1. Grinding up against each other.
The cramped confines of Mako's kitchen leave little space for two people, let alone three. Maneuvering through the narrow space between the counter and each appliance while preparing dinner requires skill, an almost flawless knowledge of each other's movements. Thankfully, this former probending team is adept at just that, and they slide by one another with ease.
That is, until Bolin forgets to turn down the burner under his sauce and, in a moment of panic, careens into Mako, who stumbles into Korra, hands gripping at her arm and the front of her shirt for balance, pulling her body flush against his.
Bolin's white wine sauce is ruined, as is the pretense of he and Korra "giving friendship a shot" despite the lingering tension and the embarrassingly high frequency of post-break up hooks ups.
Bolin eyes the empty bottle of wine, oblivious to the tension that's decided to join them, and shouts something about running to grab a new bottle at the liquor store just down the street from his apartment. The door slams, the bubbling water in the pot the only sound in the room.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"No, it's alright." Her clipped response and the unnerving amount of focus she's devoting to chopping peppers belies her words: his hand just barely grazing her chest as he clutches at her shirt is not alright; in fact, his body pressed up against hers in a way it hadn't been in weeks, and honestly shoudn't have been in months, is the furthest thing from alright if they are going to keep acting like 'friends'.
He clears his throat, returns to the noodles he's supposed to be preparing, and tries not to think of the last time they were together, her body warm and wanting under his own (he fails). She worries her lip with her teeth, before an almost determined look settles over her features, and Mako wonders how she can keep so calm when all he wants to do is pin her against the fridge and make her unravel as the result of one too-close moment.
At first, he thinks it's an accident when she brushes past him to grab another pepper from the fridge, but he knows he isn't imagining the tips of her fingers grazing his lower back as she walks back from the pantry or the look she shoots him when he eyes her with a questioning gaze. She's doing it intentionally.
She slides up behind him, reaching for the cabinet of spices to the right of his head, and he can feel her slow intake of breath when her chest presses against his back.
"What are you doing?"
"Just needed to grab something." She leans in closer, her breath gliding against his neck before she replies. She takes something from the cabinet without bothering to look at it, pressing closer to him.
That's it, screw friendship.
He quickly turns to face her before she can fully pull away from him, clasping her wrist, catching the smirk on her lips before he kisses her, hard. Her hands tug roughly at his hair before he grabs her hips, drawing her flush against him. She slides one leg between his and he feels the edge of the counter press into his back when she rolls her hips slowly against his own.
Damn, he missed this.
He matches her tempo, sliding his hands from her hips to her ass, squeezing her firmly against him when he pushes his hips back in response. He flips their positions and she releases her hold on him to push herself up onto the counter. Hands on her hips, he pulls her to the edge, her legs sliding around his hips, the counter putting her at just the right height for him to—fuck, this feels good—grind against her. Their rhythm resumes its unwavering pace, his hands sliding under the edge of her shirt and pants just to feel more of her skin. They grind together, slowly, hungrily, like they can't get close enough to each other despite the absolute lack of space between them. He doesn't bother trying to hide the way his dick strains against his pants when moves with her, and when she moans at the feel of him hard against her, he deepens their kiss. She tastes like the white wine they were supposed to save for cooking. It's perfect, and he wants more.
Her lips pull away from his, her attention shifting to the belt buckle at his hips, her hands grazing his erection in the process only worsening the ache he feels for her touch, when a foreign sizzling sound suddenly interrupts their chorus of pants and heavy breaths, and oh, he forgot about the noodles he was supposed to keep from over-cooking, and then Bolin's voice and the slam of a door are ripping away the remaining shreds of their stolen moment. Eyes wide, he scrambles to fix the blatantly obvious tent in his pants as she slides from the counter and runs her hands over her shirt, struggling to rid the flush from her cheeks with slow gulps of air.
"I'm back with the wine! How's everything going?" The light expression on his face shifts as he gives the scene a once over—the forgotten pasta, the flushed faces, the belt buckle hanging open, shit—and the teasing smirk on Bolin's face makes Mako want to punch something.
"So. I don't think we'll be having pasta tonight then." Bolin sets the wine down on the small kitchen table, casually turning back to the door, with that smug smile plastered on his face. "I can go grab some take out. And, ya know, leave. Be gone, for about twenty minutes or so. How does Narook's sound?"
Mako can feel his face heat up and Korra make some strained laugh-choking sound to his side.
"Sure, Bo, that sounds…fine."
"Mk, bro, I'll see you two in about twenty minutes." He pulls the door open, almost closing it behind him, before he pops his head in once more. "Just make sure you're clothed when I get back!"
Mako coughs, side-eyeing Korra. He'd like to pretend that they both have more self-control than Bolin thinks, that developing a friendship is more important than some overriding need to press her as close to his body as possible, but the second they hear the door click shut, she's pulling him down into a kiss, her hands tangling in his hair, her hips moving against his. For twenty more minutes, he lets himself stop worrying about what they are or aren't, and they slip back into their rhythm.