On her list of things to do and conversations to have (just in case, she grimly tells herself) before reaching Zaheer and the Air Temple, she had left her conversation with him for last, her hand rapping on the door to his airship room with a faltered beat. When he answers, she's only half- thought through what she wants to say, what he needs to hear, hoping he'll pick up on the unsaid words smashed between pauses that shouldn't have to exist between them in the first place.
So, she doesn't mind when he takes one of those pauses in their stumbling sentences to show rather than say, when he slips his lips over hers in such a frantic manner that she feels like this is the end they never had and always deserved, before they've really even started.
She doesn't mind when his hands flutter over the side of her face and tiptoe down her neck and shoulders, before finding their home on her waist and pulling her tight against him.
She really doesn't mind when he hastily pushes at her shirt, sliding both hands up the bare skin of her back and stomach before pulling at her sarashi, undoing the bindings before she's even worked her shirt over her head, because it's been months since she's felt his lips and hands on her skin and she's had enough of relying on memories of the last time he was wrapped around her, of missing the feeling of his body under her own as she ground against him or his mouth sucking and tasting every inch of her. But, it's the first time they're 'reacquainting' themselves with one another, interrupting their rushed discussion about feelings that just refused to disappear, and she wants to do this right.
His lips leave her own for her exposed skin immediately, sucking soft red splotches into her skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his mouth's wake. She falls upon the bed and he follows, climbing over her hungrily and dragging his lower body slowly against her own, a pressure that leaves her with a taste of what she wants but it's not enough. The thought of what's to come is almost enough to let her run with the rapid pace he's set, but she tangles her hand in his hair and urges him to pause in his attention to her chest, his hands stilling on the waist of her pants.
"Mako, slow down, we have all night." Her voice is bordering on pathetically breathy, but she has missed his touch, missed him, too much to care. He looks briefly dumbstruck, like putting a stop to his mouth's artistry on her skin is a crime (she wouldn't disagree), and he eyes her wearily for a moment, as if he's worried she's changed her mind about them entirely and he's going to be left watching her walk away another time, before she runs her fingers through his hair once more in a gesture meant to reassure him. His gaze settles into a molten gold, his eyebrow arches, and a softly teasing smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.
"You want to go slow?" His eyes don't leave hers as he lowers his lips back to her collarbone, placing slow, wet kisses upon her skin. 'Slow' was always one of his requests, not hers, but she wants this to last as long as possible, to relive every moan-inducing thing he'd ever done to her while they were dating, to be as close to him as their bodies will allow. (And it doesn't hurt that she knows he's always been fixated on her pleasure and that he'll enjoy this just as much as she will, made achingly hard when she's a mess beneath his mouth and hands.)
"Yes." He drags his mouth across her skin, placing warm, sucking kisses in a path of left to right, before moving back across her skin again, inching lower and lower with each line of kisses until his lips slip around a sensitive bud. Her hands tangle in his hair and she pushes up into the warmth of his mouth, wondering vaguely if he missed this as much as she did. His left hand slides down over her other side, his palm sliding over her breast followed by his fingertips brushing past the usually ticklish spot at her waist, and she holds back a moan, bites at her lip. He glances up at her again, his lips releasing her with a slick, wet sound before he's breathing his words upon her skin.
"If we're going slow, than that won't work," he drags his thumb over her lip, urging her to release it from her teeth, "I want to hear every—" she sucks at the digit for a second, loving the way his eyes flicker, his next inhale louder, in response, "single—" he slides his hand down her neck to the soft rise of her breast before he's palming her flesh,"—sound."
He draws her nipple between his teeth gently and his tongue dances over the reddened skin when he releases her; she gasps, loudly.
"Better," he whispers against her skin, trailing his mouth down over her stomach, his hands following with a grasp that is almost bruising in its strength. He kisses at the outlines of muscles ridged over her stomach and the dip in her navel; it's all so warm, so hazy, she can't help but gasp when he nips slightly at the jut of her hip bone.
"C'mon, Korra, I know you're louder than that," he says, and the warm air of his breathy laugh on the soft skin he keeps exposing as he pulls at the edge of her pants, coupled with his hand sliding between her legs, rubbing against her in maddeningly soft strokes through the layers of her clothing, makes her moan louder, much louder, and sends a spiking heat from her chest south.
He remembers every sensitive spot they'd discovered together months ago and the thought makes her almost uncomfortably emotional, forces her to flick her gaze away from his own as he takes in every inch of her, an ardent want mixed with a level of awe in his eyes that mirrors when she told him she loved him too, when he told her she never ceases to amaze him, when he came running at her with open arms and held her too tightly for 'just friends'. He seems so composed while she's barely holding it together from an overflow of stimulation and emotions, but when he moves his hand to undo the ties at her waist, she relishes in the way it shakes slightly. The following heavy breath he practically gulps in calms her in turn; she knows he feels the overwhelming sensation of being together again (but for how long, really) cascading over him in emotional waves too.
He moves to kneel above her, pulls at the material covering her while she lifts her hips, helping him ease the almost frustrating dead weight of her pants off of her, before she's sitting up and undoing the buttons of his own clothing, reveling in the warmth of his skin and the firm muscles under her hands when his shirt comes off, followed by his tank top (a new tank top, she notes, a smile on her lips as she kisses at his neck and chest). He tips them back onto the bed and the feeling of his bare skin everywhere they connect on hers as he moves down her body leaves warmth in its place.
She expects him to resume his place at her hips, but he slides lower, settles between her and presses an open-mouthed kiss to the soft skin of her inner thigh, just above her knee. It's hot, wet, until he pulls away and the air between them cools the kissed skin immediately, sends a heady chill up her spine. He kisses her again, inching upward, dragging his tongue over her skin this time, before placing another kiss just above that, and another, and another. She hardly notices when his hand moves away from her thigh, but she's achingly aware of where it moves, how his fingers toy with the hem of her underwear, not entirely touching but there.
"Mako, please…" She sees the flicker of debate in his eyes as he kisses the softest skin on her upper thigh, torn between the tortuous, perfect pace he's set (why did she ask to go slow, what a horrible request, what a wonderful one) and an intense need for what comes next to happen now. His breath shakes, falls on her skin in heated, stuttering puffs, as he glances up at her, eyes still teasing, but on the edge of desperation, a blatant need seeping through his gaze in the way he trails liquid gold over her form so slowly it's like a phantom touch on her skin.
"But this is my favorite…" He trails off, slipping his fingers under her underwear and sliding it down her thighs and calves, but she hears all the unspoken ends of his sentence – my favorite part of teasing you, of fucking you, of making love to you, of watching you come undone—when his mouth falls over her core, the sight of him between her legs both comfortingly familiar and exhilarating. His tongue is enough to make her hands clench against the warm sheets beneath her and her legs twitch at his touch as he slides an arm under her knee (his hand gingerly works the sheets from her hand, laces with hers, holds her grasp just as tightly as she holds his), his other hand ghosting over the skin of her knee, inching up her thigh, before he slips a digit into her heat. The moan she releases sounds more like a sob than she'd like, but it's entirely his fault; it's absolutely unfair what his mouth, and his lips, and his damn tongue can do to her.
"Fuck," he moans against her, his breath on her enough to send a shiver up her body. She can see the way his hips slowly start to rut into the bed, seeking friction, and she's wondering who's being teased more by this pace, until he adds another finger when he thrusts into her again and his mouth sucks and licks at her in just the way she likes, just the way she'd taught him with just like thats and right theres months before. Her mind clears; her body tightens and coils around him, until she blissfully unravels with release, expels his name from her lips.
He wipes at his chin, kissing the tingling skin of her thighs, and she slips her hand into the sweat-damp locks of his hair, soft under her fingers. He pushes himself up onto his knees and, in sync with his movements, she sits up, hands finding his hips as she kisses at his skin, the natural taste of him heady in her mouth, before she undoes his pants, reaches past the barrier of his boxers, and closes her hand around the length of him. He still feels familiar in her palm, the weight of him hard in her hand something she missed and she's excessively relieved when she begins the languid strokes he likes and he shudders, shoulders sagging toward her. The groan he releases is shamelessly guttural, but the hand tangling in her hair is caressing and soft. He's always been a blend of sharp (the cut of his jaw, the lean muscles, the bite in his tone, the calculating stares) and soft (the ever-present warmth in his skin, the smile that spreads across his face, the endearingly awkward side of him, the way he looks at those he loves), and she loves that about him, wonders how he sees her if she were to ask.
He grasps her wrist, stilling her hand in an action that tells her to stop, and he leaves his kneeling position to stand and reach for the bedside table where his wallet lies, retrieves the little packet she recognizes. She can't help but raise an eyebrow at his preparedness (they have been broken up for months, and he could do whatever he wants with whoever he wants, but now she's curious) and he blushes under her gaze.
"It's not that—I mean—there hasn't been anyone since you; I just got used to having one with me since we always needed them when we were dating…" The soft, embarrassed smile matches the flush on his cheeks, contrasts the muscles that pull and ease when he reaches up to run a hand through his hair and the prominent V-cut in his hips that appears as his pants slip lower, yet somehow every part of him makes sense when seen together (she doesn't say it out loud, but she thinks he's beautiful, stunningly so).
"Settle down, cool guy, you're fine." She smiles in return, pushing his pants and boxers further down his hips until they fall to the ground with a small huff, and she takes the condom packet from his fingers, successfully opening it and slipping its contents over the hard length of him, despite how clumsily her fingers obey her instructions. She pumps him slowly, until his right hand slides under her chin, tilts her head up and away from the length of him in her hand. His gaze is all heat and need (and a little heartbroken if she looks too closely, if she thinks too much about just what brought her here, but she can't look away), teasing gleam gone when he slips his hands under her knees and simultaneously resituates the two of them on the bed.
He settles over her, her bent knees framing his body, while his places his elbow beside her face and his other hand lines his cock up with her entrance, rubs against the wetness between her legs. She closes the breath of space between them, kissing him hard, just as she feels him push in, just the tip, and they both break from the kiss immediately (she thinks their moans sounds nice together, her own warm against the gravelly notes of his own). He slowly slides in, inch by inch until he's fully inside her, his breath heavy against her neck, and her hands hold his body to hers, slipping slightly over the thin layer of sweat covering his back, but tightly pressed against her nonetheless. He rests his forehead against her own, eyes closed, and eases himself out before slipping back into her, still achingly slow in his movements.
"Korra, I…," he half whispers as he builds his rhythm, and she knows why he's bringing this up now even though she just wants to focus on how good he feels inside her, filling her with every exasperatingly slow thrust. She slips her hands up his back to his shoulders, can feel him shuddering as he holds himself up and pushes into her again. "I don't want you to go."
"I know," she practically swallows the words, before he leans down to kiss her neck, her jaw, her lips. Her eyes slip closed while he kisses her and, for a second, she imagines they're just the teenagers they're supposed to be, teenagers who messily fell in love out of sync with one another but had plenty of time to make amends for the mistakes they had made, teenagers who haven't always carried the weight of responsibilities too much for one person in the stiffness in their shoulders and the heavy sighs that escape in unguarded moments. And, for another second, she wants that world with him desperately, seeking his mouth with hers, interrupting the kisses he's so softly peppering over her skin.
She can still faintly taste herself in his mouth and she shifts under him, brings her hips up in a move that cuts short his languid thrust, slips all of him inside her at once. He moans, hotly against her skin, and his hand grips the back of her neck, their mouths colliding in a kiss too full of what could be lost come tomorrow to be nothing but sloppy. His thrusts pick up in speed and they're quiet for a moment, only the sounds of their bodies moving together and their panting breathes to fill the heavy air in the room, and he's brushing against that spot inside of her with each slick push in, a tight heat spiraling under her skin, tensing in an ache he's so close to satiating.
"Mako, I need—" Her own breath comes is quick, sharp intakes, and she doesn't want it to be over yet, but she needs and he gives, slips his hand between them and rubs against her, his thrusts shallower, faster, as he pants above her, kisses her messily. She needs to come around him, needs to feel his stuttered breath on her skin when he follows her; she needs him, and she thinks that last thought slips out and off of her tongue into the nonexistent space between them, and then—
The heat spiraling beneath her skin settles and the ache eases; her tense hold on him becomes something softer as she pulses around his quickened thrusts until she feels him finish, sees it painted across his face in the pink flush in his skin, the warm amber slowly overtaking the blown black of his pupils, the wet red of his mouth.
"You have to be fine at the end of this. We all need you. I need you," he says, desperation seeping through his breathy tone against the crook of her neck where he's tucked his face away from her, as he drifts down from his orgasm. She debates her next words while she runs her hands up and down his back, until he shifts and pulls out of her with a groan, kisses her mouth softly, and stands to discard the used condom. She sits up, legs over the side of the bed, and picks up her underwear from the pile of their clothing, slides it over her legs, as he does the same.
"Mako, I have to do this, even if it means—" She reaches for her pants, holds them in her lap, when he crosses to her, stilling her actions when he sits beside her on the edge of the bed.
"I know. I know," he says, gently, tiredly, as he pulls her hand into his own and she lets the wrinkled garment in her lap slip to the floor. She slides under the sheets beside him without a word, and he holds her close, kisses the bare skin of her neck and shoulder softly. Despite how warm it gets between them, she can't bring herself to move away (neither can he).
When she closes her eyes, she thinks again of normalcy, a life in which the world was a little gentler, a little fairer with the weight it had distributed to the two of them. And it's nice, to imagine a life like that.
But—
When his arm pulls her closer to his chest and he says "I love you" in a gentle tone she always thought suited his voice, she thinks they're best like this, a mess of hard edges and soft hearts formed by the sometimes cruel, sometimes kind, world around them.