of awkward apologies and frantic exits, but Zuko makes space for you with an effortless, quiet leadership that completely disarms you. Every time you make a sharp, half-asleep joke about the people on the screen, his chest rumbles with a low laugh, his gold-flecked eyes cutting over to you with a look that feels entirely too intimate for a Saturday afternoon.

Eventually, the warmth of the heavy blanket and the steady, comforting presence of him just a few feet away starts to pull your eyelids down. Your head lolls back against the plush corner pillows, your breathing slowing down as you drift into that heavy, post-food state of relaxation.

Through the haze of your closing eyes, you feel the couch shift slightly.

The heavy, distinct scent of woodsmoke and clean linen moves closer. You don't open your eyes—partly because you're too exhausted, and partly because your pride is currently resting comfortably under his fleece blanket—but you feel him reach over. His large, warm hand gently catches the edge of the blanket, pulling it up higher to tuck it securely around your shoulders.

His fingers accidentally brush against the bare skin of your neck, sending a sharp, electric jolt of goosebumps down your spine. He pauses for a fraction of a second, his hand lingering near your shoulder. You can hear his deep, even breathing right above you, completely filling your space.

“Sleep, Y/n,” he whispers, his voice dropping into a raspy, velvet murmur that feels like a literal caress against your cheek. “I’ve got you.”

FIN

This was such a quick write omg! And I really think it came out so cute! But you let me know what you think!

If you'd like to be tagged in future fics, just let me know!

Mack

The drive is a blur of streaking streetlights and the rhythmic grind of your hips against his. Zuko is driving like a man possessed, his focus split between the empty road and the absolute havoc you’re wreaking on his self-control. Every time you lean in to whisper something filthy over the music, his foot presses harder on the gas.

By the time the BMW screeches into your complex's parking garage, the tension in the car is suffocating. He kills the engine before the car even stops vibrating, the sudden silence amplified by the sound of both your ragged breathing.

"Your five minutes are up," he rasps, his gaze dropping to your lips, shiny with the faint traces of your glitterbomb lipgloss.

He doesn't reach for the door. He reaches for you. His hand slides into your hair, his fingers tangling in your wild curls to tilt your head back. He doesn't kiss you—not yet. He just stares at you with an intensity that makes the tequila fog in your brain clear instantly. Your nails press into back, suddenly, acutely, aware of what that look means. Long troublesome night. Your favorite. 

“Longest five minutes of my life…so I hope you make it worth my while,” you mutter, twirling a strand of his hair around your finger. You hiss as his hand connects with your ass with a resounding Crack. It pushes you impossibly closer to his chest, but the sting makes your eyes flutter close and a moan to slip past your lips. 

“Don’t go making demands, when you have an apology to cough up,” he instructs, maneuvering the both of you out of the car in one fluid motion. His keys slip inside his pocket, and his hands sit right underneath your ass, fingers brushing along your clit every few seconds. 

You press sweet kisses across his jaw, hiding the absolute delight in your face as he exits the garage in record time. “ I’d never make demands if I couldn’t afford to d– ohh,” Your legs tighten around his waist as he presses more firmly into your center, right on your clit. 

The lobby of your building is bright, quiet, and dangerously empty at this hour, the cool marble a stark contrast to the fire burning between the two of you. Zuko doesn't care about the cameras or the possibility of a neighbor catching a late-night, early-morning flight. His focus is entirely internal, localized to the way your weight feels in his arms and the desperate way you’re clinging to his neck. 

“Afford in an interesting term to use,” he mutters, his voice echoing off the empty lobby walls, dark and low. 

He hits the elevator button with his elbow, the doors sliding open with a soft ding that feels like a starting bell. The second the doors hiss shut, he doesn't wait for the lift to move. He slams your back against the mirrored wall, the cold glass biting into your shoulder blades while his body remains a wall of punishing heat in front of you. 

You inhale sharply at the contrasting sensations, head spinning with tequila, him, and the lovely predicament you’ve found yourself in. “mhmm, just add it to my list of things…I need to apologize for,” you breathe shakily. 

His fingers, still hooked under the hem of your red skirt, find the damp edge of your thong again, tugging it aside with a ruthless efficiency.

 He doesn't kiss you. He just watches you, his golden eyes tracking every flicker of emotion on your face as he uses his thumb to circle your clit with a slow, agonizing deliberate pace that has your toes curling against the back of his thighs. You’re trapped between the cold mirror and his solid frame, the elevator rising toward your floor while your heart tries to hammer its way out of your chest. 

You’re still talking,” he mutters, it’s a gravelly warning that vibrates against your collarbone. “Usually, when people apologize, they use their mouths for something other than backtalk and record keeping.” 

You tilt your head at him, whimpering as he adds just enough pressure that your back arches off the mirror and into his chest. “T-tell me. H-how can I apologize with you…ohh wow…touc–touching me like this?”

The elevator chime signals your floor, but Zuko doesn't move. He keeps you pinned against the glass, his thumb continuing that rhythmic, soul-destroying circle until the doors begin to slide shut again, trapping the two of you in the small, mirrored box for another round.

“You’ll find a way,” he rasps, his breath ghosting over your damp temple. “You’re a writer, aren't you? Creative. Expressive. I’m sure you can find a way to communicate your regret without needing a single word.”

He finally hitches you higher, his forearm pressing into the mirror right above your head as he leans in to bite the junction where your neck meets your shoulder. It’s a sharp, stinging claim that pulls a jagged cry from your throat—the sound echoing and bouncing off the reflective walls until the air feels thick with your own want.

"You like the attention, right Baby?" he grunts against your skin, his voice thick with a possessive heat that makes your stomach flip. "You like being the baddest in the room. You like knowing that everyone is looking at you while you're thinking about me."

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his thumb finally stilling, leaving you thrumming and desperate for the movement to return.

"But I don't share," he says, the gold in his eyes turning lethal. "And the way you let that DJ hover? The way you sat there and took a shot like you didn't have a man waiting to take care of you?"

He reaches out with his free hand, gripping your chin and forcing you to hold his gaze while his other hand slides deeper, two of his fingers finally sinking into you. You let out a broken, high-pitched moan, your forehead dropping onto his shoulder as your vision starts to swim. 

Your nails dig into his back, your hips press into his hand like it’s a part of you. The way he touches you; confident, possessive, and knowingly has your head spinning and thoughts scattered. 

"That's a lot of debt to pay back," he whispers, the elevator finally opening again, and this time he steps out, carrying you toward the apartment with a heavy, unstoppable momentum. "And I plan on collecting every single cent before the sun comes up." 

You dig your heels into his back as settles you against the door to your shared place. 

“F-fucking hell” 

You throw your head back as he speeds up, every thrust is an assault to your control that’s barely holding back your orgasm. And as his fingers begin to curve upward hitting that soft spot that makes you see stars, your moans grow louder and the coil within your stomach nearly unravels. 

But, this isn’t an easy night and your first orgasm won’t be before your first apology. 

He withdraws his hand right as he feels your thighs start to shake. Your eyes shoot open, just in time to see him slip his fingers between your parted lips.

The metallic tang of your own arousal on his fingers hits your tongue, and for a second, the only sound in the hallway is your ragged, uneven breathing. You stare at him, his pupils blown wide enough to swallow the gold of his irises, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. The sudden void where his fingers had just been is an absolute agony—a cold, empty ache that makes your muscles twitch in protest.

Zuko doesn’t move. He watches you taste yourself, his thumb still hooked over your bottom lip, pinning your mouth open as he looms over you. The dark bun of his hair is starting to come undone, a few stray strands framing a face that is carved from pure, unyielding intent.

"Finish the sentence, Baby," he orders, voice a low, growl that fills the narrow space between your bodies. "You were saying something about making demands?"

You try to swallow, your throat tight as you wrap your tongue around his fingers, a desperate, silent plea for him to put them back where they belong. The bad bitch who was throwing ass to Juvenile and taking free shots is long gone, replaced by a woman who is shivering under the weight of her fiancé’s undivided attention.

"I-I'm sorry," you breathe against his skin, the words shaky and damp. He clicks his tongue, slipping his fingers out of the warmth of your mouth. 

He tilts his head, staring down his nose to watch you nonsense a half-baked apology. "For which part?" he prompts, grabbing his key fob out of his back pocket and pressing it to the lock. "The dead phone? The thirty-minute silence? Or the fact that I had to watch you smile at another man while you were wearing the ring I put on your finger?"

He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, the warmth makes you shiver. 

"Which apology are you starting with? Because I can tell you exactly which one I'm going to make you work for the hardest."

He sets you down as he opens the door, gesturing for you to walk in. You furrow your eyebrows in concentration, walking backwards past the threshold and giving him just enough space to enter. “Phone…phone wasn’t my fault, but Suki’s. She didn’t put it back on the charger after changing the playlist…” you trail off at the look in his eyes. 

That is not what he wants to hear from you. 

The door clicks shut with a finality that makes the air in the foyer feel twice as heavy. Zuko doesn't even take his shoes off; he just leans back against the door, crossing his arms over that bare, sculpted chest. The shadows of the hallway play over the ridges of his abs, making him look less like your fiancé and more like a judge presiding over a very guilty defendant.

"Suki’s fault," he repeats, his voice flat and dangerously calm. He tilts his head, a single strand of dark hair falling over his eye. "So, in your head, the 'best behavior' contract has a fine-print clause for when your friends are being irresponsible?"

He takes a slow, deliberate step toward you, and you find yourself backing up until the back of your knees hit the edge of the console table in the entryway.

" You should know better than anyone that the protagonist is responsible for their own choices." He stops inches away, his heat radiating off him in waves, making the scent of pine and eucalyptus go straight to your head. "I didn't propose to Suki. I didn't tell Suki to stay hydrated. I told you."

He reaches out, his fingers trailing slowly up your arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps on your skin before he hooks a finger into the knot holding your shirt up behind your neck.

"The phone is a logistical failure. It's annoying, but I can handle a bricked battery." His gaze drops to the ring on your hand, the diamond catching the faint light from the overhead oven light. "But standing there, in that skirt, letting some guy breathe down your neck while you’re so drunk you’re practically vibrating? That wasn't Suki's fingers on that shot glass."

He steps deeper into your space, forcing you to lean back against the table. His hand tugs on the knot, watching it give way with ease and pool at your waist.

"I don't want to hear about the charger," he whispers, his face inches from yours. "Try again. And if the next words out of your mouth aren't an admission of exactly whose property was being disrespected at that bar, I’m sending you to bed with nothing but a glass of water and your own thoughts."

You inhale sharply at the seriousness of his claim. 

“Yours…I-I apologize for not double checking my phone a-and wait Zu-zuko, I-I can’t” your breathing comes out harsher as his lips trail down your neck to your collarbone. 

“You can’t what, Princess?” he murmurs against your skin. He doesn’t stop. He doesn't even slow down. His lips move with a punishing precision, nipping at the sensitive junction where your neck meets your shoulder, marking you with the kind of claim that won't fade by morning. 

“I’m waiting,” he mutters, his breath hot against your cleavage as he looks up at you, his eyes dark with a mix of hunger and stern authority. “Finish the sentence. Whose property?”

You reach out, your fingers clutching the edge of the console table so hard the wood digs into your palms. The tequila is still humming in your blood, but the intensity of his gaze is forcing you into a sharp, agonizing clarity. “Y–yours, all yours. I apol–oh jusst like that–” you push your chest further into his mouth, practically vibrating at how good it feels to have him sucking and biting at your nipples. “I–I apologize – Babyyy – for, for, —” 

The words trail off as he begins to bully your other breast with the same ministrations except now his hands, those magically delightful hands, have been added into the mix as he pulls and twists on the other. 

The apology you’re trying to piece together dissolves into a series of jagged, helpless whimpers. Zuko isn't making it easy; he’s a man of his word, and right now, his action is speaking much louder than the lecture he just gave you. He treats your breasts like they are his favorite toy and his greatest frustration all at once, his tongue swirling over your sensitive skin while his fingers apply a punishing, rhythmic pressure to the other side.

“For… for what, Y/N?” he prompts again, his voice muffled against your skin but the demand in it crystal clear. He tugs sharply on one nipple, punctuating the question, and you feel the spark of it travel all the way down to your heels.

“For—for the DJ!” you cry out, your back arching off the table until only your hands and the base of your spine are making contact. “For letting him… ah!… for letting him talk to me like that. For not coming out sooner.”

Zuko pulls back just an inch, his lips glistening and his eyes dark with a lethal kind of satisfaction. He looks down at the marks he’s already left on your chest, the deep red of your skin matching the silk of your discarded skirt.

“Better,” he rasps, his hands sliding down from your chest to your waist, he lifts you with ease, setting you on top of the table. “But you’re still too loud. You’re still too frantic. A proper apology is composed, sweetheart. It’s deliberate.”

He leans in, his nose brushing yours, and you can see the faint tremor in his own hands—the only sign that he’s struggling just as much as you are.

“You’re going to stay right here,” he instructs, his voice dropping to a whisper that feels like a physical weight. “You’re going to keep your hands on this table, and you’re going to tell me exactly what you’re going to do to make sure I never have to come get you from the club like that again. And if you stop… if you let a moan slip instead of a word… I’m stopping everything.”

He slides down, becoming eye level with the one part of you that always listens when he talks. His fingers ghosting over the very edge of your center, teasing the lace without crossing it. “Start talking. I’m listening.”

“W-wait, I’ve been dancing and sweat—” one look from him makes you clamp your lips together tightly. He does not care. 

“If it’s not an apology coming from those pretty lips, we can call it a night,” Zuko states simply, lips ghosting over your cunt so every syllable is brushed against the delicate lace. 

The threat of him walking away is enough to make the tequila-induced haze vanish completely. You grip the edge of the mahogany table until your knuckles turn white, your breath hitching as the warmth of his mouth, so close, yet agonizingly out of reach—sends a wave of desperate heat through you. He’s calling your bluff, and the Prince doesn't make empty threats.  

“I—I will check my phone every hour,” you stammer, your voice trembling as his nose nudges the damp lace, the scent of your own arousal and the night’s sweat mingling in the small space between you. “I’ll... I’ll keep a portable charger in my bag. I won’t let Suki touch it.”

He lets out a low, vibrating hum against your skin, a sound that vibrates through your entire lower half. “And?” he prompts, his tongue darting out to trace the very edge of your thigh, just an inch from the prize.

“And when I say I’ll be on my best behavior, I’ll commit to it,” you gasp, your hips instinctively trying to buck toward him. You catch yourself at the last second, your teeth biting into your lip to stifle the moan that’s clawing at your throat. “I’ll... I’ll be waiting at the curb ten minutes early. I won’t make you come inside to find me.”

Zuko pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his expression unyielding. “And the next time a man tries to offer you a ride or a drink or his hand on your skin?”

“I’ll tell him my fiancé is coming,” you breathe, your eyes fluttering shut as his fingers finally hook into the lace, tugging it aside. “I’ll tell him that he has anger issues and that he likes to fight. I’ll tell him I have a man who’s... who’s already waiting to collect.”

A slow, dark smirk spreads across Zuko's face, “You somehow still have it in you to be a smartass huh?” He leans in, his lips finally making contact with the skin he’s been teasing for the last twenty minutes.

The vibration of his voice against your sensitive skin is almost more than you can take. He doesn’t just kiss you; he claims you with a sharp, possessive nip to your inner thigh that has you nearly slipping off the table.

"Anger issues?" he murmurs against the lace he’s slowly peeling away. "I’d call it 'quality control.' And if being a smartass is how you want to play it, I guess I'll just have to be a little more thorough with the collection process."

He doesn't give you a second to breathe before he dives in. His tongue is a lethal weapon, finding the exact rhythm that has your mind fracturing into a thousand glittering pieces. You’ve spent all night being the center of attention in a crowded room, but nothing compares to the absolute, terrifying focus of Zuko when he’s decided you’ve had enough fun.

"Zuko—wait—" you gasp, your fingers tangling in the hair that’s escaped his bun, your knuckles brushing against the nape of his neck.

"No more waiting," he grunts against you, his hands sliding up to grip your knees, pinning your legs wide to expose you completely to the warm light streaming from the kitchen. "You spent four hours wasting my time. I'm taking all of yours now."

He works you with a terrifyingly calm expertise, his thumbs stretching you open while his mouth creates a friction that has you biting your knuckles to keep from screaming. Every time you think you’re about to go over the edge, he slows down just enough to make you whimper, making you chase the release like a high.

I–I’ll be good—fuck—please 

P-promise…Zu-zuko 

Your begging does nothing to deter him from building you up and stopping, again, and again.  He’s not just making you come; he’s making you remember exactly who you were rushing home to.

When the first wave finally hits, it’s violent. Your back arches off the console table, your heels drumming against his back as you let out a long, broken sound that is definitely not an apology. Zuko drinks you in like a starving man, his grip on your thighs bruisingly tight, refusing to let you move an inch until the last of the tremors has left your body.

He pulls back slowly, his lips slick and his eyes burning with a dark, triumphant fire. He stands up, looking down at your wrecked form— skirt and shirt hiked around your waist, hair a wild halo against the wood, and your chest heaving. 

There’s his lover. 

"First installment paid," he rasps, reaching down to loosen the strings of the lounge pants that have been straining against him this whole time. "But you're still deep in the red, Princess. Think this will cost you overtime,” you nod faintly, body still buzzing from your orgasm and tequila. 

He’s going to wreck your shit tonight, you can just feel it, and the thought alone makes you smile. 

The smile on your face is the final spark to the powder keg. Zuko sees it—that dazed, defiant little curve of your lips—and his jaw sets in a way that tells you overtime is going to be a grueling, beautiful marathon. He doesn't just want your apology anymore; he wants your total surrender.

"You think this is funny?" he murmurs, though the dark glint in his eyes says he’s already planning exactly how to wipe that smirk off your face.

He doesn't give you time to answer. He scoops you off the console table, your legs automatically hooking around his waist as he carries you toward the bedroom. The walk is short, but the friction of his bare chest against your sensitive breasts makes you hiss, the overstimulation sending fresh sparks through your cooling nerves.

“N-not funny, amusing,” you breathe out, yelping as he tosses you to the center of the bed. “Th-there’s a difference, but we can talk about that…well when would you like to talk about that?” you question, scrambling to the edge of the bed where he stands. 

Zuko shakes his head slowly, “Don’t tell me my slutty princess is getting nervous?” 

You swallow harshly, shaking your own head. You’re excited and nervous. There’s a difference there as well. 

He’s standing at the edge of the bed, a dark silhouette of raw muscle and simmering tension, watching you crawl toward him like a moth to a flame. The way he uses that word. Princess. It's usually a term of endearment, but tonight, laced with that low, biting edge, it feels like a collar.

 “Were you nervous when you took the shot from that stranger? How about when you realized your phone was dead? Were you nervous then?” He questions. 

"I wasn't nervous then," you whisper, your voice dropping as you reach the edge, your fingers trembling as they ghost over the hem of his jacket. "I knew you were coming. I always know you're coming for me." You’re careful as you push the leather off his shoulders and he allows it to hit the floor. 

Zuko lets out a sharp, cynical bark of a laugh, but his eyes stay fixed on yours, gold and predatory. "You knew I was coming, so you decided to see just how far you could stretch the leash? Brave."

He reaches out, his hand wrapping firmly around your throat—not to squeeze, but to anchor you, his thumb tilted up to force your chin toward the ceiling. He leans down, his face inches from yours, the scent of him now mixed with the faint, sweet trace of your own arousal from the hallway.

"I don't want to talk about the 'difference' between amusing and funny," he mutters, his gaze dropping to your mouth. "I want you to show me that you understand the difference between a night out with your friends and a night where you belong to me. Because right now? You’re acting like you still have a choice." 

His grip on your neck shifts, his fingers sliding back to tangle in your hair, tugging just enough to make you hiss. You slip your hands to the waistband of his pants, not needing your eyesight to push them down and free him of his confines. “Let me show you then? I promise I won’t disappoint,” you whisper, already slipping out of his grasp and off the bed to your knees. 

You promise not to disappoint?" he repeats, his voice vibrating with a dark, jagged edge. He reaches down, his fingers threading through your hair again, but this time it’s not to pull—it’s to ground himself. "That's a bold claim for someone who's already so deep in the red." 

“Promise,” you breathe, already salivating as you take in the weight of his frustration; heavy, and dripping with precum.

You don't rush. You take your time, looking up at him with a hooded, predatory gaze that says you know exactly what you’re doing. When you finally take him into the heat of your mouth, Zuko’s head tilts back slightly, a choked, guttural sound escapes his throat—half-groan, half-prayer—as his fingers tighten their hold into your hair.

You’re messy, sure— still drunk off of him and the, what feels to be, gallon of liquor in your system. Your hair is a wild curtain around his thighs, but the technique is flawless. You set a pace that challenges you, but pleases him. Tongue swirling with a slow, deliberate suction that has Zuko’s hips bucking instinctively against you. 

You’re moaning around him. The taste of him with the faint taste of tequila and lime is superb. And just when you feel his thighs tense and see his abs quiver, Zuko pulls back with a sharp, ragged gasp just as the music hits a crescendo, his chest heaving as he looks down at you. You immediately let out a soft, wine-heavy pout, your bottom lip jutting out in a way that would be cute if your eyes weren't so dark with heat.

"Selfish," you mumble, the word curling around the edges of a drunken smirk as you look up at him. "Typical Prince... always stopping when it gets good."

Zuko doesn't even dignify that with a response. Instead, he lets out a low, dangerous chuckle that vibrates in the space between you. He reaches down, hooking his hands under your arms and hoisting you to your feet. Your legs are like jelly, and you stumble against him, but he doesn't let you fall. He guides you with a firm hand, spinning you around until your palms hit the duvet and you’re bent over the bed.

Crack

The sharp smack to the ass sends your eyes rolling back. 

“The smartass remarks are doing nothing for you but adding another tally to the chart,” he explains. Gently rubbing his palm over the now red flesh. 

The heat from his palm is a cruel mercy, a soothing balm that only serves to highlight the fire he just lit on your skin. You’re draped over the edge of the mattress, your face pressed into the cool duvet, every breath you take smelling of him and the faint, sweet scent of the laundry detergent you picked out together.

"I'm keeping count, Y/N," he murmurs, his words feel like a physical touch against your spine. "Every time you talk back, every time you try to turn this into a game... that's another minute I'm going to spend making sure you can't walk straight tomorrow."

He doesn't wait for you to respond. He grips your hips, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh with a bruising possessiveness, and pulls you back against him. He enters you in one long, unyielding push that forces a shattered, high-pitched cry from your lungs. Every inch is a burn that feels so pleasurable you almost feel your eyes go crossed. He doesn’t let you adjust, he doesn’t give you a second. He just keeps pushing forward until he’s buried to the hilt. Until it feels as if he’s somewhere in between your stomach and lungs. 

He begins a pace that is nothing short of an assault on your senses. It’s rhythmic and relentless, the sound of skin hitting skin echoes throughout the quiet bedroom, but it's nowhere near loud enough to cover the sounds of your moans and pleas. There are no words for the way he’s dismantling you. No metaphors for the way his name feels like a prayer on your lips, just the harsh reality that being on your "best behavior" was never going to be nearly as much fun as this. 

"Zuko—please—" you sob, your fingers clutching the sheets until your knuckles ache. You’re chasing a release that feels like it’s just out of reach, a glittering horizon that he keeps pulling you back from every time you get too close. 

A cyclical experience that leaves tearstreaks on your cheeks. 

Please what?" he grunts, as he picks up the tempo. "Please stop? Please keep going? Or please forgive you?" 

You slap your hand down on the comforter, as if tapping an imaginary button that says all three. 

Yesyesyes, please I-I can’t

Crack

Your back arches on impact, cunt releasing another wave of arousal around the base of dick as you thrive under the impact of his hand. “ You can’t what? Hold it? Because I expect you to.” He slows his thrust down, until reaching a halt, giving you both a moment to calm down. 

You whimper at the loss of what could have been a wonderful orgasm, but it transforms into a groan as he applies a bit of his weight against your back. 

He nips at your shoulder, his teeth grazing the skin in a way that is both a promise and a punishment. “ A Princess on her best behavior knows how to wait for her reward.”

He stays perfectly still, forcing you to endure the weight of him and the agonizing throb of your own unspent release. You turn your head, meeting his gaze full on as he stares at you, full of patience, as if he has no issue with you cockwarming him for the remainder of the night. 

The stillness is a specific kind of torture. Zuko is a wall of radiating heat against your back, his breath steady and controlled while yours comes in jagged, pathetic little hitches. He’s serious. He’s perfectly content to let the clock run out while he’s buried inside you, watching the internal battle play out across your features.

"You look like you have something to say," he murmurs, his voice terrifyingly level. He doesn't budge, his weight pinning you into the mattress, making you acutely aware of the pulse thrumming where you're joined. "But unless it's a thank you, I'd suggest keeping it behind those teeth."

Your body is screaming, a localized riot of nerve endings demanding the friction he just snatched away, but the look in his eyes tells you that any move to finish yourself or any unapproved buck of your hips will only restart his timer. 

"Th-thank you," you manage to choke out the words feeling like lead on your tongue. You can see the slight flare of his nostrils, the only sign that your submission is affecting his own iron-clad restraint. 

It feels as if you’ve reached ascension as he smiles slowly; the one he’s reserved just for you. The one that makes every decision up until this point a thousand times worth it, over and over again. And suddenly, you’re counting down until the next girls night. 

“You’re welcome, Princess–but that’s not going to save you tonight,” he places a gentle kiss to the side of your temple before pulling his weight back. 

You’re speechless, eyes wide, mouth agape in utter surprise. That smile, the one that usually signals safety, is now the harbinger of a long, sleepless night. As he traces a finger down your spine, you sense the impending trouble soon to find its way to you. “ W-wait wait,” you gasp, thoughts fracturing as he slowly pulls out, making you feel every vein and every inch of him. 

The sudden absence of him is a physical ache, a cold vacuum that leaves you feeling exposed and twitching on the duvet. You try to scramble back, but your limbs are heavy with tequila and the aftershocks of a night that’s only half-beginning.

Zuko doesn't let you get far. He catches your ankle, his grip firm and cool, and drags you back to the center of the bed with a slow, predatory strength. He isn't rushing anymore. The frantic energy of the BMW and the elevator has shifted into a terrifyingly calm resolve.

“What do you want me to wait for?” he questions as he settles between your legs, his hands sliding up your inner thighs to hook behind your knees, pinning them toward your shoulders. The position is vulnerable, completely open, and one that puts you in no advantage point. 

“I–I” your gaze drops to the sight in between your legs. The glossy sheen on his dick and the sticky evidence of  arousal on your thighs. You swallow the accumulation of saliva, turning your blown out gaze back on him. “I-I feel like you’re about to ruin my weekend plans,” you whisper, allowing your ankles to drape over his shoulder in anticipation. 

He smirks, “as far as I’m concerned, you ruined them the minute you walked out the house tonight on one.” 

The way he says it, with that low, devastatingly calm finality, makes your stomach do a slow, dizzying somersault. You’re pinned under the weight of his gaze and the sheer, physical reality of his strength, and for the first time since the tequila hit your bloodstream, you realize you are in genuine trouble. The fun, flirtatious smartass in you is being methodically stripped away, leaving only the raw, needy girl who belongs to him.

“Ruined them?” you echo, your voice barely a breathy hitch as you feel the heat of his shoulders beneath your ankles. You try to muster one last bit of defiance, but it comes out as a shaky whimper. “I was just… having a night.”

“You were having a night,” Zuko agrees, his hands sliding from your knees down to your waist, his thumbs digging into your hips to anchor you even more firmly against the mattress. “And now, I’m having mine.”

The world seems to shatter behind your eyes as he practically splits you open for the second time tonight. You release a strangled moan, oxygen a thing of the past as you struggle to catch the wind he just knocked out of you. Tears sting the corner of your eyes from pure bliss as he finally scratches the ache that’s been deep in your stomach since he pulled out. 

Ju-just like that” you cry, fingers scrambling for anything to hold on to as he fucks you like he hates you; one hand grips the headboard and the other lays claim to his upper shoulder, right beside your ankle. Each thrust is punishing and detrimental to your sanity, until all of your senses are full of him. His scent. His warmth. His taste. You’re struggling to remember where you end and he begins. 

Yo–youre so good. F-fucking me so good” its spoken in a mix of a cry and whimpers that resonate through the room and back at you. 

He’s reaching depths that make your toes curl and your breath hitch into those broken, stuttering sobs, driving into you with a relentless, mechanical force that demands every ounce of your attention. He groans lowly as your nails dig into his shoulder blade. 

The coil in your stomach is winding so tight it feels like it might snap, a frantic, electric pulse that makes your internal muscles squeeze around him in a desperate plea for the end.

He feels it. He feels the way you’re starting to shake, the way your walls are fluttering and clamping down on him, but he doesn't let you go. Not yet. He pulls back, nearly all the way out, before slamming back in with a force that makes you see actual sparks.

Sh-shit. O-okay okay. S-sorry. Rea-real fucking sorryyy” you sputter out, the words torn from your throat as the first wave of a violent, bone-deep orgasm finally breaks over you. 

He lets out a guttural, triumphant groan, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he finally lets his own control shatter. He drives into you one last, soul-crushing time, his entire body locking up as he pours every bit of his frustration and possessive love into you. 

The silence that follows is thick and heavy, the only sound in the room being the ragged, desperate synchronization of your breathing. Zuko doesn’t pull away; he stays anchored deep inside you, his weight a grounding, solid heat that keeps your world from spinning entirely out of orbit. His pulse is thrumming against your inner walls, a slow, steady echo of the chaos that just leveled you both. 

He shifts his head slightly, his lips pressing a hot, lingering kiss to the pulse point in your neck that’s still leaping frantically. "You're real fucking sorry, huh?" he echoes softly, his voice a low, sleep-heavy rumble that vibrates through your entire chest. He finally lifts his head, brushing a damp curl away from your forehead with a tenderness that feels like a reward for surviving the last hour and a half. 

“Absofuckinglutely,” you sigh. “ Give me twenty, a bath, a crisp bottle of water, and maybe sustenance or your cum down my throat, and I can really put a performance on for you.” 

He chuckles, carefully untangling your limbs from around him and pulling back to take you in. “You’re a mess, you know that?” 

“You make me this way…every single time…feel like I should be punishing you,” you state through blurry eyes, that roll to the back of your head as he slowly pulls out.

Zuko lets out a sharp, amused huff of air as he finally slides free, the sensation leaving you feeling empty and oversensitive in the cooling air of the bedroom. He doesn't go far, though; he just looms over you, his elbows braced on either side of your head, looking down at the beautiful disaster you’ve become.

"You want to punish me?" he repeats, his eyebrows arching in that way that usually means you've said something incredibly dangerous or incredibly stupid. "The girl who just spent the last eight minutes sobbing 'sorry' into my shoulder thinks she’s in a position to dole out consequences?"

He reaches out, his thumb catching the corner of your mouth where a dazed, drunken smirk is beginning to form.

"Twenty minutes and a bottle of water isn't going to get you the leverage you think it is, Princess. But the bath..." He trails off, his gaze drifting down your body, taking in the way your skirt and top have become one around your waist and  the marks he’s left on your thighs. "The bath is a good idea. You’re sticky, you smell like a distillery, and I’m not done with you yet."

“Ah, of course you’re not. You’re relentless when you’re chasing something,” you grumble, stretching like a cat before sitting up right and watching him navigate your bedroom as if he wasn’t just putting you through the mattress moments ago. His pajama pants are back around his waist, but they hang loose and untied. Showing off his devastating v-line and happy trail.

He doesn’t grant you the privilege of a response before he disappears into the ensuite bathroom. By the time he returns, the water is running and you’ve successfully discarded the remnants of your clothing. “ Should I be chasing what's mine?” he inquires, as he reaches down to scoop you up into his arms. You let out a small, surprised yelp, your head falling against his shoulder as the room tilts. 

You wrap your arms around his neck, letting your fingers play in the long strands you begged him to grow out. “Why chase, when I always come back? I just get distracted easily…shiney lights and good music drive me off center.” 

He snorts, “Like a child, eh?” He sets you down on the counter right next to a small pastry box. Your eyes practically sparkle as you read the writing. Chocolate Croissants from your favorite pastry shop. 

“Consider it practice—all this for me my love” you tease, opening the box to find three fluffy, buttery croissants. 

He rolls his eyes at your dramatics and grabs you a water bottle from the fridge. “Why are you surprised every time?” 

 You break off a piece of the flaky, buttery pastry, the chocolate still slightly soft, and moan—a sound much more innocent than the ones you were making twenty minutes ago, but one that still makes Zuko’s jaw tighten.

"Because it’s you," you mumble around a mouthful of chocolate, your eyes fluttering shut. "My big, bad Prince who spends his Friday nights dragging his drunk fiancée out of clubs also remembers to stop by the shop before they close, even when he should have still been at a business dinner? It’s the duality, Zuko. Every lover girls dream."

He stands between your legs, leaning in to press his forehead against your neck while you work on the second croissant. He’s already opened the water bottle for you, holding it out like a silent peace offering.

"It’s not duality. It’s insurance," he grumbles, though his hand is currently tracing the curve of your calf with a gentleness that betrays him. "If I feed you, you might actually survive the rest of the night without passing out. And like I said, I’m not done with you yet."

He watches you eat with a quiet, intense hunger of his own—not for the food, but for the way you look sitting there, messy and content, with chocolate on your lip and his marks on your skin. 

“A girl passes out one time and all of a sudden she’s a safety hazard. No one told you to go on a generational run and try to break your personal record of making me squirt.” You grumble, pointing your manicured nail into his chest to further highlight your point. 

He hums, taking a slow, deliberate sip of your water before handing it back over. “ If I remember correctly, it was on your girls night from last month. When you decided to start with me in the car and it proceeded to go even more left from there. So, if we’re looking at the facts, you started that one too, Princess.” 

You smile up at him at the recollection. What a night that was, it all started with you shit talking after some random girl went up to him while you were saying your goodbyes to some random person you befriended. Then, things went left. Then, you started to really push all his buttons because you wanted angry sex and a reminder that he was yours in every possible way. 

“So what I’m hearing is, I have a talent for keeping our sex life exciting?” 

"Talent, huh?" he echoes, his voice dropping an octave as he reaches out to thumb a stray crumb away from the corner of your mouth. “I’d say you have a talent at raking up debt.” 

You look up at him, your chocolate distraction and water are finished, replaced by the steady, golden heat of the man who knows exactly how to handle every version of you. "Am I still in the red?"

"Deep," he whispers, his lips ghosting over yours, tasting like chocolate and promise. "But I'm starting to think I like you better as a debtor."

You nip his bottom lip, grinning. You’re starting to think the same. Zuko’s hands slide from your face down to your waist, his fingers splaying wide over your hips as he lifts you off the counter. The transition from the cool marble to the heat of his body is enough to make your breath catch all over again.

“The bath is going to get cold if we keep debating your ‘talents,’ Princess,” he murmurs, though he doesn't seem to be in any rush to put you down. He carries you into the ensuite, where the tub is overflowing with bubbles and the scent of eucalyptus, but he stops just before the edge.

He lets you slide down his body until your feet touch the tiled floor, but he keeps his hands anchored on your hips, pinning you back against the vanity. His gaze is heavy, roaming over the chocolate-smudged grin you’re wearing and the dark, possessive marks he’s spent the last hour painting onto your skin.

"You like being in the red because you know I’m the only one who can collect," he rasps, leaning in until his lips are brushing against the shell of your ear. "And you know I’m thorough."

"Thorough is one word for it," you breathe, your hands coming up to rest on his bare chest, feeling the steady, thrumming power of his heart under your palms. "I think 'obsessed' might be more accurate."

Zuko doesn't deny it. He just huffs a short, dark laugh and nudges your chin up with his thumb, forcing you to meet that molten gold stare. "Obsessed? Maybe. But you’re the one who keeps giving me reasons to be."

He reaches out, testing the temperature of the water one last time before gesturing for you to step in. 

“You’re a hot commodity, someone has to keep you entertained. Can’t afford to lose my best eater,” you admit in earnest, scooting up excitedly as he climbs in behind you. 

“A woman spoke to me one time and suddenly I’m a loose cannon,” he teases. He wraps you in his arms as you settle your head against his chest. 

You giggle, finding his hand and interlocking it with your own. “Perhaps, but we can get into that later. How was work? You came home looking exhausted?” You tilt your head upward meeting his gaze. 

He smiles, pressing a soft kiss to the center of your forehead. “Lots of nonsense. The dinner was useless and a waste of time. I was counting down the hours, hoping I could catch a glimpse of you getting ready before you headed out. I saw the wine bottles when I was cleaning, don’t tell me that was tonight’s chaser of choice?” 

Your grin widens, “I think that’s why I was on a ten. You know wine makes me wanna get nasty with you. At one point I was in the back of the uber thinking about how bad I can’t wait to come home and get bent over by you. But then Suki told me to lock in for the streets, so I had to do just that. I hope you understand.”

Zuko’s grip on your hand tightens slightly at the mention of the Uber, a low hum vibrating through his chest and into your back. "So, while you were drinking shots from strangers, you were thinking about this?" He nudges your shoulder with his chin, his voice dropping back into that dark, possessive territory. "Dangerous game, Princess. I’ll be adding that to your debt.” 

You try, but fail to hide the happy look on your face, settling for a wiggle in his arms. 

Oh how wonderful it feels to be indebted to him. 

The way you move against him in the water, that little, satisfied wiggle, is a direct provocation, and you both know it. Zuko exhales a breath that’s half-sigh, half-growl, his arms tightening around you until the eucalyptus-scented steam feels like the only thing between your skin and his.

"You're far too happy about being in trouble," he murmurs, his lips grazing the damp hair at your temple. "Most people fear the debt collector. You? You’re practically inviting him to move in."

He reaches for the sponge, but instead of the practical scrub he promised, he begins to trail it down your arm with an agonizing, slow deliberation. The water is warm, the bubbles are soft, but the look in his eyes when you glance back at him is still that sharp, predatory gold.

"Suki told you to 'lock in for the streets,' did she?" he asks, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous tone again. "Remind me to thank her. If you hadn't been so 'locked in,' I might not have had the pleasure of reminding you exactly whose house you were coming back to."

He sets the sponge aside, his hands sliding beneath the surface of the water to find your hips. The buoyancy makes you feel weightless, but his grip is as grounding as ever as he places you in his lap.

"If wine makes you nasty, and the Uber ride made you impatient..." He pulls you back against his chest, the slick friction of your bodies under the water sending a fresh jolt of electricity through your nerves. "Then I suppose the bath should be used for more than just washing off the club. I'd hate for all that 'nasty wine energy' to go to waste before the weekend even officially starts."

He tilts your head back, his thumb tracing the line of your throat where the pulse is starting to quicken all over again.

"One more installment, Princess," he breathes against your lips, tasting of chocolate and salt. "And then maybe—maybe—I’ll let you sleep for an hour."

You realize then that Zuko isn't just a thorough collector; he’s an opportunist. And as he pulls you into a kiss that tastes like a final, drowning surrender, you’re perfectly fine with never being out of the red. 

Because you know perfectly well that you have no intention of being on your best behavior next month, either. 

Fin

Actually, floored at how much love this fic has gotten in less than 24 hours. I hope you guys enjoyed it! And feel free to check out my other works.

And if you liked this pairing, let me know and once I figure out a writing schedule I can make it a miniseries of sorts.

Early 2000s clashing with random afrobeats. Your condo is a mini whirlwind of perfumes, open wine bottles, shot glasses, and an air of excitement as you and your friends, Suki and Yue, finish getting ready for Girls night. A random friday in the month that you and your girls get together let loose, wreak havoc, drink an absurd amount of liquor, and dance like your lives depended on it.

“Trust me… it’s so much better when you trust me…” You hum along to the lyrics, struggling against the seal of a new bottle of Clase Azul. “Tell me it’s mine or I—”

You pause, sensing a weight in the room that wasn't there before. You look up to find Zuko watching you. His eyes are low with exhaustion, hair pulled into a messy bun, his button-down untucked and sleeves rolled up to the elbows.

“Don’t stop because I’m watching,” he says, his voice a low rasp. He hooks his keys by the door and swaps his loafers for slippers with practiced ease. “Keep going.”

You grin, abandoning the tequila. “Miss your lovin’ so bad…” Your heels click a steady rhythm against the hardwood as you prowl toward him. Between the wine and the shots, the room is tilting just enough to make you feel bold. Your hands find his chest, fingers deftly loosening his tie before curling around the back of his neck.

“Talk my shit ‘cause I’m so bad,” you whisper, leaning into his space. “Welcome home, handsome.”

Even with the extra three inches your heels provide, you’re still looking up at him. He doesn't say a word, his gaze traveling from the deep plunge of your cream, backless, top down to the hem of your red skirt. His hands find their favorite spot, the curve of your ass, pulling you flush against him.

“How’s the pregaming going?” he asks, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips.

He sees the dilated pupils and the way you’re already leaning in for a kiss. He knows you’re feeling very good; usually, once that lip combo is set, he’s strictly forbidden from touching your face until the end of the night. Tonight, clearly, the rules have changed.

“Floating, sweetheart. I’m simply… floating,” you breathe shakily. Your lips brush against his with every syllable, but he holds steady, teasingly keeping that last fraction of an inch between you.

“I’m supposed to be prepping exit shots, but I’m feeling greedy for your attention,” you confess, the honesty of the liquor slipping through. You tug firmly on the back of his neck, letting out a soft moan when the warmth of his lips finally lands exactly where you wanted them.

One of his hands slides lower, gripping you with a roughness that makes you gasp into the kiss. That’s all the invitation he needs to slip his tongue inside, tasting the wine and the warmth of your mouth. He kisses you slowly, taking his time, stealing your breath until you’re clinging to him. You weave your fingers into the thick, dark strands of his hair, grazing his scalp in a way that sends a visible shiver down his spine.

“Yo! Those shots were due three minutes ago, what’s the hold—” Suki rounds the corner, a compact mirror in one hand and a matte lipstick wand in the other. She freezes, taking in the scene. “—up. Hi, Zuko! Welcome home. Keep kissing my best friend and you’re going to be late for your gym session with Sokka,” she sings, spinning back toward the guest bathroom on her heels.

“More importantly we’ll be late with our date with the dance floor,” Yue yells, her voice several octaves higher than the music and the tequila in your system.

He takes his time pulling away, smirking as you stubbornly bite down on his bottom lip. You swipe your thumb over his mouth, wiping away the smeared evidence of the make-out.

“All of a sudden they can say complete sentences, but thirty minutes ago their asses were seeing triple,” you grumble, turning back toward the kitchen island.

Zuko lets out a low breath, delivering one firm, parting smack to your ass, watching the way it jiggles in the silky fabric of your skirt. “You got shorts underneath that?”

You pour a generous amount of tequila into the glasses, adding a hefty squeeze of lime to each. “Come find out, Prince,” you jest, not bothering to look back at the steel gaze you know is boring into your back.

You don’t even hear him move. The only warning you get is the sudden weight of his hand on the back of your neck, tilting you forward, while his other hand slides up the inner curve of your thigh. His fingers slip past the seam of your safety shorts, finding the plush, damp heat of you with devastating accuracy.

“A yes would have sufficed, but I see you’re in a playful mood tonight,” Zuko muses, his fingers tracing the seam that falls directly over your clit. You whimper, hips wiggling instinctively against him.

The liquor has you feeling heavy and hot, a simmer in your chest that tells you tonight is going to be intense.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice dropping an octave. “Call me when you’re ready to come home. Behave tonight, and maybe you’ll get what you’re begging for.”

You huff, rolling your eyes even as your heart races. “Who says I’m begging?”

He chuckles lowly, finally removing his hands from your frame. He turns toward your shared bedroom, looking back over his shoulder with a smirk. “You always do.”

On his way down the hall, Zuko bypasses the guest bathroom, offering a brief, practiced hand-wave to the two ladies who have turned the space into a makeshift Sephora. He’s so accustomed to the routine, the hairspray clouds and the glitter, that it hardly registers anymore. He just wants to get his workout in and come to a quiet house until he has to get active upon picking you up.

“Shot o’clock!” you yell, balancing all three glasses in your hold as you navigate to the bathroom. Your friends look stunning and their cheeks are flushed as they sip on their wines—tonight’s chaser of choice. Which explains the spike in arousal and strong need to fuck Zuko until you’re physically incapable of cumming again.

“WHOOP WHOOP!”

“Hell yeah!”

They grab their designated glasses, bright smiles and loopy facial expressions stare up at you.

“To a helluva night and to a helluva friendship,” your voices echo throughout the space in harmony, each of you tap the edge of your glasses to the edge of the counter before shooting it back. It goes down smoothly due to the high quality of the liquor; which makes it mainly taste like the citrus you added.

“Uber is outside to pick us up,” Yue shouts excitedly. Her hands move with precision and speed as she shoves random items into her purse.

“Fuck, already?” You fluff out your twist out ensuring that it frames your face just the way you like it.

“Don’t miss me too much when I’m gone, alright Prince?” you tease.

He doesn’t respond—he doesn’t have to. The way his thumb hooks into the waistband of your skirt, pulling you an inch closer to his hip, is an answer in itself. He leads you toward the foyer where the Uber Black is idling, its sleek frame a sharp contrast to the roar of his BMW warming up a few slots down.

He turns to you, his eyes raking over your red skirt one last time. He doesn't need a long speech to tell you he thinks you look beautiful; the way his jaw tightens as he tracks the curve of your legs says enough. He pulls you in for a quick, grounding hug, the mahogany scent of his soap and the traces of the steakhouse scent hit you all at once.

Before he lets go, his hand drops, giving your ass a firm, stinging squeeze that makes you gasp against his shoulder. It’s a claim, plain and simple.

He leans in, his breath warm against your ear, voice dropping into that low, commander-like register. "Watch your drinks. Stay together. And keep your eyes on the girls, not the room."

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his expression stern but dark with promise. "You know the routine. Text me when you’re ready. Don't make me come inside to find you."

"I know," you breathe, still feeling the heat from his hand.

"Go," he mutters, a ghost of a smirk finally breaking through his serious mask as he sees Suki and Yue watching from the car. "Try not to get arrested."

You giggle, slipping in alongside Yue. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

A loud, synchronized snort comes from both Suki and Yue. You’re already three drinks and four shots deep into the pre-game, and everyone in the car, Zuko included, knows that ‘best behavior’ is a lie you tell yourself until the first song starts.

He shakes his head, the dark strands of his hair catching the light as he shuts the door firmly. Through the tinted glass, you watch him head toward the BMW. Even in workout gear, he moves with a heavy, deliberate grace that makes you realize exactly what you'll be coming home to.

For exactly three seconds, it’s silent.

Then Suki snaps.

“Sir? Please tell me you have an aux cord or Bluetooth. We have a theme to uphold and the vibe is currently too high for silence.”

The driver, a saint of a man who has clearly seen it all on a Friday night, simply nods and gestures to the cord. Yue grabs it like it’s a lifeline, her rings clinking against the plastic as she plugs in.

“You guys ready?” Yue’s eyes are dancing, her usual composure completely dissolved by the liquor and excitement for what the night is sure to bring.

She doesn't wait for an answer. The first heavy, distorted bass notes of an Afrobeats anthem explode through the car’s speakers, vibrating the leather seats. It’s loud, obnoxiously loud, and it’s perfect.

“There it is!” Suki squeals, already catching the rhythm. She isn't just sitting; she’s whining in her seat, her shoulders rolling and her hips finding the beat against the upholstery. “ Y/n, make sure them heels are stable tonight, because the whine I plan on hitting will be extra nasty tonight!”

You giggle, “Oh babes, I’m readyyyyy!”

The tequila finally is reaching its peak. The city lights outside the tinted windows start to blur into long, neon streaks of violet and gold. The music inside starts to sound as if it’s managing the beats of your heart and your hips feel as if they’re being controlled by some dancing spirit.

It’s a car ride full of off-beat singing, flashing lights for photos, and excited chatter that overlapped and blended beyond making sense. It’s lovely.

As the driver takes a sharp turn toward the club district, you find yourself grinding into the seat, the friction of the silky red fabric against your skin sending a sharp, treacherous reminder of Zuko’s hand.

“Look at her!” Suki laughs, pointing a manicured finger at you as she catches your expression. “She’s already thinking about the pickup! Eyes on the prize, girl! Tonight is for the streets, tomorrow is for the Prince!”

You flip her off with a grin, “Let me let my man know we made it so he can let your man know he sent us off in one piece–I don’t know if that’s how they’ll pick us up though!”

She cackles and Yue shakes her head. You send a quick confirmation text and when you look up, the uber has come to a halt. He’s out in a flash to let you ladies out, mumbling a quiet thank you and reminder to be safe.

The line for the club snakes around the block, a sea of people in various shades of red shivering in the night air, but the three of you don’t even break stride. Walking up to the velvet ropes in coordinated red, you look like a literal warning label.

"Evening, Tiny," Suki chirps, giving a chin flick to the massive head of security at the front.

The guard, who usually looks like he eats boulders for breakfast, actually cracks a smile. He unclips the heavy brass latch without a word. "Looking dangerous tonight, ladies. Girl night?"

"You know it," you say, flashing him a quick, appreciative grin as you lead Yue and Suki past the groaning crowd.

Inside, the atmosphere is electric. It’s only 11:00 PM, but the energy is hitting like it’s 2:00 AM. The air is thick with expensive cologne, dry ice, and the heavy pulse of a house-remix that makes the floorboards thrum under your heels. You navigate the crowd with practiced ease, cutting through the bodies until you reach the mahogany bar.

The bartender doesn't even ask. He sees your trio and already has the shaker in hand.

"Three of the usual?" he shouts over a beat drop.

"Make 'em doubles!" Suki yells back, slamming her card down.

Seconds later, three chilled glasses are pushed toward you, garnished exactly how you like. You grab yours, clinking it against Yue’s and Suki’s. "No phone, no worries, no fiances, or lovers, just us," you command. You down half the glass in one go, the cold liquid sharp and perfect, giving you that final boost of 'fuck it' energy.

"To the floor!" Yue shouts, grabbing your wrist.

You push into the center of the dance floor, and it’s packed. It’s a literal wall of heat and movement, but as soon as the three of you find a pocket of space, you claim it. You’re in the middle, framed by your best friends, the purple and red strobe lights catching the "V" of your top and the sway of your skirt.

You three look like trouble and a good time beautifully clad in lip gloss and heels. It’s a combination that draws the eyes of onlookers.

You close your eyes, letting the rhythm take over. Your hips move in a slow, heavy grind that matches the depth of the bass. you’re grounded in the music, your body moving with a fluid, lethal confidence that has half the room staring, though you're too locked in to care.

Suki catches your eye through the strobe flashes, screaming the lyrics to the song, and you throw your head back and laugh.

The night is officially yours.

The energy in the club hits a fever pitch the second the opening beat of "No Hands" drops. It’s like a chemical reaction—the three of you don't even have to look at each other to know the assignment.

Suki is already in position, her red skirt flaring as she drops low, throwing it in a slow, controlled circle that has the guys at the nearby VIP tables losing their minds. You’re right there behind her, catching the rhythm and matching her beat for beat.

Yue is right alongside you, throwing imaginary bands over Suki. The three of you are moving like a single, coordinated unit of chaos.

"I love this shit man!" Suki yells over her shoulder, her grin wild and carefree under the flashing strobes.

As the clock ticks past midnight, the night starts to transition from that sharp, focused buzz into a beautiful, neon-tinted blur. You’re officially drunk, and the club is leaning into it.

This is your regular spot. Once a month you and the girls come here and spend an exuberant amount of money while keeping the dance floor on a ten. The perks of being The Girls start to roll in. A tray of lemon drop shots appears from a passing server, sent over by the staff just for the vibes. You don't even have to reach for your wallet; every time you head to the bar for a water or another round, the bartender just nods toward a group of guys at a table who have already covered the tab.

"They're staring again," Yue giggles into your ear, leaning her weight against you as you wait for a fresh round of drinks. She points subtly to a group of well-dressed men by the DJ booth who look like they're debating who has the guts to come over.

"Let 'em stare," you laugh, feeling the weight of the alcohol making your limbs heavy and your confidence sky-high. "They can pay for the drinks, but they aren't getting the time."

You take a fresh shot from the bartender—courtesy of 'Table 5'—and toast the room before turning your back on them. You're deep in the blur now, the music feeling like it's pumping directly through your veins.

“Y/nnn” Yue whines, pressing her weight deeper into your side. It makes you giggle as you sway slightly from the movement. “I gotta, need to, break the seal.”

You nod and the dance floor turns into three. You glance beside you to see Suki dancing with some random chick. “Suuu! Yuee needs the powder room,” you call out, her nimble fingers already wrapped around your wrist and tugging.

“I’mma stay here, won’t move pwomise, pwomise,” her words slur and her ‘r’s disappear on the word promise, but you're too far into the clouds to notice.

The walk to the bathroom is filled with you and Yue yelling the lyrics to some obscure Drake song. The ladies room is located down a hall in the back corner of the club. You bypass some of the private sections, getting whistles and catcalls, but like Stevie Wonder you both pretend not to see it.

“Oh god a line, Im going to combust,” she groans, twisting her arms to wrap around your midsection as she rests her head on your shoulder.

You pat her shoulder, “It’s four people, you can do it.”

“Love your fucking skirt!” Your ears perk up at sudden yelling of a compliment. Looking over Yue’s up-do, you smile at the woman practically beaming down at you.

“Thank you! Love your everything!” You compliment taking in her entire red fit–from the top, the mini-shorts, the chunky red heels, and the red curly hair.

The line moves gradually, with you and the young lady conversing and Yue using all her willpower to remain focus on the task at hand: to not piss herself.

“A girl’s night huh? I’m here for a friend's birthday. We got a section and everything to celebrate,” she explains. “Y’all should stop by, we can take some shots!--oh she can go in front of me.”

“God will bless you a thousand times over,” Yue rambles, rushing past her.

I-I told my man I’d be on my best behavior,” you giggle, leaning against the cold tile of the bathroom wall while Yue handles business in the stall. You look at the girl in the mirror—eyes bright, lipstick slightly blurred, and your outfit hugging you in all the right places.

You lean in closer to the stranger, your voice dropping into a tequila-soaked whisper. “And between me, you, God, and everyone else in this line—I’m drunk, I’m feeling myself, and I am barely hanging onto that promise by a thread.”

The girl cackles, touching your arm. “Honey, a man like that expects you to break the rules. That’s why he’s waiting up, isn’t he?”

You think of Zuko: sitting in that quiet condo, probably fresh out of the shower with his hair damp and his patience thin—and a shiver that has nothing to do with the club’s AC runs down your spine.

Oh, he’s definitely waiting,” you murmur, a devious smirk playing on your lips as Yue finally emerges, looking like a woman who has found salvation. “Let’s go find Suki. I’ve got a ‘best behavior’ record to officially finish breaking.”

You take one last look in the mirror, swiping a fresh layer of gloss over your lips until they’re a lethal, shining red. You snap a quick, blurry 0.5x selfie with Yue and your new bathroom-line bestie, a masterpiece of glitter and drunken joy, and then you’re out the door.

The second that iconic, staggered beat of "Back That Azz Up" hits, any lingering pretense of ‘best behavior’ is officially incinerated. It’s like a primal call to action. You don't even need to look for Suki; you just follow the sound of the '99 and the 2000s energy radiating from the very center of the pit. There is no world in which Suki hears Juvenile and doesn't claim the center of the dance floor.

You find her in the middle of a circle that has naturally formed around her. She’s a blur of crimson, representing for the ‘99 and the 2000s with every drop, her movements effortless and wild.

You don't even wait for her to see you. You slide into place behind her, your hips catching the beat with a terrifying precision, your body moving as if the song were written into your DNA. The girls flank you, a coordinated front of red and pure, unadulterated confidence.

As you hit the final chorus, sinking low and feeling the vibration of the floorboards through your heels, a treacherous thought flashes through your mind. You think about how Zuko would look watching you right now—the way his jaw would go rigid, the way he’d probably have to look away just to keep from dragging you out of the club by your wrist.

You throw your head back, a breathless, drunken laugh escaping you as the song fades into the next transition. You’re sweaty, your heart is racing, and you’ve never felt more alive.

"I'm so done for!" Suki screams over the next beat, grabbing your arm and shaking you. "We're going to the bar! Now!"

“Wait just come to my section–”

“Suki this is Meg! Meg, Suki,” you introduce quickly. Suki’s grin practically showcases all 32 of her teeth as she smiles at the woman in between you and Yue.

“Meg! Your outfit is a ten out of ten! Hands down one of the best I’ve seen tonight,” she compliments. And that was all that needed to be said before y'all followed behind her to her section.

See?! I told you!” Meg beams, her red curls bouncing as she pulls all three of you toward a plush, velvet-roped section positioned perfectly above the madness of the main floor. “Welcome to the birthday chaos. Shots are already on the way!”

The section is a sanctuary of chilled Grey Goose and expensive mixers. You collapse onto the leather seating for all of a second before a tray of lemon drops, rimmed with sugar and topped with fresh raspberries, is shoved into your hand.

“To being the baddest in the room!” Suki yells, and you all clink glasses with a force that nearly spills the liquid.

The sugar hits your tongue, followed by the sharp, familiar burn of the vodka. It’s the official turning point. The music shifts into a heavy Afrobeats rhythm, and you find yourself leaning against the railing of the VIP section, looking down at the sea of red below. You feel like a queen in a high tower, the city’s bass pumping through your feet.

Yue is already mid-conversation with one of Meg’s friends, her usual academic composure completely traded for a loopy, giggling charm. Suki, true to her word, is back on her feet, whining her hips against the edge of the table while she holds a bottle of champagne like a trophy.

You take another shot—Meg’s birthday rule, apparently—and the room starts to tilt just enough to make everything look like a masterpiece. You pull out your phone, the screen brightness blinding you for a second. You see a notification from Zuko.

Zuko [12:45 AM]: I see the charges at the bar. Drink some water. Don’t make me come get you early.

You stare at the text, a devious, tequila-soaked giggle bubbling up. You don’t reply with words. Instead, you snap a photo from your high vantage point: a blur of your red heels, the edge of a shot glass, and the chaotic, strobe-lit crowd below.

Let him wait, you think. Let him wonder.

You squint at your battery percentage, trying to gauge if the number reads 18 or 81. Did Suki not put your shit back on the charger? That’s too sober of a thought to think.

“Y/N! Get over here!” Suki pulls you back into the center of the section. “They’re playing Meg Thee Stallion! This is a spiritual requirement!”

You don't need to be told twice. You shove your phone back into your purse, battery concern and Fiance concerns fade into the background of the heavy bass. You’ve got a record to break, a birthday to celebrate, and at least three more hours of being a good time before you have to face the man waiting at home.

The night isn't just young; it’s barely started. And as the opening bars of Body explode through the speakers, you realize that Zuko was right about one thing: you really are in a playful mood.

1:21 am

“So so that’s when I told him, he either gotta put that anger into a sport or sex, or–or we’re done. G-got his shit together real quick” you drunkenly explain to some woman named Tiffany who’s staring at the rock on your hand as if she’s witnessing the second coming of Christ.

“A-and he hiccup he just lets you out the house hiccup lookin’ how you lookin’? Like damn good? I-I if I was a man hiccup I don’t think I could,” she slurs kicking her feet up on the empty spot beside you.

You watch your two friends dance the night away with one another. Suki behind Yue smacking her ass and laughing. Yue throwing it in a circle like Cardi B intended. It’s a good night to have a great night.

“H-he can fight,” you state simply. “B-but m-most importantly, he can win. So h-he doesn’t say much. My man…is one of few words, lotta action,” you continue.

Tiffany lets out a whistle that’s more of a high-pitched wheeze, her eyes widening as she looks from the diamond on your finger back to your face. "One of few words? Girl... that’s the most dangerous kind. The quiet ones? They’re always the most hiccup feral."

You nod solemnly, as if she’s just dropped a piece of ancient, sacred wisdom. "Feral," you repeat, the word tasting like tequila and truth. "Exactly. He’s... he’s like a dragon. Just sits there. Watching. Waiting to pounce."

You lean your head back against the velvet of the VIP booth, the world doing a slow, rhythmic tilt that matches the bass of the song. Across the floor, you see Suki and Yue absolutely holding it down. Suki catches your eye and blows a kiss, her face flushed and glowing under the strobe lights, before she goes right back to smacking Yue’s hip in time with the music.

"He's gonna kill you when you get home," Tiffany giggles, leaning into your space. "Lookin’ like that? Smelling like a whole bar? You’re brave, sis. I’d be shaking."

"I'm not brave," you mumble, a devious, hazy smile spreading across your face. "I'm just... hungry and playful."

1:52 am

“Listen, I don’t wanna waste your time–” you interrupt the man breathing on side your face as the bartender makes eye contact with you.

“Marcus, may I have…” the words die in your throat as he pushes a Midori Sour in front of you. “You are the one man in this world, who can do no wrong,” you confess, finger gripping the chilled glass like it’s a lifeline.

Marcus chuckles, “ Thank you for thinking so highly of me, where are the girls? It's almost time for y’all water shots.”

You squint your eyes at him. Lips suddenly pursed in concentration, “which man was it? Zuko or Sokka?” You question.

He raises his arms up in mock surrender, “ I’m tipped too well to tell. I’ll have one of the girls bring some glasses in about ten though.” With that he walks off to assist another patreon, but you watch as he shivers under the intensity of your glare.

“So, like I was saying, I don’t want to waste your time and–”

“Sir, I have a fiancee who bites and shoots, walk away.” You instruct, not bothering to glance at him as you turn on your heels to hopefully find your girls.

2:15 am

One dance battle. One close call with almost being thrown up on by some stranger. One water shot to placate Marcus’s insistence.

The night has officially entered the final countdown and you're not sure who’s where or what’s entirely what at the moment. As you stumble into the bathroom, the sight staring back at you makes your lips spread into a genuine smile. Your twist out has started to morph into a bigger, slightly less defined afro. Your lipstick, liner, and gloss have all vanished into the ether. Your chest still shines from your body butters and oils.

The band of your shorts peak a little above your skirt. You dig for your phone and hit the power button. Nothing. Well, shit. Shit. Zuko doesn’t ask for much when you go out. His rules are actually fairly simple: drink water, if you change locations, communicate that, don’t get arrested, and keep your phone charged.

You set the phone back in your bag and grab your lipgloss–adding a shine back to your lips. Your eyes flicker back to the band showing once again, you’ll have to do a series of apologizing when he comes—the shorts will have to go once you figure out what time it is.

3:32 am

The lights are up, casting a hazy, yellow glow over the confetti-strewn floor and the half-empty glasses. You’re leaning heavily against the mahogany bar, the cool wood a godsend against your skin.

“I’m telling you, Marcus,” you slur, pointing a finger at the bartender you’ve known for two years. “That guy in the fedora? He was a glitch in the matrix. No one dances like that in 2026.”

Marcus laughs, wiping down the counter. “Trust me, he’s a regular at the Saturday night techno sets. He gets worse.”

Behind you, the chaos of your group is winding down in its own way. Suki is leaning against a velvet pillar, her face flushed as she whispers something into her phone that has her biting her lip—no doubt giving Sokka a play-by-play of exactly what she’s going to do when she gets home. Yue is further down the bar, tucked into a deep conversation with a waitress from earlier“Yo, Marcus, who’s the VIP?”

A guy in an oversized graphic tee and a backwards cap waltzes up, leaning his elbows on the bar right next to you. He smells like expensive cologne and energy drinks.

“YN, meet Leo,” Marcus states, gesturing between the two of you. “He’s one of the new DJs we just brought on for the summer rotation. Leo, this is YN. She’s part of the legendary Friday night trio. They’ve been shutting this place down for two years straight.”

Leo’s eyebrows shot up, a slow, appreciative grin spreading across his face as he took in your figure and the way you were currently draped over the bar like royalty.

“Two years? And I’m just now seeing you?” He reached out, his hand hovering near yours on the counter. “I must’ve been playing the wrong rooms. You staying for the after-hours cleanup, or can I convince you that the new guy knows how to mix more than just house music?”

You blinked at him, the alcohol making his face swim slightly. He was cute, sure, and he had that confident DJ energy that usually worked, but your brain was a slow-moving fog of tequila and the vague, nagging feeling that you were forgetting something important. Something about a red car and a promise.

“She’s a regular, Leo, not a groupie,” Marcus teases, though he keeps a watchful eye on the interaction.

Leo didn’t seem deterred. “I’m not looking for a groupie. Just someone with good taste. What’s your drink of choice, YN? I’m buying the 'end of the shift' round.”

You glance at your water, then at Marcus who’s suddenly too busy polishing glasses. An exit shot would cause for another apology to be added to the list. You click your tongue. It kills you to turn down a free drink, but you remain strong.

“I’m all good, thank you,” the words are spoken slowly, trying hard to hide the extent of how much alcohol is already in your system—and heavens it's a lot. Another thing to apologize for.

Maybe you were a bad guy. girl. Maybe you simply like playing with fire, or, maybe, you just like the various positions said fire morphs you into when he’s had enough of your shenanigans. Who’s to say? But as he asks are you sure, your smile widens.

“No,” the word falls short and sweet. “Tequila, but make it three. I can’t leave my girls out.”

Leo’s grin turns into a full-blown beam as he signals Marcus to get to work. "I like your style, YN. Loyal to the squad. I can respect that."

Marcus catches your eye, a silent 'I'm not the one who's gonna have to deal with Zuko' look passing over his face, but he doesn't argue. He lines up three shot glasses, the clear liquid shimmering under the house lights as he adds a dash of lime.

You turn around, cupping your hands around your mouth. "Suki! Yue! Last one! For the road!"

Suki practically vibrates off the pillar she was leaning on, and Yue breaks her deep conversation with a wave of her hand, both of them navigating the obstacle course of empty chairs to reach the bar. They look like a beautiful, disheveled wreckage of red silk and high energy.

"Who’s the new guy?" Suki chirps, her eyes darting from Leo to the shots and then back to you.

"Leo, the new DJ," you explain, already reaching for your glass. "He’s convinced we haven't had enough yet."

"He's a visionary," Suki declares, grabbing her glass. Yue follows suit, her academic poise finally replaced by a loopy, "fuck it" grin.

Leo raises his own glass of water. "To the legendary Friday night trio. May the hangover be brief and the memories be... blurry."

You clink glasses, the sound of the 'clink' sharp in the now-quiet room. You tilt your head back, the tequila hitting your throat with a familiar, searing burn that makes your toes curl in your heels. You let out a long, satisfied exhale, slamming the glass back onto the mahogany.

"That's the one," you mumble, wiping a stray drop from your lip. "The official nail in the coffin."

You wince as you stand upright completely. The respite from dancing and moving has officially reminded you that your heels and feet are not one entity. “Thanks for shot Leo, but I desperately need some air,” you call out, not bothering to turn around to acknowledge him trailing behind you. However you do feel his stare burning holes into your ass.

The cool summer air is like a reward. Crisp and refreshing. Your gaze immediately goes to the stool that’s right next to the door, where Tiny or Ray, the other security guard sits. You wiggle on top carefully, sighing in relief before unwrapping your heels with care.

Sokka leans against the passenger door of his Escalade, hands moving animatedly as he explains to Zuko about Suki’s promise to give it to him extra nasty tonight. “And that’s why I love girl nights, they do their thang and when its all said and done they come home and continue the party…”

His words drone into the ether as Zuko’s gaze flickers back to the front door. His eyebrow raises slightly as he watches you undo your shoes. Your fingers are clumsy as they try to unstrap the silky straps. A guy, an unfamiliar guy, that’s not Ray, Marcus, or Tiny, is hovering near you.

“Promise, I'm a professional, no help,” you mumble trying to get your eyes and fingers on the same wavelength as you work to undo your straps. You offer Leo a drunken wrist flip in hopes of shooing him away, but he simply adjusts his weight on his feet.

“Even professionals need help, Y/n. How are you getting home tonight? Do you need me to bring you?”

Your fiancée and her girls were the stars of the night as usual, man," Ray says with a respectful nod. "Kept the energy up, no issues."

Zuko gives a short, appreciative nod back. "Thanks for the text to be on the way, Ray. I appreciate you looking out."

Your head snaps up, mouth falling open as your eyes meet sharp gold. Zuko stands between your knees, his shadow swallowing you whole. He looks down at your bare feet, then at the one shoe dangling from your finger, and finally at your face—flushed, glossy-lipped, and entirely unapologetic.

“The phone was one thing,” he rasps, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that vibrates right through your chest. “The thirty-minute delay was another. But I’m watching you take a shot with a stranger while you’re already so far gone you can’t unlace your own shoes?”

You give him a loopy, unapologetic grin. “I was… I was being a bad bitch, Zuko. It’s a full-time job….and, and I had it? Have it. See, I got one off,” he crouches down, easily slipping the other off and taking the other shoe out your hand.

You exhale slowly as he stands back up, finally taking in the sight before you. His hair is in a messy bun, he’s shirtless underneath a zip-up jacket, and he’s in a pair of loose lounge pants–that’s you’re confident he’s boxerless in. He looks the kind of sinful that they talk about biblically, and you're feeling just as greedy.

You’re a disaster,” he mutters, his eyes dropping to your mouth. “A beautiful, tequila-soaked disaster.” He lifts you into his arms, sliding one arm firmly underneath your ass to hide what’s underneath as it rides up.

You nuzzle your head into his neck, breathing in the scent of pine and eucalyptus. “You love this disaster, don’t you?” You breathe, teeth lightly grazing his neck.

You send a wink to Leo, who watches you with wide eyes and a mouth that touches the floor.

Zuko’s grip tightens.

Sokka!” Zuko calls out over his shoulder as he heads for the BMW. “She’s cut off. For the next forty-eight hours.”

“Copy that!” Sokka yells back, already ushering a giggling Suki into his own car. Yue already buckled in the backseat.

Zuko reaches the passenger side, opening the door and practically pouring you into the leather seat. He leans over you to pull the seatbelt across, his face inches from yours, his eyes dark and promising.

“Don’t get comfortable,” he warns, his thumb catching your chin one last time. “The drive is only ten minutes. And I expect a full apology for every single minute you made me wait.”

The click of the seatbelt is the only thing anchoring you to reality as the cool interior of the BMW envelops you. Zuko’s scent is everywhere—heavy, masculine, and grounding. You watch him walk around the front of the car through the tinted windshield, his stride predatory even in his lounge pants, the streetlights catching the sharp line of his jaw.

He slides into the driver's seat, the leather creaking under his weight, and for a second, he just sits there. He doesn't start the engine. He just grips the steering wheel, his knuckles white, as he stares straight ahead.

A grin plays on your lips as you allow him to take his second. You set your phone on the wireless plug and grab his phone off the mantle. You scroll through his playlist before clicking on the one that always seems to get clicked on when you’re feeling yourself.

"Zukooo," you whine, the name stretching out like taffy as you lean your head back against the headrest. "Why aren't we moving? I thought you were in a rush."

He turns his head slowly, his eyes raking over your flushed face and the dark hickeys already blooming on his neck from your earlier assault. "I’m trying to decide if I should drive the speed limit or get us home in five minutes so I can put you over my knee."

You giggle, a loopy, triumphant sound that echoes in the quiet car. You reach out, your hand wandering to the center console, fingers trailing over the gear shift before finding his thigh. The fabric of his lounge pants is thin, just as you suspected, and the heat radiating off him makes your fingers tingle.

You spare a glance to the area around you. Nearly all of the club patrons are gone; what’s left are the few workers and they park in the back—so the streets are mostly empty save for a few cars. However his tint is so dark that you doubt anyone would notice. It's a drunken conclusion. One that makes you decisive as you unclick your seatbelt.

You navigate over the center console with an ease that almost resembles sobriety. Your legs fall on either side of him, caging him with your calves and thighs.

Zuko’s breath hitches, his eyes darkening until they’re almost black. He doesn't say a word, waiting to see what exactly you’re up to now.

You catch the zipper of his jacket in your fingers, pulling it all the way down until his sculpted chest and abs are fully accessible to your gaze. "I think I’d like the five-minute version," you whisper. “I’m feeling very impatient.”

Your nails graze along the planes of his chest before looping around his neck. You slant your lips against his in a kiss that makes you feel as if you’re melting. He tastes like mint and something citrus. You want more of it. You try to suppress a grin as you gingerly suck his tongue into your mouth; hips grinding against his growing hard on with slow, controlled movements.

He meets the invasion of your tongue with a sudden, starving hunger, his mouth moving over yours with a predatory heat that makes your head swim faster than the tequila ever could.

“You’re playing with fire," he rasps against your lips, his voice dropping into that dangerous, register that tells you his restraint is down to a single, fraying thread.

“I know,” you moan softly, bringing your lips right back down on his. His grip on your hips tightens until his knuckles are white. He shifts beneath you, tilting his pelvis up to meet your grind, the friction of his growing erection against your thin silk skirt sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core.

One of his hands slide up your thigh, his gaze snapping to your low lidded one. “Where are your shorts, YN?" he mumurs, his fingers hooking into the fabric of the skirt.

"In my bag," you mumble, your hands digging deeper into his hair. "Knew I’d need to give you easy access...."

One hand wraps around the back of your neck to pull you into a hard, demanding kiss, the other sliding down to find you drenched through your thong

Five minutes," he repeats, the words a jagged promise as he breaks the kiss just enough to bury his face in the crook of your neck. He inhales sharply, his nose dragging over your skin, smelling the club, the sweat, and the pure, intoxicating scent of you being his. "If I don't get us out of this car right now, I'm going to tear this skirt off you and finish this in front of the security cameras."

Zuko lets out a sharp, jagged breath, his forehead dropping against your shoulder for a split second to gather the last of his willpower. Then, with a sudden, decisive movement, he reaches around you, his hand fumbling for the gear shift.

The BMW roars to life, the engine's vibration humming through your thighs as he floors it. He drives with one hand white-knuckling the steering wheel and the other clamped firmly on your thigh, his thumb tracing the hem of your thong in a silent, lethal countdown.

The city lights outside become a long, neon blur of green and yellow lights, matching the frantic beat of your heart. Every time he hits a bump or takes a turn, your weight shifts against him, and you hear him hiss a curse through his teeth.

"Sit still," he commands, though his hand squeezes your leg in a way that says he wants the exact opposite. "Unless you want us to end the night in a ditch."

You give him a loopy, daring smile and lean down to bite the sensitive cord of his neck, right over the marks you’ve already left. “Better drive faster, Prince. Or that's exactly where we'll end up.”

Part Two has been uploaded :)

@scardorosht

Ahh! Was working on this in the midst of my dissertation because all a girl wanted was a good night out and good sex, lol.

Any whooo, sorry this took so long to publish. The second part will be out on 5/13!

Oh! Additionally, the song reader is singing in the beginning is comeback by jojo! Total banger if you've never heard it.

Toodles!

Mack 💕

“Sugar!” 

You jump as Chloe practically yells your line name at you. Iced Sugar. The name given to you at the end of your sophomore year once you joined the legacy your grandmother left within your sorority. A name that represents your composure and poise, while playing on your childhood nickname and the campus’s belief that you’re an utter sweetheart. 

You look up from your phone, cheeks warm from your second glass of wine and the filthy messages you’re sending your man. The living room in a collage of textbooks, wine glasses, and laptops. A faint R&B track is playing in the background. 

Chloe sits on the opposite side of the coffee table; onside of Marcus and Maya. Jordan sits manspread on the other end of the couch and Liz sits in the papasan chair in the corner. 

“Yes, Rain?” you counter, using her line name back at your line sister. 

She giggles, full lips spread in a shit eating grin. “Why are you not in the conversation? Pay attention to us, this is serious business! The greeks want to have a D9 take over in Miami for Spring Break—”

Liz intercepts, “And with you being Chaplain and NPHC Representative this year, we want to know what the people are talking about? Are we doing it? It’s senior year! We should, but what are the higher ups thinking?” 

You adjust your position, uncrossing your legs and stretching, “Feel like that’s a Maya question, you got the vice president right in front of you. Think I’m busy for Spring Break though, so I may be sitting that out.” 

Maya turns her attention away from her new boyfriend, Marcus, and to you. “I think it’s a go. We’re mainly waiting to hear back from some of the others to see how big this is going to be, but I will say that it’s mainly giving couples at the moment,” she pauses, taking a swig of her own wine glass. 

“ I doubt that will really be a problem since we’re all in relationships well minus Jordan, but—” 

He shoots his attention from his book to stare down Maya. “Woah, woah,since when did dating an AI chatbot be considered being in a relationship?” His words are light, but everyone besides you senses the reality of his question. 

You roll your eyes, playfully unamused by the familiar jab. Ever since you finally caved and showed a photo of Satoru to your line sisters junior year, it’s been a running joke that you’re dating someone too pretty to be a real person. You've long since moved past the point of defending how handsome he is or how undeniably real he feels when he’s holding you. Besides, you know the truth; outside of your scheduled sanctuary visits, his life has been a relentless blur. His research has been progressing at an astronomical rate, and when he isn't redefining quantum mechanics, he’s spent his spare time destroying global leaderboards just for the fun of it. 

Maya cackles at Jordan’s sentiment, “ Mr. AI is real man, a real pain in the ass, a real run of the mill kind of dude.” 

Jordan snorts. Liz shakes her head in the corner, already foreseeing where this is about to go. “He’s so real then where has he been the past thre—” 

“Oh shit!” you whisper softly, eyes bugging as you stare at the message looking back at you. Be there in ten minutes. Ten minutes. Ten fucking minutes. “Oh shit!” you state louder, gaze sharp as you lock in on Maya. 

Maya reads you like a book. She knows the look, the way your eyes light up despite the panic that dances across your features. Satoru Gojo is either here or on his way. But for the first time in three years, he’s early. And early means he’s off of your normal schedule.

 Maya clears her throat, “we can chat about this at a later time, for now it’s close up shop time. Sugar and I are going into a closed weekend. Y’all know the drill. Pack it up?” she instructs. 

You both stand on less than sturdy legs. You down the last of your wine and start picking up. 

Groans come from Liz, Jordan, and Chloe. 

“It’s a Thursdayyyy, and you literally just had a closed weekend like four weeks ago,” Chloe whines. Her hands reluctantly shoving her textbooks into her totebag. 

“What’s a closed weekend?” Marcus questions, still sitting with his laptop in front of him. 

Jordan laughs dryly, “It’s this absurd ritual they do. They shut down the entire apartment and communication for the weekend. We think they sacrifice goats and praise cryptids. I even hear that they sometimes give up little neighborhood children as well, but who knows. Been this way for three years man, welcome to the shit storm.” 

You snort at his statement, giving him the stink eye as you fold up the throw blankets. “Like always, you’re almost right. Instead of children though, we’re thinking of sacrificing Kappas with bad attitudes and lame jokes,” you retort with a sickly sweet smile. 

His laughter turns real. “And they call you sugar? What kind of sweetie threatens a man of my stature and grace, I should be the object of your reverence not disdain Ms. Ice,” he comments. 

You don’t tell him that the object of your reverence is on his way and that you have plans on confessing all your sins on his dick in your personal form of a prayer. Instead you mumble a thank you as he takes the dishes in your hand and brings them to the sink. 

“W-wait? Does this apply to me too, Maya?” Marcus mutters, slowly closing his laptop and putting it into his case. 

Her gaze flickers to you, who’s busy assisting Chloe and shit talking with Jordan. She gives him a wry smile, and a short nod. “Yeah, the apartment is closed to all. Even those with cute smiles and great looks,” she twirls one of his locs in her finger before pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. 

“I’ll call as soon as we open up shop again. Text me when you make it to your place, though? Alright?” 

He nods, “Ye-yeah, will do beautiful.” 

You smile as you watch the scene unfold out of the corner of your eye. Somehow your 5’2 bestfriend, got a 6' 2 dark-skin, twenty- four year old man blushing and flustered in y’all living room. 

It’s a whirlwind, full of whines, groans, and complaints; the works, but you and Maya manage to get everyone out of the apartment in a timely manner. At the click of the door you both share a look of exhaustion. 

“Can’t believe we made that work in ten minutes. As soon as that nerd walks through the door, I’m gonna give him a piece of my mind for being so last minute. Three years and he acting like he’s new to this and not true to this. THREE!” She exclaims, voices tethering somewhere between a yell and shout. “ A Thursday too? Not even during a three day weekend? And early? Might I add, the gall,” 

“The audacity,” you add, although there is no real bite to your words. You’re a bundle of energy and nerves as you think about the messages you sent him prior to his ten minutes away text.

 Is he too tired to cash in on those messages or is he feeling just right? 

You absentmindedly begin preparing a small fruit tray. Usually, when he comes in you snack on a mini charcuterie board while taking a bath together and just soak in the presence of one another. However, with him being early, you haven’t gone to the store just yet, so a mini plate of the few fruits you have on hand will have to do. 

“Did he say why he was early?” Maya inquires, snagging a fat grape from the center of the tray. 

“Nope, didn’t even know he was on the flight if I’m being honest. He should be in a conference room to talk about his upcoming tournament with his team,” your heart skips a beat at the sound of the front door opening. 

He slips in like a man who owns the entire complex. His glasses are already in his hairline, eyes sparkling, grin in place, but there’s an air of exhaustion around him. “There’s my pretty girl, ah and Maya,” he breathes, setting his two travel bags down. His strides are swift as he wraps you in his arms, smooshing your cheek to the plane of his chest. The scent of coffee and something sweet clings to him. You hum in contentment, hugging him tightly. 

“If it isn’t my favorite nerd, the hell you doing here so early?” Maya calls. 

He chuckles lowly. His hands run up and down your back as if he’s confirming the fact that his sixteen hour travel day is officially over. “Won’t believe the bullshit week I had, couldn’t fathom spending an additional night in a bed without my girl,” he buries his nose in your neck, breathing you in as if your scent is the only thing that can refill his lungs. 

“Well, I didn’t have plans on leaving tonight…ugh now that I’m thinking about it Marcus was supposed to spend the night,” Maya groans, pressing two fingers to the bridge of her nose. “Totally slipped my mind in my haste, that’s why he looked so sad. Shit,” she curses underneath her breath. 

Satoru rests his chin on your shoulder, glancing at Maya through his lashes. “Marcus? Spending a night, huh? You told me it wasn’t official yet,” he muses. You turn in his embrace, and he follows closely behind, his arms never leaving your waist. 

“Well that was two weeks ago and you’ve missed our COD nights for the past two weeks, so I haven’t been able to update you. And you know I don’t like imposing on you and ‘your girl’s’ scheduled phone calls,” Maya chimes back. “Anyways, we’ve been official for two weeks! I like him a lot. Kind of feel bad I forgot about tonight, damn.” 

His eyes follow the way you arrange everything in your particular order and place it on a serving tray. “Why not take him with you this weekend? And sorry about our missed gaming nights, this month has been something else…” 

“I heard, congrats on the new patent, what’s that like number seven? Heard it sold well too. I don’t know… bringing a fresh relationship to my sweet, sweet paradise? On your dime? Is that not weird?” Maya probes. 

He shrugs, wrapping his lips around the blueberry you offer him. He chews slowly, trying to find the problem Maya clearly sees, “I don’t think so, but if you think he’s gonna fuck up your sweet, sweet paradise then probably not. But if you like him, then yeah, don’t hold back. Holding back is for bitches.” 

You elbow him in his ribs, shaking your head with a grin on your face, "I'm gonna really start cutting down on the time you spend communicating with my family, that was soooo something my brothers have said to you or around you, haven’t they?”