Mai likes many things about Zuko. She likes the way he furrows his brow when he's deeply involved in some piece of reform legislstion. She likes the way he leaves presents on her vanity, flowers and flagons of perfume and new shuriken sets. She likes the way he smiles, and especially the way he laughs.

But one thing approaching the top of the list has to be sex with Zuko.

Her mother would shriek baishūn from the top of her lungs if she saw them tangled up on (their) bed, Zuko's shirt already pulled off, her tongue shoved into his mouth. It's so easy to forget being a noblewoman like this and just quit thinking; let herself revel in the warmth and wetness, the tingling skin on her collarbone and sternum where he's slipped past her neckline. So easy to be overcome as she grinds her hips against Zuko's, searching for purchase— and that's why she gets a sudden shock when he pulls back and sits up.

"What's wrong?" she asks, a little annoyed and a little more concerned.

"I was just thinking..." he trails off, blushing. He's such a dork. Her dork. "Maybe we could try...?"

She raises a well-sculpted eyebrow. "Handcuffs or spanking?"

The unblemished part of his face is now approaching the color of his scar, and he ducks his head. He spent his adolescence on a navy ship, and he's worse than a twelve-year-old sometimes. "I want to watch you... touch yourself. I mean, you know how, right?" he adds worriedly, taking the edge of his lip between his teeth.

"Of course I know how. Girls do it as much as boys," she says, rolling her eyes. There's a strange flutter in her stomach at the thought of being that shamelessly exhibitionistic, but she brushes it aside as she unpins her hair. Her only beauty, Mother said once upon a time, looking askance at her pale, sour-faced daughter; long and straight and sleek, so dark that it looks wet even when it isn't.

But Zuko— Zuko looks at her like she's a goddess, like he can hardly believe that she deigns to sleep next to him. He buries his nose into the nape of her neck and pulls on her yukata's sash; she slips her arms out and throws it to the floor, leaving herself dressed in white underclothes.

"You're perfect," he says, swallowing hard. "You're so—"

"What did you have in mind?" Mai asks, voice low and raspy. She grazes one of her breasts with a feather-light fingertip. "Tell me, Fire Lord."

He's already erect; she can see the bulge rising from the front of his pants. "Go between your legs. Through the cloth."

Still kneeling, she slowly draws a hand to her underwear, skates over the damp spot at the bottom. There's heat already pooling there, in the pit of her belly; when she reaches her clit and gives a hesitant stroke, an electric jolt goes deep through her. She keeps rubbing back and forth, back and forth, and gods is this starting to—

"Take them off," Zuko says hoarsely; his pupils are blown, and he's begun scrabbling around his cock. She lifts her hips and slides the moist fabric down her legs, then brings the hand to her folds again as she splays them. Agni, she's wet— she moves along her slick labia to her entrance and mewls as she slides a careful finger inside—

"Stop," he commands, amber eyes gleaming. "Untie your sarashi."

With no small reluctance, she reaches up and undoes the knot, letting it fall onto the bed and her breasts spring free. Zuko's tongue darts out slightly, through his always-dry lips. "Touch— touch your nipples," he says, as though he can't quite manage to get the words out.

She obeys, circling the delicate skin of her areolae until the nipples are painfully hard, then pinching them into stiff peaks. What she really wants is Zuko's mouth, teasing and laving 'til she thinks she'll go mad if he doesn't lick her now, but this adds to the wetness on her thighs, too, makes her emit long, low moans from the back of her throat. "Please," she begs, less powerful and far more desperate than she'd like. "I need—"

"Okay," he murmurs, his own hand pumping up and down beneath his waistband, and she almost sobs from relief when she touches her clit. No more playing around— she works it quickly and furiously, breasts shuddering with each rapid stroke, gasping more and more as the pleasure blooms inside of her. The sheer primalism, the total loss of composure as she fucks herself with two fingers that go in effortlessly is driving her to the brink—

she's so close and her mind is so blank—

"Just— let go, all right?" he whispers close to her ear, his breath warm against her neck. "Let go." And that, along with his hot, callused palm scraping over her breast, is her undoing; she comes hard, her hips shaking, static in her vision. It's so blindingly good, and she presses her fingers in even deeper, trying to make it last as long as she can.

When she opens her eyes, dizzy and so relaxed, Zuko is groaning as his hand moves down his shaft once, twice, as he thrusts forward and spills onto the sheets. "Fuck," he exhales, brushing sweaty ropes of hair away from his face and curling up next to her. He smells nice, of anise and cedarwood. "That was even better than I thought it would be."

The bed is a mess. She throws her leg onto his, lazily— there's a new warmth in her stomach, like the rising sun. It's not wrong, it's not. It's all good, all sweet, receding ache in the cradle of her thighs and Zuko sprawled on top of her. "We need to bathe," she says, wrinkling her nose.

"Together?"

"Might be counterproductive," she deadpans, just to see his disappointed expression. "But, I mean, I could use some help. It's not easy getting that neroli soap you like all over my body..."

He's blushing again. Such a dork.