Written for Sexy Maiko Week 2015: AU
Warnings: profane language, sexual content
A/N: Oh my gosh. I'm so embarrassed, but also strangely proud. The smut is strong with this one.
Modern AU
28. Complicated
She doesn't have feelings for him. Please, she's above that, and it's not like that at all. Their arrangement, this "exchange of favors," exists solely to satisfy their mutual needs, because you can't always do the job yourself, because he has something she wants, and she's the same for him. She could be doing this with any other guy right now—but this is easier. They're just fucking. Plain and simple. It's not complicated, not some shitty romantic comedy plot—just two people fucking.
And so when she shoots him a text, she hesitates at first. This will be the third time in three days. The third time in three days initiated by her no less. They haven't explicitly set a limit on these things, but if there were one, she certainly would've exhausted it. Something's been off as of late. The past few times as she caught her breath, the ache between her legs relieved, she still felt herself unfulfilled, craving more. And a voice in the back of her mind hisses, whispers urgently in her ear that it's because something's gone amiss, that things aren't as they should be, but she quiets it long enough to press send. Third time's the charm, or so it goes.
He arrives eight and a half minutes later-not that she's counting, or anything—and she watches from the open front door as he pulls into her driveway in that rattling old Passat of his.
"I've got a shift at six," Zuko says, checking his phone.
"That's plenty of time," Mai replies. She turns, expecting him to follow-which he does, closing the front door behind him—leading him to the comfort of her room.
"Just down today? Same as yesterday?" he asks as he watches her shed her pants and underwear.
She pulls her shirt over her head and unhooks her bra, folding everything neatly and setting it aside, waiting for him to do the same before she replies: "Down and full."
"Down and full?"
"We have plenty of time," she says. And naked, she lies back on the bed, staring at him between her parted thighs. At the sight of her spread before him, he gives himself a few strokes.
"All right. But it's your turn next time."
"Of course," she replies.
He gets down on his knees, and pulls her to him by the calves, head bending down to the juncture between her thighs. She inhales deeply, stifling a gasp, when his lips are finally upon her. As usual, he starts slow: his hot breath at her core, tongue tracing and flicking in all the right spots—she arches her hips up to implore him, but he slows his pace even more, thumbs rubbing circles into the soft skin of her thighs.
"Look I know I said we had plenty of time, but—" she cries out at the moment he dips in a finger, simultaneously deepening his kiss. One hand tangled in his hair, the other guiding his free hand to her breast, she feels him grow more and more impassioned with her every whimper and sigh. At one point, she lifts her head, peering out of half lidded eyes at his form before her: eyes closed and brow furrowed in concentration, dipping in a finger and then another with every cue of his name.
He always pours all of himself into whatever he does. Passionate in every venture. And sometimes when he burns, hot fire and brimstone, her seared skin aches, and this, she imagines, is what it must feel like to be lovers. And always, she must remind herself that they are anything but.
When she arches her hips up to him, hands clenching fistfulls of bed sheet, his hands descend to her ass, bringing her even closer to his lips as he sucks and teases at that spot that makes her shudder and tremble, and when her climax hits, washes over her in quakes that contract her hips, sends her shaking, rips a writhing moan from her mouth, strong and unapologetic, he holds her steady, doesn't object when her nails scrape into his scalp.
As she catches her breath, he feels him watching, fire eyes fixed on the slowed heaving of her rising and falling breath, and holds her gaze when she finally opens her eyes, holds it still as he licks the bead of sweat trickling down the pale inside of her thigh, holds it still, fire gaze, smoldering stare, as he as his tongue, slow and deliberate, delivers one final lick to her center, as his tongue licks the length of his two fingers, tasting what remains of her. Fuck.
"Ready to keep going?" Zuko asks.
Mai can only manage to nod her head.
She pushes herself farther back onto her bed, watches the rippling muscles of his thighs as he advances towards her.
"How do you want it?" his voice, rough and faltering just the slightest, betrays the eagerness he tries so hard to conceal. And it makes her feel better—knowing that he, perhaps, needs this, wants this, as much as she does.
He kneels, her thighs parted once more to receive him. Her eyes linger on his familiar length, erect; she remembers the last time she invited him in, and the time before that when he'd asked for her: when she'd discovered the dreaded intimacy that could accompany being taken behind, the lack of control in being in control as she worked her hips over his reclined body. Vulnerability, intimacy—adversaries to their arrangement—from here she can look into his eyes, let them consume her. From here she can watch him take her, watch him lose himself in her...this intimacy, this vulnerability—never did she ever think she would voluntarily elect it. And yet here they are.
"Like this," she replies. "Like this today."
He arches a brow, but of course, he obliges.
Slinging her leg over his shoulder, he presses in to her with a groan, throwing his head back as he goes. And though they've done this countless times before, she has yet to grow tired of the feeling of him inside her, this feeling of relieved wholeness and fulfillment, be it just for a few spare moments.
Unlike before, this time he doesn't start slow, finding his heavy and rapid rhythm, and, paired with the fact that this is the second round in such a short amount of time, her second peak approaches quickly; and when it hits, it hits with as much force as the first, overwhelming her, arresting her breath and limbs, she barely registers his three final thrusts before he spills into her, barely registers the sight of his bottom lip clenched between his teeth. Spent, he collapses on top of her, chin finding the dip of her shoulder.
When he withdraws, there's a moment of pause as he looks down at her, and expression unreadable Mai reaches up to brush the bangs sticking to his face, knuckles brushing over his lips.
Zuko turns away. "I should be going," he says.
Mai props herself on her forearms, watching as he climbs back into his clothes, adjusting his hair in the dresser mirror, eyes fixed on the muscles of his back, the toned shape of his ass: "Thanks for coming," she calls out as he goes, a wry smile on her lips.
He looks over his shoulder, scoffing, and as he leaves she can spot the tips of his ears burning bright red.
Just before the slam of the front door, as she lays in bed transfixed by the turning, turning, turning off the ceiling fan, she considers asking him to stay a while, considers offering to brew a pot of tea, but he's got a shift at six, and tea and conversation isn't part of the agreement. They are, after all, just two people fucking. She wouldn't go as far as to call them friends.
And yet she wants something more. She thinks about the image of his parted lips, thinks about the ironic ratio of the number of times they've fucked to the number of times they've actually kissed, feels an ache in her chest rather than between her thighs. Mai frowns. Perhaps this is all more complicated than she initially thought.
